Toilet Confessions: Ladies’ Night
Ever wondered what girls talk about in the toilet? KATIE MAIR camped out in a Cindies cubicle to find out…
Delighted to find that the toilet attendant is off duty tonight – that’s one less person who will think I have irritable bowel syndrome. Need a genuine wee, and get my notebook out in anticipation, smug that I am multi-tasking.
Seems that as girls get drunker, the pitch of their voices rises at a corresponding rate. On a scale of ‘one’ to ‘hammered’, the girls who have just entered the loos are somewhere between thinking tequila tastes nice and going blind, and it is very difficult to eavesdrop on ultrasound. Bruno Mars comes on, and they leave in a blur of hair and noises possibly only audible to bats and canines. Bad start.
Luckily (luckily?) my perseverance does begin to pay off, and I hear some diverse chat that could be summarised under pleasingly alliterative sub-headings.
The things girls talk about when they’re drunk… Who knew?
Casually pretending to critique my eyebrows in the mirror, but really spying on the girl by the sink. Thing is, she isn’t actually talking, just systematically inspecting her body-conned belly from every conceivable angle. In the end she sighs, grabs her bottle from the side, and concludes, ‘this dress is fucking punishing.’ Deep.
The next couple in proceed to engage in a profound existentialist discussion:
Girl 1: So. Soooooo. [drapes a casual arm around friend’s shoulders, leaning in to create a safe environment of confidentiality. G1’s left leg gives way and she falls off her wedges, head-butting mate in the chest.] Erm, yeh. Like, how are you feeling?
Girl 2: ….Er, wh-? Sorry, what? How am I feeling? Are you okay?
G1: About STUFF, y’know? [wipes a finger across G2‘s cheek, and prods her nose with each of the following words] How- are- you- feeling- about- stuff?
G2 is applying Vaseline, and does not reply. G1 is getting frustrated.
G1: ‘Look, you know. Is…[a pause] is…[another 4 seconds] is…? [I seriously consider plunging my face into the toilet] …right. [takes a moment to shiggle her boobs about inside her bra. Here it comes. The Motherload.]
G1:…But, is your spirits happy?
Possibly G1‘s bold disregard for the rules of grammar, possibly the fact that ‘SEXY J***** BLOODY A****!!!’ had just sent G2 a text message, but G1‘s concern seems somewhat undue.
G2 replies with a ‘What? God, yes, TWAT: my spirits is fucking happy. Let’s dance!’, and they scamper away into the night.
Spending so long in the toilet environment is proving to be quite a head fuck – constantly filled with the desire to urinate. This distracts me briefly, though:
Girl hurtles into toilets, clutching face. Friend saunters in afterwards, BBM-ing.
Girl: But WADDAM I GONNA DOOOOO???!!!
Friend: Head back, babe. OH, BABE: HEAD. BACK.
Girl: Owwhh, poor me. It was like this at formal. All over my DoS.
Friend: [distractedly applying lipgloss]…yeah? You’ll be okay, hun.
Girl: [gurgling] Er,’head back’ is making the blood run into my throat. [face contorted with fear] Oh, GOD- ‘head back’ or ‘head down’?! [very mad eyes] TELL ME.
Friend: Mmm? Oh- down, babe. Definitely down, yeah.
Girl: [with renewed urgency and suddenly hushed tone, addressing all present] …Guys. I’ve heard- [a deep breath] I have actually heard that nosebleeds are a sign of…well…[stage-whisper, earnest eyebrows]…brain tumours.
Girl is totally ignored, and trails her ‘mate’ out of the toilet with a toilet paper tampon bunged up her nostril.
Rudely awoken by ‘Nah. Can’t have that. Can’t have you sleeping in the club, darlin’.’ Dawns on me how low I’ve sunk.
Drag myself off to the toilet to listen to innocent people innocently pissing out their alcopops. Feel low. Nearly fall asleep standing up, until…
Girl with cat-ears, corset, and almighty bangers bounds up to the mirrors, happily chatting to herself. I am spell-bound, and can’t stop staring, and she notices. Perhaps this is why she feels compelled to justify her insane behaviour by bellowing into my face.
‘I’M NOT EVEN ON DRUGS THOUGH! AND I’M GOING MENTAL! AAAAHAHAHAHA, SORRY!’
I assure her that it is ‘cool’, and ‘not to worry’. She continues.
‘God, my boobs. [adjusts her breasts by ramming a hand down her front and physically lifting them up. I am afraid I might have just seen stranger-nipple.] Got everything in here- s’like my fucking handbag! HAHAHAHA!’
She starts pulling things out from the space between her breasts and her bodice, pointing helpfully as she names them each in turn, as though I am mentally impaired:
‘Lip-gloss. Phone. Mon-ey… Actually, shit! WHERE’S MY MONEY?! HAHAHA!’
[a pause as she reflects]
‘…The amount you can fit into a 36FF really is amazing, isn’t it?’
Illustrations by Amy Jeffs
Tomorrow, Alex Bower shows you around the man’s world of the male toilets.