A Tale of Olde Yorke

We’ve all been hit in the Gallery. I think what sets my story aside from the rest is that I was a girl of nineteen, and there was no conversation involved in the dénouement. It was a Saturday, and the Weekenders were out in full Adidas bloom. One, of about fourty-two years of age, probably thirty-two and an enthusiastic smoker, decided I was an attractive candidate for the victim role in his routine: white wine, white lightning, white pride, white out.

Forgive me for being a ‘tease’, but I like to think a girl can dress up and dance without expecting men to touch. Some of the looks are bad enough, thanks. So, this girl had danced and shone and exhausted the indie playlist of York, and was now making her way through the thronging hordes to the exit. The smoker, being a ‘carpé diem’ type, reached out and made his intentions to be friends very clear to a more curvy part of my attire. Being less carpé diem than cut and run, my instincts took over and I swished the hand away and carried on moving, albeit at traffic queue pace in a crowd that served me less well than long grass.

Seeing a new opportunity present itself, perhaps one to win man points or to put a little girl back in her place (you get man points for that too, right?), the hand turned into a fist and punched what became a big fat bruise into my right thigh. The bouncers were told and did sweet-f.-a. because it was ‘too busy’ and simply feigned a politically-correct amount of concern.

Needless to say, the Gallery nightclub joins my list of undesirable places to spend my free time and scout potential soul mates. I hope others will continue to enjoy it in the way you can enjoy animal faeces hitting a stranger in the face on an internet viral – from a distance.

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