Our desire to splurge noble and life-affirming messages to ourselves, and to each other, in the most visible of locations is an understandable human impulse. It feels congruous to see such evocations in a great library, or a hall of justice, or emblazoned on a national monument, but it all begins to seem a little indulgent – and more than a little Californian – in the context of the homestead. Case in point: the bathroom.

This is the room in someone’s home where you are most likely to be entreated to Live, Laugh and, inevitably, Love. The message is usually delivered by way of giant 3D letters nailed to the wall. An alphabetic crucifixion. What is it about this room that seems to beg the inclusion of such lofty and uplifting sentiments? I don’t tend to find myself at my most aspirational when I’ve just caught a lungful of putrid jobby. Is the sentiment intended to cancel out the noisy and pungent truth of the filth at our core? Wouldn’t a blank wall be better accompaniment than a trite reminder of our own self-worth? I’m not a fucking dog. I don’t need to hear or see the equivalent of ‘GOOD BOY, OH GOOOOOOOD BOY!’ as I’m curling one out. I know I’m a good boy. I’m also a perfectly able shitter, with my own signature style and everything (I always finish with a snaky Nike tick – it’s all in the hips, folks). Why such puffery? I’d be inclined to lean away from self-help altogether, and keep my house-guests humble by hanging a giant ‘YOU’RE SO FULL OF SHIT’ on my bathroom wall.

My friend’s bathroom has ‘LIFE IS GOOD’ stuck to the wall. It’s positioned a few feet above the toilet cistern, so the message would be roughly eye-level with a person of average height if they stood facing the wall. Again, what is it about this particular place that necessitates such a reminder? I’ve never had a therapist, but I find it unlikely that my first one-to-one would take place inside a communal bathroom. It’s surely far from ideal to compete against a flushing toilet for your therapist’s attention. And it’s probably wise to err on the side of scepticism if you’re approached by someone claiming to want to heal you, if only you’d meet them in the petrol station toilet in ten minutes with your own carrier-bags (or cottaging-loafers, as they’re sometimes known).

I pissed in my friend’s bathroom recently, and the first thing that struck me – whilst I was busy being reminded just how good my life was – was that the placing of the message was misogynistic. This was clearly a message aimed at men, given that they were the only ones truly capable of absorbing it mid-piss. What about the ladies? Didn’t they deserve to ruminate on how fucking good their lives were? Why were only men privy to this encouragement? SEXIST!

Immediately after my wetty (that’s what I was encouraged to call a piss as a kid, and, you’ve got to admit, it’s an accurate tag) I sat down on the toilet seat and stared ahead. I was testing the theory. Sure enough, facing me was a blank wall. Not one word of encouragement stared back at me. If I’d been a woman I would have been devastated. Where was my entreatment to live my best life, or piss harder than I’d ever pissed before because I was pissing on the shoulders of lady giants? Not good enough in 2022! SEXIST!

I clung to this conclusion of misogyny for as long as it took me to work out that it was doubtless my friend’s wife who’d erected the letters. Because of course it was. I’ve never heard my friend say anything even approximating the sentiment ‘life is good’; I’d have been astonished if he’d wall-mounted it.

So if a woman had placed this message – so it could be seen by men and men alone – then the message was misandrist! Because of course it was! Women didn’t need affirmation or encouragement. It was just us men – we saggy sad sacks of aggression and patheticness – that needed a penisary pep-talk as we pished. I GUESS WOMEN ARE JUST PERFECT, AREN’T THEY? Yeah, flash those willy-wearing shit-bags an ego boost, maybe they’ll stop killing women and starting wars for a while. SEXIST!!!

But, then, maybe – just maybe – my friend’s wife had placed the message in recognition of the fact that the male suicide rate is so high, and guys need all the positivity they can get. So… she’s saving lives? SHE’S A BLOODY SAINT! GOD BLESS YOU, FLORENCE SHITE-INGALE!

By this point I was so discombobulated by the inscription on the wall and its ultimate meaning that I stomped to the faucet, turned the cold tap to max, drank deeply, filled my bladder to bursting point, and pished all over the bathroom floor in a steady stream of confused rage. Please think carefully before you place messages on the walls of your bathroom. You could easily kill an over-thinker like me.

But if you can’t beat em, join em, right? I’ve since followed my friend’s lead and placed life-affirming messages in my own house, but not just in the bathroom: everywhere. They’re bloody everywhere. On my kitchen wall you’ll find ‘COOK THOSE EGGS, KING’. In the living room, ‘JESUS CHRIST YOU’RE AMAZING AT WATCHING TV’. On the stairs, ‘ONE SMALL STEP FOR MAN, STUD’. And, of course, up high in the bedroom, BEAT THAT COCK LIKE THE POLITICAL PRISONER IT IS, YOU MUSCULAR GOD.

What can I say? Life is good.