Born a confident guy I developed around my early teens into an arrogant son of a bitch. This was highlighted in no uncertain terms when I became quite notorious for it whilst at secondary school.
To me it was just over-confidence but to those around me it was deemed as arrogance. So what? I accepted it as a positive trait immediately and carried on regardless. Others however saw it as a negative characteristic and went about telling me all about it a little too regularly until it actually became a bit of an issue amongst them.
I was always fairly sure of myself at school - Captain of every football team and reasonably bright academically I perhaps swanned about the joint with an air of self-assurance. I would see others who held themselves in high esteem in years above me and think, ‘Hey they look pretty cool, I could be that cool too.’ If I did this and did that and walked like this and changed my mannerisms I could emulate them and then I could be considered cool too. No brainer.
The Fonz was always an idol of mine. Arguably the coolest guy on the planet back in the 1980s, he struck me as a reasonable role model - and why not? Henry Winkler was a good looking fella; sharp, witty, a hit with the ladies and most importantly cooler than the proverbial cucumber. So I found an old leather(ish) jacket in the closet, asked mum for a white t-shirt from Woolies or C&A or something and strutted my stuff around the bedroom armed with nothing but a comb and too much of dad’s shaving cream in my hair to be considered healthy. I was ten years old – that’s just what you do.
The ladies had always found me kinda cute (one my mum’s friends even said I had ‘come to bed eyes’ when I was about 3 months old) but growing up until the age of 14 in an all-boys school made me a little behind the rest of the guys at the mixed school who had been hanging out with the forbidden fruit years before me. (One kid still maintains to this day that he lost virginity at the tender age of eleven - I was still playing with Lego at eleven.)
I was expelled from the boys’ school (Kudos you say?) and rather than enjoy a nice long summer holiday mum insisted I joined the mixed school the following week. That was where everything changed. Having been ‘asked to leave’ - as my mother maintained I had been - mid-term, I joined the secondary state school halfway through the summer term making me stand out like a sore thumb. Most of the kids there had grown up together since they were in primary school and so by the time ‘normal’ puberty rocked up were undoubtedly sick of the sight of each other – if they’d been at it since 11 then there’s no wonder.
So I turn up as the new kid on the block and heads start turning. It was as if I had an extra nose or something. Everyone was looking at me asking each other who the hell I was. It was flattering if a little intimidating at times. The girls wanted to snog me and the guys wanted to fight me – you know the drill.
I completed a successful first day at school with three dates lined up, no black eyes and girls asking me out left right and centre. I’d never been asked out before – never even kissed a girl before - so things were looking up, so to speak.
Then I watched ‘The Breakfast Club’ one drizzly Tuesday afternoon and along came another hero of mine - Judd Nelson.
The wardrobe department had gone to town on the boy and come up with a fairly unique look; a large grey overcoat with a denim jacket underneath; red and white checked shirt with the sleeves cut off; a long sleeve white t-shirt underneath; black fingerless weight-lifting gloves; grey slacks semi-tucked into army boots with a bandana wrapped around the left ankle. An interesting look but it worked.
Judd was a good-looking fella too back then and with longish floppy hair, a decent tan and the Hollywood smile he was a hit with the ladies.
The main characteristic was that the guy he played ‘John Bender’ was an absolute arsehole - charming and irresistible but still an arsehole. He was relentlessly arrogant and it was that character that I think changed my life more than anyone else.
I was a decent looking guy I guess but had no discernable look to call my own. Still wearing C&A jeans with Hi-Tec trainers was a little mid middle of the road and I went for a new look. After the Breakfast Club I had an identity that clearly worked with the opposite sex to strive for. I found a checked shirt in my dad’s wardrobe, ripped off the sleeves and chucked it over a long sleeve ‘Tee’. Tucking the blackish jeans into my Paratrooper boots and donning the Levi’s trucker denim jacket I already had I was nearly there. I completed the look with a pair of fingerless weightlifting gloves robbed from my local sports shop and my sister’s bandana round the ankle completed the vision of pure sex appeal.
I was set.
Sheepishly, I launched my new range at the youth club one evening. It worked too. The chicks loved it. I am blessed to have the olive skin of Mr Nelson and my hair had naturally grown out of its bowl cut my mother loved so much to a similar length to that of his character. The train-tracks on the teeth weren’t quite as same as the Hollywood smile but you can’t have it all.
The girls were checking me out and no mistake. They weren't queuing around the block but at parties I never came home without a bit of the old tonsil tennis. In fact I don’t recall one decent looking girl from my year in school slipping through the Keeping net.
When every girl in school wants a slice of your cake it doesn’t take long before you think you’re all right too. Then you start the catwalk swagger and the obnoxious looks of utter contempt at almost everyone around you. It’s not a conscious thing – you just do it.
The arrogance comes naturally and before long you became an arrogant son of a bitch. Accidental target reached.
So what’s the problem with that? There’s nothing wrong with overly prominent self-assurance so why the big fuss? If you’re comfortable with who you are and naturally give off an air of confidence and ability then who’s to complain?
Arrogance can however have an adverse effect; every day you’ll see people swaggering along thinking they’re alright and then they’ll trip over a loose paving slab and that’s when they look far more stupid than the average Joe who trundles along the street minding his own business.
Unjustifiable arrogance is a paradox. You can strut along all you like if you actually have something you are particularly good at, desperately good looking, have achieved something that no man has but should you be merely a pawn in the cog of life then parading along like the world is yours will only set you up for a fall.
So beware the arrogant – behind the grand facade they can either be hero or zero.
