Monday, July 25, 2011

Tact and Diplomacy.

One thing I’ve always been good at is diffusing potentially combustible situations.

The days in the murky world of Corporate Whoring plc continue to be dark, and I find myself attending yet another post-redundancy leaving party. It’s in honour of Uncannily Similar’s wife on this occasion. I know his feelings to be mixed – he’s worried about money, but is looking forward to not working in the same building as his wife. His reasons for that are his own.

Our venue is a tavern of low standing named The Smack Rat. Spirits are surprisingly high and strong drinks with equally high spirit content are consumed. As are even stronger drinks with only one ingredient.

I retire outside for a cigarette, soon to be joined by a couple of female colleagues. The cracked-tarmac street outside is as insalubrious as the venue.

The inevitable radge-packet weaves toward us, tracky-bottoms tucked into sport socks, shaven of head and belligerent as hell. He makes some unflattering comments, directed at the women.

I know exactly how to handle this. In a previous life I worked in the ‘licensed trade’ and have dealt with many a drunkard, despite – or because of - my less than towering height and slim build. Keep your voice low, steady and firm. No aggressive body language, do not encroach on personal space. Maintain regular eye-contact but don’t stare. Be polite, do not get annoyed. Easy.

Me: [Stepping to within 6 inches of his face and firmly planting my hand in the middle of his chest] Listen, chief. Why don’t you fuck OFF back home to your pregnant girlfriend and your fucking STAFFY BULL TERRIER?

I pause to consider my words. I feel I may have forgotten to include something. Ah. I know.

Me: You CUNT.

Astonishingly this does not have the becalming effect I imagined.

A split second later it occurs to me that the strong lager, stupid gay mojitos and tequila shots may have dulled my faculties a little. It’s possible I have misjudged the situation.

Suffice to say, after much escalated confrontation involving door-staff, several burly male colleagues and the two female colleagues insisting I hide behind their skirts, the radge is sent on his way and all are unscathed.

I am surprised that no-one thanks me for my intervention. I did, after all, heroically make myself the target for the ruffian’s ire, hence sparing the blushes of the ladies. None of whom swoon, but merely refer to me as a ‘cock’.

The following morning I resolve to work on my negotiating skills. Or to just never leave the house again.

20 Comments:

Blogger punxxi said...

You should be followed and filmed at regular intervals!

11:45 pm  
Blogger Tired Dad said...

Hi. No. I really shouldn't. It would be the worst reality show ever. It would be named Skinny Twat Gets Drunk And Reckons He's All That But Isn't.

11:48 pm  
Anonymous Em said...

You handled that like a true gentleman. And kudos for mentioning the staffy bull terrier. It's the personal touches that count.

12:16 am  
Blogger Tired Dad said...

Em: I handled it like the drunken buffoon I was at the time and made things far worse than they should have been. Although I was pleased with the 'staffy' thing. I've since been told I was probably 'dead-on'.

12:19 am  
OpenID whatkatedidnext said...

You are a shining example to us all. Of what, I'm sure will come to me. Lived to tell the tale though, which is a bonus for me this morning.

1:36 am  
Blogger Frances said...

Agree - "Staffy" comment is brilliant and I will be nicking it - but only to be said under breath, to non-confrontational friends, as we watch a "radge" behind the safety of a glass window. p.s. I think it's an excellent name for a Reality TV show. Besides we are without BB, which could have been named that after all (omitting the skinny).

9:01 am  
Blogger Miss Underscore said...

Oh, I am glad you're back Tired Dad. You're like an anti-ragde superhero.

9:53 am  
Anonymous looby said...

Why do work do's always end up in radge-magnet pubs? My old firm had a knack of seeking out the place within five miles where it was most likely that female honour would be sullied and so would the men's shirts, with their blood.

10:18 am  
Blogger TwistedScottishBastard said...

Excellent work.

Through the mis-application of alcohol fuelled heroism, you managed to get EVERYONE pissed-off at you.

I take my metaphorical hat off to you.

There's not many people can make everyone so pissed-off.

I think you must have a natural talent.

I withdraw my previous suggestion about joining the Church.

Your talents are obviously required urgently by the Police. They need more guys that can instantly offend as many as possible; it really sends up the arrest figures.

10:49 am  
Blogger Furtheron said...

ever considered a job in the diplomatic core?

Or on the staff of the Duke of Edinburgh perhaps ;-)

10:56 am  
Blogger Alison Cross said...

Impressive - you got the breed of the dog right and everything.

Re TSB's comment about joining the police. I have a huge but benign friend in the police force who prefaces every interaction with such people as you mention with 'ok c*nts, he're how its going to go.' I was shocked, but he says that if you give these people an inch, they will piss all over you. Sometimes literally. So you handled it right. Or as right as my large friend. And he gets paid to do that.

12:10 pm  
Blogger Tired Dad said...

Kate: I am an example of staggering foolishness.

Frances: You're welcome to it. And no, it would be the worst thing on television ever.

Miss U: Hello. No, I'm like a short-tempered imbecile who forgets that he only weighs 9 stone.

loob: Oh I don't know. We started out in a very pleasant establishment to begin with. *sigh*

TSB: Oh I can annoy a stadium full of people if I put my mind to it.

Furtheron: Perhaps. Important to play to one's strengths I suppose.

Ali: I'd have to disagree but thanks.

7:25 pm  
Blogger Northern Snippet said...

The mistake you made was not having ENOUGH of those Mojitos..

11:44 pm  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Sod 'em. I put an agressive short- arsed youthy twatface in a choke hold t' other day. Whilst I was visiting A & E with acute tonsillitis. He gobbed off a tad too much for my tastes. Shrug.

You mind your beak where I'm from. Let me remain an enigma.

Innit ;-)

Ann Anon

10:53 am  
Blogger Tired Dad said...

NS: No, no. I could still taste the fresh mint the next day.

Ann: Oh, you're being all 'intriguing' now.

10:18 pm  
Anonymous pocket size dad said...

I read your blog, whilst on the pan.

10:14 pm  
Anonymous pocket sized dad said...

It's great by the way. Can you post more often please? Maybe we can sync your posts to my bowel movements.

10:18 pm  
Blogger Tired Dad said...

Hello, and thanks for a wealth of information I could have lived without. I'll get around to it.

11:01 pm  
Blogger Four Dinners said...

I've always thought 'fuck tact and diplomacy' which may explain all the trouble I've got in over the years...still...never learning is at least entertaining....er...if you're watching anyroad...;-)

11:46 pm  
Blogger Tired Dad said...

I hear what you're saying.

2:30 pm  

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