The Telesalesman : Toilet Humour (1)

The Irishman sitting next to me puckers his lips ready to drop his almighty scat. 1,2,3...and there it is. My head drops a little. First sale of the day. It's midday, its been fairly slow so he's going to milk this for all its worth. After a few quickfire punches to the air, he uses his selling phone as a machine gun, changing the beat played out by his lips into the sound of spraying bullets. He then skis the smooth side of the receiver down his stomach until he eventually creates himself a make-shift codpiece. In mid-gyration he challenges those of us fortunate to be present, ' who wants some of this?' With a final shake of his receiver and with a loose, spit-filled tongue, he sounds out a triumphant, albeit phlegmy sigh. The spectacle ends.

There is a round of applause. 'Great sale!' I hear 47 year old Susie say. Susie, the oldest in the office and unfortunately for her the most unpopular. The one with a weird fixation for Pandas and a desire to travel the world with her rugby-mad husband to see them and take pictures. I'm fairly sure she has no real interest in Rugby, nor beer for that matter. However, every conversation begins with one of the three. Beer, Rugby and Pandas. I once joked that her ideal would be to see a bunch of drunk pandas playing touch rugby ( touch rugby to be WWF sensitive) but apparently this wasn't it at all. Pandas, you see, cannot play touch rugby and that was the end of that particular conversation. Susie - always the first to suggest which pub to go to on a Thursday/Friday lunch and then left to go there on her own while the rest of us go to another. On the occasions she locates the pub we're in she can be seen fighting to keep her larger down. Its a danger to stand beside her as she has been known to lose the odd fight with a Fosters and choke into her pint causing the odd 'horror splash' that has seen her barred from two public houses following a tipsy vote. Unpopularity is a sad old state of affairs, and I always give my time to others where possible but then when was the last time Susie made herself a cod piece from her selling phone?

The selling phone. According to my manager it is the very sword by which we live and die. Its not, but then if you boom something repeatedly then it begins to carry some gravitas. We now we have a plaque above our stations which reads ' Call. Sell. Money.' He has also printed a strip reading , 'Selling is the difference between Life and Death' sellotaped to his desk next to his coffee-stained giant Sports Direct mug. I'm fairly sure the quote is his own.

The phones are ablaze with noise being bleated into them. I twiddle my pen around my fingers in anticipation for prime pitching time to close and at 3.45pm I decide I cannot take any more and I head to the loo. I pass my line manager who grins to me whilst pointing to his quote. I give a gentle nod of appreciation back, then point to my groin, purse my lips and sway a bit with eyes raised to the ceiling to demonstrate that I require a lavatory break. I think for a moment that I have overplayed my role in this scene but then he winks at me once he realises I'm method acting. I think we both appreciate that the wink was uncomfortably slow - not slow enough to be creepy, but certainly enough to be uncomfortable - so I turn and head to the loo.

The sound in the cubicle next to me is unbearable. I hear a pained voice emerge with the immortal line of 'damn office tacos!' I let out a giggle as this is funny. It is short and sharp and I manage to maintain composure. Then there is this pure silence. I mean nothing. Totally nothing. I clear my throat to avoid any awkwardness but there is nothing. For a moment, I become concerned with the Office Taco man. What happened? Is he OK? What if the pain was too much? What if he fainted? I didn't hear a collapse or anything. I heard nothing. I clear my throat again, in the vain hope that the man responds in the way all men do when warning others that they are on the loo and to be left alone. Nothing. Simply Silence. I wait eight whole minutes and nothing. Not even the sound of wind breaking. Not another mention of the office Tacos.

Eventually, I pull up my trousers and head for the exit confused by recent events. The cubicle next to mine is definitely locked. I press my ear against the door. There is nothing. What happened to you Taco Man?

I realise I will never likely hear those godly words again so motion to leave as my line manager enters, sees me pinned against a cubicle door listening in and suggests nonchalantly to me to leave. As I pass him I attempt an explanation but my open mouth offers nothing but a whisper of 'Taco' to which he, unsuprisingly, has no response.

Returning to my desk below the plaque, I see that the Irishman is puckering his lips again. I am sad to have not discovered who the Taco Man was and whether he survived his ordeal. I am however thrilled with the prospect that there are so many questions to think about that will help me get me through the rest of the day...