An Revelatory Incident in the Bar Toilet Line

In the run-up to the festive season, I had an remarkable incident. I think it was beneficial for me. This took place at a meeting of some old friends, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but this isn't relevant. The attending group were all blokes, which is relevant.

A Novel Predicament

The location was a tavern enjoying a excellent custom. A lost daytime was had by all. Nice cuisine, good libations and unexpectedly humorous stories about teeth. Inevitably, the moment arrived for visits to the male facilities. Those who ventured off, I half-noticed, appeared to be away a long time. I didn't ponder why this was, but when it was my go, all became clear.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the female facilities, but a substantial line for the men's. What bizarre turn was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

A Sample of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any lady here. I am fully cognizant that, for women, having to queue to use a public toilet is standard practice. On countless occasions have I observed women queuing in a line while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Apart from the hassle of having to queue to use a toilet, there’s a hint of humiliation about standing there, waiting for something that men typically don’t have to experience. It was truly sobering to get a taste of it myself, seeing the other sex glide through the entrance while I was obliged to stand solemnly in line with my mates, fiddling at whatever we had in our pockets and checking our mobile devices.

The Genre of Toilet Queue Conversation

There’s a complete style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant knowledge. Ladies, I surmise, have learned to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging small talk and an engaging observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some women of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that within-the-line communication is confined to the occasional eye roll and the utterance: “Screw this, I’m going to use the men’s.” A workmate informed me it’s exclusively at the hand-washing stations afterwards that discussion tends to break out.

If I was a woman, I’d waste no time on either pleasantries or reticence. If I was obliged, time and again, to wait in a public line merely for the privilege to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the sheer unfairness of it. A handy metric for any modern culture would be equal waiting times in urination lining-up periods. I’m looking for studies on this.

Comradely Banter in the Queue

Back in my queue, I attempted to get some friendly chat started about this unprecedented state of affairs of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something to the effect of: “So, this represents an disagreeable difference, isn't it boys?”

Someone smiled, another appeared confused, a third individual seemed awkward. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further manifestation of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Aside from that, silence reigned. Someone emerged, zipping up. The group advanced a position. Another two men entered the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Moment

A lady glided out of the neighbouring facility, all clean and unhurried. It was all right for some. I grinned sheepishly at her, attempting to express an understanding of this upside-down scenario. Her response was: “Don't turn to me for sympathy, you jerk. Return when you’ve done this another hundred times and then I might give you the courtesy.”

Truthfully, she did not utter that. She uttered a word. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I truly would not censure her.