A few years back I visited the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. One night my friend and I were walking amongst a rather big crowd as the masses funnelled through the royal mile, all of us making our way to see the Military Tattoo.
A man suddenly appears up ahead, having just come out of one of the pubs. He is a big man. A very big man. He has legs like oak trees and arms like slightly smaller oak trees. He has long hair but in a masculine, samson kind of a way not a Russell Brand style way. He looks like he takes his cereal with whiskey every morning instead of semi-skimmed milk. Not a drunk, just a real man, the type that would never bother with lager or mixers.
The man looks around at the crowds with a sneer. As though the bumbling bodies physically sicken him. We are drawing closer.
Now, I consider myself to have a rather good 'danger radar'. I spot the hazards early and manoeuvre well, well out of their way. My friend is unfortunately far more oblivious. She has not seen the threat and we are too close that I can turn and say 'there is a scary man ahead, can we please cross the road?' We must walk on.
The man puts a hand to his stomach, probably remembering the meal he has just eaten, which I imagine was steak or englishman. We are five metres from him. He looks at us. His clothes are somehow warrior like, they look tough and manly. I am dressed in just shorts, T-shirt and trainers. I am wearing trainer socks as my friend insisted that my normal length socks looked ridiculous.
The big man throws his head back, hocks and then spits on the ground before him. It is a big, globular spit. It is a more manly spit than I could ever produce. The spit hits the pavement with a splat and the man, satisfied, turns to walk in the same direction we are.
I am relieved, this is fine, I am fine. He will walk, and we will walk right behind him and out of his way.
We are not fine. As soon as she sees the spit, my friend, infinitely braver but also infinitely female and therefore not likely to be threatened, gives a loud and unmistakeable tut. She tuts!
The man looks around to see who would dare to tut at him. I look at my friend as though she has literally just signed my death warrant. The man looks at my friend and then slowly looks at me. He says...
"It's my fucking country, I can do what I like."
He takes a second to see how I am going to react to this. As if waiting to beat down any challenge that I might make. I should probably defend my friend's honour, demand he apologise, lecture him on the laws of decency and respect.
I am not going to challenge him. He is huge and I am wearing trainer socks, specifically cut to make it look like I am not wearing socks at all with my trainers. These are not the socks of a fighting man. The man in front of me would never be caught dead in trainer socks.
I hold his stare with as neutral a look as I can. I do not want to antagonise him, yet I do not want to be completely removed of all my dignity, again. My friend stays conveniently quiet throughout the whole affair. My face stays calm while inside my head I am screaming with fear and cursing my friend. I briefly consider how they will get my corpse back down south and hope it is by plane when... success! The man turns and carries on walking!
In no way have I emerged victorious from this. I feel violated and small, but I am not beaten or broken and am very much a glass half-full kind of guy.
I am still alive, still healthy and with only the majority of my dignity shredded. My friend and I walk on and I remind myself that this is no place for the beta male. Then we get some ice cream and watch the Tattoo and things are nice again.
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