Blog Dis
In the company of hooligans
2025-05-08
I prefer the company of hooligans over holier-than-thou moralizers and squeaky clean-freaks.
Rarely, will you catch me wearing a perfectly coiffed hair-do, a perfectly ironed below the knees skirt, black-paten leather shoes with sharp points, dark seamless nylons and a phony smile that says I want to be your best back-stabbing buddy. Nope. Not me. I am a jeans kind of gal, or a black-leggings kind of gal, a pair of loose-fitting capris kind of gal who slinks into work wearing bright-red polish on her toes, and blue sun-glasses, plus a cami-top that sometimes has a bit of a plunging neck line (but only sometimes). I'm the type of gal who cares diddly-squat about what I wear or how much wine I've drank, or how much my friends have consumed, or smoked, or ate, or whatever - so long as I don't have to clean up after them! Ha!
I kid you not. One sunny mid-afternoon, on the weekend, I served a lovely meal for my editor. I wore a raggedy pair of white capris with a hole in the a** large enough to fit an elephant's hind foot. The top I wore had light stains on the front, spillage from the meal I prepared in a flurry, plus it was an off-white top from years of repeated washings but I was loathe to throw it away. My black bra underneath shone brightly and my hair was loose and wild. I felt perfectly at ease. My hooligan editor, after pouring himself several glasses of a chilled white Italian extra-dry wine, took one look at the massive hole in my shorts and just laughed.
Only another hooligan would see the obvious clarity in the situation: we are here for a short time and pretense and judgements are like dodo-birds, extinct and useless in the grand scheme of things.
It is the soundness of the heart that matters most to me, not the clothes or the cars or the diamond rings. I fancy a keen mind, too, admittedly, someone who is able to consume several bottles of wine and still not miss a bit. So, on this sunny afternoon, we did just that, we drank and ate and drank and ate some more. Then, I suggested drinking a little caffeine before cracking open another bottle of wine, before we got down to business. The fluidity of our thoughts raced along the track with grand speed. I almost forgot that my bare legs were sticking to the oak chair, through the holes in my capris, until I rose from the chair to refill my wine glass, and most of the skin on the back of my legs had nearly ripped off, stuck to the chair.
There is no greater sense of freedom in knowing you can dress in nearly any manner you wish and the people in your company, ruffians, hooligans, who remain young in spirit, never mind the chronological imperative to act your age, do not care a twit about your appearance because they simply accept you for being you.
Then it happened. Another weekend rolled along, and I enjoyed another fabulous pre-summer BBQ with my other hooligan girlfriends, and before long the number of drinky-poos multiplied into several, until wine bottles insisted on being cracked open, along with some long herbal treats being enjoyed by some, and we were all of one opinion that hooliganism should be the new world order.
Cast your morals upon the waters and watch them disperse in the choppy waves of discord, and flagrant inconsistency. Human behaviour is like that, unpredictable and illogical. I think our perception of our friends should be based on the ever changing tides. Sometimes they'll come through for us and at other times we'll have to give them the benefit of the doubt. I'll be damned if I make a new friend because they are extra special careful about how they dress around me, how they speak around me, or who they know or want to know.
Men and women are not so different. We all want to be accepted for who we are, hooligans included, or I should qualify this by saying especially hooligans. In this modern age, hooligans have been defined through the sport of English football, and in Canada by hockey players who pummel each other in a brawl and, to my mind, young men in most urban centers who engage in the art of spraying graffiti on unapproved surfaces. One version of hooligan seems more intense than the other, and one seems more cloak and dagger, hiding from authorities. Both willingly engage in questionable activities because their spirit for hooliganism gets the better of them.
Humans are passionate, if anything else.
Rarely, will you catch me wearing a perfectly coiffed hair-do, a perfectly ironed below the knees skirt, black-paten leather shoes with sharp points, dark seamless nylons and a phony smile that says I want to be your best back-stabbing buddy. Nope. Not me. I am a jeans kind of gal, or a black-leggings kind of gal, a pair of loose-fitting capris kind of gal who slinks into work wearing bright-red polish on her toes, and blue sun-glasses, plus a cami-top that sometimes has a bit of a plunging neck line (but only sometimes). I'm the type of gal who cares diddly-squat about what I wear or how much wine I've drank, or how much my friends have consumed, or smoked, or ate, or whatever - so long as I don't have to clean up after them! Ha!
I kid you not. One sunny mid-afternoon, on the weekend, I served a lovely meal for my editor. I wore a raggedy pair of white capris with a hole in the a** large enough to fit an elephant's hind foot. The top I wore had light stains on the front, spillage from the meal I prepared in a flurry, plus it was an off-white top from years of repeated washings but I was loathe to throw it away. My black bra underneath shone brightly and my hair was loose and wild. I felt perfectly at ease. My hooligan editor, after pouring himself several glasses of a chilled white Italian extra-dry wine, took one look at the massive hole in my shorts and just laughed.
Only another hooligan would see the obvious clarity in the situation: we are here for a short time and pretense and judgements are like dodo-birds, extinct and useless in the grand scheme of things.
It is the soundness of the heart that matters most to me, not the clothes or the cars or the diamond rings. I fancy a keen mind, too, admittedly, someone who is able to consume several bottles of wine and still not miss a bit. So, on this sunny afternoon, we did just that, we drank and ate and drank and ate some more. Then, I suggested drinking a little caffeine before cracking open another bottle of wine, before we got down to business. The fluidity of our thoughts raced along the track with grand speed. I almost forgot that my bare legs were sticking to the oak chair, through the holes in my capris, until I rose from the chair to refill my wine glass, and most of the skin on the back of my legs had nearly ripped off, stuck to the chair.
There is no greater sense of freedom in knowing you can dress in nearly any manner you wish and the people in your company, ruffians, hooligans, who remain young in spirit, never mind the chronological imperative to act your age, do not care a twit about your appearance because they simply accept you for being you.
Then it happened. Another weekend rolled along, and I enjoyed another fabulous pre-summer BBQ with my other hooligan girlfriends, and before long the number of drinky-poos multiplied into several, until wine bottles insisted on being cracked open, along with some long herbal treats being enjoyed by some, and we were all of one opinion that hooliganism should be the new world order.
Cast your morals upon the waters and watch them disperse in the choppy waves of discord, and flagrant inconsistency. Human behaviour is like that, unpredictable and illogical. I think our perception of our friends should be based on the ever changing tides. Sometimes they'll come through for us and at other times we'll have to give them the benefit of the doubt. I'll be damned if I make a new friend because they are extra special careful about how they dress around me, how they speak around me, or who they know or want to know.
Men and women are not so different. We all want to be accepted for who we are, hooligans included, or I should qualify this by saying especially hooligans. In this modern age, hooligans have been defined through the sport of English football, and in Canada by hockey players who pummel each other in a brawl and, to my mind, young men in most urban centers who engage in the art of spraying graffiti on unapproved surfaces. One version of hooligan seems more intense than the other, and one seems more cloak and dagger, hiding from authorities. Both willingly engage in questionable activities because their spirit for hooliganism gets the better of them.
Humans are passionate, if anything else.
