Here's a Scottish scene:

Two men are at the trough in a pub loo. A third comes up between, says, "Ey, could you move tha' way a bit." He scoots over, accomodating. The third man goes on, "Used to be, we'd get four blokes on here. Now it's only three. Course, those were shorter, skinnier blokes." The other two chuckle. He says, "With that booth over there, we can get a few more in." He waves at the single stall, protected by a floor-to-ceiling door. Inside, the walls are wheat-pasted, every square inch, with pinups from lad mags—centerfolds, or Page Six girls, as you like. The effect is vaguely revolting. "It's me that put that in, as manager, when I was managing the place a few years ago. That's the best thing I did for the place. Sometimes a Saturday night, it'd be covered in puke..."

Finished with my business, I left him to tell his story to the other gentleman.