Do I just date sociopaths? You know, those that lack a sense of personal responsibility and morality, have a total lack of remorse for their actions, are impulsive, manipulative, reckless, quarrelsome and consistent liars? The reason I ask is because I recently got an email from Goodie, a knob end I dated way back in my early twenties. It was in response to a request I had sent him, about a year ago. The request was:
From: "Tequila Mockingbird"
To: “goodie”Subject:
RE: Goodie has Tagged you! :)
Date: Mon, 16 Jul 2007 14:11:32 +0000
Hi,
Please can you take my name off these things?
Regards,
Tequila
The ‘things’ I wanted to be taken off were the endless social networking sites and on line communities that he was signing up to which, because I was in his address book meant that I was bombarded with junk emails. Je déteste junk emails. All of these on line communities and IM services drive me insane and I just don’t get it. The whole thing is ridiculous, letting complete strangers have your phone number, email address and vital statistics? Letting your every last move be monitored by anyone and everyone, and those scary ex boyfriends that you really don’t want to know you are still alive, let alone getting on with your life without them thank you very much.*
However, more importantly, I didn’t want to accept his friend requests because this guy was an absolute cunt to me when we were together. The last contact we had was when I got home one day to find he had virtually emptied out my flat and set off into the sunset, after repeatedly cheating on me for nigh on eight months and sinking me literally thousands of pounds into debt. He was a pathological liar who really screwed my head up in a whole host of ways including manipulating me into thinking that his cheating was all in my head,regardless of the unquestionable evidence. He even went as far as to offer to go and see a shrink with me, you know, to sort out my 'trust' issues. Even when he gave me crabs, and insisted it was scabies, but still had me use the crabs lotion he had me thinking I was imagining it. He ran up HUGE phonebills ( which he left me to pay) on chat lines, that he was using to meet the men he was cheating on me with. We had not spoken since he'd done his midnight flit almost seven years ago and now he had the absolute unmitigated panooge to include me as a friend on the abundance of networking sites he was signing up for?? Clearly, not an ounce of shame.
His email said, and this is the actual text:
Mr!! im shocked !!! you dont know who i am do u ??? well you should seein as we spent nearly 2 years together natalie’s been telling me all about you glad your ok and doin better then me lol ive jus split up wid mine so livin in lpool now you will have to come visit its a rite good laugh nice to hear from ya even tho it was to say bugger off sent ya a pic as well love and kisses goodie **
I shall translate for those who speak English. This boil on the butt of humanity thought I had asked to be taken off his list, because I had forgotten who he was, and he was shocked. In his warped mind, the eight months we had spent together had now become two years, and he’d heard from someone we both knew that I was doing well. He had split up with his boyfriend, (I’m hazarding a guess there was infidelity on Goodies part) and he wanted me to go visit him in Liverpool. And he had sent me a picture. His email had outraged me, but when I clicked on the attachment, I nearly fell off my chair.
It was him, in his underwear. I presume to show me what I had been missing these seven years. Well, dear readers, all it did, was make me want to put hooks in my cheeks and fly myself off Canary Wharf. I have no idea what I ever saw in him. I used to think of him as sexy and incredibly handsome with a nice body. He was none of the things I thought he was. What the hell was I thinking? Love is not only blind; it’s for crazy people I tell you. You see that crazy bag lady on the street having an argument with herself and you’re seeing me. You hear that neighbour screaming at the voices in his head to all get along, and you’re hearing me. You watch Bette Davis in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane and you’re watching me.
The thing which really annoyed me about the whole thing, was that he was only contacting me now because he’d split up with another one of his victims, whose vulnerable heart he no doubt would have preyed and trampled on. No mention of all the shit he put me through, no apology for the lies, the infidelities and the money he owed me. Nada. This email seemed like we were long lost pals.
I cannot believe the sheer effrontery of it all. You just could not make this stuff up. What the hell did he expect me to do? Email him back and say how happy I was to hear from him and the picture had got me all aquiver? Well I did email back. I said:
Goodie,
I do know who you are. Please stop sending me these things.
T
He’ll respond to that in a year undoubtedly. Please God don’t let the email have a picture attached.
*I have a facebook account, I admit, but my account is set to private, and ONLY my friends & family and some colleagues are on my account.
**Now before my darling Big Sis flies over from the US to kill me for the bad spelling and complete lack of grammar, I would like to point out, that I have simply copied and pasted the email in question. Big sis my love, In a Word document, it was one WHOLE big red squiggly line. xx
Showing posts with label cunts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cunts. Show all posts
Friday, August 15, 2008
Thursday, August 14, 2008
When a stranger emails
A friend of mine, Telstar emailed recently saying ‘we have a new best friend’ which had me intrigued and chomping at the bit to find out more. However, my eagerness soon turned to dread. Turns out he had been in communication with a chap that reads his blog religiously and they had been emailing each other for a few weeks. This guy, Just Justin, seemed to think that Telstar and I were the kind of Mo’s that you really want to be associated with and had made the very brave move of asking if we would meet him for a drink. Telstar obviously has mentioned some of our exploits via his emails, and he seemed keen on meeting, then raping and murdering us:
“I would actually really like to meet you and Tequila. You talk about him with such affection; it would be lovely to meet you both. Tell you what, I’m returning to London tomorrow. I'll leave you my mobile number so just text/call me when you want to meet (or whenever you wish!). Maybe you could send me a text so I could have yours? Or am I being too forward? (I am a complete stranger after all!)
I look forward to meeting you and Tequila in due course.”
Now, immediately I thought what a dreadful idea this would be. I have been contacted by many young lovelies asking to go out for a drink via my blog, but unlike Telstar, I’m not desperate, and also, do not have a death wish. I once met someone via a rather awful social networking site years ago, who on first impressions seemed like a normal kind of guy. Time showed that the face he had initially showed and the hand that he had dealt me could not have been further from who, or what he was. To this day he remains one of the most unhinged, manipulative, vengeful and self serving people I have ever met. And last year I met Madonna. So to say that I am loathe meeting strangers in an understatement. If it’s done via the internet, I’m sorry, but something aint right. As far as I was concerned, Just Justin was a little bit odd, and there was no way I was going to take part in any of this. As I always say, if your genitals are on the outside, you’re hiding something on the inside.
However, my good friend Telstar is single, and horny as hell, and he obviously wanted to meet up with this guy in the hope of getting some tail. Trouble being, he can be shy at times, and would only go if I would. I was caught between a rock and a gay place, so I racked my rack, and decided that in the true spirit of sisterhood, I had a responsibility for my flailing queerling of a friend, and agreed to go. It was time to Gay it Forward.
I roped Charles into coming along, incase Telstar & Just Justin hit it off, and left me high and dry looking like the local loon in the corner. We all met at about 5pm at The Y for a much needed debrief and some Dutch courage. We had arranged to meet with Just Justin at 7pm so had two hours to prepare ourselves.
Now, Telstar, poor sweet simple fool that he is, had not got a description of this guy, so we had no idea what we were on the lookout for. Honestly, didn’t even get a hair colour or ask what he would be wearing. I mean, that’s gay 101. This meant that Just Justin could be anybody. We would literally be looking for a needle in a gaystack.
By the time 7pm was approaching, we were on our 4th drink, feeling no pain and starting to get quite excited about meeting this chap. Even I had jumped on board the Just Justin Express. Every time a hot guy walked in the bar, we all silently prayed that this was our man. If a mutant guy walked into the bar, we’d all face the floor say nothing to each other and pray that if this were our man, he would spot that we are far too decent for him to associate with, and scuttle off out of our lives forever.
By 7:30, the bar was packed, but Just Justin was nowhere to be seen. It was starting to look like Telstar had been stood up. And by proxy, so had I. This did not bode well. ‘Do you think he came, took one look at you and then left’ I asked Telstar. ‘Well, now I do’ he screeched. Charles began laughing hysterically and saying ‘Tragic much? you two have been stood up by a guy you don’t even know’. I said ‘What’s to say it isn’t you he didn’t like the look of, sister’ which brought that one crashing back down to earth with a well needed thud.
As I was well on the way to drunkville, I kept shouting ‘JUSTIN!’ which had people looking at me like I was on a day trip from Bedlam. We then proceeded to tear Just Justin apart for having stood us up, and our tongues were acid sharp. ‘The blokes a cunt. A cardboard cut out cunt. If he turns up now, I’ll turf my drink in his face’ I proclaimed with Charles offering ‘I can’t believe we’ve been stood up, there’s nothing wrong with us. Probably an ugly bastard with pores you can see from space’ and Telstar crying ‘But we’re decent. Why didn’t show. He’d be lucky to have mates like us, the cunt. Someone’s got some hang up phonecalls coming their way’. And so on and so forth. We then proceeded to do what we always do, makes fun of everyone in the bar, just out of earshot and stand there cackling like the Bitches of Eastwick.
By 8pm, I was demanding that Telstar hand me over his phone so I could send a text to Just Justin telling him what I thought of him. I was like a homo with a bone, but he refused. Even tried to get the phone out of his pocket but to no avail. It was all getting quite dramatic, with even Charles screaming foul play. All this over a man we had never even met. By this point Just Justin had been truly vilified and used as fodder.
We went for some Sushi, to line the stomach for even more boozing, and a text came through to Telstar. ‘You were the guy in the plaid shirt, right? You didn’t see me,I was there from just after 7’. ‘We have to go back and meet him I said he’s come to meet us and we owe him at least one drink’. Which they both vetoed saying we owed him nothing, So I started kicking off and getting incensed saying that we would go to hell for being so awful, and that it would be really bad taste to ignore him now he’d made contact and how sorry I felt for him. ‘Text him back NOW’ I yelled.
‘Where were you, why didn’t you come up to us?’ said Telstar’s text. I was starting to throw a BF (Bitch fit) because I thought we should go back, but those two would just not cooperate. I guess I felt bad that we’d all been slagging him off for not showing and he actually had, but might have been too shy to come up to three queens who were pissed and hurling abuse. Not exactly the most approachable look eh? But at least I was trying to do the good thing and rectify the situation.
However, when Just Justin replied with ‘I was the guy standing behind you all night,sorry, I was too shy, next time?’ my morality kind of went out the window. The guy that was stood behind us was a dwarf with a sty, and homo just won’t play that. A cretin, a monster, a veritable gremlin. And one, that had been giving me the glad eye for about an hour at that. But what was even worse, was the fact that he had stood behind us and heard what hateful things we had been saying. I mean, based on how he looked, he deserved it, to be sure, but still, we all found it a bit creepy that he knew who we were, and didn’t just come and say hi, but chose instead, to stand behind us and eavesdrop on our entire conversation. It was all very ‘The call is coming from inside the house’ if you ask me. It felt like he had the upper hand, and none of us were impressed.
So, the bad news is that we all got exposed for being the acid tongued queens that we are for tearing Just Justin apart limp wrist, by limp wrist.
The good news is that none of us wanted to fuck him, so all in all, it was a pretty successful experiment.
“I would actually really like to meet you and Tequila. You talk about him with such affection; it would be lovely to meet you both. Tell you what, I’m returning to London tomorrow. I'll leave you my mobile number so just text/call me when you want to meet (or whenever you wish!). Maybe you could send me a text so I could have yours? Or am I being too forward? (I am a complete stranger after all!)
I look forward to meeting you and Tequila in due course.”
Now, immediately I thought what a dreadful idea this would be. I have been contacted by many young lovelies asking to go out for a drink via my blog, but unlike Telstar, I’m not desperate, and also, do not have a death wish. I once met someone via a rather awful social networking site years ago, who on first impressions seemed like a normal kind of guy. Time showed that the face he had initially showed and the hand that he had dealt me could not have been further from who, or what he was. To this day he remains one of the most unhinged, manipulative, vengeful and self serving people I have ever met. And last year I met Madonna. So to say that I am loathe meeting strangers in an understatement. If it’s done via the internet, I’m sorry, but something aint right. As far as I was concerned, Just Justin was a little bit odd, and there was no way I was going to take part in any of this. As I always say, if your genitals are on the outside, you’re hiding something on the inside.
However, my good friend Telstar is single, and horny as hell, and he obviously wanted to meet up with this guy in the hope of getting some tail. Trouble being, he can be shy at times, and would only go if I would. I was caught between a rock and a gay place, so I racked my rack, and decided that in the true spirit of sisterhood, I had a responsibility for my flailing queerling of a friend, and agreed to go. It was time to Gay it Forward.
I roped Charles into coming along, incase Telstar & Just Justin hit it off, and left me high and dry looking like the local loon in the corner. We all met at about 5pm at The Y for a much needed debrief and some Dutch courage. We had arranged to meet with Just Justin at 7pm so had two hours to prepare ourselves.
Now, Telstar, poor sweet simple fool that he is, had not got a description of this guy, so we had no idea what we were on the lookout for. Honestly, didn’t even get a hair colour or ask what he would be wearing. I mean, that’s gay 101. This meant that Just Justin could be anybody. We would literally be looking for a needle in a gaystack.
By the time 7pm was approaching, we were on our 4th drink, feeling no pain and starting to get quite excited about meeting this chap. Even I had jumped on board the Just Justin Express. Every time a hot guy walked in the bar, we all silently prayed that this was our man. If a mutant guy walked into the bar, we’d all face the floor say nothing to each other and pray that if this were our man, he would spot that we are far too decent for him to associate with, and scuttle off out of our lives forever.
By 7:30, the bar was packed, but Just Justin was nowhere to be seen. It was starting to look like Telstar had been stood up. And by proxy, so had I. This did not bode well. ‘Do you think he came, took one look at you and then left’ I asked Telstar. ‘Well, now I do’ he screeched. Charles began laughing hysterically and saying ‘Tragic much? you two have been stood up by a guy you don’t even know’. I said ‘What’s to say it isn’t you he didn’t like the look of, sister’ which brought that one crashing back down to earth with a well needed thud.
As I was well on the way to drunkville, I kept shouting ‘JUSTIN!’ which had people looking at me like I was on a day trip from Bedlam. We then proceeded to tear Just Justin apart for having stood us up, and our tongues were acid sharp. ‘The blokes a cunt. A cardboard cut out cunt. If he turns up now, I’ll turf my drink in his face’ I proclaimed with Charles offering ‘I can’t believe we’ve been stood up, there’s nothing wrong with us. Probably an ugly bastard with pores you can see from space’ and Telstar crying ‘But we’re decent. Why didn’t show. He’d be lucky to have mates like us, the cunt. Someone’s got some hang up phonecalls coming their way’. And so on and so forth. We then proceeded to do what we always do, makes fun of everyone in the bar, just out of earshot and stand there cackling like the Bitches of Eastwick.
By 8pm, I was demanding that Telstar hand me over his phone so I could send a text to Just Justin telling him what I thought of him. I was like a homo with a bone, but he refused. Even tried to get the phone out of his pocket but to no avail. It was all getting quite dramatic, with even Charles screaming foul play. All this over a man we had never even met. By this point Just Justin had been truly vilified and used as fodder.
We went for some Sushi, to line the stomach for even more boozing, and a text came through to Telstar. ‘You were the guy in the plaid shirt, right? You didn’t see me,I was there from just after 7’. ‘We have to go back and meet him I said he’s come to meet us and we owe him at least one drink’. Which they both vetoed saying we owed him nothing, So I started kicking off and getting incensed saying that we would go to hell for being so awful, and that it would be really bad taste to ignore him now he’d made contact and how sorry I felt for him. ‘Text him back NOW’ I yelled.
‘Where were you, why didn’t you come up to us?’ said Telstar’s text. I was starting to throw a BF (Bitch fit) because I thought we should go back, but those two would just not cooperate. I guess I felt bad that we’d all been slagging him off for not showing and he actually had, but might have been too shy to come up to three queens who were pissed and hurling abuse. Not exactly the most approachable look eh? But at least I was trying to do the good thing and rectify the situation.
However, when Just Justin replied with ‘I was the guy standing behind you all night,sorry, I was too shy, next time?’ my morality kind of went out the window. The guy that was stood behind us was a dwarf with a sty, and homo just won’t play that. A cretin, a monster, a veritable gremlin. And one, that had been giving me the glad eye for about an hour at that. But what was even worse, was the fact that he had stood behind us and heard what hateful things we had been saying. I mean, based on how he looked, he deserved it, to be sure, but still, we all found it a bit creepy that he knew who we were, and didn’t just come and say hi, but chose instead, to stand behind us and eavesdrop on our entire conversation. It was all very ‘The call is coming from inside the house’ if you ask me. It felt like he had the upper hand, and none of us were impressed.
So, the bad news is that we all got exposed for being the acid tongued queens that we are for tearing Just Justin apart limp wrist, by limp wrist.
The good news is that none of us wanted to fuck him, so all in all, it was a pretty successful experiment.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Situation difficile
You’d think being somebodies object d’art would make one feel uber fabulous, confident and vicariously sexual but in truth, it makes me feel unnerved, irritated and hounded, especially in the way that JT has tried to, for want of a better expression, get into my Jock Straps.
It started a while back when I came into the office one morning, to an email saying ‘Hi Tequilla, really great to meet you yesterday. You look familiar, have I seen you out somewhere?’ from someone called JT. Now while this in itself is inoffensive it did slightly unease me because I had no idea who JT was and certainly had no recollection of meeting him. I began perturbing that all the doctor’s warnings were legitimate; one day the years of drugs and alcohol worship really would result in memory loss and brain damage.
‘Do you know who this JT is?’ I asked the team and a little bit of research later I learned JT worked in our other building as the Head of Facilities and was at a Focus Group the previous day, which, yours truly was also at. In these kinds of situations, I keep myself to myself and pray that nobody will talk to me. As I mentioned previously I work in an organisation where it’s all very much about office-speak and management talk which is spoken in abundance at the best of times, but a Focus Group? Fuck. Me .Hard. It just drones on and on, so I zone out, daydreaming about working in a place where they all speak The Queens English only to zone back and hear the likes of ‘Not letting the grass grow too long on this one’ ‘what are the elephants in the room’ and ‘getting all of our ducks in a row’.
Thinking back on the previous day, I vaguely recalled getting myself a coffee and asking a guy if he would mind passing the milk. That was it. That was him. I’d asked someone to pass me a drop of milk for my coffee, and suddenly we ‘met’. And according to JT, ‘it was great’. If that is the case, then I’m better about meeting people than I think I am. Who knew it was so unproblematic?
Armed with this knowledge and still no clearer I emailed back saying ‘Hi, it’s possible you have seen me out, I am a permanent fixture in most pubs and bars in Central London’. I didn’t want to be rude by not emailing back, but didn’t want to say ‘great to meet you too’ so didn’t.
Literally a few seconds later he emailed back ‘so, which bars do you drink in matey’ and I realised, he was trying to figure out if I was of the lavender persuasion. If I was less of a moth to a flame and more of a moth to a flamer. In short, was I a pole smoker? Now, I’ve never considered myself to be the most mannish of guys, but I didn’t speak to anyone or move in that Focus Group, which is the only way I am able to conceal my Lavenderness. He was trying to work me out, which piqued me if I’m honest. Does he have any idea how much work has gone into being this gay?
‘The ones that serve alcohol’ I fired back. I was being very short and sharp hoping that he’d take the hint but no, within milliseconds he’s saying ‘LOL like a drink do we? Seriously, I think I’ve seen you out and about what’s your local?’
Was he freaking kidding me with this? The espèce de merde. He knew how totally inappropriate this was becoming, he could after all have been barking up the wrong tree, which is why he was so hesitant in asking me if I drank in a specific Homo Haunt.
‘ I don’t have a regular, I have been in most of the bars in the West End, including Soho wine bar, the Toucan, Café Boheme, The Wellington, The Marquis and The Yard.’ All the bars apart from The Yard are heterosexual places, and I have been in them all many times, so if he was trying to find out if I received swollen goods and took deliveries around the back based on where I drink, well, then he was barking up the wrong lavander bush quite frankly.
Again, quick as a cat he emailed back, ‘Ah, The Yard? That’s not the kind of place I’d expect a bear cub like you to hang out. LOL Listen, I think you’re cute, and it’d be nice to get to know each other a bit more, when are we going for a bevy? Maybe we could do it at the weekend and make a day of it LOL, go for lunch, then out on the razz LOL’
Ladies and Dobermans, I don’t mind telling you I almost fell off my chair when that came through. I don’t know what I was more offended by, the fact that he had LOL’d me three times in one email, which really is a pet hate of mine, had called me a bear cub, or had assumed that it was appropriate to hit on someone you worked with via work email? It was by far, one of the most unsavoury things that had ever popped in my box.
I felt a little bit of sick come up and decided to nip this in the bud. I replied ‘Considering the only words we have ever said to each other are ‘can you pass the milk’ I’m not sure we’d have much to talk about, so think I’ll give it a miss’
‘Calm down, I didn’t ask to marry you I just want to get to know other people in the charity. I’ve worked here for years and don’t really know anyone’
Yes, well, if this is how you behave then I’m not really surprised I thought to myself. And how you have the unmitigated crust to now make this about work is beyond me. You have called me cute, a bear cub, asked me to go on the razz, said how nice it was to meet me, badgered me into telling you I’m gay in a roundabout way and not ONCE have you asked what I do here. And the fact that you snapped about not asking to marry me, because I declined your offer in a humorous way, trying to make this less embarrassing for you than it already is suggests to me that I’ve been fucked over by you being a colleague, let alone someone who I’d go and socialise with. Jesus tonight.
So I ignored it, and the email he sent me the following day asking what I got up to the night before. What is he, a rejection junkie?
I never heard or thought about him again. I had completely forgotten about the episode when my boss told me that due to a restructuring, Facilities would fall under her umbrella. I knew it was coming, I could sense it, in the same way that animals know when an earthquake is about to hit and they begin acting oddly, make strange noises and start pacing. I was doing all of this.
‘So I need to you to get some time in the diary with someone called JT. Do you know him at all?’
***sweat pouring down forehead in manner of Iguaza Falls***
‘No, but I’m sure I’ll find him on the Intranet. I’ll get that set up for you, leave it with me.’
Do I know him? Lady are you serious, I am the object of his erection. I can’t believe this. I KNOW that as soon as I contact him even though it is for business related purposes he is going to be like a preying mantis all over again. There is no way that I can call him, and based on our previous contact, it’s probably a good idea to have electronic evidence, you know, for when the trial of my having been raped and murdered comes to court, so I’ll stick with the email.
Shall I just move jobs?
It started a while back when I came into the office one morning, to an email saying ‘Hi Tequilla, really great to meet you yesterday. You look familiar, have I seen you out somewhere?’ from someone called JT. Now while this in itself is inoffensive it did slightly unease me because I had no idea who JT was and certainly had no recollection of meeting him. I began perturbing that all the doctor’s warnings were legitimate; one day the years of drugs and alcohol worship really would result in memory loss and brain damage.
‘Do you know who this JT is?’ I asked the team and a little bit of research later I learned JT worked in our other building as the Head of Facilities and was at a Focus Group the previous day, which, yours truly was also at. In these kinds of situations, I keep myself to myself and pray that nobody will talk to me. As I mentioned previously I work in an organisation where it’s all very much about office-speak and management talk which is spoken in abundance at the best of times, but a Focus Group? Fuck. Me .Hard. It just drones on and on, so I zone out, daydreaming about working in a place where they all speak The Queens English only to zone back and hear the likes of ‘Not letting the grass grow too long on this one’ ‘what are the elephants in the room’ and ‘getting all of our ducks in a row’.
Thinking back on the previous day, I vaguely recalled getting myself a coffee and asking a guy if he would mind passing the milk. That was it. That was him. I’d asked someone to pass me a drop of milk for my coffee, and suddenly we ‘met’. And according to JT, ‘it was great’. If that is the case, then I’m better about meeting people than I think I am. Who knew it was so unproblematic?
Armed with this knowledge and still no clearer I emailed back saying ‘Hi, it’s possible you have seen me out, I am a permanent fixture in most pubs and bars in Central London’. I didn’t want to be rude by not emailing back, but didn’t want to say ‘great to meet you too’ so didn’t.
Literally a few seconds later he emailed back ‘so, which bars do you drink in matey’ and I realised, he was trying to figure out if I was of the lavender persuasion. If I was less of a moth to a flame and more of a moth to a flamer. In short, was I a pole smoker? Now, I’ve never considered myself to be the most mannish of guys, but I didn’t speak to anyone or move in that Focus Group, which is the only way I am able to conceal my Lavenderness. He was trying to work me out, which piqued me if I’m honest. Does he have any idea how much work has gone into being this gay?
‘The ones that serve alcohol’ I fired back. I was being very short and sharp hoping that he’d take the hint but no, within milliseconds he’s saying ‘LOL like a drink do we? Seriously, I think I’ve seen you out and about what’s your local?’
Was he freaking kidding me with this? The espèce de merde. He knew how totally inappropriate this was becoming, he could after all have been barking up the wrong tree, which is why he was so hesitant in asking me if I drank in a specific Homo Haunt.
‘ I don’t have a regular, I have been in most of the bars in the West End, including Soho wine bar, the Toucan, Café Boheme, The Wellington, The Marquis and The Yard.’ All the bars apart from The Yard are heterosexual places, and I have been in them all many times, so if he was trying to find out if I received swollen goods and took deliveries around the back based on where I drink, well, then he was barking up the wrong lavander bush quite frankly.
Again, quick as a cat he emailed back, ‘Ah, The Yard? That’s not the kind of place I’d expect a bear cub like you to hang out. LOL Listen, I think you’re cute, and it’d be nice to get to know each other a bit more, when are we going for a bevy? Maybe we could do it at the weekend and make a day of it LOL, go for lunch, then out on the razz LOL’
Ladies and Dobermans, I don’t mind telling you I almost fell off my chair when that came through. I don’t know what I was more offended by, the fact that he had LOL’d me three times in one email, which really is a pet hate of mine, had called me a bear cub, or had assumed that it was appropriate to hit on someone you worked with via work email? It was by far, one of the most unsavoury things that had ever popped in my box.
I felt a little bit of sick come up and decided to nip this in the bud. I replied ‘Considering the only words we have ever said to each other are ‘can you pass the milk’ I’m not sure we’d have much to talk about, so think I’ll give it a miss’
‘Calm down, I didn’t ask to marry you I just want to get to know other people in the charity. I’ve worked here for years and don’t really know anyone’
Yes, well, if this is how you behave then I’m not really surprised I thought to myself. And how you have the unmitigated crust to now make this about work is beyond me. You have called me cute, a bear cub, asked me to go on the razz, said how nice it was to meet me, badgered me into telling you I’m gay in a roundabout way and not ONCE have you asked what I do here. And the fact that you snapped about not asking to marry me, because I declined your offer in a humorous way, trying to make this less embarrassing for you than it already is suggests to me that I’ve been fucked over by you being a colleague, let alone someone who I’d go and socialise with. Jesus tonight.
So I ignored it, and the email he sent me the following day asking what I got up to the night before. What is he, a rejection junkie?
I never heard or thought about him again. I had completely forgotten about the episode when my boss told me that due to a restructuring, Facilities would fall under her umbrella. I knew it was coming, I could sense it, in the same way that animals know when an earthquake is about to hit and they begin acting oddly, make strange noises and start pacing. I was doing all of this.
‘So I need to you to get some time in the diary with someone called JT. Do you know him at all?’
***sweat pouring down forehead in manner of Iguaza Falls***
‘No, but I’m sure I’ll find him on the Intranet. I’ll get that set up for you, leave it with me.’
Do I know him? Lady are you serious, I am the object of his erection. I can’t believe this. I KNOW that as soon as I contact him even though it is for business related purposes he is going to be like a preying mantis all over again. There is no way that I can call him, and based on our previous contact, it’s probably a good idea to have electronic evidence, you know, for when the trial of my having been raped and murdered comes to court, so I’ll stick with the email.
Shall I just move jobs?
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Tequilla Does Assertive
You know, I have signed up for some crazy things in my life from Speed Dating; becoming a Chat line operator; volunteering in a soup kitchen; taking part in a stopping smoking trial, to doing a charity run. These days I am all about trying different things and gaining new life experiences. So when I saw an advert for a 5 day long Assertiveness course, I decided to sign up quicker than a bulimic could purge a peanut. I tried to kid myself that it would be really interesting and a great thing to do for growth and personal development. But I finally gave in to my nagging conscience and admitted I was going in the hope of finding some decent tail.
Now I am not a particularly confident person at all. Once I have had a drink I am Mr Confident, but we all know that there is a fine line between being confident, and being a cunt, and as I say, I am still yet to master the art of confidence………so signing up for this was a huge deal for me as I knew it would have to be done alcohol free.
After a sleepless night the day had arrived, and I did what I always do when I am anxious, terrified and about to crap myself- I go on auto pilot, and before I knew it I was taking a left off Tottenham Court Road en route to my certain humiliation, and death……
I walked in and there were two rows of chairs in the middle of the room. I spied the one I decided was at the back and sat down. A few followed suit but I gave them my best ‘talk to me and I’ll rip off your head and shit in your neck’ look, which seemed to work wonders.
To my horror one of the facilitators began rearranging the chairs to make a semi circle, which actually meant that I was sat at the front, as opposed to being at the back. We all know what that means. Yep, when it comes to the whole ‘introduce yourself to the group’ cuntistry, I’d be first up. The seat directly to my right was free so I spotted my salvation and made a jump floor it, but doing so I collided with a howdy–doody-looking mother-fella, sent his coffee flying across the room, and with it my last shred of dignity. Everyone looked at me while I looked at the floor and wondered why it wasn’t opening to absorb me. I had been in the room less than 2 minutes and I had already embarrassed myself, ruined someone’s outfit, broken crockery and made an enemy in ‘Philippe’.
Before I knew what was happening we had been split up in two groups and were told we had to come up with a ‘Group Agreement’. Once this had been completed we were all ‘bound’ and it would become a ‘Closed Group’. We had to come up with our own ‘terms & conditions’ or in other words, things we should and shouldn’t do, or things we expected our counterparts to do, or not do. The air was abuzz with words and phrases such as ‘Respect’ ‘ Boundaries’ ‘No judgement’ and ‘I have the right to sleep with who I want without having to justify it’….. However the main thing that everyone wanted to be clear on was how we would approach someone from the course if we met ‘outside the group’. I said “I wouldn’t have a problem if you come and say hello” to which this venomous queen started screaming at me ‘Well what if I am with someone? Will that put me in a difficult situation? What will they think? I don’t want anyone knowing about this, nobody knows I’m gay!!!!’ I said, “Hi there Angry, are you mad much? You really need to chill out here’ and reasoned that by the end of the course he would be assertive enough to say to the probing friend “it’s none of your business”. Now I thought this was a valid point, but the whole group then looked at me and then each other like they had just been caught in Bangkok with a couple of kilos of cocaine on them. To say it went down like a plate of sick is an understatement.
After we had compiled our ’ Group agreement’ it was time for the bit that I was dreading. The part where you have to introduce yourself to the room by giving your name and why you were there. I was first in line:
“Hello, my name is Tequila (adopting a slightly incredulous tone) and, um, I’m here because I’m not very assertive” .The whole room looked at me, some mouths open, staring in disbelief and a lengthy silence ensued. Russ, the facilitator, started gesturing for me to continue, but that was ALL I had to say. Why the fuck else would you be on an Assertiveness course? I then realised that everyone in the room was waiting for me to say something else. I can’t tell you how uncomfortable I felt with all those gay eyes on me. Judging me. Undressing me. Dressing me up again in different outfit.
I needed some damage control but by this point all my barriers had gone up so I simply said “Well I’m sorry but it’s why I’m here, what else do you want me to say?”
Russ, sensing a lynching was as quick as a cat. “Um, yep, great, thanks for that Tequila, OK moving on’ ………. Philippe, the guy who already hated me because of ‘coffee-gate’ piped up:
“Oh, hi guys, well, I am in a fantastic relationship, I have just had a big promotion and pay rise at work, my friends are fabulous, I have just got on the property ladder and life is perfect. I’m here because I thought it would be a fun and interesting thing to do”
I thought, ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise I had signed up for ‘My life is fabulous and you are all a bunch of losers’. I started to have serious doubts about the men that had signed up for this course and their lack of assertiveness. As we continued around the room everyone apart from my good self seemed confident, outgoing and assertive. It became clear that this was a group of people who were so in love with every aspect of their fantastic lives that they would use any opportunity to talk about it.
After introductions, Russ started talking about what the 5 day course would entail, what skills we could hope to learn and lots of other interesting information that he kept interjecting ‘Assertiveness-isms’ into such as:
- Learning to have a ‘transaction’ with someone without feeling threatened
- Disclosing information within the group
- Taking the responsibility to ‘own’ what ever we were ‘disclosing’
- Parking our issues
- Understanding our ‘Bottom line’
What the Sarah Michelle Gellar had I let myself in for I thought? Transactions? Bottom lines? Parking my issues? Load of old bollocks much? Cuntistry much? Get me the hell out of here much?
This course was not for me, and I knew I had to leave. Lunch would be the perfect time to do a Houdini, so content with the fact that I would leave these cunts behind; I suddenly had a new found confidence. Knowing I was jumping ship made me feel well, superior, so I started talking to people, cracking jokes and generally being myself.
This backfired. This backfired BIG. Because when I was running for the door like a dog that hadn’t been out in a month, half of the guys followed me and asked where I was going for lunch. I couldn’t think of a lie quick enough to cover up the fact that I was out, way out, on my way home out, so instead I just said the park and by 2pm I was back at the course, apparently having a good time.
The second half was even more vomit inducing, with role plays involving us trying to take a jumper back for a refund and trying to get the second two weeks off in July but coming to a compromise with our boss and accepting the last week of July and the first week of August, as our ‘bottom line’. It was SO painful. None of this meant anything, it was ridiculous and I couldn’t believe these cunts were taking it so seriously.
Did I excuse myself to go to the bathroom and not go back in? Yes, I did. Did a cutie called Shaun ask for my number? Yes, he did. Did I go back for the other 4 days of the course? No, I did not.
And that my friends, is the true meaning of assertiveness.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Thursday, March 01, 2007
DRAMA QUEENS, AND THE MEN THAT DUMP THEM
Just as I was about to leave the office Tuesday I got an email from Paul. It simply said ‘Clive dumped me last night I need someone to talk to’ and with those eleven words I knew that I had been summoned to be his shoulder to cry on, and before I knew it I was hoofing my way down Oxford Street to lend a supportive ear, even though all I really wanted to do was go home and watch the new Danny Dyer DVD I had just bought.
When I got there he was nowhere to be seen and I found myself in a predicament that I am most uncomfortable with. Being on my own in a gay bar, looking like a reject. I don’t go into bars on my own as I have a phobia about it. I think everyone is looking at me, judging me and laughing at me because they think I am some kind of friendless leper who hangs around bars reeking of desperation hoping that some charitable chappy will take pity and talk to me. Basically, exactly what I think when I see someone on their own in a bar……… (Yes I have added conceited and shallow to my list of ‘qualities’) so after dying when he sent a text to say he would be 20 minutes late, as I was already at the bar I reasoned that it would be even more humiliating to walk out, even though I desperately wanted to and OH MY GOD why is everyone looking at me, so I decided to buy a pint, chain smoke and make lots of imaginary phone calls, making sure to announce in every one of them ‘Well, I’m meeting Paul and he’s running late’ just to divert those judgemental eyes away from me….
By the time Paul arrived, 45 fucking minutes late I had smoked 10 Marlboro lights, drank 2 pints, made 4 imaginary phone calls (during one of which my phone actually started ringing, because obviously I wasn’t really on the phone which wasn’t embarrassing at all...) and was being eyed up by a cutie who clearly had none of the issues about being in a bar on his own that I have. In short, it was like a pressure cooker.
Straight away he handed his phone to me and showed me a text from Clive that said
‘I’m just on my way home from Wales. My eye looks really dodgy* and I’m tired. Listen, I don’t think I’m the guy ur looking for no matter how sexy u think I am, so it’s kind of the end of the road I’m afraid. Love C xx’
So Paul’s flame had been extinguished by a text message. He was beside himself, and all I could do was try to be supportive. He kept asking me where it had all gone wrong, what did he do, why after all they had been through did he get dumped by a text. It was almost as harsh as the lighting in the bar. I listened to him as he reminisced about their time together and the intimate moments they shared, the snuggles in bed, a particularly memorable dinner at Balans, when the waiter said how happy they looked together and he hoped to find what they had one day. He then told me of the plans they had made, and the holiday they were looking forward to in the summer and this is where he stared to become a little overwhelmed. Did I mention that Paul & Clive had met last week and had only shared two dates?
Yep, the memories that were pouring out of Paul had been accumulated over seven whole days. Anyone would think that a 27-year marriage was about to end in divorce. What the fuck does anybody owe you after such a non-specific amount of time? My view was that he was lucky to have got any form of communication at all, and most guys would have just stopped calling.
The thing that alarmed me about Paul’s overreaction, over what had merely been two dates a movie and dinner was that at his age of 44, he was still pinning his every last hope on any man he met, regardless of their compatibility. The only thing they had in common was their age. But as a 44-year-old man, Paul had decided that he had found the one and went in with his eyes closed and his heart wide open.
Had Clive acted wrongly? I couldn’t help but think that in some ways, he was a decent enough guy, and had removed any false hope and blind faith that Paul clearly had. By sending that message, (which in itself was a bit cuntish, I mean I had seen the bloke and I’m sorry, I don’t care which way you try to dress it up, he was ginger so the ‘sexy’ comment was a bit rich) he had basically said ‘Don’t sit around thinking I’m busy, or that I will get back to you. This is going nowhere, move on to new pastures and waste no more time on me’. If it were me I would have thought, fair enough you ginger cunt, and that would have been the end of that.
I always used to ask myself if the whole dating ritual got any easier with age? Do people stop playing games once they reach a certain age, and if so, can the younger ones among us look to our peers for inspiration and seek solace in the knowledge that eventually we will meet ‘the one’ and have the relationship, without the mixed messages, unknown quantities and general cuntistry of it all, that we so desire?
But after that my questions were answered, and suddenly I realised that age brings nothing with it but thinning hair, incontinence, more bad dates, and in Paul's case, an Oscar nomination for ‘most dramatic male in a leading role’
* I didn’t even bother to ask about the dodgy eye. The idea of a ginger cunt with Conjunctivitis killed any curiosity within me.
When I got there he was nowhere to be seen and I found myself in a predicament that I am most uncomfortable with. Being on my own in a gay bar, looking like a reject. I don’t go into bars on my own as I have a phobia about it. I think everyone is looking at me, judging me and laughing at me because they think I am some kind of friendless leper who hangs around bars reeking of desperation hoping that some charitable chappy will take pity and talk to me. Basically, exactly what I think when I see someone on their own in a bar……… (Yes I have added conceited and shallow to my list of ‘qualities’) so after dying when he sent a text to say he would be 20 minutes late, as I was already at the bar I reasoned that it would be even more humiliating to walk out, even though I desperately wanted to and OH MY GOD why is everyone looking at me, so I decided to buy a pint, chain smoke and make lots of imaginary phone calls, making sure to announce in every one of them ‘Well, I’m meeting Paul and he’s running late’ just to divert those judgemental eyes away from me….
By the time Paul arrived, 45 fucking minutes late I had smoked 10 Marlboro lights, drank 2 pints, made 4 imaginary phone calls (during one of which my phone actually started ringing, because obviously I wasn’t really on the phone which wasn’t embarrassing at all...) and was being eyed up by a cutie who clearly had none of the issues about being in a bar on his own that I have. In short, it was like a pressure cooker.
Straight away he handed his phone to me and showed me a text from Clive that said
‘I’m just on my way home from Wales. My eye looks really dodgy* and I’m tired. Listen, I don’t think I’m the guy ur looking for no matter how sexy u think I am, so it’s kind of the end of the road I’m afraid. Love C xx’
So Paul’s flame had been extinguished by a text message. He was beside himself, and all I could do was try to be supportive. He kept asking me where it had all gone wrong, what did he do, why after all they had been through did he get dumped by a text. It was almost as harsh as the lighting in the bar. I listened to him as he reminisced about their time together and the intimate moments they shared, the snuggles in bed, a particularly memorable dinner at Balans, when the waiter said how happy they looked together and he hoped to find what they had one day. He then told me of the plans they had made, and the holiday they were looking forward to in the summer and this is where he stared to become a little overwhelmed. Did I mention that Paul & Clive had met last week and had only shared two dates?
Yep, the memories that were pouring out of Paul had been accumulated over seven whole days. Anyone would think that a 27-year marriage was about to end in divorce. What the fuck does anybody owe you after such a non-specific amount of time? My view was that he was lucky to have got any form of communication at all, and most guys would have just stopped calling.
The thing that alarmed me about Paul’s overreaction, over what had merely been two dates a movie and dinner was that at his age of 44, he was still pinning his every last hope on any man he met, regardless of their compatibility. The only thing they had in common was their age. But as a 44-year-old man, Paul had decided that he had found the one and went in with his eyes closed and his heart wide open.
Had Clive acted wrongly? I couldn’t help but think that in some ways, he was a decent enough guy, and had removed any false hope and blind faith that Paul clearly had. By sending that message, (which in itself was a bit cuntish, I mean I had seen the bloke and I’m sorry, I don’t care which way you try to dress it up, he was ginger so the ‘sexy’ comment was a bit rich) he had basically said ‘Don’t sit around thinking I’m busy, or that I will get back to you. This is going nowhere, move on to new pastures and waste no more time on me’. If it were me I would have thought, fair enough you ginger cunt, and that would have been the end of that.
I always used to ask myself if the whole dating ritual got any easier with age? Do people stop playing games once they reach a certain age, and if so, can the younger ones among us look to our peers for inspiration and seek solace in the knowledge that eventually we will meet ‘the one’ and have the relationship, without the mixed messages, unknown quantities and general cuntistry of it all, that we so desire?
But after that my questions were answered, and suddenly I realised that age brings nothing with it but thinning hair, incontinence, more bad dates, and in Paul's case, an Oscar nomination for ‘most dramatic male in a leading role’
* I didn’t even bother to ask about the dodgy eye. The idea of a ginger cunt with Conjunctivitis killed any curiosity within me.
Friday, February 23, 2007
HOW TO MAKE A GOOD WORST IMPRESSION
As I am rapidly approaching the big Three O, in the last year I have been ticking off my things to do before I reach the aforementioned big Three O*. One of them was to try speed dating. Pink Speed dating to be precise, if you don’t mind.
This was all very odd because I hate going on dates; they are always like interviews, and I invariably end up not getting the job. Or wanting it for that matter. The idea of going on a date reduces me to a quivering, nervous wreck, so my therapist is still hypothesizing what possessed me to think that I could handle 25 first dates in one evening.
Obviously I couldn’t go through the mortification alone, and therefore enlisted the company of Telstar & Gaz to come along and die this painful death with me. They were very reluctant to join me on this adventure. I told them how much fun it would be and that we were just going along to laugh at these sad folk who go and we weren’t going to take it seriously. Eventually during one of those very rare moments where I actually get what I want I managed to persuade them to jump on board the Loser Express, and we were all bound for Pink Speeddatersville. But, in true Tequilla Mockingbird fashion, there would have to be a lay over in Alcoholville before hand…………….
What was to be just the one to calm the nerves actually turned into me downing a bottle and a half of wine. The reason I didn’t finish the second bottle is that they wouldn’t let me into the speed-dating event with it. Yes, I arrived with it in my hands. How classy. Not only was I showing what a third rate citizen I was by going speed dating, but also I was showing that I really had no concept of dignity.
So, instead of merely giving myself some Dutch courage, I had plunged myself into a drunken blabbering mess. Of course, as is always the case, I didn’t think I was drunk. I felt full of life, and remained blissfully oblivious to the cringing looks I was getting from those around me.
Everyone mingled at the bar before the humiliation begun. Telstar advised me to get some water to sober up but as we all know, when you have had too much to drink the last thing you want is water. I demanded some more wine, and against his better judgement he got it for me. Well, I say that, but I think I had started to be abusive towards him, and he realised that the only way to stop it was to comply with my demands. I’m sure we have all been there, but when I remember myself saying ‘Who the fuck are you to tell me I can’t have another drink, I’m FINE’ I want to die.
So drink in hand, everyone sat down to listen some oddly confident bespectacled 40-year-old lesbian tell us how the evening would operate. Sitting down I realised how drunk I was. I landed on the chair with a thump, knocked the table and spilled water over the guy that was sitting there. He was to be my first date. The Lesbian was waxing on about a card to fill out but by this stage I couldn’t hear anything above all the wine inside of me. The only thing I did pick up was that there would be an interval. Noted and downloaded I thought- a chance to get another drink. Why is speed dating so good to me I asked myself?
“Ok, your time starts now”
A who a huh and a wha’? I wasn’t ready for this, what would I say, could I actually just get up and run, what the fuck was this card in front of me, who the fuck are all these ugly bastards and how the Jennifer Love Hewitt did I get here?
They were the absolute dregs of society. Each and every one of them was a boil on the arse of humanity. It was like what I imagine a Star Trek convention to be like. My first ‘date looked like Jimmy Osmond, so it seemed perfectly natural for me to sing Long Haired Lover from Liverpool. Badly. And loudly. By the time I hit the chorus, the bell chimed and thankfully it was time to move on. The next guy had eyebrows that had been plucked within and inch of their lives, and he told me I had 3 minutes to impress him. Um, ME impress him? ‘Oh fuck off you pretentious cunt’ I said, and then sat there in silence for three minutes, trying not to fall of my chair, which I was swaying in. The next few dates completely haven’t registered, but I do remember the signal for the interval. I had just had seven dates, bad dates at that, and needed another drink. As I walked to greet Telstar & Gaz, I said ‘What a bunch of ugly cunts’. I thought I was talking quietly, however, the whole room turned around and gave me filthy looks so I decided not to use my usual ‘discretion is my middle name’ on any of my following dates. Not only had they heard me, but 14 of them still had the ‘pleasure’ of my company.
We started up again, and I have vague recollections of how the rest of the evening went. I remember running from a date and joining Telstar on one of his by throwing myself on the table and saying ‘They are such a bunch of cunts’ to the sheer horror of not only him, but his date. By the third round of dates I point blank refused to move from my table, and announced that if they wanted to date me, they would have to come to me. I was too drunk to move. In between this I was asking the organisers where they had managed to find so many unattractive and boring people. Well, I say asking like I was in a conversation with them; I was actually shouting it across the room.
At this stage though they were frantically running around trying to reorganise the system they had in place, that I’d shot to shit with my refusal to move, so were not about to dignify my inane ramblings with an answer.
That’s all I remember. The rest of the night is a blur. Thankfully. To this very day I have no idea what came over me. I am still mortified. Whenever I think of that night I cringe. I have turned myself into the Urban Legend of speed dating and not in a good way. I am convinced that in the gay underworld people regale each other with the tale of the drunken cunt that went speed dating and hurled abuse at everyone. If there were a list of what not to do, I would be the case study.
Walking into the office the next day, I looked at Telstar & Gaz, they looked at me, gave shakes of their heads and I knew. There were no words. If I had a self-destruct button, I think I would have pushed it.
Telstar summed it up best when he said ‘You know how when you go to a family function there is that random uncle that gets drunk, touches himself and others inappropriately, tells bad jokes and is really offensive? Well, that was you last night.’
Bizarrely, I got seven matches out of it. I couldn’t believe it. Seven potential dates. Were they mad? Based on my behaviour people still wanted to date me? I couldn’t believe it, and still wonder what sort of people go speed dating, and just how desperate to be with someone are they?
Did I go on any? Go on a date with a person who goes speed dating? Are you freaking kidding me?
* Although I sit here at 28 years of age, I have been telling myself and anyone that listens that I am nearly 30. Why? It’s my defence mechanism. I have been mentally preparing myself for reaching that age for many years now, in the hope that when I actually get there, it will be nowhere near as offensive as it sounds.
This was all very odd because I hate going on dates; they are always like interviews, and I invariably end up not getting the job. Or wanting it for that matter. The idea of going on a date reduces me to a quivering, nervous wreck, so my therapist is still hypothesizing what possessed me to think that I could handle 25 first dates in one evening.
Obviously I couldn’t go through the mortification alone, and therefore enlisted the company of Telstar & Gaz to come along and die this painful death with me. They were very reluctant to join me on this adventure. I told them how much fun it would be and that we were just going along to laugh at these sad folk who go and we weren’t going to take it seriously. Eventually during one of those very rare moments where I actually get what I want I managed to persuade them to jump on board the Loser Express, and we were all bound for Pink Speeddatersville. But, in true Tequilla Mockingbird fashion, there would have to be a lay over in Alcoholville before hand…………….
What was to be just the one to calm the nerves actually turned into me downing a bottle and a half of wine. The reason I didn’t finish the second bottle is that they wouldn’t let me into the speed-dating event with it. Yes, I arrived with it in my hands. How classy. Not only was I showing what a third rate citizen I was by going speed dating, but also I was showing that I really had no concept of dignity.
So, instead of merely giving myself some Dutch courage, I had plunged myself into a drunken blabbering mess. Of course, as is always the case, I didn’t think I was drunk. I felt full of life, and remained blissfully oblivious to the cringing looks I was getting from those around me.
Everyone mingled at the bar before the humiliation begun. Telstar advised me to get some water to sober up but as we all know, when you have had too much to drink the last thing you want is water. I demanded some more wine, and against his better judgement he got it for me. Well, I say that, but I think I had started to be abusive towards him, and he realised that the only way to stop it was to comply with my demands. I’m sure we have all been there, but when I remember myself saying ‘Who the fuck are you to tell me I can’t have another drink, I’m FINE’ I want to die.
So drink in hand, everyone sat down to listen some oddly confident bespectacled 40-year-old lesbian tell us how the evening would operate. Sitting down I realised how drunk I was. I landed on the chair with a thump, knocked the table and spilled water over the guy that was sitting there. He was to be my first date. The Lesbian was waxing on about a card to fill out but by this stage I couldn’t hear anything above all the wine inside of me. The only thing I did pick up was that there would be an interval. Noted and downloaded I thought- a chance to get another drink. Why is speed dating so good to me I asked myself?
“Ok, your time starts now”
A who a huh and a wha’? I wasn’t ready for this, what would I say, could I actually just get up and run, what the fuck was this card in front of me, who the fuck are all these ugly bastards and how the Jennifer Love Hewitt did I get here?
They were the absolute dregs of society. Each and every one of them was a boil on the arse of humanity. It was like what I imagine a Star Trek convention to be like. My first ‘date looked like Jimmy Osmond, so it seemed perfectly natural for me to sing Long Haired Lover from Liverpool. Badly. And loudly. By the time I hit the chorus, the bell chimed and thankfully it was time to move on. The next guy had eyebrows that had been plucked within and inch of their lives, and he told me I had 3 minutes to impress him. Um, ME impress him? ‘Oh fuck off you pretentious cunt’ I said, and then sat there in silence for three minutes, trying not to fall of my chair, which I was swaying in. The next few dates completely haven’t registered, but I do remember the signal for the interval. I had just had seven dates, bad dates at that, and needed another drink. As I walked to greet Telstar & Gaz, I said ‘What a bunch of ugly cunts’. I thought I was talking quietly, however, the whole room turned around and gave me filthy looks so I decided not to use my usual ‘discretion is my middle name’ on any of my following dates. Not only had they heard me, but 14 of them still had the ‘pleasure’ of my company.
We started up again, and I have vague recollections of how the rest of the evening went. I remember running from a date and joining Telstar on one of his by throwing myself on the table and saying ‘They are such a bunch of cunts’ to the sheer horror of not only him, but his date. By the third round of dates I point blank refused to move from my table, and announced that if they wanted to date me, they would have to come to me. I was too drunk to move. In between this I was asking the organisers where they had managed to find so many unattractive and boring people. Well, I say asking like I was in a conversation with them; I was actually shouting it across the room.
At this stage though they were frantically running around trying to reorganise the system they had in place, that I’d shot to shit with my refusal to move, so were not about to dignify my inane ramblings with an answer.
That’s all I remember. The rest of the night is a blur. Thankfully. To this very day I have no idea what came over me. I am still mortified. Whenever I think of that night I cringe. I have turned myself into the Urban Legend of speed dating and not in a good way. I am convinced that in the gay underworld people regale each other with the tale of the drunken cunt that went speed dating and hurled abuse at everyone. If there were a list of what not to do, I would be the case study.
Walking into the office the next day, I looked at Telstar & Gaz, they looked at me, gave shakes of their heads and I knew. There were no words. If I had a self-destruct button, I think I would have pushed it.
Telstar summed it up best when he said ‘You know how when you go to a family function there is that random uncle that gets drunk, touches himself and others inappropriately, tells bad jokes and is really offensive? Well, that was you last night.’
Bizarrely, I got seven matches out of it. I couldn’t believe it. Seven potential dates. Were they mad? Based on my behaviour people still wanted to date me? I couldn’t believe it, and still wonder what sort of people go speed dating, and just how desperate to be with someone are they?
Did I go on any? Go on a date with a person who goes speed dating? Are you freaking kidding me?
* Although I sit here at 28 years of age, I have been telling myself and anyone that listens that I am nearly 30. Why? It’s my defence mechanism. I have been mentally preparing myself for reaching that age for many years now, in the hope that when I actually get there, it will be nowhere near as offensive as it sounds.
Monday, November 20, 2006
A Question of Question
Being made redundant from a job is a funny old thing, because it quite literally is how you feel about yourself. Redundant. Not needed. Defunct. You can't help but feel like a failure, especially when a company is paying thousands of pounds for you NOT to work for them any longer. It feels like you must be so supremely awful that bankrupting a company is preferable to continuing a working relationship with you. It is very hard not to take it personally. Especially when you find out 3 months after having made you redundant, your post has been refilled......... but I'll cover that in another blog. For now I just want to relive what was Wank Wednesday. The day I got the boot. And also use it as an outlet to bitch about a former colleague.
It happened this July when I, along with the rest of the Customer Services team at a well known financial publishers were all notified we were being made redundant. It was all quite shocking because of the fact I had recently been promoted to the Customer Services Manager, having worked my way up the ladder for 4 years and things were going really well, our calls statistics had improved a great deal, we achieved our annual sales target, in fact we were meeting all of our targets.The department had never performed so well, and I liked to think that it was because of some changes I had made. I had also just finished staff appraisals, given pay rises and promotions. This is why is was out of the blue when we were all called into a meeting room by the Managing Director and told that we were being made redundant.
If I am completely honest, the first thing I felt was excitement. Adrenalin kicked in and my heart was pounding at the prospect of finding a new job. Maybe I could change my career path? I had always wanted to get into charity and this could be my chance? As I looked around the room, into the eyes of my colleagues who had befallen the same fate, I saw glimpses of terror, impending doom, confusion and shock. Then I looked at a girl we all called "Question" behind her back (who was possibly the most irritating person I have ever worked with, and on more than one occasion I think all of us fantasised about giving her a back hander, right across her grubby, bulbous, blackhead infested face), Questions lip was quivering and tears were streaming down her face. "um, what does this mean, am I out of a job? My god this is awful". Most people would feel empathy for the girl, but not me, nor any other of my colleagues. Not because we were mean and needed to be checked for heart beats but because we were all full time employees, and Question came into the office part time for 5 hours a week. And all she did in those 5 hours was irritate the hell out of us all by asking and answering her own questions in the same sentence so, I felt it was just a tad insensitive of her to be worrying about her pissy part time position when we were losing our full time positions. But that was Question all over. ANNOYING
She was one of those do gooders that ever office has. Always bright, upbeat, efficient and so irritatingly enthusiastic about her work she couldn't hold a conversation that didn't involve work, or answering her own work related questions. This displayed how was completely devoid of personality Question was. she put the 'ring' into boring. In fact, I think she put the 'bore' in there too. At 21 years of age, she had the figure of a 48 year old woman who had lived on microwave meals for the past decade. Her dress sense was ILLEGAL. If there were such things as fashion felony protesters, this girl would have been egged on a regular basis. Her hair was a disaster a D-I-saster. Just a mass of straw and hay. The whole thing was a car crash, and even her walking past my desk would make the hairs stand up on the back of my neck and not in a good way. She drove everyone crazy, but was oblivious to this. Even just getting an email from her would drive most people to either commit murder or commit suicide. she was annoying on so many levels, but it was her questions that people took particular offence to I think. It drove us all to distraction, especially when she would hop toward your desk every time she wanted to ask an inane, self answered question. A prime example would be "Oh, can I just ask you a quick question? I have this customer who hasn't had his copy of this months magazine and wants another one. I think I should just send him another, what do you think?" So she would ask the question, then answer it JUST to show how clever she was. She needed reassurance about anything work related, but not her hair, dress sense or figure, which I could never understand or quite fathom out. No, she seemed completely confident and self assured with her pores the size of Mars, her white head ravaged nose and the nest of rabid pigeons that she called a haircut.
Even though she was only in the office for 5 hours a week (which she spread over 3 days) Question also thought that the whole company couldn't cope without her being there for the other 35+ hours because she took it upon herself to send an email around, not just the department, but the whole company saying "I will be out of the office now until Friday when I will be here from 11:00 and until 12:00pm, Have a great week everyone" every time she left the office. There were actually audible groans from around the office whenever she sent one of her of office emails.
So cut to me, in the office being told I am being made redundant, Question is crying and I can't help but smirk. I smirk because it's embarrassing. I smirk because it's awkward. I smirk because she is pathetic. How hard can it be to get 5 hours part time work I thought? Is it really THAT devastating? Considering we were located in central London and she lived in Surbiton most of her wages were surely spent on travel, which proved to me that she really was in the office just to annoy us all.
We were all told that there was not enough work for us all, and they had 8 full time workers but only 3 full time positions available. We could apply for them. They actually expected us to all apply for a job that we already had, and go up against not just colleagues, but friends. Some of us in that room had formed really good friendships. It was all very unethical, and I had already decided to take the money and run. The Managing Director asked to see me later, and explained that if I was to apply for one of the other jobs I would have to take a demotion and a pay cut as there were going to be no managerial positions. So basically my redundancy was compulsory (This has all proved to be an utter crock of shit and they filled my position within 3 months). I accepted the redundancy, and was told my last day would be the following Friday. This came as a shock because I thought when you were made redundant, you were not needed, and as you didn't have enough work to do, or so I was being told I assumed I would leave right away.....
Well, as they say, when you assume you make an ass out of you, because the MD had made his own assumption, that everyone else would be clamboring all over each other for the other 3 positions, when in fact they all opted for redundancy too. So they fucked themselves royally, much to our amusement. Apart from of course, Question, who is still hanging on for dear life.
I did go on to change my career, and I did get into charity.
It happened this July when I, along with the rest of the Customer Services team at a well known financial publishers were all notified we were being made redundant. It was all quite shocking because of the fact I had recently been promoted to the Customer Services Manager, having worked my way up the ladder for 4 years and things were going really well, our calls statistics had improved a great deal, we achieved our annual sales target, in fact we were meeting all of our targets.The department had never performed so well, and I liked to think that it was because of some changes I had made. I had also just finished staff appraisals, given pay rises and promotions. This is why is was out of the blue when we were all called into a meeting room by the Managing Director and told that we were being made redundant.
If I am completely honest, the first thing I felt was excitement. Adrenalin kicked in and my heart was pounding at the prospect of finding a new job. Maybe I could change my career path? I had always wanted to get into charity and this could be my chance? As I looked around the room, into the eyes of my colleagues who had befallen the same fate, I saw glimpses of terror, impending doom, confusion and shock. Then I looked at a girl we all called "Question" behind her back (who was possibly the most irritating person I have ever worked with, and on more than one occasion I think all of us fantasised about giving her a back hander, right across her grubby, bulbous, blackhead infested face), Questions lip was quivering and tears were streaming down her face. "um, what does this mean, am I out of a job? My god this is awful". Most people would feel empathy for the girl, but not me, nor any other of my colleagues. Not because we were mean and needed to be checked for heart beats but because we were all full time employees, and Question came into the office part time for 5 hours a week. And all she did in those 5 hours was irritate the hell out of us all by asking and answering her own questions in the same sentence so, I felt it was just a tad insensitive of her to be worrying about her pissy part time position when we were losing our full time positions. But that was Question all over. ANNOYING
She was one of those do gooders that ever office has. Always bright, upbeat, efficient and so irritatingly enthusiastic about her work she couldn't hold a conversation that didn't involve work, or answering her own work related questions. This displayed how was completely devoid of personality Question was. she put the 'ring' into boring. In fact, I think she put the 'bore' in there too. At 21 years of age, she had the figure of a 48 year old woman who had lived on microwave meals for the past decade. Her dress sense was ILLEGAL. If there were such things as fashion felony protesters, this girl would have been egged on a regular basis. Her hair was a disaster a D-I-saster. Just a mass of straw and hay. The whole thing was a car crash, and even her walking past my desk would make the hairs stand up on the back of my neck and not in a good way. She drove everyone crazy, but was oblivious to this. Even just getting an email from her would drive most people to either commit murder or commit suicide. she was annoying on so many levels, but it was her questions that people took particular offence to I think. It drove us all to distraction, especially when she would hop toward your desk every time she wanted to ask an inane, self answered question. A prime example would be "Oh, can I just ask you a quick question? I have this customer who hasn't had his copy of this months magazine and wants another one. I think I should just send him another, what do you think?" So she would ask the question, then answer it JUST to show how clever she was. She needed reassurance about anything work related, but not her hair, dress sense or figure, which I could never understand or quite fathom out. No, she seemed completely confident and self assured with her pores the size of Mars, her white head ravaged nose and the nest of rabid pigeons that she called a haircut.
Even though she was only in the office for 5 hours a week (which she spread over 3 days) Question also thought that the whole company couldn't cope without her being there for the other 35+ hours because she took it upon herself to send an email around, not just the department, but the whole company saying "I will be out of the office now until Friday when I will be here from 11:00 and until 12:00pm, Have a great week everyone" every time she left the office. There were actually audible groans from around the office whenever she sent one of her of office emails.
So cut to me, in the office being told I am being made redundant, Question is crying and I can't help but smirk. I smirk because it's embarrassing. I smirk because it's awkward. I smirk because she is pathetic. How hard can it be to get 5 hours part time work I thought? Is it really THAT devastating? Considering we were located in central London and she lived in Surbiton most of her wages were surely spent on travel, which proved to me that she really was in the office just to annoy us all.
We were all told that there was not enough work for us all, and they had 8 full time workers but only 3 full time positions available. We could apply for them. They actually expected us to all apply for a job that we already had, and go up against not just colleagues, but friends. Some of us in that room had formed really good friendships. It was all very unethical, and I had already decided to take the money and run. The Managing Director asked to see me later, and explained that if I was to apply for one of the other jobs I would have to take a demotion and a pay cut as there were going to be no managerial positions. So basically my redundancy was compulsory (This has all proved to be an utter crock of shit and they filled my position within 3 months). I accepted the redundancy, and was told my last day would be the following Friday. This came as a shock because I thought when you were made redundant, you were not needed, and as you didn't have enough work to do, or so I was being told I assumed I would leave right away.....
Well, as they say, when you assume you make an ass out of you, because the MD had made his own assumption, that everyone else would be clamboring all over each other for the other 3 positions, when in fact they all opted for redundancy too. So they fucked themselves royally, much to our amusement. Apart from of course, Question, who is still hanging on for dear life.
I did go on to change my career, and I did get into charity.
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