Saturday (Explicit)

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.

 

Next door,

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.

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