The nightclub toilets
are full of staggering heels
tight dresses, short skirts
fake tan and lashes
loud shouting women
fixing their makeup, and hair
with as much care as possible
after several shots of happy juice
there’s a heady mix of perfume smells
sweat and booze
That hits you as soon as you open the door.
You stand in a queue of women desperate to pee
you can hear every word of
gossip about the ‘dance floor incident’
where some random cow threw lager
over Angela’s new dress, in her face, in her hair
it was completely unprovoked says Sharon
bitch was trying to stir shit says Kerry
she was trying to flirt with Ange’s fella says Laura
this fucking dress is ruined says Angela
dry clean only too for fuck sake!
Fucking bitch, fucking slag!
-She mops herself up with toilet paper
wipes the mascara into a tidy smudge
plotting silent revenge.
Pissed up women are hell in a handbag
for losing the plot on the sudden
Stacy is crying her eyes out in a loo cubicle
kicking the door like a mad head
refusing to come out after an argument with Richard
cursing the tosser, for choosing tonight of all nights to kick off.
Jane stands in a toilet cubicle with the door unlocked
half swung open
snorting a line of coke off the top of the toilet cistern.
Done, she folds the tenner note back into her purse
along with a credit card
sniffs and wipes her nose before shimmying her way
bold as brass past the toilet queue
back out to the banging tunes
the flashing lights, the ultraviolet
a crowd of fucked up happy fools
all jabbing at the air with arms and hands
wiggling their asses
dancing up close and personal
on a sticky dance floor.
This is Saturday night,
heaven for some.