You pop out to meet a mate of yours at his local bar. He goes to buy both of you a beer. Then some fella recognises him off his course and pops over, taking the third of the four-seater you find yourself sat at.
Fair enough, until your mate gets a call from his other half, just after he’s bought you a pint of Guinness, but to cut a short story long…
Your mate’s out the back door, leaving you with a full pint and the guy he knows from his course, whilst he chats outside to his pseudo-fiancee for 40 minutes or so….
OK. Could be worse.
So there we are. The conversation between you and the new fella swiftly switches from mathematics and music to politics.
But here comes the hot-stepper:
“I used to be on the front line, man!”
Of course you did. My beer is still 7/8ths undrunk. Tell me about it.
“I was well skanky in them days, squat life… nicking orange juice from the cornershops.”
Sure. You were a student. Regardless, I’d expect nothing less. And?
And here it gets good…
“Check this out, man… “
The man whips out an overflowing lever-arch folder.
“Maths at A-level is tough, but this man [pointing at his folder] came into my life at a difficult time, y’know?”
And I did.
We’ve all met Jesus.
At this point that two and a half inch deep lever-arch folder is shoved into my face, each page filled with print-outs of the ZNet rantings of one N. Chomsky – the screwface had hole-punched several hundred pages worth.
“He came into my life at a difficult time!“
Oh. My. Days.
Your mate’s fnucked off and you’re supposed to be looking after his stuff, so no easy leg-out. What do you say?
[ideally, insert “WTF you talking ’bout, Willis…“]
Sadly, I bottled it.
“Ah, after all that beer [1/8th of a pint] I’m not too certain we should be arguing about this… What were you saying about that Indian minor seventh again?”
A certain Mr C reckons confrontation was the best way forward – obliterate the canute regardless…
But to confront the donut felt like training a dog with a spiked boot: I was arguing with a man whose ideas were as flimsy as his Staples’ folder. If the RSPCA didn’t get involved, I was sure there were other organisations that might, on the cruelty front at the very least.
1 foolscap fat folder
1 50ft high balcony
What would you do?
All suggestions welcome.
PS The Irie – this is not a Speed-Dating set-up. Although perhaps it ought to be.