Hungarian cops stop for jaywalkers

I am sooooooooooooooooooooo mad. You can’t hear this, but I’m pounding the keyboard out of pure, unadulterated anger. I am sick, sick, sick at what my fellow human being is capable of. Where has the dignity gone, the respect?

Calm down,  Maro…

The day started out fine. K came and painted my outside plastered walls in a god-awful (And yes, JFW, the g is intentionally lowercase) yellow that probably was the original colour of the walls 50 years ago. I can live with it. I went then the Csillahegy to pick up my business cards. Wow. Nearly two years later, I’m finally joining the Hungarian namecard game. The website and the email address have yet to function, but the phone number works! One step at a time. The lads at Steg are good.

Anyway, I went from there to drop off a rather nice invoice – actually, as it’s company money and not mine, I don’t know why I’m getting excited, but it will pay the gas and electric for another couple of months! And then it was time for the ‘pre-speech’ glass of Nyakas. Yes, I was giving my first ‘public’ performance tonight (or last night) : The question of life, the universe and everything: a humorous reflection of living life without a plan. It was TEA time. It went well. I was on a high and had a gob on me so when that action stopped, I headed to Szimpla Kert with GM, the Slovenian Philosopher, and Ms M. All was well. We caught the night bus in good spirits and while jaywalking across Racoczi utca, the cops actually stopped to let us cross. If ever I get to the stage where beatification is being given some serious consideration, that particular miracle can count as one of my three!

So we get to Szimpla… a favourite haunt of mine. And there, in quiet and contemplative mood, I watch the others dance while I take in what’s going on around me.

Katy, from the UK, is having her 30th Birthday party. All her mates are wearing banners with ‘Hungary 2009, Katy’s 30th Birthday’ emblazoned so it wasn’t hard to figure it out. I could see four bannered women, all well trolleyed. The small one, with the glasses, could hardly stand up straight. She was ratarsed. The oldest one was being chatted up by this guy (definitely a native English-speaker). Anyway, Katy was busy chatting up Male No. 1 who did a runner when she tried to pin her tiara on him. and this pissed her off. So she takes it out on Ms Ratarsed and decides that Ms Older has to take Ms Ratased back to the hotel. Each of them is drunk – really drunk – standing, but not quite with it. Mr Chat Up continues trying to ingratiate himself. He looks fine. A little gone, but still walking straight and standing tall with no obvious signs of any delayed reactions. He’s into Ms Older and ain’t happy that she seems to have drawn the short straw and has to take Ms Ratarsed home. He’s showing classic globalisation symptoms: Roman hands and Russian fingers. He is copping a feel at every opportunity and the two women are too drunk to care. Then, he goes and gets his two mates. And the three of them, like vultures, hover and wait. They’re sussing it out. God, these women wouldn’t know their own names in the morning, let alone what had happened. It was revolting. And yes, I sat and watched.

Could I have gone over and interrupted the party? Yes. Would I have been told to fu*k off? Almost certainly. So I stayed put and watched, promising myself that if it got out of hand, I’d interrupt. Thankfully, Ms Ratarsed saved the day by almost collapsing and the gals left. The lads stayed put. But how sick is that? Women drink. Women get drunk. Stupid women drink and get drunk without making sure that one of their mates stays sober. But that doesn’t give men licence to cop a feel, make a play, or plain take advantage. And that’s what it is. Taking advantage. So, it’s not rape unless I say NO and NO and NO …bollocks!

So on my tod, watching the dancers, this chap approaches. He’s having a house party in the next street and would I like to come with him  and ‘get more drunk’.

Nope, I’m fine, but thanks for asking.
Where are you from?
Ireland.
I love the Irish. (sits down). I tried to get this Swedish girl to come to the party. Swedish girls like sex. But she wouldn’t come. What do you do here in Hungary?
I’m a lecktor (editor). What do you do?
I’m a gangster…..

’nuff said.

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2 Responses

  1. Congrats on your speech and agree absolutely with your thoughts on certain men……….. but the world can be a dangerous place when you get mad with bastards like that, please take care.

  2. It’s interesting to watch the interplay between men and women. Unfortunately for women, we rarely can let our hair down, letting loose without getting ourselves into dangerous situations.

    A gangster Mary – this has gotta find its way into one of your books.

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