The Revolver Toilets
Satans Fecal Sauna
There is no doubt in my mind that revolver upstairs is one of the greatest clubbing experiences in Australia. Perhaps even in the world.
The influx of patrons from all walks of life sprawled out among the deep couches, techno throbs and grey cages make this venue a truly enjoyable and unique experience. From its axiom on Thursday, to the depths of weirdness on Monday - you'll find people sending it here all weekend long.
But pray to Moses you dont need to use the facilities.
“Taking a shit at revs can be a harrowing experience”
If you’ve ever been unlucky enough to experience a bowel movement at revs, I feel for you. Hitting those cubicles in a panic can leave you like Clive parma at a Smorgys opening - clamy, uneasy & unsure if you're currently in your last moments on earth.
The vibe in there is hard to explain. Like most nightclub cubicles, everyone in there just wants to get out as soon as possible. The tones of paranoia, panic and general curiosity are neatly packaged into one wet floored sauna of death.
“What are two guys going in that cubicle together for?” - You'll ponder quietly
“Is that guy half slumped over in the urinal okay?” - You'll ask a vacant crowd
“Is that the bouncers?” - You'll feel the collective thinking
“How much sweat can a man produce before he passes away" - You'll be found googling in a panic.
These questions and many more will flip through the mental rolodex of your mind, for a bit. But if natures truly calling, this sort of curiosity won’t last for long. Impatience and sweat are the only two variables after a certain point.
If you are lucky enough to score admittance to a cubicle. You'll be greeted by wet floors, an even wetter seat and small 5x5cm shit tickets (we're talking 0.02 ply - make sure to triple sheet). Harrowing. When you do finish off, please be considerate of the 5 blokes out there, sweltering away in the fecal sauna of doom. That was you once.
At some stage, the nightmare will be over and you will emerge. The furious 5 will barely register your existence as you walk out of the terradome of doom. Forget them, they're dead to you now. Soon enough you’ll burst through that push door, feeling like The Rock in his return to WrestleMania. Beaten, battered, sweaty, but inherently proud of what you’ve done.
You’re born again old chap. You’ve done it. Head to the smokers and reflect on your life up until this point.