And you may ask yourself, "How did I get here?"

...May, June, July, finito. We promise.

The human body loses hairs at the rate of between 60 and 100 per day. It’s true. We looked it up. And although it is breaking what some might call the last taboo to discuss it, the hairs of the nether regions of the anatomy are included in that figure.

Where do they go? Sure, the hairs on the head disappear into brushes and combs, or onto the shoulders of errant husbands in unlikely infidelity scenarios. But what about those from – y’know – down there? Safely into the skiddies, grundies and dung hampers of the nation, perhaps?

Not so.

After literally decades of trouser-splashing research whilst nonchalantly staring anywhere except at the adjacent punter at the stinking pisstrough, we can now present for your education and entertainment The Burglar’s Dog Stray Pube Challenge, yet another unfathomable nadir in our barrel-scraping collection of monthly features.

Read on...

Pictured above is a typical pub toilet, similar we’d imagine to the one in your favourite hostelry. We appreciate that yours might have an overflowing gutter blocked with bog roll and chewa, or it might be a wacky design statement akin to the milk pails in the Tup Tup Palace, but – for demonstration purposes – we think this covers all. And rather smart - in a minimal, functional way - it is too.

Imagine you're standing at the urinal, feet apart in a good, solid stance, swaying slightly from seven pints of Foster's and a bottle of Schneider Weisse. Visualise the scene, hallucinate the sounds, and try not to gag and retch on the deeply, deeply unpleasant aromas of mingled pittle and cheap disinfectant.

Here’s what you need to do: using your skill and judgement, work out exactly where on the picture a short ‘n’ curly currently resides. It’s that simple.

(Remember: it’s just for fun, so don’t write in. Christ knows there’s enough shite in the inbox as it is.)

The question is: where is the pube? Where is it?











Here's a big gap to stop you peeking at the answer below.











Worked it out yet?











The answer - as it is in every bog in every pub in every town in the kingdom - is up there, stuck eight feet up on the fucking tiles, blithely waving in the backdraft of the puny hand drier.

Here it is in all its gruesome glory:


Actual size.


"Helloooo," it’s saying. "Look at meeeeee. No absentminded bogey wipe or smeared brown 111 on a convenient cubicle wall am I. It took forward planning and a sturdy box to get ME up here. I am the master of all I survey."

The willy whisker, the cock curl, the wandering strand of phallus fur. The arrogant wisp that clings to the tile with herculean strength, laughing in the face of the directed heavy sigh or the determined exhalation. The crowning glory that puts the fucking top hat on the unpleasantness of communal drinking.

We demand to know the following:

  • Which filthy fucker put it there?
  • Which disgusting piece of shit is so proud of their coming of age - and all its tufty sprouting - that they feel the need to display the shedding in the direct eyeline of the micturating customer, neck craned like Lemmy at the mic and innocently whistling?
  • Is it a lone deviant decorating the dunnies, or is there a secret collective dedicated to despoiling the tilework of our latrines?
  • And what the hell is keeping it in place?
Eight feet up. On a wall in every toilet. There. Right now. We’re telling you. Go on, check.

Eight feet up!

Who is responsible and – more to the point – why?

We have a right to know.