Bath Time.

                                            PORTNABLAGH

There is a Tory MP who spends the first hour of each day in the bath; his name is Tim Loughton. Not that his name matters apart from the fact that he claims for the water used in the bath on his parliamentary expenses because he works in the bath. He reads the papers, makes phone calls and other paper work. He doesn't hold meetings in there, like President Johnson who would even sit on the can in meetings. I don't think I would have been able to stand that and maybe that's why they all took up smoking cigars; who knows? But it got me thinking.

Some time ago, I went to Donegal; Donegal, for those who don't know, is on the north west tip of Ireland. In fact at the north of Donegal, which is in the republic is farther north than the so called Northern Ireland.

I went there with a film producer to research a script. I remember the words of his wife as we left his Ballsbridge, Dublin flat 'Don't drink Donegal Dry!' It's a pity she didn't add darling as that would have been five hymenopterons. 

We went by train from Dublin, listened to our breakfast being cooked as we travelled through the green, the green the very green Irish countryside and scoffed the bacon and eggs like schoolboys as the train travelled through the mid lands and up to the town of Sligo. At the station there, we were greeted on the platform by a representative of the care hire company and off I drove to Donegal. Donegal Town first, which is in the county of Donegal which, itself, is in the province of Ulster.

So you are with me now; you know where we are.

We had a meeting with someone at Glenveagh National Park as that is where the script, or outline, was set, as I needed to see the place and talk about the history and the events I was to write about. We decided to stay in Portnablagh which is a village and as the Portnablagh Hotel was fully booked by the time we reached there.

So we were stuck for somewhere to stay and it was suggested we go to the pub and go back to the hotel later to see if anything could be done. You don't get sent away in Ireland; they will put you somewhere.

When we got back they told us we would be staying in the cottage next door to the hotel. It had two bedrooms but only one bathroom. That didn't bother me, at the time, so off we went. We had a comfortable room each and the next morning my film producer friend got to the bathroom first.

Now that was a mistake on my part and a little bit of – not selfishness, I might say but . . . why not? It was a bit of selfishness. He didn't even think that I might want to use the bathroom. He was in there for over two hours and each time the water got cold he would turn the hot tap on and fill it; he was reading. 

I suppose he felt like Winston Churchill, in there, who would also spend hours in the bath, conducting the war and holding war time cabinet meetings, but we had a meeting at Glenveagh National Park.

Eventually my friend emerged from the bath pruned, I presume. 

A couple of days later, we were at the Dublin flat, which was on two floors so I suppose you would call it an apartment, and the producers of another project we were involved with were due to come to the flat for a meeting. I went in to the bathroom, which was on the higher floor, to start my ablutions.

Now this is where the story become very slightly indelicate and I'll try to make it as delicate as I can.

I did my poo and the flush wouldn't work as the tank was out of water – by the way, for my American friends, over here a poo is what you call a poop. We call a fart a poop or a trump and a poo is faecal matter.

I tried the shower and it was working so I figured if I had a shower first, the water in the lavatory system would refill whilst I was in there.

I got in to the shower, suds myself up with soap all over and the water stopped. Just like Steve Martin in the movie Planes, Trains and Automobiles I was stuck. I banged on the door and, eventually, told them what happened. They told me the water sometimes does that and that I will need to go to the kitchen down the stairs and physically refill the tank.

They were not a very domestic couple and the only thing they had to carry water was a milk pan; so that is what I had to use.

I put some clothes on, over my soaped body, and went down the stairs to fill the pan with about half a pint of water; this meant going up and down the stairs quite a few times to fill it.

As I went down after the first trip the front door bell rang and our friends for the meeting had arrived.

The night before I had been singing The Wild Rover in the pub and when the door was opened they saw me with my pan and started singing it. They needed to use the bathroom – you can' – why not? - you just can't – but I need to go – you can't - and on it went.

Don't ask!!

I still have the outline I wrote about Glenveagh somewhere. The other job in Dublin fell through as the production company didn't pay my hosts so they couldn't pay me and not long after that when we all came back to London we got a commission to write a commentary about a golf course in Catalonia – the producer told me I should keep the whole fee for that which I did.

But then the co-producer (his wife) said she hadn't agreed to that and wanted it back so I did four weeks filming a candid camera type series with Bob Monkhouse and Nigel Lythgo all over the north – Nottingham, Liverpool, Blackpool – and I paid them that money and that series didn't go out on TV either.