🔗 Share this article

Just before the festive season, I had an extraordinary episode. I feel it proved instructive. This occurred at a gathering of several mates, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but it's not important. The assembled party were all blokes, which is relevant.

A Novel Situation

The location was a tavern experiencing a brisk business. A wasted daytime was had by all. Good fare, nice libations and remarkably entertaining stories about dentistry. As expected, the point dawned for excursions to the gents. Those who departed, I half-noticed, seemed to be away a considerable while. I didn't contemplate the reason this might have been, but when it became my go, everything was revealed.

I turned the corner, and what did I discover but a lengthy line for the men's restroom. Not a single person waiting for the women’s toilet, but a considerable queue for the men's. What strange new world was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this line were accustomed to.

A Sample of Common Reality

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not asking for sympathy from any lady here. I am acutely cognizant that, for ladies, having to queue to use a convenience is the norm. How many times have I observed women waiting in a row while men in the same establishment have to do nothing of the sort?

Beyond the inconvenience of needing to wait to use a facility, there’s a hint of embarrassment about waiting there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to wait for. It was truly bracing to experience a dose of it myself, observing the other sex glide through the door while I was obliged to line up dutifully in line with my companions, fiddling at whatever we had in our trouser pockets and checking our mobile devices.

The Practice of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a whole conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant experience. Females, I surmise, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, sharing small talk and an interesting observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve polled some female friends of my knowledge. The prevailing view is that within-the-line communication is limited to the occasional exasperated look and the utterance: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A colleague mentioned it’s merely at the washbasins later that chat tends to start up.

If I was a female, I’d not spend a moment on either pleasantries or reticence. If I was compelled, time and again, to stand in a shared procession only for the opportunity to relieve myself, I’d rant angrily like nobody’s business at the pure injustice of it. A useful benchmark for any modern culture would be balanced access in toilet queue durations. I’m researching research on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Line

Returning to my queue, I attempted to spark some friendly chat flowing about this new situation of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something like: “Ah, this represents an irksome change, right boys?”

Someone smiled, a second appeared confused, a third appeared embarrassed. A further person rolled his eyes as if this was yet another symptom of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Aside from that, silence reigned. An individual exited, fastening his trousers. The group advanced a place. Two more men entered the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Silent Exchange

A female wafted out of the next-door facility, all fragrant and relaxed. It was perfectly okay for some. I beamed sheepishly at her, endeavouring to express an understanding of this topsy-turvy situation. She said: “Don’t look to me for sympathy, you bastard. Come back when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and then I might give you the time.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She didn’t say anything. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I really would not blame her.