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Gahhh. Posted this in the Switchboard by mistake. Oh well.
It rocked like all manner of bastards.
Except in the pub at the end, when everyone else sat around having really interesting-sounding conversations while I spent most of the evening trying to divest myself of a 21-year-old courier from Surrey, who didn't seem to understand that I was not going to be impressed by:
a) him being mates with a bouncer at Stringfellows
b) him having seen Jordan's tits,
c) his 20-year-old bar jokes
d) his 15-year-old "fiancee"
e) his total and utter refusal to let me talk to anyone else, ever, AT ALL, other conversations being forestalled by a clammy hand to my thigh.
I eventually gave up and left the pub after the following exchange:
HIM: What's half black and doesn't work? London!
ME: (Frosticles) I don't get it.
HIM: (Slowly, as to a retarded child) What's... half... black... and... doesn't... work? London! See?
ME: (Frosticles + Evil Eye) I said. I. Don't. Get. It.
HIM: But you're a skinhead.
ME: No. I'm a bald woman.
HIM: So, you shave anywhere else?
ME: Goodnight.
Mesdames et Messuires, I present- the UberFuckBake!
(I'll write about all the cool stuff when I finish seething.) |
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