NickWatson
Member
- Joined
- Jul 30, 2025
- Member Type
- Interested in Language
- Native Language
- Chinese
- Home Country
- China
- Current Location
- China
The Dirtiest Gentleman I've Ever Met
Throughout my entire career in foreign affairs, I had never met anyone as downright filthy as him.He wore round black glasses and was almost always dressed in a light blue shirt tucked into dress pants. With a coffee in hand and a polite smile on his face, he could often be found chatting away with the women in our office.
The man in question? Ben — a British colleague I met while working at a language training center. Balding and breathtakingly messy, he left quite the impression. Now, you may ask why I’m pointing out his bald head. Well, over here, when people think of British men, two things tend to come to mind: gentlemanly manners... and baldness.
Of course, I know not every British man is bald. Take Mr. Bean, for example — the comedic genius who mocks 007, or even the various actors who played James Bond themselves. So yes, British gentlemen, don’t get me wrong — I hold no stereotypes. Whether others do, though, is another matter entirely.
So how did I come to discover the grim reality behind Ben’s polished exterior?
It started with a phone call.
"Dear Mr. Watson!" he said, with his usual exaggerated courtesy. "My broadband is down. Could you come by and have a look? And perhaps help me contact the telecom company?"
I said, “Sure, no problem.”
That afternoon, at precisely 2 p.m., I arrived at his home, completely unaware I was about to walk into a living nightmare.
As soon as he opened the door and invited me in, I was stunned. And please forgive my language, but there’s no polite way to describe what I saw — his house was hell.
The smell hit me like a punch — the stench of dog feces that had clearly been left inside for days. The coffee table was stained with dried tea, and the floor was covered in old patches of dog urine. I counted four separate piles of dog poop, one of which had already started to fossilize.
I stole a glance at one of the bedrooms. The sheets and covers were filthy and strewn carelessly across the bed, stained with the kind of yellow grime that only time and neglect can produce.
Just as I was considering whether I should fake a phone call and flee, a Chinese woman stepped out of the bathroom… holding a dog.
My heart screamed, “Oh my God! He has a girlfriend?!”
I couldn't believe it. Who in their right mind would be attracted to a man who lives like this?!
Ben, unfazed, introduced her with a grin: “This is my girlfriend, Judy.”
Still reeling from the shock, I barely registered his next sentence:
“Nick, let me get you a Coke!”
Before I could protest, he opened his fridge — which was, to my horror, coated in green mold inside and out. Even the Coke bottle bore fuzzy white spots near the cap. I nearly gagged, but since it was winter and I had gloves on, I forced a polite smile and accepted the bottle, silently praying it wouldn’t explode in my hand.
I placed it gingerly on the nearest table, half expecting it to hiss（no idea if "hiss" is suitable for the situation) or burst/explode at any moment. Seizing the chance to step away from the biological hazard that was his fridge, I crouched down to examine the broadband setup instead. A few seconds of tracing the wires was all it took: the culprit was obvious — their dog had chewed straight through the cables.
I explained the issue to Ben as briefly as possible, called the telecom company to schedule a technician for the next day, and then made my escape with record speed.
As I reached the door, Ben waved cheerfully and said, “Hope you’ll visit again soon, Nick!”
I plastered on a fake smile and replied, “Sure, no problem,” while screaming internally, “RUN!”
Back at the office, I shared this horror story with some of my coworkers. To my surprise, the female colleagues dismissed it entirely.
“Ben? No way! He’s so gentleman!”
I just smiled and said nothing,but the universe had another plan.
A few days later, Ben’s landlord called our office, fuming.
He shouted into the phone:
“Tell your foreign teacher to clean up his mess and get out of my property within three days, or I’m calling the police!”
I had the phone on speaker. The room went silent.
Those same female coworkers who had defended Ben just days before sat in speechless shock.
As for me? I took a long sip of my coffee and thought to myself: “The definition of a ‘British gentleman’ sure is getting broader these days.”
_________________________________________________________________________________________
Note: “The Ben in this article really existed — he was my former colleague, though to others he felt almost surreal, and could you also point out the issues in this article, such as grammar or whether my word choice is idiomatic? I would be very grateful.”
Excerpt from "Nick Watson’s Collection of Anecdotes with Foreign Teachers"
Throughout my entire career in foreign affairs, I had never met anyone as downright filthy as him.He wore round black glasses and was almost always dressed in a light blue shirt tucked into dress pants. With a coffee in hand and a polite smile on his face, he could often be found chatting away with the women in our office.
The man in question? Ben — a British colleague I met while working at a language training center. Balding and breathtakingly messy, he left quite the impression. Now, you may ask why I’m pointing out his bald head. Well, over here, when people think of British men, two things tend to come to mind: gentlemanly manners... and baldness.
Of course, I know not every British man is bald. Take Mr. Bean, for example — the comedic genius who mocks 007, or even the various actors who played James Bond themselves. So yes, British gentlemen, don’t get me wrong — I hold no stereotypes. Whether others do, though, is another matter entirely.
So how did I come to discover the grim reality behind Ben’s polished exterior?
It started with a phone call.
"Dear Mr. Watson!" he said, with his usual exaggerated courtesy. "My broadband is down. Could you come by and have a look? And perhaps help me contact the telecom company?"
I said, “Sure, no problem.”
That afternoon, at precisely 2 p.m., I arrived at his home, completely unaware I was about to walk into a living nightmare.
As soon as he opened the door and invited me in, I was stunned. And please forgive my language, but there’s no polite way to describe what I saw — his house was hell.
The smell hit me like a punch — the stench of dog feces that had clearly been left inside for days. The coffee table was stained with dried tea, and the floor was covered in old patches of dog urine. I counted four separate piles of dog poop, one of which had already started to fossilize.
I stole a glance at one of the bedrooms. The sheets and covers were filthy and strewn carelessly across the bed, stained with the kind of yellow grime that only time and neglect can produce.
Just as I was considering whether I should fake a phone call and flee, a Chinese woman stepped out of the bathroom… holding a dog.
My heart screamed, “Oh my God! He has a girlfriend?!”
I couldn't believe it. Who in their right mind would be attracted to a man who lives like this?!
Ben, unfazed, introduced her with a grin: “This is my girlfriend, Judy.”
Still reeling from the shock, I barely registered his next sentence:
“Nick, let me get you a Coke!”
Before I could protest, he opened his fridge — which was, to my horror, coated in green mold inside and out. Even the Coke bottle bore fuzzy white spots near the cap. I nearly gagged, but since it was winter and I had gloves on, I forced a polite smile and accepted the bottle, silently praying it wouldn’t explode in my hand.
I placed it gingerly on the nearest table, half expecting it to hiss（no idea if "hiss" is suitable for the situation) or burst/explode at any moment. Seizing the chance to step away from the biological hazard that was his fridge, I crouched down to examine the broadband setup instead. A few seconds of tracing the wires was all it took: the culprit was obvious — their dog had chewed straight through the cables.
I explained the issue to Ben as briefly as possible, called the telecom company to schedule a technician for the next day, and then made my escape with record speed.
As I reached the door, Ben waved cheerfully and said, “Hope you’ll visit again soon, Nick!”
I plastered on a fake smile and replied, “Sure, no problem,” while screaming internally, “RUN!”
Back at the office, I shared this horror story with some of my coworkers. To my surprise, the female colleagues dismissed it entirely.
“Ben? No way! He’s so gentleman!”
I just smiled and said nothing,but the universe had another plan.
A few days later, Ben’s landlord called our office, fuming.
He shouted into the phone:
“Tell your foreign teacher to clean up his mess and get out of my property within three days, or I’m calling the police!”
I had the phone on speaker. The room went silent.
Those same female coworkers who had defended Ben just days before sat in speechless shock.
As for me? I took a long sip of my coffee and thought to myself: “The definition of a ‘British gentleman’ sure is getting broader these days.”
_________________________________________________________________________________________
Note: “The Ben in this article really existed — he was my former colleague, though to others he felt almost surreal, and could you also point out the issues in this article, such as grammar or whether my word choice is idiomatic? I would be very grateful.”
