🔗 Share this article

Shortly before Christmas, I experienced an remarkable situation. I believe it did me good. This happened at a gathering of several mates, who are, as it happens dentists, but this isn't important. The attending party were exclusively male, which proves to be key.

An Unfamiliar Scenario

The establishment was a pub/restaurant experiencing a excellent custom. A forgotten daytime was enjoyed by everyone. Nice fare, nice drink and surprisingly humorous stories about dentistry. Naturally, the point came for visits to the male facilities. Those who went, I half-noticed, seemed to be gone a long time. I didn't ponder the reason this could be, but when it was me next, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a long queue for the gents' lavatory. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a great long one for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering recognised.

An Experience of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I neither court nor expect pity from any woman here. I am fully cognizant that, for females, being forced to wait to use a convenience is the norm. On countless occasions have I seen women queuing in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do no such thing?

Beyond the hassle of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a whiff of embarrassment about waiting there, anticipating something that men typically don’t have to endure. It was decidedly sobering to get a taste of it myself, watching the opposite gender breeze through the door while I was compelled to line up dutifully in line with my companions, fiddling at something we had in our trouser pockets and scrolling through our phones.

The Art of Restroom Line Conversation

There’s a whole conversational genre here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have minimal knowledge. Females, I surmise, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, sharing small talk and an engaging insight or two.

On this I’ve polled some female friends of my circle. The consensus is that intra-queue communication is restricted to the occasional exasperated look and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague informed me it’s merely at the sinks later that chat tends to begin.

If I was a lady, I’d refrain from on both small talk or silence. If I was compelled, over and over, to queue in a shared procession simply for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d rant angrily like crazy at the pure unfairness of it. A handy measure for any modern society would be gender parity in wee waiting times. I’m looking for studies on this.

Male Interaction in the Line

Returning to my line, I attempted to initiate some brotherly banter going about this new circumstance of ours. I clicked my tongue a bit, rolled my eyes and remarked something like: “Ah, this makes an irksome difference, isn't it lads?”

A fellow chuckled, another appeared confused, a third appeared embarrassed. A further person shook his head as if this was a further symptom of broken Britain, cultural decline etc. Otherwise, stillness reigned. An individual came out, zipping up. The queue shuffled up a position. A couple more men entered the back of it. I sighed.

A Knowing Moment

A female glided out of the next-door facility, all fragrant and at ease. It was perfectly okay for some. I smiled sheepishly at her, endeavouring to communicate recognition of this upside-down situation. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you bastard. Reappear when you’ve endured this a hundred more times and only then I may give you the time of day.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She didn’t say anything. But I know that’s what she was implying. And I honestly could not blame her.