Ian McMillan: A view from the gents of the great unwashed

Well, if there’d been CCTV in the gents’ toilets in a Sheffield department store the other day, any bored security man viewing the screens would have seen a strange sight. He’d have seen me standing gazelle-still by the sinks. If he’d zoomed in he would have seen that I looked like a gargoyle.

My eyes were bulging and my mouth was open. It would have looked as though I was trying to express anger and shock and surprise at the same time, as indeed I was.

Let me explain. Over the past few years, I’ve become appalled at the number of blokes who don’t wash their hands when they’ve been to the toilet. Now, given the current state of the world, this might seem like a small thing, but I don’t think it is.

It’s a matter of private and public health and it’s up to us as gentlemen to get the soap and water going and then stand by those industrial strength driers and go “aaaaah” with satisfaction. It doesn’t take long. It’s a civilised thing to do.

Think of our Victorian ancestors in their badly-fitting suits and frock coats, sitting in committees for hour after hour, convincing other Victorians in suits that people needed to be able to wash their hands, that the providing of public toilets was a good thing and that it wasn’t such a radical leap of the imagination from handwashing to healthy living to a better society. And now we’re squandering all that good work.

A lot of men are (pardon the indelicacy if you’re eating a pain-au-chocolat) zipping and running. And I’m appalled. I don’t know if this is a British disease or not but I know that I’ve been in truckstops and bars in North America and Canada and watched rough tough guys washing and drying their tattooed and calloused hands. And if they can keep clean, why can’t we?

The trouble is, I don’t really know what to do. Once, and only once, I got so angry that I followed somebody from a toilet to a station concourse and said, rather too loudly: “Why didn’t you wash your flipping hands?”

He looked at me like I’d questioned his parentage or his choice of headgear, although to be honest, his angled and oversize cap was more suited to The Bronx than South Yorkshire. He shouted back at me, using horrible words that shook me and made me feel small and silly and then he disappeared into the milling throng. I imagined germs buzzing round him like small birds, settling on the vast expanse of his cap to roost and breed.

So now I adopt The Gargoyle Stare. I wash my hands, dry them and then if I notice somebody not washing and drying, I rake ‘em with the old Basilisk Gaze, the Searchlight of McMillanish Disapproval.

Of course, I only have a couple of seconds to register my feelings before they’re off out of the door but I hope that when they catch my expression it’ll make them think about what they’ve done and maybe plunge their hands into a sink of hot foamy water next time. Small chance, I know, but it’s worth a try.

Somehow it’s all part of that male mindset that makes a lot of men think they’re invulnerable and that somehow washing their hands makes them less masculine. Trendy types might scoff at this but I’d ask them to come to a football match with me and see how many chaps wash their hands when they’ve been to the (admittedly often less than luxurious) facilities at a lower league ground. And the Gorgon stare does no good here: they think you’re merely reflecting on that disallowed goal in the 43rd minute.

You could put a poster up, I suppose. You could have a TV advertising campaign showing role models scrubbing and drying. “Hi, I’m Rio Ferdinand and I always wash my hands. And I dry them too.” Doesn’t sound that dynamic, does it? And I guess it wouldn’t wash (ho ho!) with any non-Manchester United fans.

So, in the end I’ll have to persist with my attempt to publicly shame these people by looking at them goggle-eyed and open-gobbed. I might get more abuse. I might get told that it’s up to people whether they wash their hands or not and it’s none of my business. I’m not bothered; sometime in the future there’ll be a tipping point when more handwashing than non-handwashing is taking place, and then they’ll erect a statue to me outside some public toilets, which is a kind of fame.

Until then, keep watching for me by the sinks and on CCTV.