Scary Mary

There are some scary people in the world; you only have to switch on the TV to see weirdo scary so-called celebrities masquerading as entertainers.

I just don’t get it. Why do people watch these imbeciles? Why are people fascinated with the exploits of these losers?

I call them losers but they must be doing something right. After all, most of them have more money than they can possibly imagine, their only talent being that they have the power and the arrogance to relentlessly and successfully pull the wool over the eyes of a large percentage of the world population.

See? They are making me waste my time posting about them.

Anyway – that isn’t the point of this post; I want to talk about people who scare me (mainly due to my own imagination it has to be said).

I’m talking about people I can’t deal with.

Have you ever walked home late at night and seen a group of youths standing on the corner of your road? They may be completely harmless. The problem is that they outnumber you and as you approach they watch you. This has happened to me several times and each time I have passed them with no problem whatsoever. The problem is that my imagination runs amok and I find myself analysing them. Will they try to mug me? Will they laugh at me? If one of them attacks me should I run or fight back? What if they talk to me?

Last night I went to a concert in the city centre and caught the nutty bus back home. Sadly as I approached my road, I spotted a group of people hanging around on the corner. I had to pass them.

It was the worst kind of group – a group that strikes fear into the very soul of every man on the planet.

It was a group of four very drunk women.

And it was worse – they were laughing raucously and as I approached I heard the words penis, arse and the killer word - sex – followed by laughter so loud that made my very soul quake.

Why was I scared? Because there is nothing worse than a gang of loud, drunk and boisterous women.

They have the power to embarrass any man so much that his very ego can be destroyed. I haven’t much of an ego so I am at a disadvantage from the very start.

I did consider turning back – but that would have been too obvious. Besides, they had spotted me. I had to defend the honour of my gender; no women were going to belittle me. I gulped and continued on my way, opting, foolishly perhaps, to walk past them.

I found myself thinking of scenarios that might play out and almost all of them resulted in my ego being shattered. As I got closer I realised with mounting horror that they were all in the thirties or forties – women who knew exactly how to destroy me.

“He couldn’t even find it,” said one. “How long have we been married? Ten years? And he still can’t find it.”

“Is he that crap in bed?” said another.

They were talking about sex, openly, brashly and without fear of consequence. And I was walking right into it.

I felt like I was strolling nonchalantly into the maw of the most savage shark on planet Earth.

And then the talking stopped. They realised that there was a man approaching. All four of them stared at me. I looked down to the ground.

And then the sniggering started. Whispered words floated on the wind and made their way to my ear, evaporating seconds before I could hear it.

And then the belly laughs began again.

They were now talking about me.

I decided that I would take them on. I decided that I would be brave. I decided that I would show that their words couldn’t harm me.

I looked up. I pulled my shoulders back and with my head held high I walked right through them.

“Evening ladies,” I said confidently.

That was a mistake; a big mistake; an enormous mistake.

“Evening ladies,” said one, openly mimicking me.

“Do you think he could find it?” said another, laughing raucously.

“Nice arse,” said a third also laughing.

The fourth one whistled sounding like a workman ogling a girl, causing yet more merriment.

“I’ll bet he’s scared to death,” screamed another. “Look at him! He’s terrified!”

And I was. I couldn’t say anything back for fear of being totally ridiculed. And the banter got worse as I walked on. Many other words too disgusting to mention in this post were hurled about like confetti. I prayed they weren’t talking about me.

I arrived home and could still hear the laughter.

And as I put the key in the door, I remembered the one thing they said that my ego really should have noticed: “Nice arse!”

Mrs PM says that – and as long as she does, I’m happy.

And I’m not scared – honest.