Judging on appearances
Steph has blogged about scandalous interaction with some guy (with a gorgeous Welsh accent... le sigh) she met at a bar. (Over there in London, where she is now located. Wench).
You can read the full story over on her MySpace page but in summary, things could have progressed deliciously further, had she not noticed at the crucial moment exactly what he was wearing. Which was... a tee-shirt featuring two unicorns engaged in the special act that usually takes place - well, not exactly behind closed doors, but at least behind a thick clump of magical forest.
Steph said 'thanks but no thanks' taking this satorial choice as a wider reflection of personality and general demeanor, stating "there are so many good clothes shops in London too, so many well dressed men, and I rope in that Hideous Welsh Unicorn shagging picture covered man. Yikes.".
While a part of me is thrilled that finding a decent bloke is proving just as difficult on the other side of the world as anywhere here in the South Pacific (being the bitter twisted spinster that I am), I also commiserate with her that the dim lighting and a whiff of alcohol can lead to occasional lapses of judgement.
My own story along these lines harks back to - wait for it - 1st year uni. GOSH WHO WOULD'VE THOUGHT. It was once of those classic eyes-across-a-crowded-room moments. Except in this case it was a eyes-across-a-sweaty-dancefloor moment, but details people details. You see someone looking at you and you know they're not looking at the person behind you, even though there's such intensity and familarity in those eyes and surely they're a stranger? Oh yeah, we're talking full on cheese here.
Next thing you know we're right next to each other, wrangling things amongst the circles of friends we've been dancing in and then, well, then everyone hates you because you're one of those couples on the dancefloor who start doing the touchy-feely thing... moving in close, brushing against one another, looking at eachother... and once the kissing starts... well, lordy - fortunately you're usually so into it you can't hear all the retching noises your mates are making behind your back, or just over your instant-soul-mate's shoulder. Just as well you have your eyes closed because they are rolling their eyes and backing away to a spot where they don't have to watch your arse being groped by a complete stranger that you will no doubt bore them with tales about for the next fortnight.
In this instance, me and the aforementioned snoggee, Regan, swiftly escaped out to the garden bar to avoid a lynching for our brutal PDA. I guess i kind of noticed that he was holding his drink awkwardly, at direct mid-chest level, but didn't think much of it. However, it soon became apparent he was wearing the world's most atrocious tee-shirt. Steph, honey, I think this one stomps all over yours. Regan's one had a wee picture of a devil on it and it also said "HORNY". Oh yes, in capital letters, just like that. And the devil had horns.
Get it?
Horns? Horny? ...But then - the other meaning of horny? the naughty meaning!!
Oh the hilarity.
I believe I was so desperate to get away when I realised this was the piece of cloth adorning his gorgeous self, that I attempted to bolt and was too hasty in unfolding my legs from under the picnic table and nearly stacked it - which gave him time to explain that the tee-shirt was a standard item within his group of friends. In that they had some drinking game and if you lost the round of it or something, you were forced to wear the tee-shirt to town in order to shame you. I assured him that it was certainly effective in that respect.
Long story short: verified this with his mates, saw others of them miserably wearing it on other occasions, you kinda have to give them props for being so committed to the concept. Fact of the matter is Regan was the hottest guy I ever met ever. Ever.
The other thing he wore, consistently, rather than just the once for losing a drunken game, was John Paul Gaultier 'Le Male' which is like love potion #9 to me and just makes me stupid in the head and I cannot resist it. It overrides any fashion faux pas as far as I'm concerned, It does terrible things to my judgement. I bought an unbelievably expensive pair of Wranglers the other week and I think it may solely be because the sales assistant was wearing JPG. I'm pretty sure I didn't pash him though so that's progress. Pretty sure. People usually get hickeys from trying on jeans, aye? Aye??
You can read the full story over on her MySpace page but in summary, things could have progressed deliciously further, had she not noticed at the crucial moment exactly what he was wearing. Which was... a tee-shirt featuring two unicorns engaged in the special act that usually takes place - well, not exactly behind closed doors, but at least behind a thick clump of magical forest.
Steph said 'thanks but no thanks' taking this satorial choice as a wider reflection of personality and general demeanor, stating "there are so many good clothes shops in London too, so many well dressed men, and I rope in that Hideous Welsh Unicorn shagging picture covered man. Yikes.".
While a part of me is thrilled that finding a decent bloke is proving just as difficult on the other side of the world as anywhere here in the South Pacific (being the bitter twisted spinster that I am), I also commiserate with her that the dim lighting and a whiff of alcohol can lead to occasional lapses of judgement.
My own story along these lines harks back to - wait for it - 1st year uni. GOSH WHO WOULD'VE THOUGHT. It was once of those classic eyes-across-a-crowded-room moments. Except in this case it was a eyes-across-a-sweaty-dancefloor moment, but details people details. You see someone looking at you and you know they're not looking at the person behind you, even though there's such intensity and familarity in those eyes and surely they're a stranger? Oh yeah, we're talking full on cheese here.
Next thing you know we're right next to each other, wrangling things amongst the circles of friends we've been dancing in and then, well, then everyone hates you because you're one of those couples on the dancefloor who start doing the touchy-feely thing... moving in close, brushing against one another, looking at eachother... and once the kissing starts... well, lordy - fortunately you're usually so into it you can't hear all the retching noises your mates are making behind your back, or just over your instant-soul-mate's shoulder. Just as well you have your eyes closed because they are rolling their eyes and backing away to a spot where they don't have to watch your arse being groped by a complete stranger that you will no doubt bore them with tales about for the next fortnight.
In this instance, me and the aforementioned snoggee, Regan, swiftly escaped out to the garden bar to avoid a lynching for our brutal PDA. I guess i kind of noticed that he was holding his drink awkwardly, at direct mid-chest level, but didn't think much of it. However, it soon became apparent he was wearing the world's most atrocious tee-shirt. Steph, honey, I think this one stomps all over yours. Regan's one had a wee picture of a devil on it and it also said "HORNY". Oh yes, in capital letters, just like that. And the devil had horns.
Get it?
Horns? Horny? ...But then - the other meaning of horny? the naughty meaning!!
Oh the hilarity.
I believe I was so desperate to get away when I realised this was the piece of cloth adorning his gorgeous self, that I attempted to bolt and was too hasty in unfolding my legs from under the picnic table and nearly stacked it - which gave him time to explain that the tee-shirt was a standard item within his group of friends. In that they had some drinking game and if you lost the round of it or something, you were forced to wear the tee-shirt to town in order to shame you. I assured him that it was certainly effective in that respect.
Long story short: verified this with his mates, saw others of them miserably wearing it on other occasions, you kinda have to give them props for being so committed to the concept. Fact of the matter is Regan was the hottest guy I ever met ever. Ever.
The other thing he wore, consistently, rather than just the once for losing a drunken game, was John Paul Gaultier 'Le Male' which is like love potion #9 to me and just makes me stupid in the head and I cannot resist it. It overrides any fashion faux pas as far as I'm concerned, It does terrible things to my judgement. I bought an unbelievably expensive pair of Wranglers the other week and I think it may solely be because the sales assistant was wearing JPG. I'm pretty sure I didn't pash him though so that's progress. Pretty sure. People usually get hickeys from trying on jeans, aye? Aye??
Labels: shenannigans
posted by Bel | 10:41 PM
2 Comments:
Ms Steph and I have taken the Unicorn T-shirt on as our new term to describe the aspect of the man that means you should run and hide.
Examples:
a girlfriend (in that circumstance you would drop 't-shirt' and just yell 'unicorn! unicorn!' very loudly);
boat shoes (very similar to the unicorn t-shirt - in fact, if the boat shoes boy had happened two days ealier it could be that it was the name of the unicorn t-shirt and not the other way around);
sexist remarks;
mommy issues;
exceptionally young/old age;
dirty jocks lying all over bedroom floor (hopefully not sticking to wall, but that would be a unicorn too).
I can't think of my own unicorn moment, although in retrospect an army boy who told me he couldn't wait to be sent to Afghanistan to blow people up should have become a unicorn and not a New Year's score to ring in 2002...
Brilliant!!
Adding it to my list of high-rotate slang words incomprehensible to pretty much everyone I meet... :D
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