Ballet / Twat.
I am sitting in the draughty ante-room of a Church of England–owned Village Hall. From the main hall, behind closed doors, comes the sound of classical music and frantic foot-falls.
It is Favourite Daughter’s ballet class. I am surrounded by a dozen or so Mummies discussing the relative merits of various forms of child discipline. And the general usefulness –or otherwise- of Men.
I have opted-out of this debate, and immerse myself in my newspaper.
An opinion-piece suggests that a contestant on a recent reality show is in fact not racist, but is merely stupid. So that is O.K. then. The inference is that only university-educated middle-class wankers actually know how to be properly racist, and that anyone else who has a crack at it are not privileged enough to do it right. What with racism and stupidity being mutually exclusive and that.
Fucking hippies. With some irritation I cast my newspaper to one side and look about me.
I notice that there is another Man in the room, about my age. He does not look happy, and after a moment leaves the room to –I assume- get something from his car.
From the main hall I hear ‘Oooh-be-doo, I want to be like you-hoo-hoo’. For the two-dozenth time I try and recall a National Ballet production of the Jungle Book. I cannot. But tap my foot anyway.
The Man returns, brandishing a Man Bag.
Fucking hell, I think.
He unzips it and produces a laptop-computer. Oh. It wasn’t a Man Bag. It was a Laptop Bag. Is that better or worse?
Powering-on said laptop, he begins to earnestly tap away. Occasionally glancing around to make sure everyone can see that he owns an expensive computer, and is a person of such importance that he needs to use it now. There is a whole forty minutes until the end of his daughter’s ballet class. Valuable time. Time a gentleman of his stature cannot waste.
I try and ignore this Master of the – well, not Universe but perhaps Village Parish – but am consumed with curiosity. What with not being able to read the newspaper because it makes me cross and not being able to partake in Mummy conversation of this variety-
Random Mummy: ….And do you know, the odd occasion Brian DOES do the washing-up, he does it so badly I have to spend half-an-hour yelling at him afterwards pointing-out all the things he’s done wrong. I mean, I could do it MYSELF in that amount of time!
-for obvious reasons.
Perhaps he’s checking some important emails, I think to myself. Really time-sensitive ones. (Fucking hell. ‘Time Sensitive’. Even being near this man is turning me into a cunt.) I mean, really urgent ones.
I examine his laptop for evidence of one of those PCMCIA GPRS cards. Nothing. Upon reflection, I find it unlikely that this Village Hall is a Wi-Fi hotspot. They don’t have heating for goodness sake. Besides, the owners have a direct line to God. An internet-connection without-the-wires would surely be a secondary consideration.
Ruling-out any online activity, I can only assume that Master of the Village Parish is so dreadfully important that he is actually working on a Saturday and is preparing some sort of PowerPoint presentation for a meeting he has this afternoon.
Yes. That must be it. Blimey. And he finds the time to squeeze-in taking his daughter to her ballet class. What a gent.
I shift my chair a little, so as to better shower this man with my gaze of new-found admiration. From my new vantage point I can actually see the screen of his computer.
I should have known.
Fuck me, I think. Do you know how much a pack of cards costs? Jesus, I knew I was going to have a bit of time on my hands so I bought a newspaper. It cost £1.40.
No-one gives a tepid shit about you or your fucking WANKY two-grand computer you hopeless hopeless FUCK. I myself possess a laptop-computer. And do you know what? I have never felt the need to use it in a public place. Do you know why? Because I am not a CUNT. If a person were to pull out their cock and begin vigorous rubbing their wilted miniscule genitalia they would be arrested before they had chance to lovelessly dribble their watery grey useless spunk down the front of their Next casual slacks. And yet TWATS like you get to walk free.
I rather miss Enchanted Dad. He was nowhere near as tiresome as this gentleman.