I was in a pub the other day for a girls night out with a friend I'll call 'Cyndi.'
We normally hang out in the 'The Dog and Duck' with the rest of the girls, but that evening we decided, just for a change, that just the two of us would go to 'The Cockwell Inn', which, as the name implies, is where the real wankers go to pick up girls dumb enough to let some Neanderthal knobhead shag them in the car park because he looks a bit like Prad Gitt and says he has a Porsche.

We sat down at a table close to the bar and I had my usual G and T, and Cyndi had rum and coke and we spontaneously decided to spend the night observing the men and waiting to see which ones would hit on us first.

We didn't have long to wait. Men are so predictable aren't they? A couple of right knobheads came over to our table and sure enough, one of them asked:
"Can I get you girls a drink?"
Just in case the guy was really short-sighted and hadn't noticed the fresh drinks we were sipping we politely declined.
"Are you sure?" he persisted.
"No", Cyndi replied, "But we'll let you know if we change our minds."
Knobhead number two was just bright enough to get the message and was turning away when his Neanderthal mate came back and leant over Cyndi. Clearly, he wasn't taking no for an answer.

Men are not intelligent enough to understand that when a woman declines the offer of a drink she's declining the offer of a drink. How hard is that? Instead, they get all defensive and aggressive, or else they sulk like little boys when mummy refuses the sweet they've set their hearts on. This one was the offensive type.
"Well I'm only trying to be nice and buy you chicks a drink," he snapped, "there's nothing wrong with that is there!?"
"Well, no there isn't. And there was nothing wrong with our answer, either, which was no thanks," I replied patiently, generously ignoring the fact he'd called us 'chicks'.
"I saw your mate make that gesture, you know," he added as he turned away.
"What gesture?" I asked innocently.
"Shake her hand under the table."
"Oh that—she does that all the time—take no notice."
"She was taking the piss."
"Do I need to?" asked Cyndi. "You seem to be doing rather well on you're own."

Knobhead One looked Cyndi up and down in what he obviously thought was a really cool way and flicked back his hair. "I suppose you think you're really clever, don't you?"
"I know a wanker when I see one," she replied, looking him up and down in a way which left no doubt just how 'uncool' she thought he was. "Now why can't you just accept a polite refusal and piss off?"
That did it. Knobhead two turned to me and said: "I don't know why your mate wears a bra; she's got fuck all to put in it."
"Well, when you find you tiny prick we'll compare sizes," Cyndi replied.
"You two wouldn't know what to do with a real man." growled Knobhead one.
Originality is not a man's strong point. But he was dead right: I've never had a real man, not one. They've all been wankers.

"Well actually, dick head, a real man wouldn't come on to us," Cyndi continued, "but as you're obviously complete knobheads and not real men, you wouldn't know that, would you? Now why don't you and your friend piss off and wank in the corner like good little boys?"
"You're shagging each other, aren't you?" said Knobhead two. "You're a couple of fucking lesbo slags!"
"Yeah!", added Knobhead one, "Fucking, flat-chested lesbos!"
"Shall I pour my drink over your head or would you like me to shove it up your bottom?" said Cyndi, standing up. "It's up to you."

Oppss, I thought, "fisticuffs". To be honest, I wasn't too bothered, because Cyndi's five eleven and packs a punch that would have knocked them both senseless without getting up a sweat. However, they took the hint and crawled back to their little corner. Secretly I think they were both taken aback by Cyndi's forthright attitude, and probably peed their pants. I was glad about that because we were only there to laugh at the sad bastards, and as much as I would have loved to punch their lights out, I was relieved that it didn't come to that.
Once you stand up to a prink, they wilt.