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Woman meets dog

  Sat 23rd July 2011

One of my soul music dancing set, someone I've known since I was 17, rang me last night asking if I fancied a drink. I've got the girls this weekend but they're OK for an hour or so, so after their beddybyes I'm out by 10pm.

One of the lynchpins of cultural life here, doing certainly things brilliantly, has a bar which occasionally attracts middle class social inadequates who go there because they are incapable of dealing with people not like themselves.

John buys me a drink and we sit down. Almost immediately a pestilential ragged-out hippy woman comes up to us, smothering John's dog and enjoying the closest attention her tits have had from something male this century. She squeezes in next to John and takes over our conversation, making a performance of flirting with him. John is not only spoken for but is light-years out of her league, in looks, intelligence, wit, social graces and dress sense.

As if this isn't enough, someone else who looks like she's just landed in the bar having dropped through a gap in contemporary British social care provision comes up to our table, which by now is rapidly becoming the bar's female nutter magnet. 50something, and in an ankle-length black dress, she approaches, kneels on the floor a yard away, and starts mouthing words to the dog and making circular motions with her head. The bar is morphing into a loony bin.

Hippy woman, says, twice, that she's going outside for a spliff; she looks at us significantly, waiting for a response. Fucking hurry up and piss off then. Inhale your own radicality. Feel your specialness in your lungs. Exhale and hope that someone detects the daringness on your breath.

I stand this for a while, but then make to leave. "Right, OK John, I'll ring you about next weekend..." Finally she scuttles off, realising that she's broken something up.

"I know she's your mate John but she fucking pisses me off. 'Oh God I'm so radical, I'm going outside for a spliff.'"

"Calm down, calm down" says John, who at all times has dealt with her with far more more patience than I. We get back to our conversation, planning our summer's dancing schedule. Which (thank fuck) is based around a type of music that hippies tend not to like.

Apart from that, I've had a lovely time at Hawkshead Beer Festival, about which I will write when that cock of a woman has been eliminated from my memory.

3 comments

Comment from: Alison Cross [Visitor]

I waved at you as I drove past Lancaster this morning. Shortly before I nearly nodded off at the wheel.

I have a person in my life who annoys the feck out of me, but she would be gutted if I told her, but, to paraphrase Sting (Something I thought *I’d* NEVER say)… every little thing she does is fecking annoying.

Music festival sounds good. I demand to know more.

AX

Mon 25th July 2011 @ 16:40
Comment from: [Member]

I thought I heard the screeching tyres somewhere.

They’re very difficult, those people. They don’t understand subtlety then get all upset when you’re as blunt as it takes to get a message through their thick heads. They think of themselves as “sensitive” and remind you of it in conversation.

No music festival looming or visited - I was at Hawkshead Beer Festival this weekend, but if you mean the soul music thing that me and John were talking about, it’s a soul weekender I’m going to in September in Lytham St Annes. Full report will follow soon after it.


Mon 25th July 2011 @ 19:16

It’s enough to make you want to GIVE UP SEX.

Tue 26th July 2011 @ 20:39


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looby, n.; pl. loobies. A lout; an awkward, stupid, clownish person


M / 56 / Bristol, "the most beautiful, interesting and distinguished city in England" -- John Betjeman [1961, source eludes me].

"Looby is a left-wing intellectual who is obsessed with a) women's clothes and b) tits." -- Joy of Bex.

WLTM literate woman, 40-65. Must have nice tits, a PhD, and an mdma factory in the shed, although the first on its own will do in the short term.


There are plenty of bastards who drink moderately. Of course, I don't consider them to be people. They are not our comrades.
Sergei Korovin, quoted in Pavel Krusanov, The Blue Book of the Alcoholic

I am here to change my life. I am here to force myself to change my life.
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The more democratised art becomes, the more we recognise in it our own mediocrity.
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