...and don't panic! The Know brings you advice during housing
A true friend is always there for you, especially when you're drunk.
Miss Quit regresses to her childhood this week as the prospect of beginning the "University of Life" looms.
Courteous gentility. Most experiences of modern life are black holes where this concept is concerned. Case in point: nightclubs. Where else can you get your just-bought drink (in this instance, mine and my friend’s) knocked all over you by some hysterically stumbling fellows without so much as a glance of acknowledgement, let alone a hint of care or remorse?
Oh, the sheer bloody rudeness of the world today! Yet, for all my inner-outrage, I could barely manage more than a hasty scowl.
The whole spillage thing would have been a smidgen more tolerable if it were not for the twitters of laughter that followed my hasty retreat to the ladies’. And the pint of beer that, within five minutes, somehow found a way of re-drenching what had been my hand-drier-assisted dampness. If you think anything near an apology proceeded from that either, then you’re sorely mistaken. I really should stop expecting them.
What had been the refuge of the ladies’ loo was soon to become something like a potential scene out of Fight Club
For all my apparent inane verbosity, the thought of confrontation seems to leave me cold and shaking. So this week, in pursuit of a more assertive, and by that I mean less-chicken-shit, state of existence, I decided that enough was enough. Fighting is definitely not my forte, but suffering in silence just sucks.
As these things usually go, rather conveniently, it wasn’t long before my new no-nonsense policy would be challenged, and no less than at the very scene of the above-mentioned crime: The Duchess. Silent Disco night, too. The irony, the irony.
What had been the refuge of the ladies’ loo was soon to become something like a potential scene out of Fight Club.
Minding my own while waiting in line, I was suddenly ‘rugby tackled’, as my defensively-able friend described it, by an excessively drunk girl who had dropped her eyeliner and practically head-butted me in the process of retrieving it from the sticky floor. Surprise, surprise: no apology.
There I was clutching my throbbing head as an audible "Owww" escaped my lips. Apparently this was an accusation or something, god only knows, because in response to my call of distress she started to stare me down, face screwed up in a snarl, asking me what exactly my "fucking problem" was. A-ha! Here was the perfect chance to fight back, right?
Well, you didn’t see this girl. Even the friend she was with looked terrified of her. Plus this time, I was not alone. Probably concussed, yes, but not alone. Whilst all I could manage was to stand there looking sheepishly victimised, whispering that it was ok, that it didn’t matter, my courageous pal insisted on an apology from my assailant.
Despite then being turned on by Hostile Hillary and her lapdog of a mate, she valiantly stood her ground and positively patrolled over mine. This was clearly not what Sally Stick-‘em-up saw coming. I don’t think she had the capacity to grasp that, in most instances, defence is the best form of attack.
Sometimes there is a white knight hanging around when you need one.
As the unstable one huffed off to my hushed relief (seriously, she would have punched, pulled and bit her way through me, I’m sure of that), the air visibly cleared of all threatening tension and left in its place a sickeningly grovelling tone of remorse emitting from the abandoned friend.
Ten minutes and ten thousand words of second-hand regret later, I returned to the dance floor with my saviour, only to bump into the wretch again. This time though, the bumping was all on my part. Rather ignobly I shoved into her with a strategically-placed elbow, causing her to career across the floor.
I didn’t see how successful this attack-from-behind was because I swiftly grabbed my rescuer and legged it to the other side of the club.
I never claimed I wasn’t vengeful or capable of underhanded violence. Just a bit of a wuss.
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