Jackson …

This blog is about the excruciatingly painful comedy set that seems to be taking over my life. So let’s begin. The end of University, woop! No more exams. No more books. No more library. No more awkwardness with people you hardly know.

Yeah that last one was a load of bullshit. The awkwardness, just like bills, my continual unemployment, and the fact that Matt Damon isn’t, and never will be my husband continues on after University. In fact it gets worse as you’re now expected to be a fully-fledged, wiping your own arse adult. My C.V tells prospective employers that I have impeccable communication skills, with the added bonus of being outgoing, friendly and confident. And in no way does my C.V suggest that I am sexually aggressive… wait for it.

Well I have been wiping my own sensitive derriere for a considerable amount of time now, and having given a total of 6, (yes 6!), presentations I consider myself socially competent. (Of course, in all of them I was sitting down and reading from a sheet of paper, and at the correct intervals I even had in red when to breathe). Therefore, like so many almost graduates, I have developed the skills to enter a sophisticated bar (Wetherspoons), and communicate with my fellow University peers in a polite, and socially appropriate manner. However, like we all know, I am not at all like ‘so many almost graduates.’ I believe when I am the ripe old age of 90, with all my teeth missing, and an enlarged tongue that prevents me from speaking, that yes, then I will be ready to enter society.

Now this is where the tale of my descending social standing begins, and as we all know it was never that high to begin with. I decided to go out for the evening with a friend, and her classmates that I know of, but have the usual;

(Fuck, eye contact)

‘Hi’

‘Hi’

‘How are you?’

‘Yeah good thanks. Soo much reading, you know how it is! You?’

‘Yeah same, so much work, but good’

Both smile, part ways and refrain from any form of communication for the rest of the evening.

However, as I was going out with these people, interaction had to happen, and may I clarify before I continue this tale, I mean and meant talking, conversation, dialogue, and in no way was I referring to anything else.

For my sanity the person in question will remain anonymous, we will call him Jackson. Up to this point everything had been relatively normal. Drinks in hand, the basic ‘How are you?’ ‘Good, you?’ Normal, bland, unoriginal, yet polite statements were being thrown back and forth. When Jackson decides to extend the social boundary with this …

‘I was thinking of skinning a cat.’

I looked from side to side, nodded my head and said ‘We all have dreams.’ I went on to laugh, not even a laugh, more of a slight, drawn out ‘Haaaa’ bit of a nervous squeak at the end. My friend during this time was talking to two other gentlemen and I no longer had her knowledge of Jackson to bounce off of. But Jackson soon went back to his funny, engaging, and seemingly ordinary self again when …

‘Would you like to skin that cat with me?’

My friend had now returned and she gave him a look that I believed was speaking the words ‘What the fuck are you going on about, you nutter.’ Now bear in mind, I was a bit nervous, never really spending much time with these people, it was past 10 pm i.e my bed time, and I was drinking coke; the shaking had begun. I proceeded to ask Jackson …

‘Are you trying to fuck me?’

You notice the missing ‘with’ … yeah so did he. I was so hoping he hadn’t, the absence of that word had changed a seemingly comical, let’s be friends statement, into deep seated narcissism, an accusal of sexual harassment and an almost predatory, sexually aggressive nature, all on my part.

My friend and Jackson laughed for a while, whilst informing the rest of the pub of my embarrassment. To be fair Jackson was trying to ‘fuck WITH me’, as I had previously told my friend that I was unsure of his humour. However, he was most definitely not trying to ‘fuck me’ and that is where I lost my argument, and any kind of likelihood of making a new friend. Again remember no matter how bad things get at least you have never asked someone ‘Are you trying to fuck me?’

A weekend away ….

“Gemmi, Angy, my darlings come along, we really must get home, the horses need feeding AND we need to get you two to tennis, AND I promised I’d make your father his favourite meal.” The woman looks as if she bathes in Joules, blonde hair, sunglasses protecting her scrutinizing eyes from the ray of sunlight edging its way through the black clouds. Her gilet protecting her from the poor … oops I meant the weather!

She pivots on the spot, shouting in all directions, as if her two children weren’t standing directly in front of her. The beauty of Matlida Goodhead (the name is entirely misleading) was known to every mother in the playground. Mainly due to this rehearsed and recycled display of motherly devotion. I, being a new addition to the afternoon pick up routine enjoyed the show. I even considered placing a 20p into her Modalu handbag. However, I believe a woman like that is paid in attention, and she got plenty of that from me. At one point I got out my Walkers crisps and just stared, like people do when they go to the zoo and a gorilla starts scratching its arse.

Of course no Alpha, middle class, stay at home mother is anything without her posse of equally middle class stay at home mothers. I introduce you to Lilian Lingus and May McCock (terrible names, and equally terrible teeth). Lillian is fashioning Crew, you’d think she’d been on an afternoon hike, ‘Oh well you know the usual, Waitrose, the bottle bank, came home fed the Labs, cleaned the kids rooms, and now back at school, I couldn’t face the gym today!’ She looks over at this point to see the reaction of her two cage mates. Matilda pushes her glasses down her nose, bows her head, and raises an eyebrow. The desired effect is immediate; Lillian blushes, looks down and punishes herself for the doughnut and Starbucks coffee she allowed herself to indulge in! The lashing I’m sure will come later. May can see that Lillian’s suffering will be eternal and feigns distraction by smiling at her delightfully rotund child.

Mrs McCock is sporting a Barbour jacket, Chanel sunglasses and a Waitrose bag for life, she begins her speech “I’m terribly concerned about the environment. We recycle!! I always use my bag for life.” She launches the bag up into the air, both hands enclosing the long lasting material. The entire playground of mothers arch their necks and squint their eyes, as the rays of sunlight hit the bag for life. Even Simba didn’t get this much attention! You can almost hear Elton John’s ethereal voice in the wind. Then the squeaky voice of May returns “Eco- friendly cleaning products! Terribly important.” She later washes her bed sheets at 60, but vows to not use the car for three days.

You may be asking yourself, where do such women exist? I found this common creature in the town of Henley, Henley on Thames. Most famously known for the University boat race. Oxford and Cambridge battle it out on the high seas, fighting against the tide, using the strength of highly intelligent men against the raging waves of nature. In reality I fear that it’s less Battle of the Titans and more The Adventures of Tink Winky, Dipsy, Lala and Po. I also imagine that tradition causes the influx of spectators, rather than genuine interest. So Henley (on Thames) is posh, posh, snor. Beautiful, but dull! The most exciting incident to happen is when Marg, the neighbourhood nutter (Yes even Henley on Thames has one), is allowed out of her cage and attacks family bike rides, who have the audacity to occasionally slip on to the pavement. The police have been called and they sedated the situation with some forceful words and powerful head shaking.

I do wonder if we spent less time judging each other and more time helping one another maybe the world would be a better place. But then again I’d have nothing to write my blog about! Every cloud!