Recently, there’s been a lot of talk of “safe spaces” in feminist circles. Frankly, the only safe space I’m interested in right now is one in which women can take long, beery slashes at 3am.
“Where do Swedish women piss at night?” is a phrase that’s now tattooed onto my Google search history until the end of days. The story of how it got there is one of sorrow, toil and public urination.
It’s puke o’clock in the West End. Piccadilly Circus is a wilted salad of the world’s least imaginative tourists and the world’s most depressing street performers, at the best of times. At around 2am on a Saturday night it makes this seamless transition from “just plain crap” to “Boschian Hellscape”. I’d know because, pretty much wherever in London I go out, this is where I’ll end up waiting for the night bus back to the south-west.
Usually, at this point in the evening, I need a wee. On this particular occasion, I really need a wee. I’m doing the dance. My bladder is writing an all-caps email to social services. A “code yellow” klaxon is ringing in my ears. Previously I’d probably sprinted three times in my life. One of them involved getting to the buffet at a Jewish wedding. This time, the fourth perhaps, I’m legging it towards McDonald’s on Shaftsbury Avenue. McDonald’s, the safe haven of late-night piss-needers. And, at this point, the golden arches are more beautiful to me than the sun rising behind Beyoncé riding a snow leopard through an alpine meadow. Until, that is, I get to the door and a couple of knackered looking employees are locking up.
At an inhuman speed, I scope out nearby pissing spots. One otherwise-empty side street contains a passed-out suited man in a doorway, a twinkling puddle of sick at his feet. Can I wee in front of, albeit comatose, puke-man? I probably shouldn’t. I make my way towards the Eros statue, under which a group of Italian teenagers are piling thundering accolades on their comrade who had both the wit and the gall to put a traffic cone on his head.
I need inspiration. Fast. In the gutter, I spot a discarded pint glass. Suddenly I’m a genius. I’m Marie Curie, I’m Ada Lovelace; I’m the cleverest bitch alive. I grab the glass and make a dash down Piccadilly and hunt down the emptiest side street. I find one sparsely dotted with tired drunks. This will do. Luckily, I’m wearing a skirt. I lift the pint glass to my crotch and, with what I thought was an impressive level of discreetness, pull my knickers to one side. I begin to piss. Boy do I piss. In fact, I piss more than a pint. I’m not Curie. I’m not Lovelace. I’m an adult woman standing in her own piss. I’m a disaster.
So back to “Where do Swedish women piss at night?” For women, emptying your bladder in the wee (ha) hours is usually an ordeal. Unequipped with a “the world is my fucking urinal” gammon hose, we usually rely on our friends to form a modesty circle around us while we take a fumbling slash. When we piss down alleys together and watch our glistening urine trails cross paths, we cement friendships. Welcome to the sisterhood.
Bond-forming as it may be, using your friends as human shields while you whip out your minge in public is far from ideal. It occurs to me that the Scandinavians, of all people, must have an answer to this. You can always rely on those Scands to be socially progressive and design savvy. Surely they must have invented some kind of sculpture-like all-night public toilet, where women can wee in peace. Surely.
As you can probably imagine, my Google search was unfruitful. I still don’t know where Swedish women piss at night. But, wherever it is, I bet it’s lovely.