Queues For The Girl's Jax

15th May 2003

Queues in The Jax

Although united and equally resolute in their Corkness, there are many little things that differentiate the lives of the Cork feen and the Cork beor.

In 21st century Cork the appreciation of the female is high but its not long since women’s groups campaigned for better rights such as maternity leave, equal employment opportunities and ladies soccer. Nowadays, men will sit with their partners clutching their hands as they give birth to their child before they go out on the tear with the lads to celebrate. They appreciate the pangs of child birth that their partner must go through to bring them their offspring. This is what we’re lead to believe is happening anyway: the kind of stuff you might see on the Late Late Show.

But every Corkman knows that a feen is far more likely to respect his old doll for things like getting the out of the bathroom within an hour of going in there. The bench mark for a decent and sound old doll. Only then can there be male empathy for things like queues outside female toilets. Public toilets to be precise. Bars, night-clubs, concerts and sports events all bring home to many men the sometimes difficult burden of having a bladder, a social life and being female.

Girls, how many times have you stood in the queue for the pub toilet buckled with the pain of ten bacardi breezers bursting to get out of you whilst watching sixty males with a similar cargo come and go from the gentleman’s room while you wait ? How many times have you seen men skipping in an awkward and strangely restricted manner toward the gents toilet with their faces red and bulging only to emerge in the throws of relief and ecstasy a few minutes later while you have only moved from 65th to 64th place in the queue for the ladies?

So do men visiting the mens really care about the queue of silent pained faces in the queue for the ladies? In a way it seems that the Scales of Toilet Fairness are justly balanced though. Think about it. The stress every Cork feen is put under by the female occupants of his gaf. Not just because of things like watching silly programmes on de telly like the news or stuff that isn’t sport but taking over the bathroom for several hours of each day. The morning, after dinner and before they go to bed.

Before we continue, lets be honest here folks: everyone listens to other people in the jax. It might be because you’re waiting for the bathroom to become vacant in your gaf or you’re in a neighbouring cubical at work but you do listen. You do. At least with a feen though you can always tell what stage he’s at. After the entrance, first you’ll hear the toilet flush, there’ll be some shouting and screaming, and brief rumbling. Almost instantly the squeaky toilet roll holder will go into full throttle, there’ll be another flush, some coughing perhaps followed by a glug and then (depending on a feen’s interest in personal hygiene) some water from the tap will signal the paws being washed. Bathroom door opens: Exit. Done. Oops! Forgot to open the window to leave the stench out (the one that everyone talks about but you can’t get). Back in, sound of window being opened. Done. Toilet is free again.

Now with a female their trips to the bathroom are more akin to their minds: strange, mysterious and unpredictable. The silence behind the bathroom door is intriguing to their male housemates. What could possibly be going on? Why this selfish approach? Why are feens attacked for even enquiring as to how long the silent activity will continue behind the locked door. In fairness there’s only so long a feen can dance up and down before he’s got to head out the back garden with a shovel and a copy of last week’s Sunday newspaper…..

Its seems to make sense. Each old doll you see in the ladies queue in the night-club is being punished for each minute overtime she spends in the bathroom at home.

Another one is the company, club or office bus outing. Having toured the various watering holes around the People’s Republic no matter how much drainage you perform before getting on the tour bus to head home it’s always a loooonnnnnng journey back on the bus. As bladders fill up the lads will boisterously collect support for a song entitled “Stop the bus we want a wee wee” until the bus driver sighs and locates a suitable ditch or entrance to a farm.

However the old dolls, must maintain their dignity and sit and watch their male colleagues through the bus window as they relieve themselves. The lads return to the bus with new found enthusiasm to continue the party and can’t understand why the females on the bus are now starring at the seat in front of them puffing and panting like a ward of housewives in labour. Occasionally the girls will glance up at the red digital clock above the bus driver and wonder how there could only have been ten minutes since the last time check. Every minute feels like an hour and there’s still another hour to go…...

So girls, next time you see a feen scoot past you in the queue for the ladies on his way to a vacant gentleman’s quarters remember how much time you spent in your own bog that morning and the equal suffering of the male occupants of your gaf!