It's a serious topic and we really shouldn't be going off on this tangent, but I can't resist telling you about the horror of my experience this afternoon.

'Twas in Bodmin Asda gents. There are just two urinals in there. I was busting. The place was busy. I had to wait. Eventually I got to the right-hand one. It was clearly not draining very well, the last occupant's production only reluctantly ebbing away. But I adjudged that the bowl had sufficient capacity to contain my efforts. But I had reckoned without the auto-flush. The combination of the flush, my flux and the remnants of the previous chap's volume conspired to make the bowl get ever, ever, ever closer to overflowing. Overflowing splashily on to my besandalled and temporarily immobilised feet. Horrified at the prospect, I did a mid-flow manoeuvre seldom attempted in the history of male urination: in front of several gobsmacked chaps washing their hands and using the blowers, I switched rapidly and seamlessly, in spectacular manner, to the left-hand urinal. It was my good luck that the expected overflow of the adjacent stall happened in dramatic and noisy fashion, eliciting amused sympathy from the gathering. We chaps in such circumstances don't take long to interpret situations. I should think that at least six blokes are tastelessly dining out on this yarn this very Saturday evening.