The Surgeon Will See You Now

Dear Octopus,


Today I bumped into The Surgeon, on the third floor of an old warehouse just off Old Street. A shiver ran down my spine, chilling my blood.


I'm certain that this man made an impression on me so lasting that I must have mentioned him to you at least once, but if your memory fails as frequently as my shower (another story) then it's potentially worth a recap. He calls himself 'The Surgeon' because an actual surgeon once caught him trying it on with his consultant anaesthetist, and professed him to be so clinical in his pursuit of women that once in his thrall 'the safety of their eternal organs rests entirely in his hands.' I met him on a ski-trip to Morzine back in 2008, courtesy of the creative solutions department of an extremely hospitable media owner. I was instantly both in total awe of him and utterly appalled, in perfectly equal measures.


Case Study


I'm not lying when I say he's a conundrum. Honestly, he is one of the most charming and intelligent men I've ever met. But he uses these admirable qualities to lull his prey into a highly falsified sense of security, then pounce like a rabid Alsatian.


On the slopes, he snapped a ski clean in half after falling awkwardly. Later on, we saw the girl who had helped him down the piste. This was a man so confident and yet so vile that he could casually stroll up to her in a crowded nightclub - a complete stranger having a quiet drink with her boyfriend and two of his biggest rugby-playing mates - and totally interrupt their conversation to say to her loudly enough for everyone to hear, 'I've seen you across the dance floor. You move like a young Shola Ama, but slightly less attractive. Oh my goodness, my heart is running away with me. Look: when you're weary of these Neanderthals, come and visit me over in the corner. But bring this condom with you. I don't take on filth like you without an insurance policy...' He then proceeded to sling said crumpled prophylactic down on the bar and dance energetically away. Still facing them all. Still maintaining eye contact with her.


The worst part was: she absolutely loved it. Her boyfriend's mates ended up paying for our taxi home.


Needless to say, today he was very quick to downplay his seduction techniques of yesteryear, claiming that those 'lurid endeavours' were no longer part of his repertoire. And maybe that's the case. Life moves on after all, and we can't all be stupid forever. I think he's even married. But his name - EVEN PRINTED ON HIS FUCKING CREDIT CARD - is still 'The Surgeon', so it pleases me to think that despite the new and advancing junctures on the long road to familial fulfilment, a little of the old scoundrel may always remain.


Your loving friend,


Action Squid