I keep telling myself I won’t blog after a night out, but I always end up blogging after a night out. Just goes to show that when tired and mildly tipsy, I have no self control.

Let’s not go there, shall we?

Those of you who knew me in the old days when I ORP’d over at WotC will get a laugh out of the following — I just asked about a job in a bar.

This was only shortly before we were very nearly thrown out of the bar for being a bit rowdy, so I don’t think I’ll get the job. We weren’t actually being rowdy. We were just a group of seven female friends out for a night out, not eager to have every man in the bar go “Way Hey!” at us every five minutes. We, um… stood up for ourselves. The mum of two poor lads even came over and told us off for being mean to her sons on their 18th birthday. Seriously!

So yes we were the only women in the frelling bar (apart from the boy’s mother), but that does not give every man in a 500 m radius license to turn into a complete Neanderthal arsehole.

Come on! Show some class here guys — the way to my heart and/or my pants is not via lad-ish behaviour. I know we females keep saying this, but talk to me, not my cleavage. Don’t insult me. Funnily enough, that doesn’t endear me to your cause. Don’t try and ply me with strange drinks either — in this day and age, if I didn’t buy it myself or at least saw the barman pour it into the glass, I’m not going to drink it. I might have big breasts but that does not make me stupid.

Oh, and yes, it is flattering that you have staggered all the way across the bar supported by your mates, but that does not mean I am going to swoon at your feet. Please don’t be surprised when there is a distinct lack of swooning.

I am not a shrinking violet. I’m a single girl in my mid twenties who knows her own mind, as are all my friends. It’s not the school disco any more — if I liked you, the chances are I would have come over to your table. Scared now? I know it’s hard but we women got the vote a while back now. The kitchen sink is firmly behind us. We’re classy, sassy women. We deserve, well, better than you.

I will tell you that you are being an arse if it’s deserved. I’m not being rude, I’m just telling you like it is. If I’d come out on the pull I would have 1) worn a shorter skirt, 2) worn a tighter top, and 3) not been sitting in an alcove chatting and laughing with my six mates clearly showing no interest in you when you came over to our side of the room.

My apologies to the two boys whose 18th birthday we ruined, but you gatecrashed my leaving party. Anyway, you were out partying with your Mum. I’m sure she’s very cool, but what were you really expecting to happen?