Maybe it’s because you didn’t exfoliate
this morning. Maybe it’s because you haven’t gone for that
everything-below-the-neck wax this week. Maybe it’s because you’ve been a bit naughty and eaten one whimsical cupcake
too many. Whatever it is, you’re in that super
terrible situation that befalls even hot superstars like Carey Mulligan and
Katy Perry – your harasser at the bus stop just isn’t listening to you. So what
should you do? We asked other sexist menaces on public transport to share their
thoughts, explaining why this is your
If you want me to stop pushing you into a
corner and doing the high-pitched ‘stoned 12 year old’ laugh in your face,
maybe you should talk to those guys at work who laugh behind my back because
I’m too shy to talk to them and my voice breaks when I try. This is the closest
I get to human interaction. I just want to be acknowledged, even if you’re
going to call the police.
I like women – I’m in an open relationship
with my girlfriend so I can like them all at once! Joking aside, I do properly
respect women. It’s just, you know, you’re in a club, you’ve taken a bit of K,
and these girls are dancing around. I mean, they’re dancing around, right?
Everybody likes hanging out together at these indie darkwave dubstep DJ sets,
so it’s not like a big deal if you come up and just tickle them a bit. And
maybe rub up against them. If there’s more than one person though, I won’t
because I’m scared of getting beat on by a couple of chicks filled with
snakebites and feminism.
As a connoisseur of lad mags and an
internet pornography addict, I’m terrified of body parts hairier than those of 9 year old - including those belonging to myself - and women who aren’t either anal sluts or my mother. Consequently, making lurid derogatory remarks about lone women I suspect of having anything more than a Hitler ‘tache downstairs, which is an affront to my infantile, near-fundamentalist,
outlook on life, is my way of distracting myself from the niggling doubt that I am, in fact, a terrible human being.
I’m totally up for having a peaceful tube
journey home, but girls wearing short skirts need to be asked if they want ‘a
dicking’. Because I’m going home alone, as usual, the sight of anybody’s legs
are a terrible and poignant torture to me. It’s like being confronted with
every lost opportunity – to make my mum proud and be at my estranged sister’s
wedding and make my relationship with my amazing ex-girlfriend work – but wrapped
up in fishnets. The sexual threat
probably won’t ease the pain, but at least I’ll cry into my pillow about an immediate shame when I get in.