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Sometimes a sordid reality is hiding just out of sight.

Nestled in a corner between Morrisons and Iceland, this little Margate toilet block contains dirty secrets passing shoppers could only imagine.

An online post claimed that the block contained a “glory hole”, a circular gap drilled into a wall, usually in public toilet cubicles, for the purpose of night-time activities.

Intrigued and hoping to expose some sin in action, I popped on my longest coat and set off.

The “CCTV in operation” sign on the wall outside filled me with a sense of security but this was somewhat undercut when walking inside.

Nailed to a door, I read the message from the Chief Environmental Health Officer: “Due to vandalism and other unsocial behaviour, these conveniences are under surveillance”.

What sort of “other unsocial behaviour” could this be? I wondered.

Passing a box for used needles on the wall, I walked to the furthest cubicle, having read that the glory hole would be here, “at kneeling height”.

Covered

With a feeling that was equal parts disappointment and relief, I saw that any holes which may have been in there had been covered by steel sheets.

Clearly those responsible were well aware of what was going on under their noses and took appropriate action.

I would have explored more but the pungent stench, perhaps a lingering reminder of the cubicle’s past iniquities, made me retch so badly I was almost sick.

Of all the foul-smelling public toilets I’ve been unlucky enough to visit in my lifetime, this one is definitely in the top three.

After stepping outside to clear my lungs, I headed back in for a more thorough investigation, breathing through my mouth as I did so.

While the glory hole may no be no more than a memory for these toilets, those who made the pilgrimage only to be let down were redirected by what was written on the walls.

One scrawled message advertised another glory hole with the simple message, “midday”.

Messages

It did not specify which day, but one individual gave it a winning review, to which someone responded: “Thanks, I take pride in my hobby!”

Another crudely written and poorly spelled message said: “Want you (sic) c*** sucked”, along with a number to call. I could only presume what for.

Next to where the glory hole may or may not have been, a would-be Picasso drew what is perhaps the least anatomically correct depiction of a man’s genitals the world has ever seen.

But while the smell and assembled graffiti from Margate’s lonely hearts may put some off going into the cubicle, far more concerning was the burned foil that sat next to one of the toilets.

I’m no shrinking violet but the idea that someone is smoking heroin a few feet away would definitely be enough to make me hold it until I can find a Wetherspoons.

Feeling a little disgusted, I headed back out into the bright light of daytime, a part of my innocence lost.