On not being good at flirting

On not being good at flirting

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.