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The Lady Macbeth Chronicles

COMEDY PITFALL

Why I stopped ‘Ladies Nights’ with the ladies

I was watching a comedy sketch on YouTube (where else these days, huh?) by an American female comedian. She was unfamiliar (and not entirely funny) hence I can’t recall her name, but this particular depiction had a point. Maybe a few.

A lady enters a pub and sits by the bar. A man is already seated nearby. She attempts at being bold by striking a conversation (Isn’t that what the Femina Manifesto says?) She chats him up and he turns her down flat.

Unperturbed, she tries a different angle. He turns her down again. Then she thinks she got it figured out. She hints to him that he is homosexual. The guy looks irritated and tells her he isn’t. She didn’t want to back down because again, the Femina Manifesto says women ought to have balls in the modern world. Think Margaret Thatcher dealing with Ronald Reagan and Mikhail Gorbachev.

Now close to the border of harassment, the woman tries to tell him if perhaps, a threesome or some kinky scenario would be his ‘cup of tea’. The man clearly now pissed tells her upfront, “Listen lady, you’re just not my type.”

He’s been trying to tell her that since the beginning but for some unknown reasons, the woman refuses to think that she could not be his type. Or any man’s type. For one, she fits into the stereotypical idealism of slender, long-haired with a model’s vital statistics. She was also good-looking. If she was on a dating app she would have no problems being lusted and pursued (if that’s her goal). In fact, in a Hollywood movie, she would be cast as the leading lady. But not in this bar, not tonight and clearly not with this guy.

The woman is perplexed and annoyed, but also relentless. She insists he tells her why she isn’t his type. The guy, now flabbergasted, is dumbfounded by the woman’s thick skin and tells her as plain as day, “I don’t know. You’re just not my type! I’m not interested!”

Just then the woman’s very chunky, curvy and busty girlfriend walks up to greet her, apologizing for being late. The man does a double-take, widens his eyes mouthing a “Wow” oblivious that the slender woman is beside him watching this. She looks horrified. The sketch ends there.

The slender lady is the comedian and she is trying to swipe a few points about modern day objectification and feminist misinterpretation. There’s a lot to unpack here — if you’re the thinking type.

The obvious is that the woman was being exactly what women complain men do to them with their tongues out and wolf whistles. They use the word harassment. On social media posts they’d type #metoo. I won’t progress.

I’m not making my own gender swiping here but pointing out the obvious. At times even I am confused myself. I’ve also been dragged by my own gender down this road. In fact it’s the very reason why I drink alone.

Back in the day when I was a journalist, I was out a lot more than today. Being out was part of the job and my gal pals loved it. They had me and my press exclusivity to walk into numerous places and get discounts. It was the only decade of my life that I was out on ‘Ladies Night’. For me, it was the same like every other night, but that’s just me — thick, oblivious and in my own world half the time constructing an orchestra and playing the harp in the sky of my imagination.

My gal pals loved having me around because I was funny, they say. I didn’t think I was but when I’m being sarcastic they think I’m comedic. I stopped educating my friends on the difference. One can only do so much.

One time we were at this place called Iguana. It was one of those places that became a different animal after 10.30pm and the music had more lyrics with profanity. My gal pals were thirsty hyenas and ‘Sex and the City’ was their Life coach. Remember, this was pre Instagram and Tinder days.

I drove the hyenas to Iguana and sat myself at the bar while they did their 360 degree-scanning. That’s when they’ll be looking around the room for hot guys and bat false eyelashes with. Hot is an arbitrary concept. A hot plate is not the same as a hot guy. It was around 8pm, the place was half empty but the music felt loud.

It was my pre-alcohol days and believe it or not, I was with a notebook scribbling shit about my upcoming story ideas for a Saturday column I was hoping to secure a position. I ordered tea. Hot tea. It came in a pot. It’s okay to laugh. My gal pals were roaring with it with their martinis and mojitos. Don’t get me wrong. I’m no goody-two shoes. It’s just me. I’m a team player but I do what I please if I feel like it. I also had to drive home.

My gal pals got desperate for entertainment. They found a few male victims willing to give them attention but then there was me and there was one guy sitting quietly at the end of the bar counter. He looked like he had his cat run over by a neighbor or something.

My gal pals were having none of that. They circled around me like the three witches in Macbeth and I was the bubbling cauldron, and dared me to go up to the guy and ask him to dance. I said, No.

There is a certain black magic for the word No for some people. My gal pals included. “Go on, Nat, he looks sad. Go ask him to dance. Or at least have a chat with him. He won’t say No. You’re a girl and you’re pretty. He’d be happy.”

I thought for a moment. My gal pals were trying to act macho in front of these strange dudes they just met and they weren’t going to back down. I know them.

But I thought about how this could end to my advantage.

“Okay,” I said. “I do that and then I get to leave. Deal?”

“What? So early? But ok ok he won’t turn you down. Deal.”

I walked up to the guy like a barracuda. No hesitation, no shyness.

“Hi, would you like to dance?”

The guy looked up, was a bit taken aback, and said No.

“Great, thanks.”

I walked back to my gal pals and told them he said No.

“What? Just like that?”

“Yup, just like that.” I answered flatly.

“You didn’t even try! You didn’t even put any effort into it!” They exclaimed.

“Why should I? What was I supposed to do? Give him a lap dance? I asked and he said No. That’s all there is.”

“But you could have acted seductive about it. Convince him a bit.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s impossible for a guy to say No if you come on to him like that.”

“Where on earth did you read that, and why on earth would I want to do that?” I asked, packing my stuff to leave.

“That’s the advantage women have. Show them you’re interested and you become irresistible.”

“That’s manipulation of the womanly wiles and misleading. Imagine if a guy does that to you. He becomes a narcissistic asshole.”

I kissed my gal pals goodbye and left.

I walked a few shops down the same street and entered an empty watering hole, ordered a hot pot of tea and resumed my scribbling. Heck, the night was still a baby.

I wrote an article inspired by my gal pals titled ‘When Good Friends Give Bad Advice’. My editor loved it and ran the piece the following Saturday. That’s why I have my gal pals. They’re comedic geniuses.

But in my gal pals’ defense I put all blame of bad influence on Carrie Bradshaw, Samantha Jones, Miranda Hobbes and Charlotte York. It’s been studied and proven by Dr. Albert Bandura via the Bobo Doll experiment that too much media can make you socially aggressive and have poor judgement.

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