The Compostual Existentialist

Wordpress flavour with added crunchy bits

Who dat man?

Today something happened that made me hate being a man.

Before I begin my tirade, let me stipulate some things:-

  • I am male
  • I am often outside unaccompanied
  • I am tall
  • I am stocky
  • I don’t have children
  • I have an unusual hair style
  • I have never committed rape
  • I have never molested a child

And yet today I was made to feel like I was a male child-molesting rapist. How? Quite simply by walking down my street during school hometime.

Yes I know I’m probably reading things into situations but it is difficult not to. I’m sure many males will agree with me that there has definite shift toward distrust of single childless males, especially in the UK.

This hurts me. The suspicion. The prejudice. The assumption that I have singled out a random stranger’s precious snot ridden children to take to a location, lock up and do unspeakable things to.

Let me illustrate with the incidents (Yes in the plural) that occured today.

I was walking back from my afternoon in the pub. I wasn’t drunk. I can’t drink much these days. 1 pint and I start feeling ill. As I say, walking. Not swaggering or staggering like a wino.  Ahead I observed, walking toward me at varying distances, several mothers walking their children home from the local school.

The first mother had a pram and a young boy of about 6 or 7. The boy was running ahead from the mother as children do. Not vast distances but obviously a learned distance drummed into him by his protective parent. As he saw me approach, he froze and eyed me with the most suspicious look. Kind of the look you might give a man carrying a box marked BOMB. He looked back at his mother who looked at him and then looked at me. At this point I was a little nearer and I smiled a friendly smile at the boy as I was, at the time, remembering fondly how when I was 7, I walked home from school on my own. The look the mother gave me was one of greater suspicion than the child. Like I’d some how asked her if she could nip out and check the length of the nettles while I inspect her purse for fake tenners. A look that said “Don’t you dare smile at my child you dirty single man”

I smiled at her.

She grimaced back.

The second mother was a bit further down the road. Maybe about 200 yards or so. This time she was walking her daughter home. The same thing happened. Child would stop. Eye me with suspicion. Wait the arrival of the parent. Grimace. Carry on walking past me.

By this time I was thinking maybe my fly was down.

If you’re a man you’ll know that gone are the days of checking your fly is zipped up without automatically being labelled some sort of perv by passing people. If you are not a man, the next time you observe a man briefly touching his crotch, he is probably making sure that his fly isn’t down. Or he’s taking his cock out to wave at you.

Anyway, I digress.

The third parent was a grandparent. The children he was with were walking behind him mucking about. As I passed he stopped, turned, checked where his grandchildren were and didn’t continue moving until I was about 20 yards past them.

By this point I was feeling a bit miffed. Why is it automatically assumed that single males walking down the street are somehow going to grab and assault children when their parents are with them? Like you’d wait until the fucking parents were watching Eastenders and creep into the childrens room with some puppies and sweets….wouldn’t you?

Let me make this clear. I have no interest, sexually or otherwise in children what so ever. None.

Why was I being looked at with suspicion? Surely if I stared at them with suspicion I’d get a mouth full of abuse. After all, it is them with the children not me. How do I  know they are the rightful parents or guardians of these snot nosed scruffy brats? I don’t. So I promised myself I would eye the fourth family collective with suspicion and see how they fucking liked it.

As I passed they smiled at me and said hello.

They were definitely up to no good.

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Author: stegzy

Once, long ago, I wrote frequently on Livejournal. I then moved to Blogspot, where I discovered that blogging requires an audience. So I moved back to LJ. Then over to Dreamwidth, back to LJ, up the road of self hosting with Muckybadger before giving up entirely and moving over to Wordpress. It was at that moment I decided I would spread my compostual nonsense simultaneously across the blogosphere like some rancid margarine. And so here I am. I am a badger. But then I'm not really a badger. I am a human. With badger like tendencies. I am a writer, a film producer and a social commentator. I am available for Breakfast TV shows, documentaries and chats in the pub with journalists.

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