Yup, I'm going to review toilet paper.

I suppose review is the wrong word to use. I will not be presenting a selection of toilet paper so you can make better buying decisions. I won't spend a small fortune to buy each brand and rate them as if I am a contributor to Which.co.uk. However, it might be helpful if you are in a position like mine. When there is discomfort, pain, and a sense of fed-upness, toilet paper is another thing that can worsen the whole experience. And it shouldn't be so hard to get right.

Right up there at the top of the aptly named Shit List is quilted toilet paper. Quilted toilet paper can play in traffic. Quilted toilet paper is a disappointment. It is letterpressed papier mache for your arse. It is the thing that Hyacinth Bucket buys for the guest toilet, thinking people will be impressed with it. You get less of it on a roll because it's so thick. I do not need to wipe my arse with the water-closet equivalent of that blue canvas crash mat we all had in our secondary school gyms.

When it comes to toilet paper, the a-game is surface area. Ply is secondary. When you add more sheets and stamp kitten faces on them, the problem I have is blocked plumbing. For the same reason that you do not flush the kitchen roll down the bog: it sets like concrete. And then, if you live in a place like Tenerife, the bin beside your throne fills up with crap-covered Koalas.

(Tenerife toilets only flush body waste).

Of course, there's the other end of the spectrum where your method of maintenance is airmail paper from the 1930s. I am happy if it remains structurally sound under pressure, cleans, and doesn't block the pipes. But the anxiety ramps when you sit down and see the roll of baking paper crammed into a white Kimberly dispenser.

Regarding dispensers, I will also add the one-sheet-only ones to my room 101. You're not being clever or saving the polar bears. I pull more sheets just out of spite. My party trick is using those dispensers without having the sheets break up individually. Screw you and your miserable box of despair.

I should have known my life would be dominated by bowel movements when my aunt gave me an Andrex puppy teddy when I was born. An omen of sorts. Especially as that toy became “my teddy”. It now sits on top of a mirror in the bedroom. It doesn't judge; it is not evil. However, I wish I was given something less on-the-nose as a “welcome to earth” gift. I'm thinking a cuddly million Euros.

Beir bua agus beannacht.