Who brings their hen party to rave in this dim cave?
The bride-to-be is from the north and chained to a hired dwarf. She’s cackling away with her feather boa’d friends seeing innuendos in everything she says. Their resemblance to a brood of hens is questionable but their rowdy hoots and bleats suggest they wouldn’t look too out of place on a farm. Quite why they’re dwelling in the bogs of Curtain Road though, god only knows.
Clad in hilarious novelty t-shirts with their nicknames emblazoned, they teeter atop open toe stilettos, tackily tinted a supermarket pink. I queue behind them bursting to give urine. Any loo will do but the yawning bowls of porcelain continue to elude me. I’ve scrunched my junk as tightly as a packed lunch and it’ll soon trickle down yonder unless one of these bastards overcome their crippling piss-shyness.
One fazed fellow has pulled his kecks and briefs all the way down to his ankles – much like you did when you were in primary school. This district is so achingly self-referential that it’s probably a knowing nod to his younger self. I bet he couldn’t go in public then either. Ahh, the perils of unisex toilets…
‘Bonkers’ Beth (a seldom, if ever, used sobriquet), throttled by an ‘L’ plate around her neck, chooses which throne to straddle. Like Goldilocks she scrutinizes the options for just the right amount of liquid lacquered to the toilet seat. It’s futile being fussy, they each appear hopelessly bathed in a bukkake of fluids.
We’re now at that heady point in the evening where there are more people in here pissing, kissing & sniffing than there are folks dip-jiving on the dance floor. “I’m absolutely fine with that…” ‘Raunchy’ Rachel boasted, motioning towards a same-sex couple pinned to the wall with their lips eclipsed. “…Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that at all” she continued as if there was something wrong with it.
It’s kind of like a giddy kids party in here with a Saved by the Bell-coloured fluorescence saturating the room. There are even balloons bouncing from the deck to the ceiling, heavily pregnant with laughing gas. The crumpled guy beside me is incessantly suckling on them, one after the other. He’s not laughing. He’s barely even breathing.
This pylon of a man leans against the sink watching these tinsel-wigged women through the mirror. His skin is the pallor of an old Amstrad computer and he’s cloaked in the fatal fashion statement that is a black blazer & hoodie combo. The freaky getup is bookended with a felt Fedora on top (what is that good for?) and Simpsons socks tucked into robust oxblood brogues. ‘Lush’ Laura is utterly enamoured.
“I’m comin’ up!” he didn’t say as the gas canisters clink to the floor like disposed bullet shells. His cloudy eyes are lobotomised as he plants his gaze on her gelatinous thighs. “Care for a quaff ‘n’ scoff?” he literally asked, patting his pocket with his pale pianist’s fingers. Her stare turns to marble in bafflement as she plucks her knickers from out of her fundament. If only these pissoirs were as vacant as her. In a flash the Fedora’d fella dispenses with subtle courtship and makes his move. He just about lifts her off the floor and pins her to the toilet door; the full horror of his cartoon socks now exposing themselves. Bart’s yellow face warps as they stretch to his fragile knees – the words ‘Don’t have a cow man!’ now plainly visible. Yet here he was, having a hen and the time of his bloody life.
Melding into a single entity they pratfall into the bog and his hat plummets to the ground. The cheap felt briskly soaks up the golden rivulets of urine splashed upon the vile tiles and we finally discover what it’s good for.
A symphony of flushed lavvy’s crash with the future bride scuttling from her cubicle. “It’s always Armitage Shanks innit?” says the Geordie bae and I nod in agreement. ‘Lush’ Laura surfaces soon after, clammy and purple-cheeked. Her decrepit gent snatches a post-coital balloon from inside his sock. His fallen headpiece had now swollen to bulbous, sombrero-sized proportions as it absorbs puddles of amber piss.
Plaintively placing the rubber teat onto his lower lip, he sighs to the woman “Never get into this shit love…”, before a sharp intake of gas storms it’s way into his lungs. His voice is suddenly hijacked by a nightmarish squeak: “…It’s ruined me!”
“What’s bloody happened babe…?!” the glittery lass asks, wide-eyed and gobsmacked.
Veins popping from his temple, he cheeps like a chipmunk: “The fucking thing’s been mixed with helium!…”.
A stunned silence paralyses the vicinity with the engorged hat continuing to swell. ‘Bonkers’ Beth’s drawn-on eyebrows contort as she looks around utterly perplexed…
“Anyone seen my midget?”
