Tuesday, 28 September 2010

Beware The Half Moon.

The Half Moon in St Clements, Oxford, is one of those pubs that looks like a bit of a dive from the outside, but is actually pretty nice once you're inside. As a pub I like the Half Moon.
There is something very strange about it.
Being in there has a weird effect on me.

Now, most people who know me will be able to tell you that I am quite often pretty socially awkward. Introduce me to a new person and I usually have no idea how to have a conversation with them. Put me in a situation with people I don't know and I will be the odd little man who doesn't say anything, stares at inanimate objects for hours until someone asks, "Are you alright?"
Yes, as I'm sure I have said many times on this blog before, I am pretty much socially retarded.
Apart from when I'm in the Half Moon.

See, when I'm in the Half Moon, it's like I become possessed by the demons of socialising.
I ended up in there again on Thursday after a (very good) meal at a mates house. Now, last time I was in the Half Moon I ended up ignoring the people I'd gone there with to talk for ages to this German guy who said he had very few friends in Oxford. After a couple of hours talking about about I don't remember what, I gave him my phone number and said we should hang out and that I would come to the Half Moon a lot more. The next morning I instantly wished I hadn't, which turned out to be okay because he never got in touch.
But what was I doing? I not only have no idea what we had been talking about, but I NEVER give out out my number to people I've only just met. If people think I'm awkward in person, they should hear me on the phone. It's painful.
That is the power of the Half Moon. It seems to remove my inhibitions and turn me into a social person somehow.
But it wasn't all that bad. I mean, at least this German guy was a pretty nice, decent person.

On Thursday tho, oh dear.

I somehow started to talk to these two American guys. It started off nice enough, you know, they were asking where I come from, I was born in Oxford, oh so you're local then, yeah, nice, so where are you guys from, oh we're from DC, etc, etc, etc...
They were at college in Washington, one of them was a "Frat boy."
Then we started talking about alcohol. Apparently, and contrary to what I believed, you CAN get cider in America, but it's not very popular and if you are seen drinking it people think you're a "Fag." Spirits are more widely available of course, but if you drink them in a bar instead of beer, people think you're a "Fag." Basically if you drink anything other than beer in public, you're a "Fag."
Then they asked me for tips on how to "Pull British chicks."

Now, normally I would have made some excuse like "Oh, I'm really not the guy to ask about that. I have to get back to my friends," but after hearing them tell how they "Pull chicks" back home and because I was drunk in the Half Moon, I had entered this frame of mind where I suddenly thought to myself "You know, these guys actually seem alright. Sure, they have a pretty unsound view of women and use the word "Fag" far too much, but maybe I can change that! Maybe if I talk to them in a way they understand, I can make them see the errors of their ways and get them to respect other people more!"
So I started to say things like, "You know, what you guys do in America won't necessary work over here. You have to treat women with a bit more respect." Although I probably worded it in an even more patronising way, and probably a bit more of a sexist way too, coz y'know, I was trying to change their minds on their level and that.
"So, what you're saying is I need to treat women as if they're like they're equal?"
Now, what do you say to that? Seriously, if I had just been blunt and said "Now look, there are a number of things wrong with what you just said..." they would've either got that glazed over look in their eyes, or they would've called me a fag, which I would've pulled them up on, an argument would've ensued and they would've probably decided I needed to be taught a lesson (and one of them was fucking muscly, so I didn't want him trying to). So I tried to carry on with the whole talk-to-them-on-their-level thing, which lead to me saying something that made Genevieve leave the pub when she heard me say it.
I had clearly lost the point and turned into some sort of hideous sexist, but I wasn't willing to give up just yet. In a flash of inspiration, I gave them my e-mail address and told them we should hang out more and they should totally message me and we'll go for a drink and talk more about stuff.

Friday morning, pretty much the first thought that came into my head was, "Why was I talking so much to those guys and why did I give them my e-mail address?!"
Luckily, they haven't messaged me and without wanting to sound too harsh, I really hope they don't. I don't think they will. I'm pretty sure the frat boy thinks I'm a fag (he didn't like it when I hugged the muscly one as a goodbye and was happy that I only gave him the half handshake, half hug thing that you see guys doing on tv, saying he felt "Much more comfortable with that. I'm not comfortable with guys hugging me.") and won't want to meet up again, and the muscly one is hopefully one of those guys who's all talk but won't actually have any intention of getting back in touch, instead relegating me to a story about "This weird English guy I met in a bar once."
Having said that tho, a certain part of me now having written about them, kind of wants to meet up with them again to see what would happen.

I'm sure that's a bad idea tho. Isn't it?

1 comment:

Fat Chan said...

Meeting up again with misogynistic and sexually repressed idiot fools? No, Mr Axl, that is almost certainly a bad idea... which is kinda why I want to watch. When I'm next in Oxford we are going to the Half Moon, I've actually never been and I want to see this 'Axl who talks to random people'.

Also, is it weird that when I read Genevieve's name, I immediately read it as 'Lady Genevieve'. I have no idea why I did this, I think that's just how I see her (see as in picture... since I've never met the good lady myself).