The pub was an upmarket, inner-suburb, floral-wallpapered one that had greeted marriage equality with rainbows on its chalkboard. We were there for an early evening quiz this month, about the usual fun geeky stuff: ancient Egyptians, 19th century symphonies and landlocked countries in Africa.
So I wasn't expecting the MC to make my fellow quiz nerds the butt of titty jokes. And I wasn't expecting him to ask customers to guess the colour of each others' panties.
I had assumed I was secure on cultural home turf, that I was safe in the large, non-sporting, middle-class shelter of boutique beers and quiz questions.
Which is why, when I politely let the MC know afterwards that I didn't appreciate his sexist jokes, I expected a patronising, "Well, I'll tone it down for you next time, luv, all right?"
Instead, his MC affability immediately changed to aggression. "You're just one person, it's not all about you; everybody else wants to have fun," he sneered. "If you don't like it, you don't have to come here."