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In the run-up to the holidays, I experienced an remarkable episode. I feel it was beneficial for me. This occurred at a get-together of several mates, who happen to be dentists, but that’s not important. The present party were exclusively male, which proves to be key.

A Strange Scenario

The location was a bar and eatery enjoying a brisk business. A forgotten afternoon was enjoyed by everyone. Nice fare, fine libations and remarkably amusing anecdotes about dentistry. As expected, the time dawned for visits to the gents. Those who ventured off, I partially registered, seemed to be absent a long time. I didn’t dwell on why this could be, but when it came to my turn, everything was revealed.

Upon turning the bend, and what awaited me but a sizeable procession for the gentlemen’s toilet. No queue at all for the female facilities, but a great long one for the gents'. What fresh hell was this? This was not a reality any of us in this line were accustomed to.

A Taste of Everyday Life

For the avoidance of doubt, I do not seek or anticipate empathy from any female reader here. I am obviously conscious that, for women, having to queue to use a public toilet is the norm. On countless occasions have I witnessed 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 convenience, there’s a tinge of embarrassment about lingering there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to experience. It was truly bracing to get a taste of it myself, watching the opposite gender walk straight through the entrance while I was forced to wait patiently with others with my fellow fellas, fiddling at anything we had in our jackets and checking our handsets.

The Practice of Toilet Queue Banter

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant knowledge. Ladies, I imagine, have learned to be rather good at it, engaging in pleasantries and an notable insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some lady acquaintances of my circle. The prevailing view is that queue-based dialogue is confined to the occasional eye roll and the comment: “Forget this, I’m going to use the male.” A workmate informed me it’s exclusively at the sinks subsequently that conversation tends to begin.

If I was a lady, I’d not spend a moment on both small talk or silence. If I was forced, over and over, to wait in a public line only for the privilege to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like crazy at the utter unfairness of it. A handy benchmark for any modern community would be gender parity in urination lining-up periods. I’m researching data on this.

Male Banter in the Procession

Back in my queue, I endeavoured to get some brotherly banter started about this unprecedented situation of ours. I tutted a bit, rolled my eyes and uttered something to the effect of: “Ah, this is an disagreeable variation, doesn’t it chaps?”

One person chuckled, another seemed nonplussed, a other man appeared embarrassed. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more example of broken Britain, political correctness etc. Otherwise, stillness ensued. Someone came out, fastening his trousers. The queue advanced a spot. Another two men took a place at the back of it. I let out a breath.

An Unspoken Interaction

A lady emerged out of the next-door facility, all fresh and at ease. It was all right for some. I smiled bashfully at her, attempting to express recognition of this topsy-turvy situation. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for support, you blighter. Reappear when you’ve endured this another hundred times and at that point I could give you the courtesy.”

In reality, she did not utter that. She didn’t say a word. But I believe that’s what she was implying. And I truly could not censure her.