Dining with a Tyrant in Trousers: When John Ruined Dinner, the Weather and My Will to Live
He came, he whined, he relocated the meal. One man, one dog and one almighty delusion; meet the friend who thinks manners are optional and wind is a personal insult.
There’s always one. You know the type. The kind of person who treats social outings like a personal episode of The Apprentice; minus the charm and with twice the delusion. I’m talking about a ‘friend’, let’s call him John, mainly because that’s his actual name and I’ve reached the point in life where I can no longer be bothered with aliases.
Now John, bless him is in his early seventies, but carries himself with the inflated confidence of a precocious nine-year-old who once got a gold star for finger painting and now believes he should be knighted. We’d agreed to meet him and his wife, mainly because he was in our neck of the woods and, quite possibly because we were under the influence of a discount Pinot… or momentary lapse in judgement. So we suggested our favourite restaurant. A place Mrs G and I adore. The food is sensational, the staff couldn’t be lovelier and the ambience is perfect! It normally has an air of elegance, with the sun pouring across the patio like it’s auditioning for a Tuscan postcard. Think gentle jazz and not a laminated menu in sight. We were salivating from the moment we booked. Mrs G even ironed something. That’s how excited we were.
But of course, John had other plans. He turned up with all the grace and gratitude of a toddler being dragged into a toy shop; one that doesn’t sell what ‘he’ wants. The second he arrives, his nose wrinkles. It’s too windy he declares. Too windy. Not the food. Not the decor. The ‘wind’. Apparently, his personal atmosphere needs curating like an art gallery. And then with all the subtlety of a school bully demanding your lunch, he announces that we can’t eat here, or inside either, because he has his dog with him.
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not a lover of dogs. But the dog wasn’t the problem. The problem was John… who treats every event like it’s ‘his' birthday party, ‘his’ restaurant booking and ‘his’ divine right to overrule democracy. Stuff everyone else. His way or no way…
His wife, by contrast is lovely. So lovely in fact she barely speaks. Possibly out of politeness. Possibly because she’s been trained over the years, to stay silent or be scolded like a child who’s spoken during Daddy’s conference call.
What really grated wasn’t just his weather-based tantrum. It was the complete lack of gratitude. No “thank you for organising this”, no “looks lovely”. Just a theatrical sigh, a muttered complaint and a swift relocation to a restaurant he deemed better… twice the price, half the charm and, as it turned out, poor service too.
Mrs G handled it all with a serene grace that defies understanding. She has this frankly terrifying ability to act as though she adores people she’d actually push into a canal if no one was watching. It’s like watching Judi Dench host a dinner party for Bond villains. Smiles, warmth and not a shred of sincerity. Meanwhile, I sat there, resembling a man who’d just been asked to eat his own foot.
This is the same John mind you, who once accepted a gift bottle of vintage bottle of champagne from us when we visited, only to squirrel it away like Gollum guarding his ring… then served us some budget fizz from the local corner shop. This is the same man who told me, with actual words from his actual mouth, that supporting cancer patients was “a bit over the top and a waste of time”.
What do you do with a man like that? A man whose reputation precedes him… and not in the way he hopes, as confirmed by his eye-rolling relatives and perpetually confused colleagues.
Do you smile, nod and pass the salt, while internally screaming into a napkin? Or do you lean across the table, look him dead in the eye and say, “There are four of us here John you spoilt cantankerous wanker. The world doesn’t revolve around you and your weather preferences.”
I stayed quiet. Mostly because I value Mrs G’s blood pressure. But inside, oh inside, we were both mentally throttling him like a damp breadstick.
Sometimes, we tolerate the Johns of this world for the sake of peace. For harmony. For the dog. But let’s be honest; there’s a fine line between politeness and enabling grown men to behave like spoiled prep-school tyrants.
So next time you’re out with a John, remember… just because someone shouts the loudest doesn’t mean they’re right. Sometimes, they’re just hungry, rude and tragically unaware they’ve become the punchline to everyone’s dinner story.
**Footnote**: The champagne remains unopened and we’ll not pickup the phone next time!
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Chris Geiger, Author of The Cancer Survivors Club.
Daily Dose of Disbelief!
Bsky: @chrisgeiger.com
Bsky: @thecancersurvivorsclub.com
Bsky: @dailydoseofdisbelief.com
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