In this series, an Offie Mag investigative journalist puts public toilets to the test.
Focussing their research around pubs, bars and clubs, The Bog Logs report the findings down to every cracked tile, Dyson Airblade and pube. The views expressed in the Bog Logs may not necessary reflect all of those at Offie Mag (please don’t bar us), but we’re happy to be a platform for such thorough and important research for the greater good. Wash your hands.
This time, we’re casting our eye over the recently revamped Druids Arms off the Level in Brighton, as well as the popular drinking establishment that is The Eagle near Mr Bongo’s. What will Ollie Ruis make of these two Brighton-based bogs?
The Druids Arms (2.0)
For the Druid die-hard, this makes the shitters an ideal place to reminisce the hours spent trying to figure out fiddly board games (often to find half the games contents are missing) and the many hapless attempts at navigating pixilated N64 Mario Kart maps five Tuacas down.
As you’ve probably heard, one of Brighton’s quirkiest pubs has been through a major revamp and hasn’t come out too well at the other end. The wacky wall decorations and weird board games have been shunned in the name of conventionalism.
Think Carling on tap, Soccer Saturday, LED lights, a crackle free PA system and a larger than life pool table. The end result is something along the lines of your mum putting your favourite sweater through a 60-degree wash in hope of getting the stains out. It works, only now all the sequins have fallen off and it has drastically shrunk.
In defence of the new Druids, it is a handsome tribute to the Bog standard. It’s no thrills décor proudly takes centre stage at a time where pub owners think caged seating areas are acceptable (Five Stars) and empty bottles are decorative.
As a popular late-night spot within the student community, the neighbours will perhaps rejoice in the fact that the shrieks and screams as another Jenga tower comes tumbling down will be no more. However, they would perhaps be mistaken to not take note of the potential for a newfound pub rivalry with the Bat and Ball boozer across the road. With so much at stake (primarily the bragging rights in the lucrative old geezer market), things could get nasty. Will the Bat and Balls regulars be tempted by the Druids reincarnation? It could be interesting to see how that one pans out.
The good news is, and at a time where silver linings have become our main currency, the bogs remain as they were. For the Druid die-hard, this makes the shitters an ideal place to reminisce the hours spent trying to figure out fiddly board games (often to find half the games contents are missing) and the many hapless attempts at navigating pixilated N64 Mario Kart maps five Tuacas down.
Unfortunately for all its wonderful tradition, the Druids bogs are undeniably chilly and not a place you want to say in too long. On the plus side though, the white walls make for great clarity, the hand dryer hasn’t yet lost its charm and the mirror is large enough for a period of self-reflection, as you wash your hands with the watered-down Carex.
Also, a special mention to the blood-stained walls, a half-hearted attempt at Halloween perhaps, more likely though the remnants of a thirty-something Druids old-timer found lying on the Pool table in protest of the pubs’ new dawn.
Imagine having to step up on a pedestal to piss for starters. It shames you, makes you feel inadequate and that’s before you’ve even got out your little hose.
Where better to nurse a mild Friday night hangover than at The Eagle.
Safely tucked away from the bustling streets of Brighton, which by early noon are full to the brim with the weekend shoppers, Angsty buskers and stag doers who shriek and tumble in unison.
The Eagle is the purists’ wet dream…a hiding place away from the 4K, 3D, smartass TV’s mounted on every pub wall, a place free of the obnoxiously loud music that rattles your skull. It reminds you of life without push notifications and only being contactable via the pub’s landline.
You sit there, warm, comfortable and sheltered from the harsh coastal rain and safe from Garth Crook’s Final Score fury (this weekend, a glove-wearing centre half is crucified) You take it all in and think to yourself, what a time to be alive. Noise is at an adequate level, the kids are complicit, slurping away at their pint glass cokes carefree, dogs hoover up crumbs, the playlist is inoffensive and there you are, sitting pretty with a perfectly poured pint of Guinness, you toast the good times. It doesn’t matter if there was no change from a fiver you tell yourself because of… look around, the camaraderie, the joy, everyone living in the moment, priceless.
Sucking up the last of the foamy Guinness dregs, you make your way to the bog, whistling along to The less I know the better, smiling at the friendly bartender and anyone else who catches your eye.
Now, if only there was some sort of savvy way to capture and bottle atmosphere, because your bubble is about to BURST. These toilets have been host to all sorts of horrors and it’s going to take a lot of convincing from someone somewhere to prove otherwise. They scream Wormwood Scrubs 1989, you’d honestly be better off soiling your Sunday best.
How can something so good so quickly fall apart you wonder? Well, that’s one for the scientists. The fact of the matter is though, the 5.00 Guinness is a hot spear through your heart, the sound of kids slurping through their straws has reached a million decibels and the smell of wet dog burns your nostrils. The Eagle toilets are a monstrosity, a breeding ground for frontline flashbacks and all things awful. A place where weekend optimism is banished.
Imagine having to step up on a pedestal to piss for starters. It shames you, makes you feel inadequate and that’s before you’ve even got out your little hose. If that doesn’t get you the dotted flooring will. Stare at it too long and you will be sucked into the toilet walls.