Hate fucking an unbearable bastard

The tale of a man so loathesome he was somehow simultaneously a prick *and* a cunt.

There’s an old expression that love and hate are two sides of the coin. Personally, I disagree; hatred is far, FAR stronger. Love, at least in my limited experience, is something floaty, whimsical and ethereal, it’s present but not *tangible*. Hatred is primal and visceral. An unignorable presence that is all consuming. Both are unquestionably strong passions, but one is a largely internal and self reflecting affair, while the other both burns and radiates, utterly unable to be contained.

Hatred - real, vein twitching, palm sweating, fury igniting hatred - is something that, mercifully, doesn’t come along very often. While it’s fiar to say we’ve all got dozens upon dozens of people we may intensely *dislike* (or perhaps that’s just me. My enemies list is sizeable!), there’s a significant void between ‘dislike’ and blood bursting hate. I dare say there may be a significant number of individuals out there who have been lucky enough to skip through their lives without ever truly hating anyone. And I’m delighted for them. Though they also make my dislike list, because I’d never truly trust someone so capable of remaining calm in the presence of those I’d consider loathsome.

Because I very much have hated. With a near violent intensity at times. Precisely six people have scaled the heights through annoyance, via intense dislike, to the lofty position of being *hated*. Some climbed slowly, dragging themselves up a rung at a time. Others were so intensely vile that they jumped straight to the top without any middle ground.

This is the fable of one of those individuals.

And how I ended up fucking him.

Myself and a group of friends were our for a relatively swanky dinner in celebration of Zara turning thirty. As this was a significant birthday and there were many who wanted to celebrate, in addition to her friends, her family and other various hangers-on were also in attendance. Not that this was a problem, of course. She enjoyed all their company as indeed did we. They were all lovely people, and a pleasure to spend time with.

All except one.

Isaac wasn’t one of her friends. Nor was he one of the family. He was, as he seemed to take great delight in telling us over and over again, essentially a gatecrasher. Someone else had been going to attend but had to pull out at the last minute and, rather than waste the seat, Zara’s brother took the opportunity to bring along one of *his* friends instead. Everyone had assumed this would be no issue.

They were wrong.

Isaac was, and there really is no other way of phrasing this; a cunt. He was one of those insufferable individuals for whom life had granted quite inexplicable luck but which he believed had all been achieved through his - ENTIRELY NONE EXISTENT- talents. He was an, at best, 5.5 out of 10 man who believed he was an 11. The only physical thing he actually had going for him was that he was relatively tall and did have somewhat arresting pale blue eyes. He had a good job which he’d only picked up thanks to his Dad, and was relatively flush with cash for much the same reason.

But worst, he genuinely believed he was something of a wit and raconteur - a modern day renaissance man. That charm and elan flowed from him as readily as it might pour from a true showman, or from a literal fountain of knowledge.

He was wrong. Isaac was an oafish fuckwit who managed, quite remarkably, to be wrong about - and I am not exaggerating here - literally every single thing he said. For the entire evening. He was utterly unbearable company and the type which is usually best left ignored. Except largely because he felt himself to be a bastion of charm and personification of wisdom, he made every effort ALL NIGHT to take command and control of the conversation. Now I’m not friends with dullards or cowards, and I’m proud to say my friends all gave as good as they got. At least initially. But Isaac was relentless. It was like arguing with a man on the internet. He would never pipe down, shut up or even acknowledge another point of view. And so, like pissing in the wind, eventually everyone realised they were just getting themselves wet with no chance of success, and ultimately gave in, their spirits and resistance broken. Capable now of only idly nodding in his direction but otherwise doing their best to ignore him.

But, faithful reader, as you’ll be aware if you’ve ever read anything I’ve posted previously, I’m not one for backing down.

I can’t pretend I’m especially proud of what I did, and I’m sure there are some - not many, but some - who’d hold me almost as guilty as Isaac for failing to deescalate the situation. Because I called him out on everything. All night. I didn’t relent and didn’t let a single thing drop. He was wrong and was clearly used to simply winning arguments through endurance rather than intelligence. It took less than an hour for him to have earned a place on my hate list. He was ignorant and boorish and, frankly, something of a bully. And I simply wasn’t going to let him win.