Wanker Magnet.

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(Photo courtesy of Joy Farrell)

There are many reasons why I’ll be glad when it’s Friday. Not only because that’s when my husband and my Mum arrive in Antigua, but also it means my labia will no longer resemble chopped liver from riding my bike everywhere on very uneven roads and tracks. The saddle is supposed to be comfortably designed for lady bits. BULLSHIT! Nothing on the planet to this day has been designed to make the world a nicer place to be vag-endowed (paraphrasing Tim Minchin there). It might not solely be an issue with the clit crunching saddle, it might be a combination of humidity, lycra and constant sand in my crevices but whatever the reason for being uncomfortable all I can say is that I’m going to be so happy when I can travel around in style with John in an air conditioned car with suspension. There’d better be decent suspension because driving around Antigua is not without certain lurking dangers; goats, small children, pot holes, cattle wandering across the road with a 30 foot chain dragging behind, you know just your average daily commuting hazards.

The weather has taken a turn for the warmer and drier which means I’ve been out and about on CC (clit-cruncher); the bike had previously been named TT for no particular reason and was a replacement for the unforgettable Bradley who valiantly gave up his life and pedals during my first couple of visits to Antigua but unlike his namesake, Bradley (Wiggins, the coolest cyclist in the world ever, Google him, do it now) was not built to last and one by one his pedals fell off, his virtually invisible suspension gave up the ghost and he was delivered to the great cycle graveyard. Actually I gave him to a friend of ours who reckoned he could give Bradley a revival and make him better than before, somewhat like the Bionic Man, and bugger me wasn’t I proved wrong. Bradley is indeed back on the road and is used every day by a lovely chap so that he can get to and from his chicken farm more quickly than walking. Even if Bradley hadn’t rebelled on me and fallen apart, he had to go because if I think CC is bad, old Bradders was tolling the death knells on my sex life with his razor-esque racing saddle and rigid frame.

So I’ve been out and about. Living a normal life. I have discovered my special power though. I am ‘Wanker Magnet Woman’. As I’ve said previously I sometimes go over and see a friend of mine at a resort just 15 minutes from our house. I don’t normally hang out at the bar too long as my days of being a single woman bumming drinks from men is ancient history, but it is fun to sit and observe the characters. Unfortunately my passive stare must have a sub-text which wankers read as “speak to her she’s lonely, vulnerable and a trapped audience”. Cue eye roll and big sigh.

One such wanker complete with freshly made hat of palm leaves, sozzled up to a bar stool and announced that he was a little worse for wear, “but at least weed and rum isn’t as bad as mushrooms”. It was like a stoner’s version of the Hemmingway exercise of creating a sentence with the least amount of words to express to most amount of information. I think it’s called minimalism? Anyway, from this one sentence I’d established several things:

  • He’s a dickhead
  • He thinks I’ll be impressed that he’s a wild and crazy guy who takes drugs
  • He’s probably on holiday with Mummy and Daddy because he sure as hell has no pubes yet.
  • He’s going to get a new one ripped before he leaves.

Well fuck me, if I’m not psychic because yep, I was 100% right.  Stoned little rich boy was indeed on holiday with Mumsy and Dadsy, attending his darling sister’s wedding to her carefully chosen and approved chinless groom. So I sat with my iced water and allowed gormless to dig his hole.

He then realised that I have tattoos, several of them, and he decided that my decision must have limited my ability to get a job. As he so smartly opined, women with tattoos are untrustworthy, violent, punk-assed (?) weirdos. Cue another eye roll and long long sigh. He asked what my job is; I politely replied that I don’t work. Which seemed to give his theory a solid footing. He told me that people with tattoos are probably gang members too, but because I’m from the UK, we wouldn’t know about gang culture. I interrupted at this point to say, “Oh we do have gang culture…..” and I was just about to try and educate the young fucktard when he interjected with, “huh huh huh what they called in the UK, the SkallyWags?” Right, this was getting nasty, but I’m a good human I believe in giving even most lost causes one more chance. I changed conversational direction and asked him what he does for a living.

“I work for ma Daddy, we do landscaping” was his reply.

Cue an eyeroll sooooo bitchy that Lilly Savage and Joan Rivers would have been proud.

“And I can tell you, I wouldn’t employ you ‘cos of your tats, don’t get me wrong I think they’re great art but it wouldn’t be good for our image ‘cos people might think you’ll go crazy and kill them”

Hmmmmm. Right. Now I could have just said nothing, smiled and shrugged and I could have come home drank a bucket of rum and seethed about my encounter with young cocksnot, but I didn’t.

My reply was simple,

“Well, you see, I have worked from the age of 15 in various jobs. I’ve worked in shops, in child care, I’ve cleaned toilets in hotels, I’ve ripped out a shop ready for a refit, I’ve made pizzas, I’ve brought up 2 children to be independent humans, for over 10 years my husband and I slogged our guts out to make a business successful, during which time I studied and went to University and worked part time in a coffee shop as well, I volunteered for 3 years in a front line advice agency the like of which you couldn’t even begin to understand, oh yes and off the back of that company my husband and I worked hard at? We sold our shares in it, and you know what I’m going to do when I leave this bar? I’m going to our SECOND home just up the road, and for the next 5 weeks I’m going to go to the beach, drink rum and laugh with my friends. So, honey, you and your Daddy couldn’t afford me” (Please forgive the bragging bit, but every now and then I have to do it, especially when a stupid little boy such as this tries to be a clever shite).

I was met with a blank stare. I’ve no idea if any of it made it through the haze of rum, weed and stupidity but it certainly entertained those ear wigging. A friend of mine must’ve overheard this little exchange; he came over and added his piss to put out the fire. He leaned in to cocksnot and said,

“Man, you look so lonely, you sit like you broken, sit up and be proud man, you like you got no-one in this world”

Cocksnot spent the next 10 minutes trying to persuade everyone at the bar that he’s got a girlfriend back home in Ohio (I resisted the urge to ask if she’s got pretty udders). My friend just laughed so hard he nearly fell off his seat and the deflated little boy staggered off in the direction of the hotel room he was sharing with Mumsy and Dadsy.

I’m hoping my wanker magnet will be deactivated when John gets here on Friday.

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