After the last blog entry, things were getting rather incendiary. If the pen is mightier than the sword, then I'd gladly like to think I'd given a couple of "personalities" both barrels of a shotgun. But that's not really what this blog is all about. Despite the fun I had in ranting, this blog entry is going to try and return back to it's slightly fluffier roots and do what it does best. Namely, people can read it and laugh as I expose yet more of my 'hilarious' inadequacies. Chief amongst those is the awkward conversation, of which I excel at. Admittedly, not as bad as Jacqui Smith opening up dialogue with her husband as to how "Raw Meat 3" ended up on her pay-per-view TV bill, but close. Although having said that, her husband should've just checked his wife's Home Office website, as it appears to be have been providing free porn on tap.
I've got the rather onerous task of going through every message in my Facebook Inbox after work this week. This is because I've just discovered the very real possibility that the Facebook computer virus that I had in November might have affected a whole load of people that aren't even on my Friends list. I thought the whole point of internet communication was to avoid awkward conversations. That's the whole reason I use it. But I've now got to go and have the virtual equivalent of the 'real world' STD talk. In other words, speaking to people I've had casual contact with and tell them they might have caught a virus from me via an ephemeral interaction. Great. Sodding great.
My real life is replete with awkward conversations, usually as a result of something escaping from my mouth in the heat of the moment and it then staying with me forever. I like Twitter because you can savour a moment in current time, look at it from a number of angles and then post it. It's a bit like always being ready with the witty one-liner and committing it to a world-wide community cocktail party, rather than cursing yourself for not having the perfect put-down for the random pavement heckler. Kimire actually describes it best in her latest article, so I'll plug her blog post here. I love collective blogging, because somebody somewhere has usually put something in words better than I ever could, and my self-inflicted inertia of boundless laziness can just continue.
A perfect example of such laziness is also the aim of this blog entry, since I've got several parties to go to in the next few weeks, alongside a school reunion (another one) in June and three weddings in May, one after the other. All I can see is a minefield of monumentally ill-timed rambling, littered with solipsism semtex at every step. All of these parties will be filled with loads of people I haven't seen (some in over a decade) and I'm about to make a tit of myself, even with my sober chat. It's a bit of a homecoming too, of sorts, as I'll be seeing old schoolfriends that I haven't inadvertently offended in over 15 years. So, this blog entry is a pre-emptive strike of sorts. I can give all the witty quotes and hilarious anecdotes here, because I know that a fair chunk of them read my blog. Then, at the parties in question, I can turn up and claim some sort of chat asylum and remain mute for the rest of the party while tucking into chicken drumsticks. That'll show 'em.
Oh, so you don't believe in my propensity for pitiful parley? Well, here's an example of my decidedly crap conversational chit-chat here, at a front-of-house reception for a performance of "King Lear". I'm still scarred by that memory and I blame the director of that play, Casual Egoist. The fact that his show got a standing ovation and I was reduced to his "idiot savant" comedy sidekick as he basked in the glory of it all makes the pain all the more great. As a result, it's payback time and I'm going to remind him of one of his greatest conversational floorkillers, to show I'm not the only one who is an expert at 'foot-in-mouth' gob gaffes.
Picture the scene. Three friends, made up of Casual Egoist, Gingerbread and Chris turned up at a MacDonalds on Sauchiehall Street, and found the place almost completely empty. They bought their burgers and fries and sat at one of many identical Formica white tables. While the three tucked into a hearty snack of American imperialism, two young (and not unattractive) women entered the premises. One of these ladies instantly clamped eyes on young Casual Egoist and decided that she'd quite like "a bit of that". The two young ladies bought their meals and sat at the table directly behind Gingerbread and Casual Egoist. There were many, many, many identical Formica white tables in the empty restaurant, so this could scarcely have been a coincidence. So, Gingerbread, Casual Egoist and Chris carried on tucking into their meal, while going slightly more quiet as they were aware of the female strangers' company.
"Excuse me," asked the younger attractive female to Casual Egoist, "but do you have the correct time on you?". "Aye," said young Casual Egoist, "It's, um, 12.05". The younger attractive female fluttered her eyelashes coquettishly. "Why, thank you!"
Casual Egoist turned back to Chris and Gingerbread, with a gleeful gleam in his eye and an uncharacteristic swagger had suddenly developed in the gait of his stance. But before this startling transformation could fully take hold, the younger attractive female tapped him on the shoulder. "Do you know when this place closes?". Casual Egoist was suddenly aware that all of her attention was focused on him, her pupils dilated in his direction. The attractive stranger was ignoring the other two spuds. Casual Egoist's swagger was back and a hint of a terrible New York accent had crept into his voice. "As late as you want it!"
The tension had now become unbearable. The younger attractive female winked at him, her eyes full of unquenchable truths. She smiled fully, revealing almost perfect teeth."Tell me, do you know where the toilet is in here?" she exclaimed. "Aye, it's up those stairs, take the first on the left, then the first on the right!" he orated confidently. "Why, thank you again!" she smiled and rose from her seat, her destination being the aforementioned bathroom. Casual Egoist was on a roll... which was a shame, as without thinking, he leapt before he looked. And shot his own gob off with sheer abandoned recklessness.
"Aye, no problem. I'm a toilet expert, me!" (author's emphasis)
The young attractive female's beautiful smile vanished rapidly. She glanced at her friend, seemingly now slightly panicked. Her friend just turned to her meal and examined some of her chips incredibly closely. As quickly as they had arrived, the younger attractive female rushed upstairs to the bathroom, came back downstairs, grabbed her friend and the two bolted out of the door, leaving two perfectly half-finished McDonalds meals.
After their swift departure, a dawning of some sort occurred over Casual Egoist's face, after a pause of about three minutes. "What in FUCK'S name did I just say? I can't believe I said that!". Scarcely unable to contain themselves (and almost scarcely unable to breathe too), Gingerbread, Casual Egoist and Chris subsequently burst into hysterical laughter, which didn't stop for nearly three weeks. Because if they hadn't laughed, they would've cried.
The thing is, I always regard that friend of mine as a bit of smooth-talking belligerent male totty (albeit balding belligerent male totty), so the fact that he can have feet of clay rather frightens me. When am I next going to embark on a rapidly spiralling speech of utter calamity? Soon, if this June school reunion comes along. Thankfully, I don't have to organise this one; but it's my responsibility to get everyone in my original year to be "in the know". This is fine, as it goes. I'm all for telling everyone. But perhaps the most intimidating of these forthcoming invitations, is having to face up to the awkward chat to end all awkward chats. At some point very soon, I need to meet French Lawyer, a girl who was in my year. Why will it be awkward inviting her?
So far, every colleague at school has kindly reciprocated any of my mangled memoried messages, with polite friendly messages of confabulation back. I've even had the pleasure of sparking up new friendships with people I wasn't that close to at school, such as Bailey's Belle. However, the last time I spoke to French Lawyer at school was when she remarked to my (admittedly smug) face that she should've won the English prize rather than me. It didn't look like she was joking either. A few years after school ended, there was also a disastrous evening out with her. The night ended with me being half-inebriated, hanging off a bar, trying not to drool on my shoulder and trying not to look like a lonely tramp. This was after my drunken flower-seller mate had gatecrashed the evening by burbling pervertedly "'Ere, is she your date, Chris?" before tripping over his own shadow and spilling one perfect bottle of Sauvignon Blanc over her nice dress. It was the final straw, after the fountain of foolishly flirty fug that had emanated from my alcoholic moosh. The evening ended pretty abruptly at that stage.
Her only contact with me since that incident, has been one singular Facebook photo tag request. The request was the not-at-all-narcissistic "French Lawyer would like to tag 'French Lawyer' in one of your Facebook pictures". So, she can browse my pictures and photos, but can quite happily give me the cold shoulder? Actually, I don't blame her. As for the picture tag request, this doesn't surprise me remotely, as someone pointed me to her blog and I saw her picture. It's all stark black 'n' white, Bergmanesque beauty with a hint of zephyr blowing at her long strands of dark hair; but she's supposed to be Rumpole of the Bailey, not fucking Tess of the D'Urbervilles. If that's too tough on her, well... she upset a few people, including a female schoolfriend of mine, by a blog entry where she slagged off a large area of London. So, I'm just getting revenge in for my friends. How chivalrous of me? Not really. So, now I have to have an awkward conversation about an awkward conversation I had about 14 years ago. Great. Although, you'd think her being a human rights lawyer would afford her a bit of compassion. Surely she should realise that the person that I am now is not the slovenly, drunken piss artist I was 14 years ago? Or, indeed, that anyone is the person they were 14 years ago?
On the plus side, I can look back at my past, recognise the piss-poor parlance that I've indulged in and confidently look forward to a future of more mistimed fuckwittery, despite supposed maturity of my mid-thirties.
Next week: Chris Nicholson will review the next Doctor Who story. Then he'll remind everyone that it's not just the rebooted series that portrays the Doctor as the ultimate romantic hero, but the classic series from the 1960s - 1980s as well. Seriously.
"Aye, no problem. I'm a toilet expert, me!" ...
So absolutely PML at this one! It's on a par with a bloke pal of mine years ago coming out of a toilet on a train. I was standing in the corridor waiting for him (we were getting off the train at the next station) and there was some girl he'd been ogling at for the whole of the journey waiting to get into the toilet after him. As he came out of it and saw her, he turned scarlet and blurted out "I'm sorry, I blocked the toilet".
The thing is, he actually HADN'T blocked it, he told me afterwards. It had been blocked already.
What a lothario!
Posted by: Donna | April 07, 2009 at 10:25 AM