Nine times out of ten he is an arsehole.

“Maybe he has Asperger’s.” I say to my mate Trish as we serve drinks at a pop up fundraiser she’s holding for ‘Adults with Aspergers’. Trish pauses mid pour and replies, “No he’s just an arsehole. Big difference.” Incidentally I am referring to the used tampon who gave me a seven out of ten a few months ago, I’m not bitter. I happened to bump into him a couple of days previous and it went something like this:

Me: “Heeeeeeeyyyy.” Actually managed to sound stoned rather than strangled, which I’m putting down as a win.

Him: “No way! Hey babe.” Kiss on the cheek like we’ve never seen each other naked, what a cheek! “Whoa, you look tired. Oh shit I gotta go.” Another kiss and he’s gone.

I’m left poleaxed in the middle of Pret feeling like I’ve just been slapped by the Tango Man. Do you remember that advert? Orange fat bloke slaps people? Man the nineties were weird. Anyway, I am also left without the wherewithal to shout “Well at least I don’t have a tiny dick on my forehead like a weird little devil horn!” after him or something else a bit less childish and confused. I still haven’t come up with anything better than that apart from just screaming in his face.

I’m not the only one getting confused with arsehole and aspergers by the way. This is the interesting thing about some women – I use the word ‘some’ fairly loosely because I really mean most but I don’t want to get hounded by my fellow feminists or equalists as I like to call them. Anyway ‘some’ women will even brand a man with a medical condition just to find a way of legitamising and explaining away his inherent twattiness. But no longer. I am starting my own revolution right now. No more excuses I say! The man was and is just a fucking arsehole. What’s fucked up is that instinctively I still want to follow that statement up with ‘Well he behaved like an arsehole to me, sometimes. I’m sure he’s got good qualities obviously! He’s not evil!’ AAAAAAARRRGGGHHHH STOP IT SCARLETT!!! He. Is. An. Arsehole. The End. “Exactly. You just work through it man.” Says Trish. I am unaware that I was thinking out loud. She shows rare physical affection by touching my arm awkwardly (I think it was supposed to be a squeeze) before going back to sorting the dips.

The party is in full swing now and Trish is mingling with all the trendies – you know the ones I’m talking about; they were made in a factory somewhere underneath Shoreditch and they need moustaches and rudeness like we need air. Unlike Trish I am quietly impressing the mirror with my bartending skills whilst getting slowly quite pissed with me, myself and I when I am rudely interrupted. “Hello.” I hear from behind me. I turn to see quite a cute man standing at the bar and he is sans moustache! “Hi” I say. “What can I get you?” I give him my best flirty (although some might say sleazy but they would be utterly wrong) smile whilst playing one handed catch with a corkscrew because I am the coolest. Fact. A one handed game I promptly lose. He laughs and says “My name is Peter.” “My name is Scarlett.” I say, in a weird robotic voice trying to imitate the one person actually showing any interest in me at this ponce fest. Thankfully Peter isn’t put off, he’s merely confused, “Why are you talking like that?” “I genuinely don’t know. Drink?”

I eventually got let off bar duty and Peter and I spent most of the night Dad dancing to fidget house, which is a real sub genre of house apparently. We were busting out all the moves – the hand clap, stacking the shelves, jazz hands – a personal favourite of mine, and moves from Street Fighter II , you know, all the classics. At some point late on I for some unknown reason start trying to talk about the used tampon in that ghastly drunken sad way but what was quite liberating was Peter’s honesty. He just said, “That is boring.” Then, seeing I was a bit taken aback he shouted “You have nice breath. That’s a compliment.” in my ear (it was really loud, he wasn’t trying to deafen me). Now, I did think it was a bit of a weird thing to say at the time especially since I think we’d just done our second jaeger bomb and I’d already smoked about ten fags and a couple of those mini hot dogs but a compliment’s a compliment in my mind – take them when you can. After that it all gets a bit blurry and naked, and then the morning…

“YOU HAVE NICE BREASTS BUT YOU NEED TO LEAVE! PLEASE LEAVE!” ‘Why is my eardrum being perforated?!’ I wonder as time slows while I open my eyes to see Peter shouting in my face. It must be around 7am. I think my heart has just exploded inside my chest cavity and I can taste the jaeger bombs all too grimly in the back of my throat threatening to re-emerge. Dear God stop shouting and please jaeger stay where you belong! In my half conscious fuzzy state part of me thinks it could be a horrible horrible joke so I point my finger at Peter weakly and start laughing, which makes it so, so much worse. I’m not fooling anyone. “Not alright not alright please can you leave. PLEASE CAN YOU LEAVE PLEASE CAN YOU LEAVE!” “Jesus Christ yes!” I say trying to keep my dignity as I clamber out of Peter’s bed. What the hell is happening?! Luckily my underwear seems to be on, a small mercy as I look around for my dress. I will be able to have a proper go at this guy only when fully clothed. How could I have found such an arsehole?! Having now thrown my dress on I’m in the middle of finding my shoes when Peter starts hyperventilating, “Oh panic attack. Panic aaaattttaaaaaack!!!” “Oh for fuckssake I’m going! I’m fucking going!” I shout, “And if my shoes aren’t downstairs I’m billing you!” I slam the door behind me and take a breath. Then like the dawn, a thought slowly comes to the surface; I have an, ‘Aahhhh’ moment as I realise Peter must have said breasts not breath. But I have no time to dwell on this thought as there’s a rabid badger in my head that’s trying to tear its way out via my eardrum. I’m trying to shake it free as I stumble down the stairs right into the furious face of a lady with a blue rinse. Time slows again.

She is a very old looking housemate. Maybe she’s the cleaner. In a dressing gown. Those are the only thoughts running through my mind – I say running, it’s more limping and stumbling in a half pissed state singing Bohemian Rhapsody – as I stand in front of her. I can hear Peter saying ‘Nice breasts’ again from his room. Seriously, what is that guy’s problem? Maybe she’s the landlady, paying a visit on a Sunday? In a dressing gown? Bit weird. Wait a second, penny is dropping slowly but surely, another dawn, “Oh my God are you Pete’s Mum? Pete lives with his Mum?” “Yes he does.” “Well madam, I’m afraid to tell you your son is an arsehole.” Yes I did say that. I was wrong footed and that’s what came out followed by “I’m sorry, but what he just did makes him a major arsehole.” Yes, I simply elaborated on the first terrible comment and this was her comeback, pretty good I think. “My son is NOT an arsehole. He has severe aspergers.” I couldn’t help but laugh at the audacity, what hope is there for us when the Mums are defending their offspring? “Yeah okay lady I’ve heard that one before. I came up with that one.” Hang on a second, wheels turning, brain putting pieces of the puzzle together. Pete joins in again with ‘It is very messy in here!’ Oh. Fuck.

“Well then, now that we have clarified that, if you’ll excuse me.” I say with as much dignity as I can muster, which is about as much as a bride to be on a hen do in Chelmsford at 2am, and leave the house without my shoes. They can keep the shoes, they can burn shoes. I’m tip toeing up the road trying to avoid bits of glass when I feel one of my ballet pumps hit me square on the shoulder, the other follows shortly after courtesy of Pete’s Mum who calls after me, “Is that it then? Fuck him and chuck him now that you know he’s bit different? Unbelievable!” I grab my shoes off the ground and keep walking (implementing the rule that if you ignore someone they’ll cease to exist) with no idea what to say or do but knowing one inescapable fact that I can hardly bear to admit. Peter has aspergers and I, am an arsehole.

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About 123withnail

A funny female living in south London who suffers from bouts of outrage and hysteria mainly caused by impoliteness and the ridiculousness of the general public - herself included.
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One Response to Nine times out of ten he is an arsehole.

  1. tedupdate says:

    Good one!

    ~ Irene

    Irene Burns Producer G R A C E P O I N T 100 Avenue of the Americas, Rm 609 New York, NY 10013 (646) 833-2061 office (917) 613-8749 cell Irene@ireneburns.com

    From: 7 out of 10 <comment-reply@wordpress.com> Reply-To: 7 out of 10 <comment+c6uiqfvjmv0tuf1evho6t-@comment.wordpress.com> Date: Thursday, February 27, 2014 at 9:52 AM To: Irene Burns <irene@ireneburns.com> Subject: [New post] Nine times out of ten he is an arsehole.

    123withnail posted: “Maybe he has Aspergers. I say to my mate Trish as we serve drinks at a pop up fundraiser shes holding for Adults with Aspergers. Trish pauses mid pour and replies, No hes just an arsehole. Big difference. Incidentally I am referring to the used t”

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