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Ratchet Bitches

Photo by AnneSophieLandou

The slightest mention of a girls’ weekend is enough to induce an impressive eye-roll in my boyfriend – I’m convinced he can see into the back of his head. Nonetheless, the days spent in Sydney a few months ago with a small, incredible group of friends is one experience I’d gladly repeat.

It was me and four other girls, the self-named Wolf Pack (it made sense at the time to our drunken selves), celebrating the birthday of one amazing woman I will just call D. Befitting the girls’ weekend it was supposed to be, we ventured out one night to the Ivy.

Standing in line with S, a fellow member of the Wolf Pack, I saw two women blatantly cut the line out of the corner of my eye.

“We’ve always been here,” they said to the unimpressed people behind them.

Without thinking, I piped up, “No you haven’t,” and returned to my conversation with S.

I became conscious of a wild, mega-watt glare coming right at me in the form of Crazy Eyes Level 10, directed by one of the otherwise respectable looking ladies who had cut the line.

“Do we have a problem?” she hissed.

“Yes,” I bristled, “You’re staring at me.”

She leaned in closer, her eyes growing wider.

“Do we have… a fucking… problem?”

Despite her matronly appearance (she was wearing a buttoned up trench coat and kitten heels – need I say more?), this woman managed to burn my face with eyeball laser beams and an insolent smile. I had never before been on the receiving end of such unmasked – and unprovoked – aggression.

Now, in no way, shape or form do I consider myself ratchet. I’m a five foot nothing white girl who likes tennis, not twerking. And yet, some primal part of me had bubbled to the surface and was aching to slap that bitch senseless.

“You cut the line, so keep staring at me and we will have a problem.”

And with an enormous amount of effort, I turned my back on her and ignored the hole boring into the back of my head.

S, who’d been stunned into silence by the whole exchange, nudged me and said, “You handled that well.”

But I wasn’t so sure. Had I reacted in the mature way – be the bigger person, and all that shit – or did I just pussy out?

I told S that I was really just shocked at the woman’s clear lack of grown-up abilities – she was eyeballing me, when she was in the wrong. She cute the line, what is she, in pre-school? But S shrugged it off as just another episode of untoward female aggression.

S had been involved in more displays of oestrogen-fuelled rage more times than she’d care to remember. Now, S has the kind of body that is, to use the technical term, bangin’. She’s all long blonde hair and tanned, toned limbs. You’d expect a little jealousy from other girls. But S has been dragged into many a catfight simply by walking into the room.

One night, while out with friends, S was repeatedly escaping the clutches of a particularly handsy creep in a packed nightclub. The moment her mates weren’t surrounding her, this guy would find a way to dance all over S and put his grubby hands on her.

It all became too much when S was walking past the guy as he sat with a group of female friends, and he reached out to grab her arse. She slapped his hand away, whipped around and said, “Touch me again, you fucking creep, and I’m calling the police.”

She stalked away, only to be followed by the guy and three of his girl friends. The girls pushed past S, deliberately bumping into her, and muttered in her ear, “Slut.”

Something snapped in S’s brain. She grabbed one girl by the pony tail and pulled down hard, diving head-first into a fight against three other girls, elbows swinging. Promptly and unfairly, of course, she was kicked out in a screaming heap by security.

This is exactly what I was trying to avoid while standing in line for the Ivy, trying not to stab Trench Coat Bitch in the face with my stiletto. I was not going to be the girl who got her whole group of friends rejected from a club for exhibiting un-lady-like behaviour, especially on my friend’s birthday.

And if I’m honest, it would have been a massive blow to my ego to be thrown out of the line for a club (not even the club itself, the line) for inciting a scrag fight.

Which leads me to the burning question – when, if ever, is it ok to let loose a little lady rage?

I can’t help but wonder what would have happened if this had been a dudely situation. Would a male have reacted so calmly in the face of such baffling hostility?

You can’t bring up this topic in the company of the Wolf Pack without D flying into an uncontrollable temper.

“If I had only heard this conversation,” she practically spits, her beautiful face frightening in its anger, “I would have ruined that bitch. RUINED.”

I protest that I’m glad that only I and S were privy to it; that it would have ruined our night if I had said anything more.

At this, every single girl in the group, every member of the Wolf Pack, looks me dead in the eye and says, “I wouldn’t have given a shit.”

And this, truly, is the beauty of friendship. Because even if you do get dragged out of a venue by your neck, at least you know that your crazy friends will be right by your side.

If bitches are getting ratchet, there is no question – you back your bitches up.

Written by Caitlin Porter

Categories: Short & Sharp
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