Thursday, May 14, 2009
I was standing at the bar in the Metropolitan the other night, waiting to be served while Bexy Sitch were providing, what seemed to me, an unusually shaky soundtrack. I had been standing at the bar for a couple of minutes when a man in his mid forties came and stood to the left of me. He was below average height and his hair was ubiquitously and evenly grey, like those people who suffer trauma to the head and a patch of hair turns white or grey, but all over his head, like a helmet. This made me think that the trauma this creepy little guy had been subjected to, had occurred inside his head, all over his brain. He stood much too close to me than was strictly necessary, which in my mind is unforgivable in itself, and he just couldn't stand still, he just kept twitching all the time and shifting his weight from one leg to another, as though he had shat his pants. He then proceeded to lean in over the bar with the whole of his upper body and wave a twenty-pound note around provocatively, like a lonely man in a strip club. With his very being and the way it was, combined with the needless proximity of it, I felt I had begun to deeply resent this man. I believe I had no option but to give him the dirtiest look I am capable of, as I labour under the conviction that adults who don't know how to comport themselves in public with some degree of dignity and grace, should be sent to their rooms to ruminate on their social ineptitude until they either; a, cultivate some manners and learn how to apply them or b, die.
Disappointingly, the barmaid fell for the man's "I need a drink more urgently than anyone else here" routine, and asked him for his order, like a stripper thrusting her thong in the direction of money. I could assume she knew the man and wanted to get him away from the bar as quick as she could, but I don't want to; instead I will choose assume that twenty-pound notes in motion are to her what shit is to flies, because it's a so much more amusing assumption. The man pointed at me and said, "the girl was here first", I nodded at the man, probably with a look of the utter distain that had permeated my innards and was holding my face at ransom. I placed my order. As the barmaid left to prepare the drinks, to a perfectly mediocre standard, the man leaned in even closer and said to me, "did you notice how polite I was then?" What I should have said was "you fucking what?" but was so taken aback by the misguided glibness of the creepy little man, that the only response I could muster was, "yes, well done!"
Well done indeed…
So anyway, there's a small man at large in Liverpool with a perfect crash helmet of silver-grey hair, who doesn't know the difference between being polite and narrowly avoiding being an absolute, dog-wanking arse hole. What are the chances, eh? I think he was actually fishing for heartfelt "thank you", for not jumping the queue, a notion akin to expecting thanks for not maiming, ridiculing, raping, kicking, murdering or otherwise injuring someone at any given moment in time, it's completely absurd. I just thought I'd make that crystal clear just in case you've just decided against shoplifting something from a charity shop but begrudge that you will not be congratulated for adopting the appropriate moral stance without owning up to normally being a thief, poor you! The bottom line is, if you are over the age of 5 and have to work really hard to stop yourself from screwing other people over and expect gratitude from them when you don't, there is something seriously wrong with you and you should seek help immediately, even if you probably don't deserve it. If not shouting abuse at people or throwing things at them for no apparent reason, consumes all your concentration, you are not fit for purpose and it would be better for everyone if you just put yourself down. By that I mean drug yourself into the Big Sleep, not speak to yourself in a derogatory fashion, although please, by all means, go ahead and do that too, you stupid fucking ape.
Mia Tagg 2009®