The 3S’S: Shave, S**T, Shower

By Roy Dainty

A collection of true anecdotes, most with hilarious outcomes, some naming and shaming the famous, all grouped together under the headings of Shave, S**t, and Shower. A whimsical, occasionally sarcastic, though usually just downright funny, round-up of novelties, mishaps, and unfortunate events involving the author, Roy Dainty, which have helped shape the world during the past sixty years. How Led Zeppelin nearly didnt happen, the hidden joys of 1960s passenger flight, the phantom cra**er of BEA, surviving crucifixion, the hidden delights of the Marrakesh Express, and attempted suicide on the Orient Express all feature in this eclectic compendium. Written from other recollections that came to mind when he was editing S**T, this collection evolved as its pan-side companion. Just make sure that you are sitting comfortably before opening its pages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Aug 19, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481775458

Roy Dainty

Roy Dainty grew up in Stourbridge, Worcestershire, where he attended King Edward VI Grammar School. At age seventeen, the careers master advised him, “Your choices are computing or electronics.” He chose civil engineering, obtaining sponsorship from George Wimpey Ltd., then the world’s largest civil engineering company, which enrolled him in a five-year sandwich degree at the City University, London. By the time he was twenty-one, he’d been nearly blown up on site and had experienced flying off the side of a mountain in a wingless Land Rover. “Nul points” for the spectacular thirty-foot dive with a one-and-a-half sideways roll. Civil engineering was proving too dangerous a career. Via the civil service, he moved into IT consultancy and management in the eighties. In 2008, he returned to City University where he was appointed honorary visiting professor in ICT for its MSc in construction management. Catch up with the author at www.RoyDainty.com Note: The above biography uses the same text as on my novel, S**T.

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SHAVE, SHIT, SHOWER

Waking to the early morning joie de vivre voices emanating from an alarm clock radio, auto-pilot kicks in and the morning race from being asleep to leaving home and arriving on-time at work begins. This is where we males of the species have advantage over our female partners, for applying make-up and trying on several outfits before getting it just right is of no concern to us. Instead, for us it is simply the 3 S’s—shave, shit and shower—though not necessarily in that order. Of course we get dressed afterwards though ‘dressed’ is a questionable action remembering from my commuting days the appearance of some pre-human specimens in my rail carriage.

A couple of beers the night before, and by beer I mean real ale for anything else would contravene the rules for opening my wallet, and the sequence is more likely to be shit, shave, shower. A really good session, whether a reunion with friends or a beer festival, and it becomes shit, shave, shower, shit and then likely missing the train or still having too much alcohol in the blood to drive to the office. Two showers is not something that has ever happened during my morning dash though two shaves has, but only once; the first attempt being a non-effective scrape with a new but useless BiC shaver before resorting to a more expensive blade and having a decent shave.

My mate Dick never commuted but insisted on it being 4 not 3 S’s—shave, shit, shower, shag. Apart from me never being sure whether the fourth S should be shag or sex, I prefer the merged ‘shex’ for it runs much better off the tongue—shave, shit, shower, shex. In any event, for me it was the 3 S’s. The 4 S’s only apply to commuters at weekends. Try applying 4 S’s during the working week and you are truly fucked, inevitably missing the required train and arriving late to work. Just look out for wide smiles on other faces when you’re on the late train and you will know precisely why. Just hope that you are also smiling rather than having slept through the alarm; the pre-humans probably slept through. Rumour has it that Dick’s alternative to shag or shex was sheep but then that’s what comes of living in the country and not working to a fixed timetable. It was with all of these thoughts in mind that I decided simply to call this collection of anecdotes, ‘SHAVE, SHIT, SHOWER’ though, and my apologies for it, a little shex has crept in.

You will meet some of my friends more than once as you read this. I’ve tried to place each anecdote in correct chronological order within each section but unintentionally may have got some wrong and inevitably some overlap in time for they go back to my childhood and extend across a period of over fifty years. They are all narrated truthfully to the best of my memory, maybe a little enhanced with time and their retelling, maybe with a few liberties taken here and there, only the participants will know for their memories will take a different perspective on the facts. Although accumulated over many years, these anecdotes have remained in my memory like long nurtured nuggets of wisdom, to be brought out and recounted with friends over a few pints of beer. None are fiction. So, please enjoy this compendium of anecdotes written to amuse whilst you are comfortably seated, enjoying that middle S. Think of them as your pan-side companion.

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SHAVE

Shaving is an inescapable necessity for adult males. From adolescence when we take, in fact often take far too soon, that first tentative shave with our Dad’s razor through until the time we die and some undertaker gives us that final shave. Some try and escape the necessity by growing beards and moustaches but almost always decide it’s time to shave them off, even if only to start all over again. We endure numerous cuts and nicks, always smarting as we put on aftershave in the hope of stemming the dribble of blood. Most of us will try battery or electric razors in the hope of making the task easier and less bloody. Well, I’ve owned a few but never once got a decent shave from one. At best they offered an expedience but never ever gave me the close shave of a wet razor. I’ve tried many types of wet razor, including replaceable flat blades when I first began shaving, then the short lived Sensormatic, I think that was its name, from Gillette that required its ultra-thin string of a blade be wound on every week until at the end of five weeks the thing was exhausted and thrown in the bin. I’ve tried static heads and swivel heads, ones with lubricant coated comfort strips, ones with single blades, double blades and even triple blades. I do have my favourite which I’ve stuck to as far as possible for about fifteen years. I’ve never tried or had a cut-throat blade shave. I’ll leave that experience to others. I’ve used a brush and soap lather, foam and gel can sprays, shaving oil, all after warming my face with hot water, and, when forced to use it, just cold water and no lather or foam; something not to be advised given the number of cuts that ensued.

For any American readers, in Britain we call a razor a ‘razor’ whereas you call a razor a ‘shaver’. I just needed to make that clarification of comprehension. At least we both shave not raze.

The following anecdotes will hopefully start to reinforce your love, for better or worse, for the 3 S’s.

BiC Shavers

What can I say about BiC shavers? They are cheap and you get what you pay for. So, why do so many airlines and hotels still insist on including one in the complimentary kits, lest you’ve forgotten your own toiletry kits? Are they set on losing customers? Either don’t give us the complimentary set or include a razor with a decent blade. I used to collect up my freebies and give them to whichever charity next knocked on our door. That makes me wonder what type of razors hospitals and hospices use on their patients? Would the caring professions be so uncaring as to use BiC’s? I’ve had mates complaining that they were raw following a vasectomy and, as I write this, wonder if I have now discovered the underlying reason; the preparatory shave? I’ve just no desire for hospitalisation in order to find out first hand; or second, third and fourth if they reuse them.

Now BiC pens are another thing all together. The company should have stuck to that end of the spectrum not going to the opposite. Its pens handle well, its shavers don’t. The ink flows smoothly, the shaver’s don’t. So, thinks the Marketing Department, we have cornered the global market in cheap pens how can we apply the same model to some other mass produced high demand item? Shavers would fit the model. Attributes of the pens include cheap, require regular replacement and are made of disposable plastic. We can use that. We aren’t the ‘Parker’ of the pen world so let’s not be the Gillette of shavers. We have a good brand name so let’s abuse it by flooding the market, especially supermarket shelves, with cheap shavers. As to BiC lighters, I don’t smoke so have never had any cause to buy or use one.

Are BiC’s safety shavers? The company says that they are. They are so bloody safe that you can’t get a shave from them. I warm and soap my face, then apply whichever shaving cream or foam is at hand, peer at my magnified face in the shaving mirror deciding where to target my first stroke, whether it should be right to left or left to right, whether it should be up or down, and then, after this subliminal deliberation apply the first stroke of the razor. I try to apply the first stroke, then try again. I don’t believe my stubble is steel hardened. I take a close look at the shaver. Yes, there is a blade in it. Yes, it is unused. I try again on a different part of my face. Much the same affect but I do at least get some traction. Traction like a learner driver coming to terms with a clutch gear change. Judder, judder, judder, stop. Maybe, just maybe, I’ve bought a duff batch of shavers. They were on special offer so I bought two bags of them. I open and take one from the other bag and try again. An identical experience. At least I haven’t cut myself. After several unrepeatable words about the product, I leave the bathroom to find my travel bag from which I dig out an old razor that I’d already used several times. By now, I have to rewarm my face and apply more foam. I get a decent shave. I’m late for work.

Products do often improve with time. Twice since then I’ve used BiC shavers, from freebie packs, but remained just as unimpressed and unshaven as that very first time. If nothing else, I applaud the company on maintaining an unwavering consistency of product. Have they ever sent me a questionnaire about the efficacy of their products? No, they haven’t.

Disclaimer—the comments I make about BiC shavers are solely from my own experience. I have not conducted any scientific studies amongst the male or female gender as to the effectiveness of these useless items. Nor, have I used them for removing paint off windows or attempted to use them for any other alternate purpose for which they might actually prove exceptionally useful.

Porky’s Moustache

Steve, otherwise known to all of his friends as Porky because of his propensity for bacon, and not because of his somewhat portly stature, has several problems, one of which is a near inability to grow facial hair. Hair growth on his head and legs was within normal expectations, as was it on his nether regions though therein lay another of his problems. Steve used to have a propensity for stripping off. He was an original streaker, long before it became fashionable or performed on camera under sponsored payment. Porky was a streaker. He simply couldn’t stop himself when dared. A true exhibitionist. It didn’t matter whether we were in mixed company or not, someone would lay down the dare, and he would streak. No inhibitions. So, we all knew he had hair down there.

As with many of my friends, Porky was a smoker but instead of cigarettes preferred small cigars. So, no surprise when we spoke of him getting out his cheroot. Porky, being employed by a public authority, received a salary throughout college.