Chico Time

hy do I always pick the seat next to the most irritating person in the pub?

Today’s perpetrator was a loudly spoken WAG-wannabe, fussing incessantly over a trophy Chihuahua perched in the high chair beside her like a fluffy babe; a middle-aged woman’s hormonal equivalent of a middle-aged man’s impulsive motorbike purchase. The dog’s name, I discover without trying particularly hard to eavesdrop, it ‘Chico’ – but you’d already guessed that from the first clue hadn’t you? At this point I theorise that Chico’s owner is probably named after the white wine she is trying to sip elegantly in between cackles of laughter. I bet myself another pint that her favourite film is probably Mamma Mia, she holidays in Magaluf, and the only thing faker than her tan is her Louis Vuitton handbag.

It’s not every day you meet a real-life stereotype.

After a moment’s precious peace, trying to scribble some thoughts into my diary, I’m jolted by a protesting ‘yelp!’ from an injured third canine party. It transpires that Chico the Chihuahua has trodden mercilessly on the paw of the dog with which he shares the faux-leather bar stool. Chico’s Mum comments to a semi-interested friend that “he’s definitely not himself”, on the basis of Chico’s behaviour towards the other dog.
Giving up on my journaling, I begin to psycho-analyse the dog’s violent conduct. I theorise that Chico is only lashing out because he lives with a perpetual sense of repressed anger, that his wild canine instincts have been exchanged for a 1980s latino-dancer-name and the urban jungle of a Godalming Gastro-Pub.

Do you ever begin to imagine the most outrageous, and least socially-acceptable thing to do in a situation, to the point where it’s such a vivid temptation you have to stifle a smirk at the prospect of doing it?

Well, the mischievous mini-Merch within me began jumping on the tables, dancing horrifically, and discordantly singing “it’s Chico-time”, while pouring my pint over the head of the pampered pooch in question, to the shock and horror of the WAG-wannabe. Tempted as I was to join him, I decided that discretion was the better part of valour (I don’t really know what that means, but it sounds good).

And that’s where the story ends. The only thing more annoying than this too-cringe-to-be-true stereotypical situation, is that I’ve spent valuable ink and energy writing nearly 400 words about it.

I’ll get back to my pint…

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