The female population of Dublin tends to treat nightclub lavatories like the bathhouses of Ancient Rome (ie, a place to spend the large majority of your night, for no explicable reason). And while the patricians in Everleigh may be feeling all Cleopatra after caking on even more eyeliner, don’t be fooled, there is nothing glamorous about a stint in the powder rooms.
First off, there’s the struggle to control the waterworks after chugging a gallon of Jägerbombs. It doesn’t make you special. We all have to wait in line and suffer for our bad decisions. Just because you’re “like, actually dying” doesn’t give you an automatic pass to the top of the queue.
And piling five people into the one cubicle won’t make the wait any shorter, particularly when you decide to use the toilet as a backdrop to your continuous barrage of selfies. #Gross.
On a similar note, the cubicle is not the place for a break-up or any other kind of intervention.
Spouting off behind what is essentially a barn door may give the illusion of privacy, but everyone can hear you. Get in, get out and be done with it.
The mirror is prime real estate in a room the size of a shoebox. No one will begrudge you a quick touch-up, but turning the sink into a Mac cosmetics counter is a no-no. Trust us, you may be going for the Irina Shayk look, but the result is always more Shirley Temple Bar after that third vodka soda. Rachel Murphy
