Sorry I didn’t write anything last week, when I was off work (a long-needed break from the world of, er, IT in a major London corporation), but now that I’m travelling on the London Underground every morning again, perhaps it’s time I got something off my chest about the kind of people I have to encounter every day.
Remember how, in 2015, I wondered if it was foreigners I didn’t like (due to the anxiety I was going through at the time), only to conclude that it was actually men as a whole I was having trouble with? You’ll be pleased to know I no longer have any particular problem with Asian (as in Indian) guys, perhaps because my team at work is so ethnically mixed — no, it’s now specifically the honky-whitey-crackers I can’t stand… or, more precisely, the fashionable ones.
As I also said in 2015, I ain’t no nice guy — but to restate, I don’t want to hurt innocent people who have done me no harm; indeed, now I make donations to the homeless, albeit as part of a group (as I wouldn’t be confident doing it alone), and I still give vaguely usefeul stuff to charity shops (and buy CDs and Stephen King novels from them). I also have no problem with the existence of gay people, and it’s the homophobes I actually hate and wish could be “cured”, and don’t automatically hate black or brown people simply for their skin colour.
(Obviously leaving aside a certain orange “president”, who’s inviting racism against himself…)
However, if there’s anyone I’m sick of being around, it’s swaggering, arrogant, “fashionable” young, slender blokes with hairstyles that look like small wigs (shaven around the sides, long on top), and — although I don’t mind this on men of religious cultures, nutty old professors etc. — great big bushy beards, in some cases jutting right out from their smug, contemptuous faces. The sort who slouch and manspread on the London Underground (especially in tracksuit trousers), maybe even with one hand down there, and act like they’ve got the right, and everyone around them needs to stop being a “snowflake”. That’s unless they’re above ground, driving flash cars in a dangerous manner (breaking the speed limit on quiet residential streets like my own, and running red lights), though admittedly that applies to middle-aged London cabbies as well (and I’ve already covered my dislike of London’s drivers and cyclists).
Maybe it’s just jealousy, because I certainly hate seeing straight couples being romantic, but have no problem with, say, gay men kissing (though I won’t talk about women doing the same, as that would open a whole new can of worms!). Indeed, that makes me wonder why pathetic fools in America want to hold a “straight pride parade”, as though they’re sick of being reminded that gay people exist — when gay people are reminded every day that straight people exist, by this kind of behaviour! And worse, of course: I’ve never heard of gay men wolf-whistling straight men, or talking loudly and sexually about them (but not to them, of course), and insulting anyone who objects to such behaviour, calling them “SJWs” if they’re not the direct victims themselves.
That might be another side to it: I’ve never liked being around other blokes “on the pull” — I’ve always been trying to find a woman for my own happiness, not to score points with the lads. Indeed, I still tend to prefer all-female or mixed company, and only rarely make new male friends — and seldom are they white and heterosexual. There are two such blokes in my team, but only two, and while one of them finds it too damn hot in the office and needs the aircon on full blast every day, that’s not a medical condition, it’s because he’s from Oop Noorth.
(A rather more appropriate use of the term “snowflake”, don’t you think?)
At least the blokes at my workplace are mature (despite their senses of humour); the worst straight honkey mahfahs I knew were back at school, in my GCSE years in Worthing… and at university, during my undergrad days. Yes, let’s reflect on my past bullying experience one final time, and get this out of my system: teenage boys sneering at me because I wasn’t getting drunk at FIFTEEN, and thus taking advantage of drunk girls at house parties (which surely would qualify as rape?), and young men treating me like an outsider for not wanting to get drunk even at legal age — and yes, the alcoholic thug who wanted to come around to my room and beat me up, even though we’d never spoken, for reasons best known to himself (if he could even remember them the next day)…
On the positive side, this means I actually feel more respect for older gentlemen and plus-size guys in public places (well, obviously except specific individuals) — they haven’t hurt me, and there’s no sense in harbouring irrational hatred for them. Inadvertent manspreading, I can tolerate — indeed, now I feel bad for refusing to give extra elbow space to a portly man (resembling a humourless version of Matt Lucas) who used to be on my morning Tube train frequently, and insisted on using a laptop in his seat. He’d done nothing wrong (except maybe he could have asked nicely), whereas I view leg-spreading I’m-all-dat blokes as a challenge, and sit next to them on the Tube when I can, just to politely refuse to let them cross the border.
(One bloke took exception to this and glared at me, so mission accomplished! Though I don’t know if he was white, as I didn’t look at his face…)
Sometimes I wonder if I have some weird phobia (perhaps stemming from childhood terror, or a side effect of my recent brain alteration), and I know I shouldn’t hate bearded young white guys — fortunately, when it’s someone familiar, I don’t. Hey, I’ve slowed down in shaving terms over the past few years, and often have stubble (ironically, something the bullies made fun of me for in the GCSE days), but I don’t want to grow a full beard (until I’m old and grey), simply because I find the styling of such a thing to be pretentious — and the same for funny hairstyles (I’m keeping my luscious glory short these days, mainly so I don’t have to fuss over it).
I know, it’s stuff my dating coach has encouraged me to try out — dressing smart (though not quite on the verge of “peacocking”), styling my hair (sensibly), sitting in a masculine pose (albeit not quite full-on manspreading), and essentially being fashionable… but I don’t want to be like the crowd, I want to be myself, and I’d only be willing to dress up smart for a date if it was, shall we say, date no.3 (or, more likely, a higher number), and she was also dolled up to the nines. Of course I’ll keep trying new things, but I’d rather have platonic female company in a nightclub, perhaps (like “other female best friend”) dancing with me to attract the attention of single women in my direction, than a bunch of brash blokes egging me on, as I wouldn’t care what they think of me, success or failure.
Don’t worry, I don’t hate all white, heterosexual males of the species H. sapiens — obviously I’m still a fan of Eminem (yes, even after all these years!), and “best mate” fits the criteria as well. Then again, neither of them is English, and very few of my male friends are: my personal trainer is mixed race (and sounds American), and I’ve had Far Eastern buddies over the years (including my new housemate, for whom I’m developing tolerance). Ah, my yoga teacher, he’s always been cool (despite his Brummy accent… no, actually, because of his Brummy accent!), and some of my school/university friends were and are (though I’ve lost touch with too many over the years), and of course “drummer-trucker” has been fine since returning to the Smoke.
Let’s be fair: #NotAllHonkeys are pretentious, bullying jerkbags — I’m not, am I? Am I…?