That's right lady sisters, I was grasped, groped and grabbed as I was innocently ascending from the ladies loos in what I thought was an upmarket drinkery on Saturday night! I was demurely, even elegantly attired, wearing a nigh Dallas-esq shoulder padded cream blouse with strings of diamante baubles wound around my neck, trendy single stripe gentleman's dress trousers (the American choice I know, but I was in a hurry!) and sturdy leather walking boots - hardly an arousing combination for any but the most discerning fellow! But obviously my raging good looks spoke too, too loudly to be quieted by even the most humble attire. I was too tempting a filly for the vile, leather jacketed philanderer who passed me on the stairs to being able to avoid reaching out for a grope. That's what you get for going out in Hoxton, obviously.
Let me set the scene. I, Posie Rider, looking like a paid extra from such films as Brideshead Revisited, Gosford Park and Bright Young Things, am innocently exiting the ladies loos in a HOXTON BAR [which, may I add, had no mirrors. Now, I'm all in favour of women being given one less opportunity to stare at themselves, vanity being on the of the most deadly of the Deadly Sins and obsession with one's looks being obviously poisonous to the Modern Feminist (despite being constantly endorsed by those bloody Third Wavers) BUT when it has been raining, and when one's adorable masculine quiff, which one has spent the better part of half and hour and two Gin Fizzes crafting, has been utterly flummoxed, the presence of a mirror becomes more than a necessity. It becomes a RIGHT. I mean, how on earth is one to go forth for Women's Liberation with a bodged barnet? Have you ever seen a picture of a Suffragette? Now, those Sisters had style.]
I digress. So, attired as thus, I was ascending the stairs. Now, ahead of me was lolloping a much less wittily clothed young woman. Wearing a zebra print clingy 'thing', legs up to her eyebrows and teetering silver heels, this lady was clearly the lowest common denominator in terms of taste, and to all intents and purposes, a crowd-pleaser. So it was with disgust, although not with surprise, that I watched as an odious toad of a male descending the stairs reached out his vile mits, touched her shoulder and said in the most grotesque way possible "Alright darling, you're looking nice" followed by slurring and some obscenities I daren't repeat for risk of nutting the computer screen (which was quite expensive).
Now, all hail to the blond ahead of me, she shook him off and swore very righteously in his face. Hurrah! Thought I. She may be dressed like a slattern, but at least she knows how to deal with a man. BUT, this is when the really surprising thing happened. For as I was passing him on the stairs, rather than marking me for the high class sinorita I patently am, he addressed me in exactly the same terms! "Alright darling, pwoar looking nice" excetara ad nauseum ad a hand on my shoulder ad a shotgun.
Had I been in possession of a shotgun, I would have had no reservations about using it. Had I been prepared for such an attack I would undoubtedly have been able to respond in a fitting way, but you see I wasn't! How COULD I have been. And, Lady Readers, I'm rather ashamed. As all I could think to say in response, in sudden and spontaneous response, was a simple and rather hurried moniker, which was:
"You! Piss off now!"
Hardly fitting such a vicious attack, right? Now, as I rejoined my table (a group of far more enlightened fellows, and rather tough looking too, I'll add) I couldn't help but play out the various ways I'd have rather the scene had went.
And here's my question to you - would it have been so wrong for me to grab his tiny little head in my powerful hands, shake it from side to side to unbalance him, and then fling him headfirst down the stairs (they were sort of concretey, I mean I think it's pretty obvious he wouldn't have been altogether OK afterwards. Like more close to dead, really). I mean, that could pass as self-defense, right? Because if it happens again that's how I'm going to play it.
Answers on a postcard! My freedom depends on you, Lady Readers!
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