A Guide to Shitting in Nightclubs

This article originally appeared on Thump

Few thoughts slide in and out of my brain, like the rancid slop of last night's ill-advised fried gristle and chips, with as much terror and regularity as the thought that this weekend coming I might find myself stood in a queue, absolutely fucking desperate for a shit, and that I am going to have to wipe someone else's piss off the seat, and sit there, trousers and pants down by my ankles, trying to shit, all the while putting up with the ceaseless barrage of door-knocking an and hurry-upping.

Unfortunately, the combination of alcohol, excitement, and whatever the fuck it is that you've slid down your Tuborg-lubricated gullet in the smoking area earlier that evening, results in quite a high likelihood of you needing to evacuate your bowels at some point during the night. Also quite unfortunately, needing to go to the toilet is a pretty non-negotiable situation. Holding it in won't do you any favours in the long run—you'll probably find yourself doubled over on the top of a double-decker come sunrise, incapable of rational speech, limiting yourself to the occasional groan of anxiety-flecked pain. One has to just suck it up and spit it out, as it were.

To ensure that you find yourself capable of some much-needed release next time you're stood shaking in a club queue, we've put together a few handy do's and don'ts. Print this out and keep it in your back pocket at the weekend guys—you might want something to read on the loo, if you don't find another use for it of course.

It's two in the morning and Anthony Naples is sending the room into a frenzy. Eyeballs are rolling, jaws are clenching and everyone's having the time of their life. Apart from you. Because you desperately need to have a shit. You waddle over to the bathroom, braving the acrid stench of old piss and freshly cut coke, tramping through the ominously dark puddles on the floor, standing shoulder to shoulder with a bloke talking to himself, sweat threatening to send him the way of the Snowman. You're clenching and grimacing which, handily, means you're fitting right in with everyone else in the room.

You finally get your slot and slide into the cubicle. The lock, predictably, is fucked, so you've got to perform gyratory gymnastics, wedging it shut with one foot while making sure you're sat fully on the toilet itself. Once that's been achieved…GO GO GO. You've got a minute, two at most, to avoid the heckles and jeers of the waiting hordes, so push with all your might, muster all your internal energy and get the fuck out of there.

I was recently speaking to a mate of mine about shitting in nightclubs and he confessed that he's used the men's in every single club he's ever been to. For him, you'd have to imagine, there's no nervousness, no stomach-churning, no sense of Oh Shit I've Got to Shit. He can strut into the club secure in the knowledge that the bathroom is his domain, that nothing, absolutely nothing, is going to deter him from letting nature have it's way. He is the man we should all aspire to be, so let us draw courage from this brave soul, and hold our heads high as we stumble back onto the dancefloor a few pounds lighter.

Remember when that bloke took a shit on the floor of a nightclub in Wigan last year? Remember that? Remember seeing the video of it on LadBible and then feeling engulfed by second-hand shame? Remember how it put you off doing anything ever again? Yeah? Don't do it then. Dear god, never ever shit on any floor ever. Ever.

I think it was John Fashanu who once said "prior preparation prevents poor performance," and largely speaking, he's right. Especially in this context. If you're going clubbing regularly, you're probably at an age where you've got at least some idea of what you can and can't put in your body without creating some pretty adverse conditions for yourself. For example, if you know that drinking six cans of premium strength lager followed by two of those little Goodfellas microwave mini-pizzas is going to send your stomach into a whirling dervish of degradation, try not to consume two mini-pizzas and three litres of gassy gut-rot before going out. Try a nice refreshing glass of tap water and a bowl of wilted lettuce. Iceland do big bags of it for about 50p. Quids in!

Similarly, if you know that various substances have a noticeable effect on your digestive system you've got two options. The first is to forgo them, and in doing so avoiding any potential need for the toilet, bar the odd piss. The second is to bosh away with reckless abandon all the while taking ownership of your body and its numerous unpleasant needs.

This one sort of applies to life at large, actually. Few things are more immediately distressing than realising that you've not made the necessary checks before plonking yourself down on the toilet. You're grasping for a safety net that's not there. Years ago you would have wailed "MUUUUM, MUUUUUUUUUM, MUUUUUUUUUUUUM," over and over until mother dearest alerted to you to salvation with the gentlest of knocks. Now you find yourself sitting in a cubicle for 20 minutes or so until you're utterly sure that you'll be able to waddle to safety without being caught and subsequently lambasted forevermore.

What do you do, though, if this happens in a club? Frankly, the thought of it is too terrifying to contemplate. Sorry kid, you're on your own.

You might be shitting in a sweat-lacquered plywood cupboard—but you're not an animal.

@bain3z