How He Operates:
Follows girls around by foot or by Ferrari. Plagues them for phone numbers so he can then text-rape and harass them incessantly.
Where He Operates:
Mostly Knightsbridge, with the street just outside TopShop and Harrod’s being particular favorites. Occasional trips down King’s Road and Fulham Road. High Street Kensington. Last seen roaming around The Dorchester….
What He looks like, when He Operates:
Tight T-shirt, black or white, regardless of weather, to show off muscle. Gold Rolex. Tan. Punchable face.
“I think I met you at Nick’s party”
No bitch, you did not. Everyone has a friend called Nick who has had a party, but you are not a friend of my friend Nick, who has parties.
“Is your name Julia/Caroline/Susan? Errm, do you work in marketing?”
No bitch, I am not and I do not. Just because most hawt girls have at one point or another been involved in marketing, because it’s a great Pretend Job, doesn’t mean that I have. Only marketing I’m involved with is shameless self-promotion, thank you very much.
“I’m having a party at Tramp tonight”
No bitch, you are not. Why? Because no one has a fucking party at Tramp, and definitely not on a Thursday. Correct grammar: I am going to Tramp tonight, would you care to join me? Besides: A) I have never seen you there so I highly doubt it and B) No thanks.
My first run-in with this man happened the very same week I moved to London, 7 years ago. Having just enjoyed a little shopping spree at Agent Provocateur, I was carelessly making my way home when the guy comes up out of nowhere and demands to see what I bought at AP. To my refusal at the highly unappealing prospect of showing a stranger my new lingerie, in broad daylight, on Sloane Street, he answers
“That’s OK- I’d much rather see it ON you anyway. What’s your number?”
The first of numerous encounters, the man clearly has the memory of a goldfish and the eyes of a shark.
I know at least five other girls who have been approached by him in similar ways and I am certain I will hear of many more after You read this.
Now, my own bullshit-detector is finely tuned from years of training on the field, so I have managed to avoid giving my sacred number to SSS. But what happens when he manages to dupe one of my very own into giving her number? None other than Hanna, the ol’ ball and chain, fell for the lethal combination of “Nick’s Party/ Do you work in marketing/ did I see you at Tramp last week?” (“I was at Nicks party last month, I do work in marketing, hell, who wasn’t at Tramp?”)
Little Hanna, stuttering profound excuses for not exactly remembering him, causing her to feel embarrassed at her own ignorance– how very rude! – resulted in her handing her number over.
She leaves with an unsettling feeling and comes home to tell me about the weird pick-up dude. I quickly establish that this is the same man who once requested to see me in my underwear. And just then, her phone rings.
She answers apprehensively, and as I watch her, turns from pale to red in less than ten seconds. Ah, the Douchebaggery!
To continue with our aquatic references – he would not let her of the hook. For over a year, he called her non-stop, and regularly sent messages at odd hours. Often from different or hidden numbers, the times when she did actually answer causing her to majorly stress out. Who is this guy? Worried concerns from her mother and brother, as well as overhearing/ reading some of his shit over the course of the year, rallied my own fury to unparalleled levels. How dare you! Like a mama bear protecting a cub, the time came when I’d had enough.
So, one day when her phone rang and I saw the panic in her eyes, I extended my palm and simply said “Give me the phone.”
If a woman’s weapon is her tongue, that day, mine took the shape and form of a verbal AK 47. Where Hanna’s politeness rendered her speechless, I was not. Neither was he for that matter – guess his idea of a sexy phone call did not include AlexiCat, eloquently threatening to claw his Shark Eyes out. He in turn gave me a quite clear instruction of what to do with myself; advice that, needless to say, I did not follow, or I don’t think I’d be typing this today.
After that, the phone calls stopped. What a relief!
But then, one month later, I’m doing some grocery shopping at Whole Foods. Laden with bags of natural goodness, I stand on the street, about to hop into a cab when He appears. A month ago, he was offering me a free, One-Way ticket to Pain and now he’s here, with all the charisma of a Dementor, talking about Nick/Marketing/Tramp. AK 47 always at the ready, I aim a few articulated bullets and flee from the scene. Taxi Driver, overhearing the conversation, wants to turn the car around and punch the guy, but I don’t think that’s necessary. Violence solves nothing.
After Whole Foods, I’ve bumped into him three more times. At Harrods. At a store opening. In the silent queue at the bank on Fulham Road, he caused much discomfort when he tried to ask me out in front of the other customers. The other day, another flustered friend arrived late for brunch, having been detained by a weird pick-up guy outside the Mandarin Oriental. Oh yes folks, stalker o’clock.
So Dear Reader. Let’s forget about the Zombie apocalypse that will never happen. The real epidemic is the Douchebag Apocalypse, which is already upon us, with guys like him leading the way.