I actually think Alex Turner penned this song by hacking into my phone records. You see, I’ve been the unfortunate victim of drunk booty call dialling twice in the last 8 days. From the same repeat offender.
Don’t get me wrong: I’m no prude. If you’ve established the type of relationship where calling each other after 9 Bacardi Breezers in Kings Cross is acceptable, then by all means call away. Hell, I’ve been known to shoot off a cheeky SMS after the socially acceptable cut off of 11 pm enquiring as to the whereabouts of a certain gentleman. But when I do so, it’s always safe in the knowledge that the sentiment will be returned. Or they are also out. And also annihilated.
I don’t, however, send that message out into the universe without the slightest indication as to whether the booty call will be favourably answered. Its called class. This is where my recent booty caller went so awry. Having known him for only a few short weeks, we had yet to establish that kind of repartee. Sure, the witty banter existed and yes, not going to deny there had been some flirting, but he was being totes inapprop when he called at 11:23 pm last Friday and asked whether I would like him to come over and snuggle. About as subtle as a brick to the face. I politely declined.
That didn’t stop him again, a week later, dialling my number at midnight, then 1 am, before finally sending a cryptic text message as follows:
Who the fuck are you? I have a girlfriend
Needless to say I didn’t feel the need to respond. However I did feel the need to confront him about it. So this evening, I ran into him in the city, and asked whether he had enjoyed his Friday night. He blushed, so my strategy was working. I then asked if his girlfriend had got her hands on his phone during the course of the night. He point blank, black and blue, hand on the bible swore he didn’t have a girlfriend. Little did he know I’m a black belt in shit sniffing so I was onto him.
With the flick of my hair and a turn on my heel, I cheerfully suggested that maybe he should put a a pin lock on his phone.
Or invent an app that breath tests you for being an arsehole before you dial my number.
Either way, don’t think I’ll be hearing from that sly dog again in a hurry. Or at least after midnight.
the anthem blog 