There's no shortage of people who would like to punch me until their fists bleed. Most of them are close personal friends. Of course family members are a given. Usually it takes me some time to really irritate people. Don't get me wrong - I don't go out of my way to get up someone's nose, it's something that seems to happen naturally. Occasionally it happens more quickly. Like tonight.
A mate and I were enjoying a quiet drink when one of his colleagues and her friend joined us. They were girls. I mean real girls, not boys, actual girls. This is a rare occurrence. I am under no illusion that I am the least bit attractive to members of the opposite sex, and I’m rarely appealing to the same. And without being mean, my mate, though wonderful, is similarly aesthetically-challenged, so two young women wandering over unbidden and unpaid was a bit of a novelty. I was foolish to be flattered: these weren’t ladies.
Rather than polite and idle chit-chat, the friend embarked on a fairly intense cross-examination about my work. Now, I don’t mind talking about my job, I’m not embarrassed to be the Office Teaboy, but this wasn’t small talk, this was interrogation. After ten minutes of uncomfortable prying she paused for breath for the first time. And then...
“God, you’re arrogant.”
‘I’m sorry. What?’
“You are so fucking arrogant.”
‘I’m sorry. What?’
“I can’t believe you. You’re a jerk.”
I was beginning to suspect I’d inadvertently fallen asleep, toppled over and, woken by the sound of breaking glass, tried to raise myself by tugging on the suspender belt of the local MP.
“God, I can’t believe you.” She shook her head in disgust.
I managed to collect my thoughts enough to rephrase my confusion:
‘I’m sorry. What?’
My subtle change of emphasis seemed to work.
“We’ve been talking for ages and you haven’t asked a single question about me. You are so rude.”
‘I’m sorry. But you were asking me about my job’ I offered.
“Unbelievable!” she cried, “What a fucking loser.”
I looked around, utterly confused. Was she actually talking to me? Or someone just behind? My friend and his colleague stood stupefied. I scrabbled for some sense; quickly rerunning our conversation, checking my mental copy of the UN’s Offensive Behaviour list. Had I mentioned politics, religion, sex or anything of any meaning at all? No. Had I made any physical contact whatsoever? No. Was my dress in any way controversial? No, I wasn’t wearing a dress - it wasn’t one of those evenings and I’d left my KKK outfit at home. Had I made any sudden or suggestive movements? No: I hadn’t spilt my drink over anyone and the dancing hadn’t begun. Had I looked at her inappropriately, stared coldly, or allowed my left eye to wander off on its own and gaze at something else? No. Did my breath smell? I couldn’t be sure so quickly rinsed with beer. In the slo-mo time of road traffic accidents, I racked my memory to see what I had done to deserve this treatment and, although clearly demonstrating the good Catholic principles of crushing self-doubt and prejudged guilt, I could find no just cause for this tirade.
‘I’m sorry. What?’ I tried again, demonstrating the quick wit that has made me such a success in times of conflict.
“You’re a twat.” She screamed before storming off.
I looked at my mate for some kind of explanation. He shrugged in a way only males can. His colleague said nothing either but left in meek pursuit of the Maniac, as I will now call her. The power of speech disappeared into the vacuum of logic that enveloped me. I made my very lifelike fish impression. ‘Another drink?’ my chum enquired, helpfully misinterpreted my gaping. I nodded.
As we queued, they returned. I stiffened.
“I’m so sorry.” She said, disarmingly.
‘I’m sorry. What?’ I replied, rendered simple with fear.
“I’m so sorry. I was bang out of order. I’m really sorry. Can we start again?’
Knocked completely off guard but always willing to offer a second chance, I bought them all a drink. £30 for four drinks. Good grief, this was an expensive olive branch. It didn’t work. Within five minutes, I was “a twat” again.
“I can tell you’re not a teacher,” she spat with unfathomable meaning, “You fucker.”
It was utterly disorientating. I just wanted a quiet chat with my old friend but this lunatic would not go away. And, get this, after another vitriolic outpouring, she stormed off. Only to return a few minutes later, begging forgiveness. This time I was more restrained. As I think she should have been. By the local social services.
When she started belching obscenities for a third time, I realised this was a no-win situation. I was not going to have a quiet chat with anyone anymore this evening. I thought about telling her to fuck off. I considered violence. I dismissed them both having remembered the effort it took to get the stain out of my shirt from the last time. Finally, I resolved my course of action. Demonstrating all the outstanding qualities that cost Britain its empire, I simply said ‘Good Night’ and left.
ha. She sounds like a bit of a lunatic. And three rounds? I bet she is a riot at office parties.
Maybe you should of asked Maniacs friend if she was her "carer"?
Posted by: The Boy Who Likes To | Wednesday, 24 January 2007 at 10:52 AM