You know that old cliché: “Mate, you couldn’t get a root in a brothel”? Usually, it’s just an insult. A good-natured dig.
But this… oh, dear reader, this is a true story. A living, breathing example of a bloke so awkward, so catastrophically lacking in confidence, that he quite literally could not get a shag in a brothel. Multiple times.
This is about a good mate of mine from the golden era of punting – when Lord Spikey and I were tearing up the scene like a couple of horny pirates. This forgotten legend of social misfires went by the name Sir Schizo.
Now before I tear him apart, let me say this: Schizo was a good man. Heart of gold. Would give you the shirt off his back. But Jesus Christ, when it came to talking to women, he was a nervous wreck. Couldn’t string a sentence together without looking like he was about to shit himself. And I’m not being metaphorical. This poor bastard used to sweat buckets just making eye contact.
How Bad Was It? You don’t know awkward until you’ve seen Schizo in action.
One time, he asked me – dead serious – to help him get over his fear of talking to women. So I made him a deal: “You do what I say, and I promise it won’t hurt you. It’s all in your head. If you’re scared, I’ll prove it’s safe first.” Seemed fair.
We’re in a restaurant one day. Two stunning women sit at the table next to us. I tell Schizo, “Ask them what they ordered. That’s it.” He went rigid. Like a deer in headlights. Sweating, shaking, mumbling “I can’t.”
So I asked them instead. “Excuse me, ladies – that looks amazing, what did you order?” They smiled and told me. Done. Easy. I turn back to him. “See? They didn’t stab me, you muppet. I asked for the time, not a blowjob.”
And that’s the point: I wasn’t asking him to pull numbers or marry them. Just basic human interaction. But to Schizo, asking a woman for the time was like walking into a biker bar wearing a tutu.
Now for the good stuff. One night, Spikey, Schizo, and I are on a punt crawl. We end up at some suburban Korean joint. We all pick a girl. Me? Lovely time. Spikey? Walked out grinning like a Cheshire cat. Schizo? Not so much. He comes out looking like he’d seen a ghost. We’re like, “Well? How was it?”
He mutters, “Nothing happened.” WHAT?!
Turns out, he’d been so awkward and chatty that the poor girl laid face down on the bed and refused to engage, telling him off for turning up drunk. And what did our boy do? Sat there silently for most of the hour. Paid top dollar to stare at the back of her head. I nearly pissed myself laughing.
Another gem: The three of us hit up TBC.
I had a cracking time with Young Mandy (if you know, you know). Spikey finds a mature goddess and walks out looking like he’d seen the face of God.
Schizo? Walks out like he’s just been told his dog died. “What the hell happened this time?” He tells us he tried to be clever. Thought he’d sweep her off her feet – literally – and scoop her up to put her on the massage bed.
Now picture this: nervous, sweaty, shaking bloke with all the grace of a collapsing deck chair suddenly lunges at her to “sweep her off her feet.” She shits herself, freaks out, and the booking goes dead. I couldn’t breathe. Spikey and I laughed so hard I had to pull over on the drive home.
This one’s legendary.
I once booked the curvy Korean icon Victoria. God, she was fun. We bantered all the way from the counter to the room, flirty as hell. I gave her a cheeky slap on the arse. She winked at me. Fantastic session. Told Schizo about it. He took notes.
Next week, he rocks up to see Victoria. Tries to “charm” her at the counter. She’s cold as ice. Gives him one-word answers. And then… he tries the arse slap. Except, Schizo has all the charisma of wet cardboard. She spins around, boots him out of the shop, and that’s the end of that. Paid for an hour, was refunded and got a walk of shame instead.
We tried to save him.
Spikey and I lined him up with one of the best Italian girls of the time (one I contemplated greatly – punters from that era will get the joke). She was kind and knew us all and was intending to help him relax and explain how not to be so awkward if she could. It was set up to help him while he got some. We gave him simple suggestions: “Don’t talk so much. Just relax. Enjoy. Shut. The. Fuck. Up.” Did he listen? Nope.
She called me after the booking. “Yoda,” she says, “he didn’t stop talking from the second he walked in to the second he left. Nervous rambling. No root.”
So What’s the Point? Schizo was – and hopefully still is – a good man. But holy hell, he was a living example of how fear and overthinking will ruin everything.
Ladies — have you met blokes like this? What do you even do with them? Is there any saving them?
Gents — do you know someone like this? Or worse… are you someone like this?
Let’s hear it.
Because if you can’t get a root in a brothel? Mate… something’s gone horribly, hilariously wrong.
Author: Master Yoda
For: Langtrees.com
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“Sounds like a wild night turned into a funny story”
“Funniest thing I’ve read all week. Schizo sounds like a good bloke, just cursed with a bad game.”
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