Chauvinism: A Guide

He stood on a seat at the edge of the deck in the dark and used it as a stage to give a live performance of 'getting his cock out.' I was engaged in conversation and missed the spectacle but my friends, voices bitter with mild distain, filled me in. Obviously elated following his show, he sat down on a chair and leant back, dinner jacket agape, arms in Lincoln-esque power-recline pose, and looked me in the eye. I recoiled before he opened his mouth. When he did it was only to congratulate himself on his performance. In the same way I've heard a small number of men referring to a small number of women as 'sweaters' I nick-named him Dinner Jacket, or Blazer for want of short semblance. I watched as a friend of Blazer's spat heavy amounts of saliva onto the wood beneath his feet. He screwed up his face in a way which suggested both discomfort and remorse for his fading dignity which he was unable to stop from fading post intoxication. Embarrassed, he put his head in his hands. Cocky Blazer, whose hairline, I noticed, was receding, although only in his twenties, asked if I was a student. I said no and asked which university he went to. He told me to 'fuck off asking,' as if aware I may be judging and said he worked for HEFCE. Oh God, I thought, no wonder our country is in a state.
Feeling sorry for his friend, I asked Blazer to get a glass of water for him. 'Shut up,' he replied, and with those two words I was raging. venom flooded my mouth. How dare he speak to me like that, how dare he? Vile ignoramus. And to make matters worse, as we were leaving, a woman accepted his invitation for a kiss. A little piece of me died.
I suppose I lost the upper hand as we walked away from the Thekla, by vividly imagining stamping on his head with my leather boots until small fragments of his flimsy pink brain were scattered on the pavement, each individual bit of which I stamped on again, repeatedly. But if he'd just accidentally fallen overboard...

Sunday 22nd November 09