venting

‘Oh God! Oh Jesus!’, come the cries from Mat’s bedroom. No, he isn’t in the throes of orgasm (as far as I’m aware). He has bought a PSP. And now rarely looks away from Grand Theft Auto, except when the batteries die. I came back from Sainsbury’s the other day and stood watching him beating up a prostitute he’d just had sex with, in order to get his money back. As it happened, the woman in Sainsbury’s had short-changed me by two pounds, which I’d only realized after leaving the shop. I decided against asking Mat’s advice on how to deal with this.

I was standing at the bar in O’Neill’s and a young guy next to me expressed surprise that I’d been served before him. And yet I’d got to the bar before him - he even acknowledged that. What he presumably meant was that, being far younger and better-looking than me, he should have been a magnet for the barmaids. With his obnoxiously white teeth and showy tan, he was certainly someone’s idea of handsome. His own, definitely.

So matter-of-factly was this insult - if such it was - expressed that it didn’t occur to me to be annoyed about it until halfway through the next day. Only then did my brain start churning out the things I should have said. ‘Perhaps your air of oily smugness is putting them off.’ Or: ‘You need to tone down the contrast on your face. Your teeth are blinding them.’ Or: ‘Fuck off, conceited wanker.’ And so on. Though since his narcissism had clearly attained psychotic levels, this would not, perhaps, have been a good idea. Except in GTA.