Quit While you’re ahead Quick Quippers…
Picture the scene if you will. Four blatantly married women are eating in a tapas bar. They are each sporting a wedding ring. And they are also pretty clearly four mums, ‘cos the level of laughter emanating from their table on a Tuesday night is the ultimate giveaway that these women don’t get out so much.
If you were a guy, would you approach them thinking your luck was in? You might crack a joke about it with your mate(s), it might even get a little smutty and raise the eyebrows of a waiter or two. I don’t particularly even want to know what goes on inside your head when you get a bright idea that leads you to think you might get laid…
But you wouldn’t seriously think you stood a chance.
You wouldn’t honestly have the audacity to plonk yourself on the end of the ladies’ bench – just as they were diving into their meatballs – and think your ‘I’m-the-frontman-of-an-American-rock-band’ ice breaker was going to have all four of these women falling at their knees and filing for divorce.
Oh you would?
Then you’d be just like Rob, the guy us said Mummies had the ‘pleasure’ of getting acquainted with last week. What a guy. If a burly, statuesque, full on Santa-bearded hulk with flame-red locks to match floats your boat.
Now I’ll be the first to admit that it’s not all about looks.
And I am not dissing red heads either. His locks could’ve been brown, blonde, pink, green or grey. It would have been all the same. And I firmly believe that our true beauty lies within. Personality and charm light up even the most challengingly unflattering of faces. But this guy was something else. To him it seemed a given that because he was the lead singer in a band, then of course he had the right to try it on with any lady within a 1000 km radius.
Yes, given an inch, he’d have taken a mile.
It was all a little harmless banter, a bit of flirtation (for him anyway). And on the surface this really appeared to be true. But as I sat there with Lady Lolita, The Duchess and our mutual friend, I could feel The Ice Maiden of my past steadily rising up to the surface, ready to roar: ‘Piss Off!!!!!!’
The thing is; I could see the motives beneath his ‘innocent veneer’. The guy meant business. He would have taken any one of us Ladies (or preferably all four) back to his hotel room, or the makeshift bed in the tour van, for a damn good seeing to. Eugh!
What gives you the right to interrupt a conversation turning everything into frigging one-liners about sordid acts?
Seriously, what gives? Don’t you have a Lucky Lady at home? A wife? A girlfriend? Children? Maybe this works for you in your home state in the U.S of A. But this is Britain. Haven’t you heard about our Stiff Upper Lips?
Strength in Numbers.
We were four strong and independent women. We would look out for one another if Rob decided not to (eventually, and it turned out to be very eventually) take the hint and bog off. But had his experiment been on a couple of women who weren’t so assertive; then what? How would they get rid of him?
Okay, so luckily he was about to do a gig next door in a club with the rest of his band…
And you had to love the way he offered us reduced tickets, but refused to be so generous as to give a sneak peek of his ahem talent so that we could decide if we even wanted to pay a fiver for the thrill. This also means that fortunately, my said imaginary couple of women would have eventually escaped unscathed. But it’s pretty clear that The Robster (and no, unfortunately he bore not a shred of relevance to Robbie Williams) was a dab hand at sticking it out. The one-liners became ever more cheesy. So much so that it put me right off my honey drizzled Manchego.
How do these guys do it?
Really, I am curious. Do they go to some University to study for a BA Hons in Wit and Quips? Do they look in the mirror and see Justin Bieber? Or do they just have really mean and jealous band mates as friends? Like the drummer whose secret desire it is to own the stage, audition on The Voice and make Tom Jones’ head spin faster than the woman in The Exorcist. Could it be that the drummer in The Robster’s band became so insanely green-eyed about all the potential shags he was not getting, that he decided to egg his mate on to make him look like a blithering idiot as the ultimate act of revenge? I think I might have cracked it.
Because something inflates these guys’ egos…
But it’s not going to be my time of day. So take the hint when a group of women re-instate their marital status. Now leave us alone, our patatas bravas have gone cold.
That said, we did pop next door to see what we were ‘missing’…
It was alright. Soft Southern Rock just as The Robster had said. Quite possibly the only truthful thing he’d communicated over the course of half an hour as our tapas wilted.
But it was never going to have the Tom Jones effect.
Because Losers and their cruddy one-liners like The Robster give rock bands a bad name. Want to see the panties hurtling at your feet and not sticking themselves to the electric guitar of Gentleman Geoff? Then what I suggest is this: Go back home. Put your 1st class honours degree in Wit and Quips in the paper shredder. Find the nearest University that teaches Good Old Fashioned Manners. Don’t leave until you graduate.
