First here are a couple of reminders:
a) Please send pictures of your tattoos to enter the Best Reader Tattoo competition and the potential opportunity to get a right piss-take by me. I don’t know why you’d want that, but I’m sure you would. Oh yeah and if you send a picture, include a London Preppy reference in it, as proof that it is actually you. I don’t particularly want to see tattoos you’ve googled.
b) Please join the London Preppy fanpage on facebook – if you are on facebook. Again, I don’t know why you’d want that (apart from to serve my own selfish purposes for further promotion of this blog), but maybe you would.
Now then, yesterday I wrote the clubbing post and one of the quotes I included implied there was an incident of confrontation / swearing / fighting. It really wasn’t as bad as that, but here’s the full story anyway.
It’s about 0530 and I want to go home and I’ve just joined the queue for the cloakroom, a queue that I’ll be part of for the next hour. So I’m on my own, because everyone else has stayed in the club, and prepared for a long wait.
That’s when somebody comes up behind me and pulls my shorts down. Not my underwear, just my shorts. Properly down though, to just above my knees. So at this very moment (I haven’t turned around to look who it is yet), I’m thinking:
a) If it’s Scott or Donnell or Brendan, fair enough, I will laugh it off
b) If it’s somebody I know but not those guys, perhaps a clubbing “friend” that I know and chat to, I’ll tell them off but joke about it
c) If it’s somebody I don’t know at all, they’re dead
I pull my shorts up not having lost my dignity because I didn’t have any before anyway, turn around and realize it’s c) somebody I don’t know at all. And that somebody is some guy in his 20s I guess, non-muscly, kinda Latin looking, generally invisible to me. He’s stood there with some girl and I think he’s smiling, but I can’t be sure, I’m too angry.
Instantly I start shouting at him at the top of my voice: Why the fuck did you do that. I must point out that I am very good at pronouncing the word fuck when I’m angry, I literally spit it out like a punch and I get great pleasure from it. Conversely, I never ever swear in Greek, because it feels too rude. The guy looks a little unsettled, even though not as unsettled as I’d like, and he starts delivering a long rant in an incomprehensible, unattractive language. Is it Spanish? Is it Portuguese? Is it Brazilian? Is Brazilian even a language? Please do not answer any of these questions, I don’t really want to know.
Because he doesn’t even offer an apology, or even a basic response in a non-ridiculous language (i.e. English, perhaps German, I’d even accept a Scandinavian language to be honest), I get more pissed off and I continue screaming at him: Fuck off. Fuck right off. Fuck. Right. Off. As he’s stood there I also push him on the chest with both hands (symmetrically) hard enough to make him realize he needs to fuck. right. off. (as per my verbal instructions), but not so hard that I’m threatening his safety or anything.
Then he’s gone and I turn around to continue my queuing.
During all that, one person I know is actually around – an American gym friend I will call Alexei from now on – and even though he didn’t catch the shorts pulling incident, he turned up just in time for the confrontation. So I have to ask him how I looked, whether I came across scary and/or mental, whether this aggro look is a good one for me and I should do it more often…that sort of thing.
EDIT: See comments for Alexei's eye-witness report.
Finally, here’s a picture or two of the red shorts, as requested by some readers.