Chargrilled torment. Tilf goes to barbeque hell, with special guest star Squash.

I spent Saturday night doing something horrendous. We visited hell. It was awful. Filled with the worst kind of demons possible. Creatures whose only aim in life is to mentally torture and socially destroy. The squash and I went to a birthday barbeque.

It was his mums birthday, so off we went, in the rain, I might add, to said gathering. The world tried to warn us, it rained. Then it started with the thunder and lightning, giving us apocolypse based threats, trying to scare us into going home. Oh, I wish we had. But we wouldn’t listen, so fool-hardy and naive, filled with our own confidence and the thrill of youth. How wrong we were.

We met a metric shit-ton of people. For a given value of the term people. We met three Davids, not Dave, David. Two Kevins, again, not Kev, Kevin. A Lynda, “oh, call me Lyn” a Veronica, “everyone calls me Ronnie” and two very stereotypical girls. And I say girls as it is, not women, not teenagers, girls, despite being over 18. Girls. And several other various species of poisonous wretch.

For ‘educated’ (ha) ‘people’ (ha) they were the most pretentious arseholes I’ve ever had the displeasure to meet. They were nice enough to offer me food, and when I declined, I’d had a really late lunch, it was pointed out, apparently as a joke, “Oh no, she doesn’t ever eat, ha ha, ha ha.” Yes, that’s exactly it, I haven’t learnt to put the damn fork down, I just don’t pick it up in the first place. Pretty sure I wasn’t anorexic anymore.

The girls spent the entire time chattering like a pair of helium dosed blocked drains about everything awful. Apparently these awful things are now including such horrors as pie trays. So, imagine the voices, grating on the ear and mind, in stereotypical Californian douche, where the sentence ends going up, like a question. “Oh, my god, I had to break the base of the banoffee pie to get it on my plate, I was mortified.” Yes, because a broken piece of over-rated dessert is the absolute source of all the worlds ills. While wearing basically nothing.

A shirt dress is supposed to be worn either long enough to cover the arse, or with leggings, or at least something. Not on it’s own. Ever.

Then there was one of the Davids. One day he’ll discover the real world, and I almost pity him. Almost. Oh, no, wait, that’s indigestion. That’s better.

What a twat.

His logic on traffic jams is that people are too busy listening to music, and logic for music in cars was amazing.
Margaret Thatcher.
Seriously.
He made it sound like the only reason cars have stereos is because Margaret Thatcher herself snuck round every car in the country sneaking stereos into them. Oh, and because of smart phones. These were Thatchers fault too. Not the relentless march of technology, not the growing knowledge of tech and science giving us smaller phones and computers, merging them into the same device. That was Thatcher too. The bitch.

David also doesn’t do camping. “Not since he was a boy scout, when it was different. When you had to make fires, I mean, holey moley, no fires nowadays.”
Seriously, ‘holey moley’ was his favourite expression. Especially concerning people who don’t blend in, or take public transport or anything different. But he was nice enough to let me know that a politician would struggle to live on 250,000 a year, but when he found out I worked in a shop, he was kind enough to let me know that “holey moley, they could never live on your wage” despite not knowing what I was paid. Wasn’t that…. Nice.

So, after listening to tales of boy scouting, cake eating, wine drinking, child having or not having, suit wearing and a whole plethora of bollocks, we made our move to the door.

And got cornered.

No escape! The horror!

Another hour listening to gibberish rot before I managed to pull the “I’m sorry babes, but we’re going to have to make a move” thus ensuring that I was the bad one, not squash!

Success, we finally escaped, fleeing for the car, like blonde girls in a horror movie. I was convinced I was going to drop my key the second we got near. Thankfully Hobbes has a loop on her key, so it caught on my nail, instead of sliding, against logic, science and gravity, under the car. We sped away, the storm dying down, now we were on our way home.

Even mother nature thought they were awful, and she’s really accepting. Spiders, for example.

So, we arrived home, said ‘fuck’ a lot, smoked too much, without being glared at, seeing as we’re the only smokers left in the entire country, apparently. Curled up in front of the TV, and I don’t think we’ve ever been so thankful to be home.

Never again.

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