Punch Drunk
I leaned back against the window of Dixie Fried Chicken, amongst the assorted detritus of a night out in cosmopolitan Wakefield. My nose was just starting to throb. I looked down at my chest, and saw the sticky mass of blood and mucus, felt it as it began to seep through my shirt and cling grimly to my chest. I ran my tongue along my teeth, tasting iron but realising they were, in fact, all there, and I wondered (in the way that only a drunken philosopher can) how on Earth I came to be in that spot. Horribly, everything in my life had lead up to the previous few hours...

It all began at 6pm. The assorted staff of one of Wakefield’s premier eateries had got together to celebrate Christmas. We were a tight-knit group of people, we’d worked hard for the previous six weeks, and we were ready to do some drinking. We began our crawl at the bottom of Westgate, moving from dodgy bar to dodgy bar, aiming for the quickest ever completion of the Westgate run.

Time sped up, and flowed in to one continuous montage of slammed shots, necked pints, raucous dancing and sincere cries of “I bloody love you, mate!”

Staggering slightly, a few of us made our way to the Taxi rank. And that was when I heard the shouting behind me. Time and sobriety have ensured that I have forgotten exactly what was said, but I’ll give you the gist of it:

Drunken General Manager: What? Don’t be a bloody idiot?
Drunken Mad Irish Chef: Ah, to be sure y’do. You and him are tryin’ te push me out!
Drunken Head Chef: Don’t be right stupid, lad.
Drunken Mad Irish Chef: Oi hoird you say it! Oi hoird you say that you were gonna fuppin’ sack me, ya baxtards! O, me lucky charms, etc.

I waded in. These were three of my good friends, fighting! On a bonding night out!

Me: Come on now, matey, let’s leave it til we’re sober, eh?
DMIC: And YEW! YEW’VE BEEN WORRKIN’ WITH THEM, HAVEN’T YE?
Me: (laying a hand on his chest) Come on mate, we’re frie....

WHAM. WHAM. WHAM. WHAM.

The fist connected once, twice, thrice, four times. Sadly, all of the connections were a crunching meeting of his fist and my face. I am not ashamed to say that he knocked me right out. I came to to see another of my colleagues lob his kebab at the guy who hit me, and then all hell broke loose. Punches were thrown, kicks were kicked, a couple of the girls even got involved. And so I leaned back against the window of Dixie Fried Chicken, amongst the assorted detritus of a night out in cosmopolitan Wakefield. My nose was just starting to throb. I looked down at my chest, and saw the sticky mass of blood and mucus, felt it as it began to seep through my shirt and cling grimly to my chest. Strangely, the fuzz in my head was beginning to clear and as I looked to my left I saw, through blurry eyes, my girlfriend crying.

I thought this would be an opportune time to get myself some TLC. I staggered to my feet, and walked over to her. She looked at me, cried even louder, and backed away. Looking back on it, I must’ve come at her out of the night like some kind of gore encrusted vision of boozey nastiness, but I felt it was a bit strong.

That night was the first night that I’d seen my own blood spilt in anger. I was shocked at how much there was. And I resolved that if ever a situation comes up where I have to convince a Mad, Irish, Drunken Chef of our friendship, I’ll wear a fucking hockey mask.
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 16:44, Reply)