I Was An Arsehole At A Club

(as well as being an arsehole the rest of the time, obviously)

On Saturday night, I spilled a drink over some bloke at a club; it was only water, and it merely darkened an already dark brown jacket, but that didn’t seem to matter to the bloke in question, who stared at me with the disbelieving contempt you reserve for people who loudly eat bacon sandwiches at Bar Mitzvahs, or claim that the ‘reject’ option in the Mass Effect 3 Extended Cut is the best choice of ending (but seriously, the ‘control’ and ‘destroy’ endings I can understand, the ‘reject’ one is silly).

What made it worse was the mutual spillage of the drink – I was splashed as much (i.e. hardly at all) as the guy was; in fact, I thought he’d spilled it on me, not the other way around, so when he first stared at me I offered him a dismissive ‘it’s cool, bro’ hand waved in his general direction, before getting back to dancing. It was only a few seconds later, when I realised he hadn’t given me an equally dismissive ‘sorry anyway, dude’ nod of the head that (largely) men use to communicate with each other that I expected, and I turned back to him to receive his Stare of Death, Infused with the Power of a Thousand Dying Suns (+10 to social anxiety, gives the user +20 Judgemental Bastard points).

And I couldn’t really do anything about it; I accept that it was my fault (probably – I don’t really remember now, and wasn’t even too clear on it at the time), but I could hardly offer him a flannel or dab pitifully at his lapels with a roll of toilet paper, could I? I mean, practically I could, but even I have some standards when it comes with interacting with other human beings. Which brings me to the logical question, why was the guy taking it so seriously?

I’m not a perfect individual, but I’d wager that most people wouldn’t accept responsibility like I’m doing – the guy just accused me without showing me any damage to his jacket – so a genuine, if useless, apology was probably the best he could hope for from this interaction. And he got it, but was still wide-eyed, like David Moyes after stubbing his toe; he couldn’t expect any reparations from calling me out on this, and he’d be lucky not to get blanked entirely, or asked to settle any problems he may have in the local Lidl car park alongside a dangerous yet hilarious amount of cheap beer.

But I’m no mind-reader; he got pissed off, I felt bad for a bit, then we got on with our lives; I saw him literally three minutes later dancing without a care in the world. I suppose the only thing to have come from this episode is a blog post on an otherwise uninspired day, so I’m blogging about a thing that’s helped my blogging.

Someone call Lawrence Sterne, this is a meta-blog.

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