I was supposed
to go to a function on Thursday night. It was sort of work related. I knew it
was going to be boozy. A lot of my work colleagues and friends were going but I
had another do to go to. It was an Art exhibition. For me it was a no brainer.
I like Art.
I started
getting text messages around 11pm. "Where are you Pete? We have moved
onto the Martini bar. At the Grand Hyatt. Come and join us". The Art
Exhibition was beginning to peter out and Peter felt like going out. So I went.
Now I knew I was going to walk into a scene of mayhem and carnage. These men
and women had been drinking for many hours. They were as pissed as newts. They
were as drunk as skunks. They were wankered. I expected nothing less. I had
consumed a single glass of champagne at the Art Exhibition but I had nursed it.
I am not a big drinker.
So I was as
sober as a judge.
I guess there
were 30 or so people from the function at the bar and quite a few other patrons
as well. I knew a lot of the people there. Some well and others not so well. I
knew some not at all. They were all jolly and they were very loud.
I was hailed
as I arrived. A dreadful cocktail that smelt like coffee was thrust into my
hand then I mingled. Conversing with drunks isn't that hard. I anticipated
extremes of emotion at this stage of night. Illogical arguments. A few high
fives. There was a bit of hugging going on too.
No problem.
It was
entertaining.
About half an
hour into this soiree a large, sweaty and bald bloke staggered up to me. He
intruded into a conversation I was having with a couple of my friends.
"So
you are Peter?" he asked.
He put his arm
around me. His grip was tight and his speech was slurred.
"I
am"
I replied.
"How do
you do?"
I would have
shaken his hand but he was too close. His face was in mine and his breath smelt
of vodka. There was dribble on his chin. It was nasty. I didn't recognize him.
I had never seen him before.
He was
English.
"I've
read your blog" he informed me.
"It's
crap. My ten year old could write better. Why do you write that shit anyway?
Nobody is interested"
"OK"
I
replied.
Whilst at the
same time trying to disengage myself from his grip. He was a big unit and he
was obviously hostile. I felt pangs of concern about my safety. I am a lover
not a fighter.
"Have
you read all of my posts?" I enquired.
"All
of em!" he asserted.
"They're
all shit. And I don't like the way you talk about us British".
I felt further
panic. I had a flurry of worry. I was trying to rapidly think about what I had
written about the English. I know I had not been particularly kind about the
Northerners but I write my posts spontaneously and I am never intentionally
cruel.
"I
just like to write" I tried to explain.
"And
I'm Australian. We don't know how to speak or write proper".
I was trying
to disarm him with humor.
With self
deprecation.
This was an ugly
drunk and I knew that I needed to be careful. I had also managed to now take a
couple of steps back from this guy. I was now standing half behind a good mate
of mine who is a very big lad. Big in the sense of muscle - not lard. I knew
that if push came to shove he would protect me.
"They're
all shit" the fat English drunk repeated.
”You don't
know how to punctuate neither".
"I
think you mean either" I replied.
"I
don't really know or care who reads what I write" I added.
I felt a bit
more confident now in the shadow of my big protector. I was less
unnerved.
"And
pardon me whilst I check my give-a-fuckometer about your opinion".
I pulled out
my Blackberry and made a show of reading some invisible signal.
"Nope.
Not a blip" I reported.
The fat boy
snarled and staggered away muttering something incomprehensible. I left the
venue not long after. I went home.
I never did
get his name.
But if you are
reading this now. Know this.
I wrote this
one for you.
You
obnoxious fat ignorant Fucker
No comments :
Post a Comment