chivalry isn't dead

Chivalry is officially DEAD. Or is it?

You know what it’s like, you’re out in a bar, someone catches your eye, maybe initiates a little contact with a flirty-flirty pull-y hair, touch-y face steal-y hat, grabby arm. Oh wait, no. That’s right. Because you’re not eight years old – the only age where it’s acceptable to be grabbed or have your skirt pulled up (outside of gypsy culture or fetish parties). So here’s the situation I find myself in: chasing someone round a bar to get my hat back then getting Grabbed. And Held. And Pinned.

I’m pretty feisty; I like to think I can handle myself and give as good as I get. As the eldest of four sisters, I’ve an A-grade in scheming, conniving, bitching and bra-hiding but physically I couldn’t fight my way out of a paper bag. Fact.

Now, let’s not get this out of proportion, I’m in a busy bar and the risk of actual danger is pretty slim – I’m not in a dodgy alley way nor am I on my own – yet I’m being physically overpowered by someone bigger and stronger than me. So yep, I’m scared. No, more than scared. I’m scared and furious. Furious at myself for not being stronger and for having to play the damsel in distress, ‘Hayelp! Hayelp!’ Drop me out. This is Hackney, luv.

chivalry isn't dead

So my fleeting brush with danger was exactly that: fleeting. But only because another guy clocked me and waded in to my rescue. Cue a scuffle, lots of hair pulling/scratching/a few punches being thrown and my flatmate catching a thump to the back of her head before a burly bouncer (treating us all like a group of five year olds) separates us, tells us off and a bystander dismisses the whole incident as ‘handbags’.

Handbags? Really, is this ‘handbags‘?! The fact of the matter is thus: male or female, public or private, I NEVER want to be in a situation where I’m physically overpowered and can do nothing about it – and why should I?! Of course, I do what any girl would do upon reflection, and I cry. Big fat sniffly, ‘f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f’ cant breathe, snot string, girly whimpery crying. Because at the end of the day, I am exactly that: a girl.

So what’s the moral to all this? Wel, I don’t know. I suppose I could take up kickboxing and become a crime-fighting vigilante, specialising in MEAN BOYS that pick on girls in hats. Or I  could just do all I can to ensure I don’t get myself in a situation like that again. And I’d advise you to do the same. Without sounding all Kindergarten Cop, strangers are called so for a reason. You don’t know who they are or what they’re capable of – so BE CAREFUL, FRIENDS.

Note: not all strangers are mean and nasty – said hero boy who waded in to ‘save’ me (vom) was indeed very nice. Very, very nice. And tall. And tattooed. And taking me out for a drink next week. I’m only hoping he leaves his charger and trusty steed at home…

Amy Rycroft

  • Comments

  • Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

TOP