Conversations with Bad People

So you're bopping away in a club, Snoop's in your head and you're on the floor droppin' it like it's hot while sporadically sipping on your cranberry Archers through a straw, giggling with your gal-pals and brushing off the advances of those male admirers that are surrounding the dance-floor while ogling its occupants. Although everyone knows you secretly delight in such attention. And who wouldn't want to pay it to you? With your skirt so short and your top so frontless, you're just screaming, "Take me home and ride me like a pony! Why else would I be dressed like this!? It is because I want you!"

One male specimen in particular catches your fleeting attention. He approaches you, tells you you're the sexiest bitch in the joint and offers to buy you a drink. You eye him up, decide he is quite acceptable and take him up on his offer. You go to the bar, sip your drink (because after all I'm a lady! and ladies sip their gargles) and make small talk. Or about as much small talk as you can make under the rather loud circumstances. You deduce that his name is Dan, or Matt, or Stephen. He is under the hands-off age of 30 and he has his own place. Maybe he's an accountant? Maybe he's an insurance broker? You're not sure, you didn't quite catch it. But there's no ring on his finger and he's plying you full of those expensive girly gargles that you love so.

You share a kiss. A seriously romantic, perspiration and saliva drenched kiss. A little bit more, perhaps you will allow him to grab your ass, a quick brush of a barely contained boob? And before you know it, the lights are back on and the bleary-eyed patrons are starting to queue for their jackets. Thankfully, you do not recoil at the sight of him in that bright, unforgiving light like you normally do after those brutal club hook-ups. He chivalrously offers to take your wet with sweat raffle ticket stub (which was tucked safely in your cleavage) and retrieve whatever garment you'd left in the cloak room (which is no doubt highly unsuitable for the weather outside) so you may continue to the entrance for a rewarding fag and/or a quick gossip session with your cronies.

"So, your place or mine?"

Ah, the all important question. Certainly not yours, you still live with your folks who didn't talk to you for nearly three weeks after the last time they caught you as naked as the day you were ejected from your Mother's womb and on the sofa with a much older man in a similar state of undress.

"Oh yours I should think," you answer smoothly, thankful the thought process is still in some form of working order, "Its closer, isn't it?"

And into a taxi with you both, but not before he's bought you one of those stupid wilted roses from one of those annoying asian people. Things are getting hot and heavy in the back and you're vaguely aware of the perverted eyes of your driver, who isn't missing a beat with the aid of that all important rear view mirror. Eventually you pull up outside a house somewhere you cannot remember the name of, your man tosses a fifty at the front seat and you both fall out of the car.

From falling out of the motor you fall into the front hall of this house, not really understanding why he's shushing you, and amble up a few stairs into a small box room, which is blue and plastered with Jenna and Subarus.

This, my readers, is where things get interesting.

Your part-time lover may fall into one of three categories.

1. The Fumbler.

You have to help him take your top off. He cannot manage your bra. At the sight of your La Senza knickers he nearly squirts his load. You have to help him out of his own trousers. Zips miraculously become stuck, heads butt, and what the feck? Wrong slot pal.

At times like these you have little or no choice. If the energy to even finish yourself off has deserted you, just roll over and make the most of an early night.

2. The Semi-Rapist.

He has you up against a wall, his hands mushing your already fairly mushed boobies (wonderbras!) and you're afraid he's going to burst your chicken giblets. He's taking chunks out of your neck and he has his winkle out before you can gasp foreplay. And while he's banging away you're playing the end scene of Dirty Dancing in your head. You're not even at the best part when he's pulling out, panting hard and his right fist against the wall to the left of your noggin.

With this scenario, forget about going to sleep. Call a joey and go to work on yourself when you get home.

3. The Long-Time.

Oh, this one has all the right moves. He knows all the right spots, he takes things slow and relaxed and he's all about YOU. You're laying back on his bed, your eyes thrown to the ceiling, moaning and squirming. You've already concocted a fantasy about your first "proper" date, your six month anniversary, getting one of those modern apartments in D4 or Malahide together and many, many more orgasmic sessions such as this one. Forget it missus, The Long-Time already has a long-time girlfriend.

Before you know it, that terrible noise that had seemed so far away is buzzing in your ear hoop and sounding alarmingly like an alarm. Dan or Matt or Stephen is shaking you with some urgency and calling you Susan. You're name is not Susan. He's telling you there is a taxi waiting for you outside and to be careful not to wake Mammy on your way out.

Typical. Gotta love the Love-Making!

In this world there are People Who Know More Than You, and People Who Think They Know More Than You.

There isn't much you can do to change the former, you can only accept the inevitable; you are stupid.

As for the latter, well, we all know at least one person like that.

Scene: Sitting at my office desk, farting away on the computer and pretending to be otherwise occupied. Enter Vile Photocopying Wench From Hell* without knocking or announcing herself, breezes by me as though I was an insignificant piece of excrement on her ugly Dunnes shoes and stops in front of Rapunzel, the girl I share the office with.

VPWFH: Ah, Rapunzel, I'm having problems with my computer and I'd appreciate a second opinion.

Rappy: Well Tinsel would be your main girl for something like that.

VPWFH: Oh I don't think she could help.

Me: *waving my hand* SHE would be willing to have a look, if that would be agreeable? I promise to wash my hands before I touch your keyboard.

VPWFH: Yes. Fine.

**20 Seconds Later**

Me: Ah! The Blue Screen of Death.

VPWFH: The what?

Me: The Blue Screen of Death. I'd say your computer has been infected.

VPWFH: Oh no, that's impossible, you don't know what you're talking about.

Me: Ok.

And so I return to my desk, biding my time. Biding, biding...

**Approx. 1 Minute 30 Seconds Later**

VPWFH: Hi Simon, its Vile Photocopying Wench From Hell here, I've got a slight problem with my system.....Blue Screen of Death.....Yes I'm sure.....It may have come from an e-mail, perhaps?.....Oh, you know, you pick these things up as you go along when you work with computers as much as I do.....Oh, not until tomorrow?.....Mmhmm I know how to do that, sure.....Got it, thanks Simon.

**10 Seconds Later**

VPWFH: Umm, Tinsel? Can I steal you again for a sec?

Me: Umm, no.

That woman is pure evil. Attitudes like that annoy me almost as much as people who have ugly feet and wear open-toe sandals.

Scene: Down in the reception area, and I'm filling in a few of the other girls about a recent sickness I endured, a symptom of which was an inability to eat for roughly a week.

P1: Yeh bloody skinny malink!

P2: Looks more than half a stone to me!

P1: I can't believe it, here, cough on me, I want to lose half a stone in a week!

VPWFH is standing at the fax machine and turns around. She looks me up and down and snarls.

VPWFH: Well you wouldn't think it to look at you.

Me: Good Jesus, it must be awfully time-consuming being so continuously bitter.

VPWFH: What did you say?

Me: I said you're an aul bat.

You can rest assured that Vile Photocopying Wench from Hell did not look at me like that again.

* The name Vile Photocopying Wench from Hell originated on my very first day in my new job, when she was under the mistaken impression I was present to be nothing more than her personal secretary, my duties only including various photocopying tasks, which would take 2-3 hours at a time, were never exactly what she wanted and said task would have to repeated until the Vile Photocopying Wench from Hell was satisfied. Needless to say, that did not last much longer than the first day.

To quote my beloved Father, "All women are evil."

Some may disagree with this statement, but rest assured, none will be of the male gender. Every woman and girl you know has the terrifying ability, hidden or not, to manipulate and use you.

NEVER disclose your bank account details. NEVER let her borrow your car. NEVER leave her alone with your unattractive and desperate drunk best mate.

There are three types of woman.

Numero Uno; The Black Widow.

As the name suggests, this particular breed of female is hazardous. From the outset, she appears perfect. She has almost all of the same interests as you, she looks good and all your mates fancy her.

The Black Widow’s natural habitat can be unearthed inside any club, pub or social oriented establishment. You will most likely notice her first (along with all else present) on the dance floor, shaking a barely concealed behind, salaciously stroking any patch of skin visible, shaking her hair and pouting her mouth in concentration to any Christina, Britney or Beyoncé tune.

Before you know it you’re hooked on the rhythmic swaying of her hips and you don’t care how much competition surrounds her, you position yourself tactically on the dance floor, and fuelled by god knows how many pints of Guinness and/or slippery nipples, you "accidentally" bump off her a couple of times in order to grab her attention.

One of two things will happen in this scenario. She will either roll her eyes in the general direction of her dance partner and ignore you for the duration of your dance floor stay, or she will throw her head back, laugh and bestow a smile upon you and possibly grab you by your collar and inquire after your marital status.

One thing you must remember if you become involved with a Black Widow; she thinks she’s gorgeous. She’s doing you a favour by lending you the time of day. She wears the trousers and what she says goes.

Young Black Widows have no concept of commitment or fidelity.

If you find yourself caught in a Black Widow’s web prepare to be chewed up, spat out and your more tasty parts saved for later in a doggy bag.

Until this happens, you will endure one roller coaster ride of relationship/fling.

However, caution is definitely advised when approaching The Black Widow. They certainly pull no punches.

You will rarely get the chance to break up with The Black Widow. She’ll do it for you, after one or two weeks when boredom sets in. She’ll heartlessly dump you and move on to other prey.

Number dos; The Baby Girl.

Baby Girls are bloodsuckers. The modern day spoiled, materialistic little bitches, they care not for personality, not for sense of humour, nor for sense of fun. It’s all about how much cash you flash and how fashionable your wheels are.

To even get a feel of a Baby Girl’s boobs you have to be the owner of an expensive car (over the 15k mark), an expensive suit (to go with your successful job) and a thick, overflowing leather wallet. To keep her happy, regular gifts must be purchased, you must always be on hand to chauffeur her from A to B and on to C (where you’ll buy her dinner, obviously) and you will never chose a night out with your buddies over a night our with her. I’ve warned you.

You can find The Baby Girl in the most expensive shop, “doing lunch” with her equally shallow girlfriends or in a hairdressers where she gets her highlights done (she’s not a natural blonde) and her nails manicured at the same time.

She is constantly on her phone; most likely bitching about her best friend to her best friend’s best friend.

Baby Girls can be very charming and alluring, which is basically how they fool you and reel you in to play with. They switch on the fun-loving and slightly dopey persona until you’re introducing her to your friends and family as your beautiful girlfriend and with frightening speed, the switch is flicked off, and you’re left with an uncompromising, bitchy other half which you cannot rid yourself of because you’ve already put a deposit down on a holiday to Mauritius and you’ve bought her one of those cute little Peugeot convertibles and you still have twenty-six more payments on it.

Apart from all of the expense, she knows about the illegitimate child you had with your sixth year maths teacher and will threaten to tell your mummy if you try to hide from her.

If you find out the lovely lady you’re seeing is in fact a Baby Girl, there is only one method of escape proven to work. Tell her you have no money. You’re bankrupt. The taxmen took your family’s fortune away and your trust fund was used to pay Slicer the loan shark off at 100% interest.

Watch her adopt the look of a rabbit caught in jeep headlights, and scamper away with the speed of an unfit fat chick in five inch heels, muttering something about a lunch date with Bono.

Numero three; The Kling-On.

Unfortunately, this does not mean your woman is a huge Trekkie. The true meaning is far more terrifying than a bat’leth wielding cranial ridged hairy creature who could drink you under the table with ease. No, The Kling-On is every red-blooded male’s worst fears come to life.

At school, The Kling-On was the one with virtually no friends. She most likely wore glasses, had braces and read a lot of Sylvia Plath. She was the one that developed huge crushes on the best looking/most popular boy in school, generally two years older than herself. She would follow him around, knew his time-table by heart and created voodoo dolls in the image of his girlfriend. In her head she had married him, had his children and rescued him Buffy-style from unworldly unmentionables.

The older Kling-On can be found at home in her room, in a cyber-café chatting to her “internet love” or, when under duress, the darkest corner of any party or pub, being overshadowed by a confident friend.

Despite their many unattractive qualities, The Kling-On is an easy one to nab. Throw one or two compliments her way, and she’ll melt. She’ll be so blinded by the fact you’re paying attention to her and not her friends that she’ll probably go home with you and suck your dick on demand. However, long-term relationships with a Kling-On are highly inadvisable. She becomes a leech; she’ll want to know exactly where you are at any given time of the day, she’ll need constant reassurance, she’ll frequently believe that you’re cheating on her, she’ll cry if you raise your voice to her, she’ll know you don’t care about her if you divulge in the odd guys night out and she’ll fall in love with you after about two weeks.

She’ll probably threaten to kill herself if you attempt to break up with her.

If the amazingly docile girl you’ve been seeing turns into The Kling-On overnight, there is one sure-fire method of pulling off the fugitive without her screaming suicide. Tell her you’re moving to Peru to spend some time with the half sister you never knew you had, and that you’ll miss her terribly but you simply cannot afford to take her with you. Tell her you’ll stay in touch by e-mail and subsequently misplace her e-mail address. Buy yourself and your entire family and circle of friends new sim-cards, and providing she doesn’t know where you live, go on your merry way.

In the unlikely circumstance that you bump into her while socialising, explain you’re home for the weekend only, and she shouldn’t really come near you as you’ve contracted scabies while swimming in Peru.

I know you’re all thinking, no, surely women can’t be that bad? You’re wrong, they are. I’ll allow you a couple more years of naiveté. After a little experience with the “fairer” sex I won’t have to smack you in the face in order for you to see sense.

I also know that any disgruntled women reading this are mumbling, what about the other types of women? The ladettes (stupidly dubbed “tomboys”) , the girly-girls, the tough girls?

There are three types of woman, end of story.

Ladettes can be either idiotic women with little or no sense of identity and merely want to fit in somewhere, or they’re just masculine lesbians in denial.

All women have girly-girl tendencies.

And tough girls just don’t exist.* What a stupid notion.