The Wonder of the Women’s Bathroom in JAKS

Something that has become simultaneously common knowledge, and a great mystery of life is why women go to the bathroom in groups and what takes them so long. I know a magician is never supposed to reveal her tricks, but I can tell you it’s not due to gastric distress. Apart from when I had norovirus and stayed in the Barbary Coast loo for 3 and a half hours until they got the police. Normally the lengthy visits are down to a much more magical reason.

Since birth, many (but not all) women, are taught to build an inner system of guilt, self-deprecation, and self-doubt. Whether it’s worrying about our appearance, feeling guiltily obliged to do things we don’t want/ have the time or energy to do, playing down our intelligence and authority by overusing the word ‘just’ in emails to make sure people think we’re nice, or convincing ourselves that when we’re treated poorly it isn’t as big of a deal as it actually is because we don’t want to ‘kick up a fuss’, the list is endless and reaches into practically all aspects of life. Most of it influenced by hundreds of years’ worth of patriarchal programming. But there’s a place where women come together and all these doubts, insecurities, and guilt are flushed away upon entering.

It is, of course, the women’s bathroom. In JAKS.

Women’s bathrooms in bars and clubs are a place of greatness. As soon as I walk through the door, I feel like I’ve entered Greta Gerwig’s Barbie Land albeit a grungier, less clinically clean version. In there, women are confident, brazen, beholden to no one but themselves and each other. It’s a beautiful thing to witness.

I’ve gone to bathrooms on a night out and heard women reassuring each other about their outfits in a way that would rouse me to vote for them for president. All issues dissolve upon entering. For a short amount of time, strangers become best friends looking out for one another in the name of sisterhood in that fleeting moment between handwashing and drying.

If you haven’t had the pleasure of using a women’s bathroom before, allow me to take you on a journey. A pub (women’s bathroom) crawl through Douglas to give you an idea. Starting in JAKS. You go in, sweaty from dancing, feeling like your hair is as flat as a mountain road hedgehog. The mirror has those fancy Hollywood lights that expose every wrinkle, pore, and terrible past decision you’ve ever made. You stare at your mascara drizzled face – 5 minutes ago you cried because you really wanted chicken fried rice – and think ‘my God. I’ve never been uglier.’ Suddenly, the girl next to you turns and say ‘I love your dress, you look amazing.’ Your confidence levels are boosted. ‘Maybe I AM GORGEOUS’ you think. ‘MAYBE I’LL APPLY TO AMERICA’S NEXT TOP MODEL IF THAT’S STILL A THING.’ You thank her and, noticing she has loo roll under her shoe, step on it so she doesn’t walk back out onto the dance floor with it stuck to her. The height of adult embarrassment. She smiles and leaves with a step that would have an added spring in it if she didn’t immediately get stuck to the booze-sodden floor. I hear she’s still there to this day. Onto 1886 and, tired of coked-up ravers, it’s time for another trip to the loo. While you wait in line a cry comes from inside one of the cubicles from a girl needing a tampon. Without hesitation, a stranger next to you in the line reaches into her bag with Mary Poppins efficiency and passes one under the door. During this, a woman with a ‘BIRTHDAY GIRL’ badge comes in looking upset and talking about how old she is. The girls in the bathroom rally immediately. They start by telling her how amazing she looks and quickly move onto speeches about how society demonises women for aging, so fuck society! All with the energy and eloquence of Henry V before he beat the French that time before they then beat him and built Euro Disney. All to the background ambience of Bethany throwing up in cubicle 6. Birthday girl leaves with the swagger of Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada and Bethany keeps her hair vom-free because her mate is holding it back for her. We’re in The Outback bathroom. The seal well and truly broken. The girl next to you is about to wet herself so you let her go ahead. She hugs you with the gratefulness of a person who has previously pissed herself and never wants to go through it again and promises to rename her first child after you before sprinting in. Finally you make it into a cubicle but, nightmare, THE DOOR DOESN’T LOCK. Another woman stood in the queue notices and wedges her foot under the door to stop it opening. A conversation ensues through the door about how gorgeous her shoes are, where she got them from, how much they were, and how you will set her up with your second-cousin Dillon who’s a dreamboat but just hasn’t met the right person yet. You write your number on the bathroom cubicle for her to keep in touch with and apologise for the flush not working, side-stepping Felicity who’s fallen asleep with her head on the soap dispenser. Onto Bench. A girl comes into the bathroom talking about how her boss touched her bum while drunk at the office party then blamed HER for being a bad influence but she doesn’t know if she should go to HR or not. A choir of hidden voices emerge from the various cubicles. Words of support ring out to this girl, everyone has weighed in to tell her to ‘NOT LET THE FUCKWIT GET AWAY WITH THAT SHIT.’ Two girls, adorning glittery knuckle dusters, offer to castrate the guy who, it turns out, you know. He’s the nephew of your best acquaintance’s Mum Barbara’s hairdresser’s cat sitter. And a total wankshaft. You tell her so. A Lord of the Rings-esque congregation ensues between strangers. All listen empathetically, nod knowingly, and offer their support whilst intermittently complimenting each other’s words of wisdom and outfits.

It’s not just a bathroom. It’s a space where women can feel safe, be vulnerable, and release emotions as well as their bladders. Often simultaneously. From someone who’s out celebrating their 18th to someone out for their retirement bash, the women’s bathroom is an equaliser. It’s a melting pot of ages in which people unite over their femininity. It highlights how wonderful women are at looking out for one another at the drop of a hat, which is something very special. If only the rest of the world was more like the women’s bathroom in a club.

Although, one time I did go to the loo in Peggy’s (RIP) and watched a girl banging on the cubicle door her friend was in telling her to ‘hurry up, I need to piss.’ To which, her friend responded, ‘THEN PISS YOURSELF, YOU C**T.’ Not without a supportive tone though.