See that film "The 40-year-old Virgin?"No, me neither. But that could have been me.
You see, youthful experience showed that I was no good at flirting with the opposite sex. As a matter of fact, having the social skills of a SuBo, I'm not good at people, full stop.
How, you ask, did this manifest itself in a way that is both confessional and amusing? Like this…
After an exceedingly expensive evening with college mates in a particularly lively pub in Farnborough, we spilled out into the car park rather the worse for wear.
John put his arm around my shoulder and offered me the following observation regarding the events of the previous hours: "You utter, utter, utter twat!"
"W... what?"
"Did you not see the way that bird was flirting with you?"
No. No, I did not.
No, because I was too busy with my pint and the tenth retelling of an amusing tale on how I had nearly wiped out the SAS single-handed, armed only with a spoon; while a chap in our group had our full attention as he ate an entire potted geranium - including the pot - as part of a drunken bet that earned him upwards of two pounds.
"Come on, you oaf, surely you must have noticed. We did."
"How so?"
"The way she sat on your lap, skirt up to her waist, pushing her tits in your face for a start."
"Oh, THAT? I thought there weren't enough seats."
"You utter, utter, utter twat!"
Then I was sick in a hedge.
Just call me Faily McFailson, world champion of FAIL.
12 comments:
So, what did the eventual Mrs. Duck have to do to nab the very scared young Duck?
Hey Scary, remember that pub in Rhayader, back in 1983? The six of us playing pool, when in walk two fit lasses who were, in the words of John, gagging for sheep-free cock. What did we do? Ignore them and carry on playing pool! They could have spread themselves naked on the pool table, legs spread ready and we'd have probably asked them to move over as one of their tits was blocking the middle pocket.
Gah! The shame. You were the worst for missing the signs though, but only just.
Clive: I had an excuse, if you recall - Pissed.
I believe that was the collective excuse. Didn't stop us steaming over those two lasses we saw later in another pub. Sat with their parents who didn't look at all impressed at having six hairy, smelly, dirty and drunk lads leering at their fragrant offspring...
You've got to admit we were RUBBISH on that holiday.
Even priests didn't want to know.
Sounds like me.
I used to be pretty boolean about it: either I gave a f*sk about girls (which would turn them on but I wouldn't notice) or I'd try hitting on them.
Hitting on them, on my part, was simply staring them down.
Worst thing was that even when it didn't work (never did) I still did it over and over again.
Priests? Is that a catholic priest or the church of England? Try the lobster!
*grabs the coat*
My respect (and often sympathy)continues to grow for TFMD.
I'm guessing you all got into the ZX Spectrum fairly soon after release. There are ways I can tell this.
Was that holiday the one with the concrete poo?
And has TFMD done a blog yet?
Awwwww....your time will come Mr. Shy Duck! (not I didn't say Mr. Shy Dick, lol*)
TFMD's life is not an easy one, is it?
Jazz did that to me. I was discussing Harry Connick Jr with a bloke with a goatee, while occasionally muttering "yeah, whatever" at the nubile Sikh twins who were giving me a stocking display. That's right - twins. And Harry Connick Jr, fer Chrissakes.
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