Nightclub Toilets and You

“Babe – babe! You need to look at me. Seriously, listen to what I’m gonna say, right now. Are you listening? Right, so you are incredible, like you are absolutely amazing, I am AMAZED by you. Any boy would be SO fucking LUCKY to have you – and your tits! Look at them! They’re fucking fantastic! You are so strong and sassy and smart so honestly FUCK HIM!!”

Although these words may be so full of sincere love and wonder that you'd assume they came from a long time companion, it turns out there's another place you're just as likely to hear them. Impassioned outbursts like these can surely only be heard in the girls' toilets of night clubs.

It might not be glamorous, but it is the unquestionable truth; if the dance floor is the battle then the toilets are the trenches, and these trenches are literally havens of shared lipstick, sweetness and affection. Whether you've texted some tiddly sweet nothings to your ex, have your mate's vomit in your hair or have just decided that your bum doesn't look as peachy as you thought in that dress, you can guarantee that there's a stranger in there who will just about trip over in their heels with willingness to tell you how clever, beautiful and strong you are.

My own experiences definitely back this up. Whilst clubbing doesn't do much for a pensioner trapped in a youthful body like me, I've spent enough time in the past to know that club toilets for girls are generally sanctuaries, where I will most likely receive some sympathy if I've hit a slump or at the very least, a compliment on my outfit. Apparently this particular kindness holds no language barrier, either; having had a bit of a guy-related wobbler, I teetered my way into the toilets of a German club a few years ago, where two German girls seemed to switch into action immediately and fetched me tissues to clear up my botched eyeliner and gave me much needed hugs. All I could do was smile gratefully and wish my German was good enough to thank them properly.

I researched the topic a little further too, asking others for their own experiences. A crowd sourcing Facebook status revealed that for girls, simply going to the loo on a night out is far from just functional:

"Once my friend was sick in a cup so I had to carry the cup to the toilets to flush it away. When I got to the toilets to empty it LOADS of girls asked what had happened and started offering me perfume and stuff so I didn't smell like the sick that wasn't my own. That was nice."

"My friends and I have had the most over-blown but truly inspiring chats with strangers in nightclub toilets. Everyone hugs and tells the others how sassy and beautiful and independent they are... It's hilarious in hindsight!"

"I got emotional-drunk one night last year at a club and started my whole "was i not good enough for him?" spiel to a mate about my ex (a few days after we ended things). This girl overheard and started giving a really slurred inspirational speech about how i deserve better than that and how beautiful i was and how if anything, he didn't deserve me. Then she told me about her abusive boyfriend and how although he beats her up and verbally abuses her, she loved him and couldn't imagine being away from him. At this point, nearly the entirety of the ladies' loos had gathered around us spitting their wisdom towards the both of us; some girls even gave her phone numbers to abuse hotlines. I have honestly never met a nicer bunch of self appointed therapists."

Although of course, it's not all sharing lipstick and heartfelt exchanges. Sometimes real, uh, shit goes down.

"At Reading fest 2013 in the arena toilets, a very drunk girl who obviously hadn't planned to use the loo, didn't find it acceptable when I said to her I had used all the toilet roll I brought with me after she asked if I had any spare. she then proceeded to punch me in the face"

But generally speaking, it is widely accepted that the ladies’ toilets are essentially temples so brimming with sisterly unity that you can hear Destiny’s Child’s “Girl” from as many as ten whole miles away. However, far less is known about what goes on in the guy's toilets. Whether they are the homes of blossoming bromances or simply an in-and-out experience, I had to find out by asking the masses.

"I ran in to Kyle from The View in the toilets in Box. He was play-fighting with some guy who insisted that he take £20 from him 'for the quality fuckin' music yous make, man'. Weirdest toilet experience I've got. Otherwise it's generally a pretty in and out, purely functional thing. Swordfighting is not a thing."

"I tend to just literally do my business and head off. Never had a deep chat in the toilets."

"Cathouse. Roughly 3-4 years ago. Stood at the urinal, it's one of those long trough-like ones rather than the individual ones and at the corner there's a convenient wee ledge at a safe height to stick your pint on while you have a slash. I approach the urinal and set my pint on this ledge before unzipping. Guy next to me is there already, turns round to me and tells me my pint is 'asking for it'. I laugh accordingly at his joke. He leans back, aims up the way and lands a good stream right into my pint. Never have I been more furious in a public bathroom."  (hahaha)

Business as usual, apparently - quite the opposite to what I've experienced. As somebody who has grown so accustomed to wine-induced warmth, this is kind of baffling to me. How do you guys do it? Don't you wanna go tell that dude that his hair's pretty awesome and you wanna know how he got it that good? Where do you go to cry when you get inevitably upset after too many Jagerbombs?!

Well, those are certainly mysteries. Yet what isn't mysterious at all is that whilst I personally don't thrive in a clubbing environment, sisterhood apparently does. I am totally, wholeheartedly into that. Recalling my own experiences and reading similar accounts from others puts a smile on my most sullen of faces. I only wish more of those unexpected words of compassion and encouragement were seen in moments of sobriety. In a way, it's a little sad that it takes a few glasses of wine to be so openly supportive and loving - for no other reason than because it's just actually really fucking nice to be nice. Plus, no matter how wasted I've been, I've never yet forget being complimented on my lipstick choice, and sometimes you need memories like those to smile and feel reminded that maybe you're alright, after all.

The Case For: Dining Alone

If I say so myself, I've got some pretty damn good life skills under my belt. I can rustle up and proudly wear a ridiculous outfit for any given situation, I think I might actually have this "time management" thing down and I can also talk absolute mindless nonsense to any poor old sod without really feeling that awkward. Yep, these are the skills I'm proud of. However, one skill I've harnessed more recently is the ability to ask for table for one without even a tinge of embarrassment. Yep, I do mean taking myself out to dine.

"I don't know how you do it" some friends have admitted in response to this pastime of mine. Hey, I totally get it. There is always an element of self-consciousness involved when doing anything considered inherently "social" by yourself. It takes a while to ease into your own company, particularly if you're somebody who thrives more in social situations. As is very well documented on this blog, I'm an introvert and whilst I have the most brilliant, accepting group of pals a girl could wish for, I like to roll alone a fair bit of time. S'nothing personal - it's just how I feel my best.

But dining alone has always seemed like a different scenario, as though there was actually something a little shameful about it. Even as somebody who prefers to shop and travel solo, going out for dinner seemed like a bit of a stretch - basically, were people going to think I was a bit...mental? A heartbroken girl who's just broken up with her boyfriend and has come to weep in what used to be "our place!!" maybe? My worries were definitely real, but at the same time I was really hungry one day in October and sometimes your stomach just has to win in that struggle with your brain, y'know.

So I managed to do it once, and then I felt able to do it again, and now I do it frequently. I've actually grown to really enjoy eating out alone. Company might be great but solitude brings increased awareness and sensitivity to your surroundings; my inner nosey cow is satisfied by both the amount of people watching I get to do and the snippets of conversation I often overhear. I also just love the feeling of knowing that I am capable of doing certain activities that are considered "social" by myself. Actually, it makes me feel pretty great. Take it from me, after you do it for the first time, you're humming Independent Women in sheer smug glory for a week, at least.

But there's no denying it takes a while to settle into the comfort you need to reach that glory. One thing that makes it much easier to withstand is bringing something to read or do, such as a book or even uni work. Not just sitting gormlessly until someone puts some spaghetti in front of you makes you forget where you are, essentially, and it takes your mind off the fact that you're not in company. But I found that another key in getting over my self consciousness was just to ask that really, is there anybody who's giving much of a shit as to what I'm up to - this lanky girl with bad hair and a book? Seriously, you have to try and remember that whoever's serving you is categorically not wondering why you're by yourself.  Their thoughts are exclusively consumed by all the fun shit they're gonna get up to once they've clocked off, and wondering how it is even humanely possible to co-exist with some of twats they've had to deal with today. As somebody who has had to work with the public, you must believe me on that. It is a fact.

Knowing that everybody is really just minding their own business is a fact I feel pretty lucky to have learnt. If you ask me, there's nothing quite like brushing your hair and smiling in the mirror, thinking how damn good you look for your dinner out, your little date with you. You're doing dinner alone. You're self-reliant, independent and not afraid of - shock horror! - your own company, and you even get a nice meal out of it. You're a grown up now, and this is how you know it's the real deal; you've grown deeply emotionally attached to a bar at some point since you turned eighteen, you've had at least one pregnancy scare and now you're also able to go and enjoy the nicer things in life yourself.

So, this isn't so much of a blog as it is really a dare. I dare you to wake up one day soon, make a conscious decision to get the hell over your worries and then take yourself out for a meal somewhere you've always fancied visiting. I dare you to not worry what strangers might think of you when you walk in and ask for a table for one, before ordering your meal as you sit with a book, newspaper or tablet. I dare you to smile afterwards and realise "hey, I guess that wasn't so bad!" because it just really isn't. Remember, these are dares, so don't forfeit the ability to create your own bliss.

Why Rejection Makes You A Badass Chick (originally posted on Zusterschap)

Everyone else was nervous, but not me. “I just have a good feeling about it! Why wouldn’t I get the part?” I thought to myself cheerily. To me, it was certainly a good question. My audition had gone flawlessly; I hit the high notes without breaking into a screech, remembered all my lines without stumbling and blushing – hey, I even had short hair! Just like Rizzo does in Grease! So essentially, it just made sense for me to get the part. I practically glided towards the board displaying the cast list for my high school of Grease, so blasé and laid back I felt about my fate. “Showbusiness is Flo’s businesss” was my mantra. At the time, I believed this to be exceptionally witty.

Except, um, it wasn’t Flo’s business, after all. There was a name next to “Rizzo” but it definitely wasn’t mine. Instead, it was next to Eugene. Remember the odd looking nerd at the start of the film who the T-Birds shove to the side in the hallway? The one who doesn’t have more than TWO lines in the whole thing? Yeah, my big high school production debut was playing that guy.

My big dreams of (well, relative) stardom went up in smoke. The next twenty four hours were as drama-filled as any episode of TOWIE whilst I jolted from one intense emotion to another. Initially, I was immensely hurt then I moved on to feeling vengeful and furious. Pure disgust followed after when the girl who had gotten the part wrote on my Bebo wall! All of this went down whilst my mum calmly encouraged me to just accept the part, play it brilliantly and to absolutely not show anybody that I upset over it not being the part I wanted.

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A Note on Valentine's Day

You can see it too, right?

That's love. Like it or not, it's that time of year and looooove is in the air.

Love floats from the restaurants of Ashton Lane, you can't move for it in Royal Exchange Square. It's drifting around the chapels, the quirky cafes and the parks of Glasgow.

Love for the person who holds the other half of the proverbial split-heart necklace; or as the case may be, you're like me and don't even have that necklace. So instead it's love for the sight of the bottom of the bottle, a takeaway of your choice and that card falling through the letterbox that you already know is from your gran (of course you love it - there's probably a tenner inside it)

For Valentine's Day this year, I'll be dragging my untoned bottom ("what's the point of squats? It's NOT LIKE ANYONE IS GOING TO SEE IT!!") to work for the full day shift - god, it's like they knew I wouldn't be spending it with a boyfriend or anything remotely nice like that. Eight and a half hours of couples strolling hand in hand into the shop, giggling and whispering at the condom section, eventually arriving to the till with lipstick, chocolate, lube and a smirk on their faces.

"Bloody lucky you" I have to stop myself muttering. For me, this year's Valentine's Day will be as romantic as crying in Marks & Spencers because my boss told me off, or getting sent an unsolicited dick pic from an unknown number.

I hope it won't be busy, and the romance stays strictly in the chapels, the cafes and the parks of Glasgow, because when it's quiet in the shop and all I have to do is stand there, that's when I think about things properly; when there's no phone in hand, no laptop in front of me. Just everything in crystal clarity.

With that clarity along with the poignancy of the date itself, I'll probably recall the little romantic memories I keep stored away for the days I spend in bed listening to NeYo's So Sick more than one realistically should in a single hour.

Cuddles on that same old bench of my old college campus. Holding hands under a table. Waking up every morning to the same text with words that made me swoon. When he would shuffle towards me, use his thumb to rub the lipstick off my front tooth, then kiss me. George Square under the Christmas lights. The way it made me feel when I heard Unintended by Muse. Smitten side glances across a classroom. The sun setting over the abandoned, overgrown park where we sat on the swings; the last time he and I ever saw each other. Walking down Byres Road in the rain at 5am in my pyjamas on New Year's Day.

Those sorts of memories that I've collected over the years which I don't really mind not forgetting about; no matter how badly it may have ended with the person I shared them with, no matter how long ago it was, now. I'd be lying if I said these memories didn't make me wish I did have somebody to create new ones with; not just on this one day, but every day, really. Nevertheless, those sorts of wishes are futile and a bad usage of my headspace. I have essays to write and a head of hair to work on stimulating into more rapid growth; it has a whole inch to go before it's finally on my shoulders. That's a thought considerably more painful than having nobody to wake up and spoon on the 14th of February.

Nope, instead I'll put my make up on, pull on that unflattering fleece and stand at the tills, grabbing every moment I have to myself to reflect fondly on those memories. Then maybe I'll ponder the last time I actually shaved my legs, or inspect the contents of my purse. There's no aftershave I could possibly afford, anyway - I should know, I work in Superdrug. But there's definitely enough there for dinner for one at my favourite West End restaurant.

And then I feel alright about spending another Valentine's Day on my own.