When talent-nighting, have talent.
The place: Sukhumvit Soi 11, where all strata of Bangkok society shake the drips of Nana sleaze from their clothing to clink cocktails and dance to live music until the sun pierces the mist around the skyscrapers.

It was a clammy, hot night (for a change). We’d wrapped up the day’s meetings in time to step out into the afternoon sunshine, so none of us felt much like going home, and we opted for a jungle curry with rice and a beer or two before taking a couple of taxis to Suk 11. The theme of the evening was to be live and spontaneous.

After we descended from the taxis, one bar to our right caught our eye: a cosy but modern affair with a glass-panelled front, soft lighting and a bare brick mini-stage at the back for open mic acts. The place was owned by a couple of former radio DJs, so we figured it was a pretty safe bet in terms of hearing some real talent. We got the cocktails in and settled down for an evening of extremely eclectic entertainment, from the waif-like girl with a guitar who sounded spookily like Thom Yorke when she sang to the huge bare-chested guy who slapped a breakbeat on his chest to accompany himself.

Just before midnight a gaggle of local lads came through the door. They all looked barely old enough to be drinking in public, but you could see the bulge of their muscles through their short-sleeved shirts and they walked with the juiced-up swagger of Croydon’s finest. My colleague, who had lived in Bangkok for a little while, motioned with his head and murmured “Muay Thai”. The martial artists colonised a table and got enough drinks in to last the next four hours, and scanned the bar to check if any farang was looking at them funny.

The ambience in the bar was pretty relaxed and there was no particular reason to think anything would kick off, until two things happened more or less at once: a young guy selling leather jackets came through the door; and the next act took the mic. Mr. Leather Jacket clearly needed to make up his quota for the day as he was very persistent, waving the sleeves of his sample jacket in the faces of all the customers and saying “Leather, leather”. I took one look at this jacket and decided it was about as leather as a polyester raincoat, and waved him off. The Croydon crew were less genteel and started slapping him around a bit, tugging at the jacket and almost making the poor guy fall flat on his face. Then, in a split second, the entire table (including Mr. Leather Jacket) froze: the next act had begun to sing.

As one we turned to look at the stage and saw a twentysomething guy with a burgeoning gut putting a childbirth-worthy level of enthusiasm into singing My Heart Will Go On...in the manner of someone who had only seen a video of the original song on TV with the sound off. He sang in time, he got all the words right, but the melody was nowhere to be seen. A couple of glances exchanged to quell the bubbling hysteria amongst us later, and we mutually decided that he was not profoundly drunk; he was, instead, profoundly hard of hearing. This seemed to be confirmed when he kept blissfully singing despite the Muay Thai gang’s increasingly raucous shouts for him to shut up (I assume), which in fact only seemed to encourage him. His eyes closed and he turned his cherubic face upwards to belt out the chorus, and one of the lads decided he’d had enough. He loosened his grip on Mr. Leather Jacket’s collar and strode up to the stage before pouring his entire large beer into the amp.

The amp spat and crackled into silence, pouring forth a large cloud of dirty white smoke, and the singer popped open his eyes before lunging bleatingly at his latest critic. The guy was visibly stifling a laugh as he fended off the doughy fists of his opponent, and seemed to be calculating exactly how many ribs he was going to break to teach this guy a lesson.

It was then that our hero sprang into action.

With a speed that none of us expected of him, Mr. Leather Jacket ran up the stage, prised the two pugilists apart and slapped his finest product sample over the singer’s head, rushing him out of the bar like a policeman bundling a suspect into a waiting patrol car. The rest of us were still sitting there in a mixture of dumbfounded tension and relief that no blood had been spilled, and the patrons instantly waded in to calm their slap-happiest customers before they went off into the night after their prey. Of course, as soon as the source of excitement had been removed, the ambience very quickly returned to normal, and after the backup amp had been wheeled out, the next open mic act took the stage with little more than a hint of a quiver in her voice. On our table, we relaxed into our drinks and mulled over the fact that Thai fighters had just blown up the deaf star with the help of the young skai-hawker.
( .Yeti., Fri 15 Mar 2013, 12:51, 50 replies)

An unexpected helping hand.
Just took our 6 year old daughter down to our local Argos (and bore witness to the Book of Laminated Dreams) for her to purchase out of her birthday money some cheap and nasty pink ring (cue various paedo jokes ahoy). Unfortunately they didn't have the right size in stock so she threw a wobbly and ended up kicking her mum in the leg (while I pretended not to laugh and looked the other way). She's at that age where she needs to control her anger; she's getting there but there are times when you feel a baseball bat with a nail in it wouldn't go amiss. Regardless we get back to the car, mum's pissed, the daughter's pissed and I'm sitting there stuck in the rhetorical middle. As we were about to visit other family members they kick off again shouting at each other about random things so we decide to drop me and the midget off at my house and the spouse to continue on her crusades separately today.

As we pull up daughter does her last man standing impression and would not leave the car with me. We manage to get her out of the car by her own accord (not a Honda unfortunately) and we are standing on the pavement when mum drives off. Daughter stands by the front hedge and starts screaming at me in some right ol' tantrum and I stand there smiling and not really helping. FIGHT ON. She freaks, hops forward and smacks me right in the face with her money purse, which I was completely not expecting at all and actually stung like a bastard. She goes to do it again but I was ready this time (a bruise on your forehead will give you amazing awareness) and block the shot, spin her around and try to stop her running off.

This all happens in a matter of seconds which was exactly the same time as a Police car was passing by. This copper spins the car around, winds down the passenger window and shouts out to me "My god sir, I've just witnessed you being assaulted, do you wish us to press charges on this child?" She went white and started shaking while crying uncontrollably and hugging me. "Oh no officer, I do believe she didn't mean to do that to me, did you?" "OH GOD NO I'M SORRY I'M SORRY!!!!" she screams, terrified that she was about to be sent to the clink and do hard time. The policeman gives me a thumbs up, I give him a smile and a nod and he carries on driving back down the road, leaving the daughter terrified and wanting to sit down in the house. I had a quiet chat to her about her behaviour and she's currently calmed down watching Road Runner, as am I.

So thank you Mr Officer whoever you are for taking the time to spin your car around and calmly intervening over a tantrum a little girl was having. It may not seem like he did much but you taught her a few valuable lessons in life (one of which is "DON'T FUCK ABOUT IN PUBLIC").
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Sun 17 Mar 2013, 15:43, 24 replies)

Noob
I was in the local when two arseholes started having a 'go at each other. The harmless banter got rather more and more heated. This of course developed to the 'outside...NOW' threat. Outside they went and a few of us went to watch the 'scrap'. After a few minutes of blows being exchanged, it was quite obvious that one of them was gaining the 'upper hand. As the chap's nose got bloodier, the one who was winning asked 'Have you fuckin' 'ad enough yet?' 'Don't know' came the rply, 'I've never been in a fight before?'
( Ninj, Mon 18 Mar 2013, 16:01, 6 replies)

Scramblers
It was about 01:00 on a saturday morning in Belfast city centre. A friend of mine was talking to a woman, when a spide (N. Irish chav) sped past him on his moped, almost sending the girl flying. It was just outside a chinese restaurant in a particularly crazy part of the city, Shaftesbury Sq. All the bars in the area get let out at once and it is bedlam. The spide stopped a short distance up the street, where his mates were laughing like a pack of hyenas. My friend shouted "Try that again you wee wanker and see what happens." He sped towards them again, but my friend stepped calmly to the side, grabbed him by the collar, and lifted him off the moped as it continued, driverless, down the footpath. The spide landed on his back. My friend lifted his crash helmet visor, dumped his skelping hot gravy chip into his face, and closed the visor again.

I wept.
(hmsmajesty, Fri 15 Mar 2013, 0:25, 10 replies)

I'm sure I've told this one before...
Late 80s in a Midlands city, an evening of beer and bands beckoned.
During the support band, for reasons unknown to this day, I find myself trading blows with another gig goer. It was all over in seconds and neither of us seemed that hurt so I return to the bar with my mates.

A short time later we are accosted by my erstwhile opponent and his 8 or so entourage, demanding retribution and a proper punch up ‘outside’ where we would not be interrupted by bouncers or other spoil sports.

We numbered a mere 5 so it was likely we would come off second best even with the skills of Mad Pete, our resident Geordie nutter. It was he who announced “Right then, let’s go. After you poofs” and so we traipsed after the gang of them to the front door where the bouncers held it open, seeming to know what we were up to and not caring, so long as it happened on the pavement and not in the hall.

Just as the last of them stepped outside the venue, Pete swung round and marched us back to the bar, leaving them on the wrong side of the door and subject to the ‘No re-entry after 11’ rule. We stayed to watch the headliners (I think it was The Fall) and thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.

Come chucking out time there was no reception party waiting for us as being in Nottingham, it had pissed down all night and no one is worth waiting for that much.
(LetsGetDownToIt, Mon 18 Mar 2013, 15:54, 7 replies)

fashion fight
not exactly your typical punch-up, but i'm in too good a mood to discuss violence towards my fellow beings :)

several years ago, i was invited to the christening of my friend's nephew. as i hadn't met most of his family, i wanted to make a good impression, so a new dress was in order. off i toddled to dorothy perkins, intent on buying something nice to wear.
after over an hour of searching, i managed to find a nice dress in my size and price range, so i took it to the changing rooms to try it on.
the dress, a strapless green number, fitted well but just wasn't me. i tried to unzip the back of it to take it off, which was when i discovered i'd managed to catch quite a sizable amount of my hair in the zip, causing it to jam in place. i decided to try to pull the dress off over my head, then untangle my hair.
this plan backfired quite badly.
5 minutes later, an assistant was sent to check on the customer in the changing rooms, which is how she came to find me with half a dress pulled over my head, trapping my arms in place like giant floppy ears, with just enough dress left on me to not quite cover my underwear, whilst i swore, cursed and attempted to fight my way out of that damned dress.
eventually, the assistant managed to unzip the dress, freeing me and most of my hair. i quickly put my own clothes back on and got the fuck out of there before i died of shame.
so, there you go. had a fight with a dorothy perkins' dress and lost.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Mon 18 Mar 2013, 15:14, 8 replies)

Quick pea
Sometimes you have to act.
A few years back when I was in my early 20s I was walking along the street in my hometown. I happened to notice a little girl skipping along towards me on the other side of the road, she was all pigtails and freckles and smiles and couldn't have been more than 7 or 8. As she skipped towards the entrance to the park 2 lads, clearly several years her elders, emerged from the park and she was unable to avoid them and crashed into one of them.
I stood astonished as the scene unfolded in front of me and these 2 lads started shoving this little girl around. When I saw one of the lads lifting his hand and fully punching the girl in the face I saw red mist descending. I couldn't stand and watch this anymore. I crossed the road and my fists started flailing and boots started swinging. I was like a wildman. I fought with a savagery that I didn't think I had and I have to tell you guys.
Between the 3 of us we totally kicked the crap out of that little girl.
I even got her lollipop.
(Figmaus, Thu 14 Mar 2013, 16:04, Reply)

Lick boxing
I've done various martial arts on and off since the age of four and was as chuffed as nuts to get my black belt in Chinese kick boxing in December. As you can imagine, it involves a fair bit of the ol' fighting.

At one of our classes I was fighting big Tom. So named because he is called Tom and towers above everyone. It was about half way into the class, and Tom executes a push kick. These are more of a push than a kick, normally done at chest or stomach height to push your opponent back to give you some room to follow up with something. It's a straight kick, but involves you thrusting your hip into it at the end to generate the force to push someone back.

Tom, managed to plant his push kick right in my face. The hip thrust and push tends to drag the foot down when this is done. The sole of his foot slid down my face, dragging down my lower lip down and making it run the full length of his foot.

We'd been training for half an hour in bare feet at this point on a carpet that has 15 years of sweat, vomit and child piss soaked into it. There are some things mints just can't take the taste away from.
( Draconacticus Reject shampoo. Demand real poo!, Thu 14 Mar 2013, 15:40, 8 replies)

Curry shop smashup
I started my first ever job for a high street car insurance broker back one December in the mid-90's. I was told that they would be having their Christmas do at the local curry shop across the road. Fueled with the excited anticipation that all sorts of shennanigan's happened at company Christmas parties i was looking forward to a drunken rendezvous with Louise the data entry girl. After the main course had finished and several pints had been downed the MD stood up to give out various prizes for peoples achievements throughout the year. Just a load of tat really. I won the new boy award, which was some kind of misshapen teapot!

The boss then gave his last prize to Stephan..the office wideboy who sported an impressive mop of hair. Stephan opened the present to find a pair of scissors, to which the boss shouted "You've won the cut your fucking hair award", to which he impressively jumped across the table, grabbed the scissors and started chopping into Stephans locks.

Well, fuck me, every grudge that had built up through the year was let out as 15 people started beating the crap out of each other. At one point a full pint of larger went whizzing past my face and smashed into a picture on the wall. It was like something out of one of those wild west bar fights!

Louise ran past me crying and i left following her hoping for a comfort shag which alas never materialised.

The best bit was the next day where we all watched the MD walk sheepishly back to the restaurant with brown envelope full of cash in an attempt to not get them to press charges!

Christmas parties have all been downhill since then!
(wozza_c, Thu 14 Mar 2013, 13:38, 9 replies)

Where's the chalk?
I'm being forced to post this, or someone is going to beat me up, so if you don't like it, tough, fuck off. That includes anyone who read about this in Private Eye in 1973 or such-like, just enjoy it for what it is, rather than as a forensic account of eyewitness statements from an actual documented incident.
That said, I'm sure it has happened to somebody, and I can see no reason why it wouldn't have been the dipshit I'm about to nominate.

So, this tale involves a hapless bloke I know, who has the misfortune to look just like Trigger from "Only Fools and Horses", and is pretty much on a par with the character intellectually. This chap is one of those people who wants to be "a face" so badly, but hasn't got the brawn, brains or luck to be known as a "tasty geezer" round town.

That doesn't stop him pushing his luck, almost always with the wrong people, who will subsequently beat seven bells out of him, almost out of pity. Time after time he will appear, sporting magnificent injuries, epic shiners, from what he claims were "deals gone bad", but everyone knows were when he picks on a weedy looking bloke with glasses in the chip shop who turns round and batters him. (Chip shop, batters, see what I did there?) He's hopeless, a gangster wannabe, but never-gonna-be.

Anyway, I was told once of the time he was haunting the local snooker halls, they were his turf, he was trying to be Ronnie Kray, but was more Ronnie Corbett.

There was apparently some sort of disagreement with a gentleman who was half man, half gorilla, and who threw our Trigger out of his snooker rooms, to gales of laughter. Our Trig was having none of that, so went back to teach Mongo a lesson.
This man must have been an intimidating sight, because Trig was under no illusions, he knew he'd not stand a chance against him face-to-face.
So, he came up with the brainwave of marching up behind the apeman and twatting him over the head with a sock containing a couple of snooker balls. Pretty good call, I imagine, it's going to be Lights Out for most people when they are biffed unawares like that.

Trig psyches himself up, marches into the hall and sees the creature enjoying his game at the far end. Trig is like an Exocet now, targetted, unstoppable (but not French), and he kicks off one of his fake Italian loafers from the market, whips off his sock, and launches. Swiping up a couple of snooker balls into the sock as he passes a table, he raises his cosh, and can't resist calling out "Here, have some of this, you cunt..." as he strikes...

Unfortunately, our Trig is not only brainless, he is generally penniless too, and has neglected to waste good lager money on new socks anytime in the past decade. This means that as he calls out his taunt, the snooker balls are popping through the threadbare toes of the sock and bouncing away behind him, leaving him to dish out a ferocious clubbing with a flaccid sock alone.

I'm told that Trigger pissed himself when the apeman turned, stood up straight, and lifted the smelly article from the throbbing vein on his forehead. You can imagine the rest...
(Rsoles, Mon 18 Mar 2013, 22:15, 4 replies)

Skinhead in a kebab shop
Many years ago I decided to give up on cooking for an evening and go out for some local cuisine. Living in Hull at the time this meant a £2.90 Kebab shop pizza. While waiting for it to be cooked the pub next door began the process of chucking out in doing so filling the kebab shop. In stumbles a massive guy complete with #1 haircut and short skirted blonde girlfriend.

After about a minute it dawns on me that he is staring right at me, in the process accidently locking eyes for a moment.

I quickly look away and begin looking at the menu with intent. I glance back and he is still staring right at me. Worse still he begins to come towards me. My heart is racing, having never been in a fight as an adult, waiting for the slurred "What are you looking at?"

After what seems like forever he stares me down and come out with the immortal line

"Excuse me but you have the most piercing green eyes"

What can I say, I guess pants shitting terror really brings them out. He gave me a chip and I mumbled a thanks and hurried home with my pizza.
( willenium Fist bump for verification, Thu 14 Mar 2013, 15:37, 4 replies)

Of course I did all my fighting at the beaches.
Horrific.

Some sights have never left me. Grown men trying to escape by crawling on their bellies, or giving up and just curling into a ball crying for their mummy. That was the last time I took my wife to a Barbra Streisand film.
(Brigadier an old boot sitting on a man's face - forever, Mon 18 Mar 2013, 19:54, 2 replies)

May as well post this again.
Unfortunately, through a combination of bad luck and stupidity, I've been hardmanned to fuck quite a few times as an adult.

I am not hard. Like any good QOTWer I am over six foot and, ahem, heavily built. But I am resolutely soft as fuck. It took several confrontations, culminating in the one I'm about to describe, to realise that getting all up in people's business is not a wise move if you're soft as fuck.

Like (I suspect) a lot of young men, for a long time I longed to be hard. I watched all the Rocky films, lifted weights, and in crowded pubs I would cast steely glares at those I felt had slighted me or my companions. Lots of 'no, YOU fuck off or I'll batter you ya cuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuunt' etc etc etc. In retrospect, it wasn't a pleasant look, and was made all the more ridiculous by the fact that in all likelihood I would never batter anyone. I was the worst kind of tough guy – a well brought-up fraud, posing and mouthing off. My own small contribution to Broken Britain.

Cut to the land of the free … Middlesbrough! Oh, glorious Middlesbrough. My heart beats for thee. I grew up not far from this delightful town, and when I was about 20 I went for my final night out there (although I didn't know it at the time).
Things were going well. I was in a club with my two best friends, we were dancing like joyous elves in bad shirts, and a lady in a tight brown dress was letting me finger her on the dancefloor. YES! I got so carried away with excitement that halfway through Bon Jovi's 'Living on a Prayer' I clambered up onto a nearby stage, and with much grace and enthusiasm hurled myself bodily into the air with an almighty 360º strum of my air guitar. Splat! Right back onto the dancefloor sending revellers scattering.

Picked myself up and dusted myself off, only to see that I was surrounded by a tight-knit semicircle of five young men. I couldn't hear their remonstrations over the music, but could tell by their faces that they didn't like me. No matter. I'm hard as fuck, remember.

"FUCK OFF YOU CUNNNNNNTTTTTTSSS! I"LL FUCKING DO ALL OF YAAAAAAAAA!"

For those of you lucky enough to have never been totally and mercilessly sucker punched right in the fucking ear, let me explain how it feels. Imagine it's an icy cold day. Your face is freezing, your ears are red, and someone kicks a heavy basketball from about five feet away right into the side of your stupid fucking head.

For the second time in ten seconds, I found myself lying down on the dancefloor.

After a few confusing moments I managed to gather myself together and stagger out of there, into the foyer where the bouncers congregated. Holding my head, I demanded satisfaction. "Some CUNT just sucker punched me! Get him out here! I'm going to fucking have him!"
Dutifully, and with a wry smile, one of the bouncers who'd seen the lot went and explained the situation to my assailant. A minute later, he was bounding out into the foyer to meet me. The bouncers stood round like betters at a cock fight. "Go on then lads, have it out."

Moments like that can be very edifying. I had peers who never would have dreamed of even going into this club, let alone getting themselves into the situation I was currently in. But I was a prick. Full of shit. And thoroughly deflated by the realisation that here I had a chance to actually prove I was hard, and in actual fact I was just scared as fuck.

My 'opponent' let out a mighty roar, and in true hulk style ripped his shirt off to reveal a body that had clearly been honed through years of strenuous physical activity and hardship. I looked and felt like an accountant. I had thoroughly embarrassed myself. I muttered something along the lines of "forget it, fucking hell, I just wanted an apology," and sloped off to catch a bus. My opponent casually put his shirt back on and went inside the club. Probably to fuck the girl I'd pulled.

Bastard.
( Wet-chinned bag shanker Cannot parse Wogan, Fri 15 Mar 2013, 11:00, 3 replies)

I'm more of a lover than a fighter
So when the 6'6'' meathead offered me out

I fucked him up the arse
(LetsGetDownToIt, Thu 14 Mar 2013, 12:30, 1 reply)

Spanking Our Monkey
Back in the late 70s/early 1980s, life was pretty grim for many of us kids. Mrs Thatcher, Jim'll Fix It, the prospect of joining the dole queue, and worst of all...absolute shite television. Yes, you kiddiwinks here (ie. those under the age of about 35) have no idea of the crap we were "entertained" with, back before we were old enough to hang around the VG all evening, and when a "games console" gave you hours of fun, moving a line up and down your TV screen while a dot bounced back and forth.

There was one thing myself and my friends NEVER missed when it was screened, however, and it sent us into a frenzy, recreating the choicest scenes from the latest episodes. The program in question was "Monkey", and for those unenlightened souls (oh yes, nice tie-in there) who don't know it, it was about this monkey who hatched from a stone egg, who rode around on a pink cloud, and was on pilgrimage to India, guarding a priest who was a chick, with his mates who were a fish and a pig, but they were all blokes, not animals. Apart from the Priest, who was bald. Got that? No? Get the box set then, it's classic stuff!

Oh, I forgot the important bit - fighting. Lots of martial arts, leaping about and twirling colourful banners and dodgy plastic swords and magic staffs. It was fucking epic to us 10 yr olds, and encouraged us to tool up and set off on pilgrimage too, down to the local park.

Now, my friend's little brother was called Adey, and a grumpier little fat shit you have never met. Kind of like Eric Cartman, only more bad-tempered, he decided that HE was Monkey.
Ordinarily, one of us older kids would pull rank and over-rule him, but Adey had a trump card - he had a Monkey-style fighting staff, given to him by the Gods, on top of a mountain.

OK, so we soon found out it was actually out of his Dad's allotment, where it was used for growing runner beans, and had originally been a Surveyor's pole. About 7 feet long, painted black and white, with metal tips, it was Adey's prize possession. What's more, he really could spin it about a bit, he was practically a Ninja! (Looking back, 30 odd years later, I can see Adey, gracefully backflipping in slow motion, whilst twirling his stick and flattening two massive skinheads who dared invade our park. I suspect my memories are not wholly accurate.)

Adey was obsessed with Monkey, his Mum even made him a yellow neckerchief, and he had the power to disrupt even our football games, when we saw him stamping towards us, spinning his magic Staff. We'd scramble to grab weapons of our own, sticks from fences, whatever, then surround him in the traditional Martial Artist way, brandishing our weapons, ready to fight. At this point, we would invariably break with the traditional, sacred way of the (celluloid) warrior, and would rush Adey together instead of getting twatted one at a time.

For a little fat bastard, Adey would put up quite a fight, and that stick was a liability, you really didn't want to get clouted by it. Being so long, it would keep us at bay for some time, whilst we traded insults in OTT-cod-Chinese accents, just like on the TV series. (Eeeh, you couldn't get away with that these days, they'd send you on a course, etc etc)

Inevitably though, little Ade would succumb to superior numbers, and would end up getting clattered over the head a few times and thrown in the brook ("Ha, cool off Fish-face!"). Time and again, our scraps would be interrupted by some well-meaning adult who spied us from their car, would jam on the brakes and "save" the poor little kid being bullied...who would promptly return for another round, another beating, after they'd gone.

Looking back, those care-free days seemed to last for years. Days of honorable battles against demons (ie. other kids who were stupid enough to come to our park without any sticks), pilgrimage (to the aforementioned VG, for Wham Bars) and adventures a-plenty, too many to recall properly.

I do remember quite clearly the day it all ended though, and Monkey was despatched for the final time. One of our number managed to purloin some sort of massive rake from his Dad's shed, and this was a dead-ringer for the weapon used by Pigsy from the TV show. Finally, we had an equaliser, there would probably be bolts of lightning when the two weapons clashed.
Soon enough, Adey appeared on the horizon, Staff in hand, yellow neckerchief on, berating us as usual:
"Ah so, you lazy good-for-nothings want to lie about all day thinking about sexy ladies? Hiiii-yaaaah!!! Take that..."
We encircled him, as per usual, then he noticed the massive rake.
"Erm, hey, where did you get that. That's not fai..."

CLAAAAAANG!!!

No bolts of lightning, no magic cloud, just little Adey, on the floor, his magic Staff broken in two, and us lot, I'm sorry to say, joyfully beating the crap out of him, and enjoying every second of it. We launched him into the brook, and retired to the swings, bored of Monkey and being Chinese warriors.

It was then that the evil black four-legged demon that lived in a nearby cave appeared on the scene, looking for vengeance for having his evil plans foiled.
Otherwise known as Prince to his owner, this was a particularly large and boistrous black labrador which was obsessed with humping everything that moved (as did we, in later years, strangely enough), and we'd all flee to the safety of somewhere high when he escaped his garden.

Poor little Adey was clambering out of the brook in tears when Prince spotted him and set off in pursuit. Adey knew the beast was bearing down on him, but he was beaten, his Staff was broken, his wellies were full of water, doom was inevitable.
We cheered as Prince launched onto his back at full tilt, and tragic Adey bawled, unable to fight him off. It was probably just a few seconds before Prince's owner dragged him off and helped poor Adey to his feet, but it was long enough for all of us.
One of the Big Kids, who knew about such things, shouted :
"It's Spunky Monkey!", we all howled, despite not having a clue what he was on about. From that day on, Adey was known as Spunky, even though his obsession with playing Monkey was well and truly over.

Yes, we were utter bastards, just like all kids. Years and years later, I saw Adey in a pub and he's now tall, and built like a brick shit-house. I neglected to remind him of our martial arts sessions, but the suicidal idiot inside me was screaming for me to pluck a hair from my sideburns and blow it really fast, to summon my magic cloud to take me home. Luckily, I suspect, I chose to get a taxi...


tl;dr - Nasty kids bully a little brother after watching a telly program, and now wonder how they didn't accidentally kill the poor wretch.
(Rsoles, Mon 18 Mar 2013, 21:20, 10 replies)

Not the Cornetto.
It was 1984 and I lived with my grandparents in Urmston just outside Manchester. The only activity there was the local swimming pool with its soup of plasters, bits of old floats and toe scrapings. My brother, our mate Gerrard and I had been for our weekly splashabout and departed homewards. We were being followed.
As a treat we all bought Cornettos, the god of ice creams in the day. We were young, spirited and about to partake in creamy, nutty, cone goodness. A boy and his 'gang' of two 7 year olds had different plans. First he tried to trip me up, I laughed and we all walked faster. Then he grabbed my coat and tried to pull me over, I remained on my feet with my heart racing. Then he knocked my Cornetto out of my hands.... That was it, I grabbed his hand and bent his finger round. He tried to push me off but I had a firm grip of his middle finger. My brother, Gerrard and his crew stood and watched as I grappled with my assailant's finger. Then he tried to get me in a headlock but I was too quick and pushed his arm away and grabbed his head. Holding it under one arm I gave his forehead an almighty slap....
He started crying so I released him and apologised. Our crews departed, each to our own homes with the fight fresh in our minds we wondered how society could have gotten so bad as to allow today's events to have taken place.
(MistahG, Sun 17 Mar 2013, 16:43, 2 replies)

Righteousness
I’ve never been in a serious physical fight in my life. I’m a really, really fucking passive, very fucking relaxed sort of bloke. It takes a lot to piss me off, but...

I’ve never understood why some blokes love to go out, get a gutful of piss and start a blue.

To my mind, it isn’t worth giving those sorts of blokes the savage near death beating they deserve. After the stitches come out, they’d be back out there, looking to inflict violence upon another easy target, like a demented skinhead Energizer bunny. Life usually sorts them out in the end. They become car detailers, service station attendants or lifelong welfare recipients. Facial tattoos do tend to somewhat limit your employment prospects.

If I am enjoying a nice night out, I’m not too pissed, but I’m unfortunate enough to attract the attention of a particularly obnoxious mouth-breather eager for conflict, and I’m in an equally feisty mood with no fear of consequences, I will happily give a fucking good gob full of “life coaching”.

To whit;

Pissed moron shoves you, utters some threat. He has to be immediately informed at absolute full controlled volume, with full eye contact, with no swearing whatsoever, he’s not very smart, not tough, and he’s very unpleasant to be around drunk or sober. A propensity towards unmitigated violence actually isn’t a very good social skill. It doesn’t translate to a successful and happy life (particularly in an office environment). His friends fear him, rather than respect him, in time they will drift away and he’ll end up in prison for bashing his infant step-kids if he doesn’t address the need or desire to inflict violence upon others. It’s not normal, it’s wrong. Society will rightfully hate him and resent his very existence. Obviously no-one will ever stand up to him for fear of nasty retribution, but they will absolutely hate him, for the rest of his life.

He has the choice to exercise some tiny shred of self-discipline, sort out his problems and lead a fulfilling life, or keep going until inevitably someone bigger, stronger and more violent sticks a knife in his guts, so he can die a noble street warrior’s death, bleeding out on the footpath amongst the cigarette butts and dogshit.



The last time I pulled this stunt was in a remote work camp, some machinery operators (bulldozer drivers) had a day off in middle of their roster, they duly got stuck into the piss throughout the afternoon and by evening were well and truly shit-faced and being very fucking obnoxious to all and sundry in the camp. No coppers within cooee, a few security guards who specialised in watching late night pay TV and eating donuts.

It was getting stupid; non-existent reasons for starting “retribution” fights, threats, shoving and just being cunts because they were big, pissed, looked tough with the their hard-man stickers (tattoos) and shitty attitude.

After receiving a few shoves and some primal drooling utterances to goad me into retaliating, I was so very fucking over it. I stood up to them, risked a beating, and fucking spelt it out in a barely controlled Mr Darcy–esque rage.

Maintaining full eye contact, I held forth a full, loud heartfelt diatribe until they just stood there, silently swaying, dumbfounded, slack-jawed and drooling.

Fucking cretins.


After a small silence, some of them mumbled apologies, we engaged in the obligatory handshake/backslaps shared a few cigarettes, and then the sorry stories of fucked up childhoods and ensuing justifications for abrogating personal responsibility started.

The same old stories started to come out, growing up in a broken family blah blah, all the usual pathetic self-pitying shit that “explains” the complete lack of personal responsibility. Fucking spare me the violins.

I’m just standing amongst them, staring them down, King of righteousness and reason.

One bloke with tears tattooed on his face actually starts crying, and in between the sobs and saliva, blubbers some crap about how he’d fucked up his whole life up, but he was going to go straight now. This was his first real job, first time in his life. He’d just been released after serving 10 years inside and had jagged this job through a rehabilitation scheme. Not going back inside, ever.



I pause in mid-drag on the cigarette...err, sorry. What? Did you just say 10 years?


That’s, ummm...a lot of time, to err, you know, be in prison, like.


oh, manslaughter. really?



Jesus. What the fuck was I thinking?



No, no, of course, I’m sure it wasn’t your fault. Well, yeah, it’s great that you have a job, and ahh, yeah..no, no, please, take the rest of the pack, I really should give them up. No, no, I insist. Here, have the lighter too, and ah, yeah, I’ll see you later mate, sorry about you know, the yelling and stuff. Just can’t seem to control the temper, yeah, the old man used to beat me and stuff when I was a kid, but I’m working through it. One more hug? ahhh, yeah sure, sorry, what’s that? A hug’s better than a punch up? Ha ha ha yes indeed, oh my word yes, ha ha...look, I gotta go and err...get some sleep, so I’ll see you blokes tomorrow. Nice to meet you, great tatts. Bye now.


Couldn’t have stuck a pin up my arse, I was that puckered.

10 years. I mean...fuck...I could’ve ended up with a knife in the guts.



Moved out the next morning to another camp.
( Ken Oath, Tue 19 Mar 2013, 14:07, Reply)

Fight
Seen a few people taking the piss out of martial arts, thought I'd weigh in.

For the most part, a lot of so called "martial artists" are full of shit. The ones who can actually fight (that I've met at least) don't brag about it.

But,

That doesn't mean Martial Arts don't work.

I have been studying Wing Chun for about 7 years or so. I used to take it very seriously, training 3 times a week, going on 10 day long training camps abroad, etc, etc.

A few years ago, I was walking home with a friend, drunk to the point of staggering. It was about 3am and there was no-one around. We turned a corner onto the road we both lived on, and came across about 6 lads, hanging around at the bottom of the street.

Thinking nothing of it we went to walk past them. One of them said something along the lines of "did you just call me gay?" My mate turned around and said "Eh?" the next thing we knew, 6 of them were beating the living shit out of him. For literally no reason.

He hit the ground, and they started kicking him in the face. I tried to stop them, and got punched in the face repeatedly. Two of them peeled off from the group and set on me. Instinctively, I started blocking punches, completely unable to see where they were coming from through a combination of being drunk, and having just been punched several times in the face. I was literally just shooting my arms out in the way I have drilled for 7 years. Occasionally I felt a connection as I managed to deflect their punches.

Now, I would love it if this story ended with me turning into Jackie Chan and taking them all on at once and kicking the shit out of them. But unfortunately life doesn't work like that, and they absolutely beat the fuck out of me, without me landing a single punch back in retaliation.

However, having realised they weren't getting through with many of their punches, they eventually stopped trying and fucked off.

I walked back round the corner to see my mate lying on his back, completely unconscious, in the middle of the pavement. I phoned an ambulance. i explained what had happened to the operator and she had me put the phone next to his mouth so she could hear if he was breathing or not. He wasn't.

Next, she talked me through how to do mouth to mouth resuscitation whilst we waited for the ambulance. The ambulance arrived and the paramedics went straight to him to revive him. One of them came over to me to see if I was alright.

"yeah, I'm fine, sort him out" I say.

"Have you seen yourself, mate?" he said.

I had a look in the wing mirror of the ambulance. I was absolutely plastered in blood - my mouth was split open, my nose was broken and bleeding and my eye was already swelling up. I couldn't feel any of it through adrenaline.

We went to hospital, and they X-rayed him to check he was alright. he was fine, thank fuck, but he was in shock, alternating between laughing hysterically and and crying because he couldn't process what had happened. This went on for about an hour before he calmed down.

Anyway - the point of all this: Martial Arts don't make you into some sort of unstoppable fighting machine that can take on all comers. But in my case, they saved my life, and my friend's life. The doctor told me afterwards that had I been knocked out, it would have been much, much worse as I wouldn't have been on hand to phone the ambulance and administer mouth to mouth, and my friend would likely have died.

Had I not been training for a few years by that point, my immediate reaction wouldn't have been to start trying to block everything. It would have probably been to flail wildly in their general direction trying to hit them, and then get knocked the fuck out. And then fuck knows what might have happened.

The epilogue to this story is that I went back to work for a week without realising I had a concussion. I eventually realised there was a problem when I kept being sent to do a job somewhere in the building, only to get to the location and completely fail to recall what it was I'd been asked to do no more than 60 seconds earlier. the police visited and took a statement and a description ("my height, shaved head, about my age" that was the best I could do). There were no witnesses, and the case was closed shortly after.

Occasionally, I see stories in the local paper about groups of lads beating the shit out of people for no reason whatsoever right near to where it happened, and I'm fucking positive it's the same people.
( PMGT -Bacon., Sun 17 Mar 2013, 2:10, 16 replies)

Austria C1984
I’d gone skiing with a groups of friends and we were sampling the delights of the numerous clubs in the small town.

One chap, John, despite being ginger had managed to catch the eye of a young lady in another group. He was apparently getting on well, and they’d decided to wander off by themselves. Prior to this, he’d nipped off to the toilets, only to be confronted by three blokes from the other group, threatening to turn him over if he didn’t leave her alone.

He came back from the bogs rather shaken, but apart from lots of sympathy no one was really going to do anything or take it further.

Apart from Andy.

He went over to the three lads and started screaming at them to come outside with him and have it out. Off they bundled and two of us followed him outside to see if he needed any help.

I got outside just as he was throwing his jacket off and storming up to the biggest one, shouting like a deranged psychotic killer, veins throbbing from his head and spittle flying.

The response from the now shocked subject of his attention?

“Err, well I’d like to fight you, but I’ve got the wrong shoes on to fight in the snow”, as he looked down, vaguely shuffling his feet on the ice.
(Kliper Filllets Getting noticed by twats on the internet since, Fri 15 Mar 2013, 14:00, 5 replies)

Fight song
I played in a band in college, eventually playing in and around New York City for actual money. One weekend we played at a bar in a medium-shit town outside of the city, which we found out on arriving was a popular destination for throngs of bikers at that time.

The whole show felt... precarious from the beginning. People seemed to be having a good, reasonably impaired time, but it wasn't a totally relaxed situation. Half way through the set we got to the single most ridiculous and questionable song of the whole set- a short R+B ballad called Juicy Wet Dream Boogly-Doo, which was awesome but sounded a bit like a song Ween would do if they were imitating themselves. A few minutes in to the song a fierce lady-on-lady struggle spontaneously broke out within the bikers, and spread through them like a slow motion explosion of leather and hair extensions and bottles. We were kind of dumbfounded on stage, but we all tacitly agreed to keep playing, going through the climactic section of the song time after time, maybe because we were all thinking sudden silence would only draw attention to our corner of the bar.

The fight lasted about five minutes with us playing this ridiculous song the whole time, and then the police showed up and spoke to a few people for another five minutes and ended up taking someone away, and around that time we decided to stop the song, which had ended up going from a 3 minute joke to a 13 minute long sexual explosion based soundtrack to a massive brawl. Looking back I think we might have done more to inflame the situation that we thought.
( the prick of misery pierced my foot on a spiiiike on, Fri 15 Mar 2013, 7:38, 1 reply)

I'm no hard man so I get out of fights
I was in a chippy queue post pub kicking out. There was a knuckle dragging moron in front of me I could see him getting increasingly bored with waiting in line. So eventually the inevitable happened his neanderthal brow swung around his piggy eyes fixed on me until I glanced at him "what you looking at?" here we go I thought. Ah well in for a penny ...lets try something

I looked at him a smile playing on my lips "OH MY GOD" I breathed "It's you!"
"Whut?" said thicky
"you're on the telly! don't tell me your name I wanna guess" I started tugging my mates sleeve "hey it's that guy off off that thing...ohhhhHHH It'll come to me" I leaned across the counter and shouted to the chippy guy "can I borrow your marker pen mate?"

I shoved a pen & a napkin under his nose "can I have your autograph?"

He actually signed his name then turned his back on me. His desire to punch me forgotten (which is odd because I was behaving more punchable now than when I was just waiting in line)
(sittingduck Attention seeking, bullshitting fuck-knuckle, Thu 14 Mar 2013, 14:41, 1 reply)

Does a story about avoiding a fight count?
I used to run a pub with my dad, it was a bit rough. It was opposite the Magistrate's Court, so Thursdays usually saw the place full of the less desirable members of society celebrating their acquittals or drowning their sorrows. Most of the time it was fine, some of the guys were, although clearly scallywags, quite a good laugh, and generally they were always nice to me, my mum & dad & the other staff - it was just each other they used to like knocking seven bells out of O_o

One Saturday afternoon there was a Scottish guy sitting at the end of the bar, getting steadily more and more and more pissed. He wasn't a regular, I'd never seen him before, and he was making me a bit nervous. He'd already kicked off a couple of times and been calmed down by his mates - proper stereotypical drunken ranting along the lines of "I love you, you're my best mate you are, I fuckin' love you, wanker, I'll fuckin' 'ave you, fucking cunt, what are you looking at? mumble mumble" before settling back down - this usually being directed to whoever was walking past him at the time.

At one point, he beckoned me over and told me he was having one more pint, then going. That was a relief, I hadn't been relishing the idea of throwing him out - those of you who've met me have probably realised that I might look like a bruiser, but I'm actually more of a teddy bear fucking wimp. Before he went though, he wanted to tell me a joke.

Remember I mentioned he was Scottish? Well he had a proper Glaswegian accent, which was fairly hard to understand when he came in; several pints had rendered him nearly unintelligible to me. Seriously, it was like Russ Abbott's C.U. Jimmy. So the joke went like this:

Him: "Ah hee a hur a hee a hur hur a hee a hur"
Me: "Right... go on"
Him: "Ah hee a hur a hee a hur hur a hee a hur"
Me: "Okay!" *smiles encouragingly*
Him: "Ah hee a hur a hee a hur hur a hee a hur"
Me: "Ha, right?"
Him: "Ah hee a hur a hee a hur hur a hee a hur"
Me: *nods"
Him: "Ah hee a hur a hee a hur hur a hee a HUR!!!" *laughs*
Me: *laughs uproariously*

With that he downed his pint, shook my hand and left. That was twenty years ago, and I don't know a single word of that entire joke.

tl;dr - I pretended to understand someone so that he didn't punch me
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Thu 14 Mar 2013, 14:19, 3 replies)

'Tis the Season
Having a pint in my hometown in the arse end of nowhere (the rural West Midlands) a few years back. Me and an old school friend were back home with our families for Christmas and had agreed to go for a pint one night, so we headed to the local Wetherspoons (before you judge me, it's one of only two pubs in the town centre anyone under 60 would want to go to, and the other one's full of cunts).

Anyway. I was always a bit wary in this place ever since a Christmas several years previously where a chance remark from a friend of mine, asking someone if they'd mind terribly letting him past, had very nearly led to a brawl with the entire local football side, who were on their Christmas Party and doing their best to impersonate the obnoxious behaviour of their professional counterparts. So we had a few beers, kept ourselves to ourselves, had a chat, etc.

After a while, two blokes asked if they could share our table. Of course. We got chatting, and it turned out that were also local and our age but had been to another school, we knew some of the same people around town. We had a good chat, had a laugh etc. It was all in the Christmas spirit of peace on earth and good will to all men.

Then, as we were heading off, one of them said 'Hey... I don't suppose you er... fancy a fight?'

Eh?

'Sometimes we pop up to the car park by the old market at the end of the night, meet a few mates, and have a bit of a scrap.'

Eh?

'It's sort of like... Fight Club.'

No thanks.

'Alright. No problem. Have a nice Christmas.'

So there you go. I was invited to join my home town's version of fight club by having a Yuletide punch-up in a car park. I'm slightly worried I might be breaking some sort of rule by talking about it, actually...
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Thu 14 Mar 2013, 13:18, 2 replies)

Getting the most out of your fight...
I’m actually a black belt in Ju Jitsu, and also did a bit of Judo. Haven’t trained for years, but when I was a teenager I trained three or four days a week, practiced at home, watched a lot of instruction videos and the like. Due to going to a fairly horrible school, and then living in some fairly horrible areas since, I have had one or two chances to practice. So here’s my SnowyTheRabbit, Internet Hard Man guide to fighting.

1) Can you get out of fighting? Is it absolutely necessary? Even if someone’s getting in your face, they’re just trying to intimidate you most of the time. Can you just walk/run away? Because you might get hurt, fighting, you know… If in doubt, leg it.

2) OK, so you’re in a situation where you really do have to fight. You now have two options. You can either take the initiative, or be defensive.

3) There’s often much to be said for being defensive: the fight may still just fizzle out without anything happening, they may just try and lamp you once and then give up. Most fights are like this. People are much more willing to threaten violence than to use it. Also, if you know what you’re doing, being defensive gives you the opportunity to react to their moves. Think about how boxers fight – they wait for the opposition to strike and then use the opportunity to counterattack whilst their opponent is not focussed on guarding themselves. Don’t be the one who loses focus on guarding yourself.

4) On the other hand, if you decide to be offensive, get in quick. Going at someone like a madman and trying to hurt them as much as possible is likely to scare the shit out of them and make them stop. In martial arts it is generally discouraged because you’re fighting someone who is trained to react, but if you’re just getting involved in a brawl in the street with someone who’s probably drunk, emotional, and not thinking very straight, then committing to attacking them may be your best option.

5) Now assuming they haven’t given up and you haven’t legged it, you have to attack at some point – this is true whether you’re being defensive or offensive. Hurt them. Lots and lots and lots. And as quickly as possible. A kick to the goolies is good, but you generally find most men have such an inbuilt protective instinct that it’s actually harder than you think to get someone this way. A hard kick to the knee is much more likely to hit home as they probably have their feet rooted to the ground, and it hurts like fuck and stops them chasing you (caveat: you may break their knee). Another point is that you probably don’t want to punch them close-fisted to the head, because it will hurt you as much as it hurts them if you make a decent contact. Boxers have great big gloves on for this exact reason, but you won’t. Try punching open-handed with the ball of your hand if you go for anything hard. Also, why always go for the head? That's what they expect. A punch to the solarplexus will wind someone badly,and if you miss you’re likely to get the gut or the throat, both of which also work quite well. Don’t try to kick them anywhere above the knee – even people who do martial arts all the time know that this hardly ever works.

6) If all else fails, and you haven’t now run away/hurt them enough to stop fighting, you need to take them down to the ground. Most fights end up on the floor, and whoever brings you both down has the advantage, generally. Trip them, throw them, push them… whatever works. Get on top of them, so they can’t get away. DO NOT try and punch them. You won’t get any force behind it and you’ll probably miss and punch the floor anyway. If necessary, use your elbows. Mainly, though, I’d advise using this as an opportunity to end the fight by getting other people involved to break it up, or calming them down yourself. Remember to keep your head down at this point or they’ll use a loose arm or leg to get you.

7) Most importantly of all, after a fight, it’s important to think about how you bring it up in conversation. You don’t want to sound like you’re a total bullshitter, or a violent thug, but you do want people to know that you’re a hard man. Try to make sure any injuries are on display (short sleeves are good for bruises, and the like), and then when someone asks you what happened, seem reluctant to answer at first, before casually explaining that you had to get in a fight. It’s important not to exaggerate too much at this point: stick close to the actual facts. No one will believe you if you claim to have pasted three big guys, but they might believe slighter exaggerations. Also, you generally get a better reaction if you can blend their admiration for your fighting skills with a bit of sensitivity. After explaining how you beat the shit out of the guy who tried to rob you, try adding ‘Still, though, I was really shaken up by the whole thing. And I hope I didn’t hurt him too much, despite everything…’. This will ensure women fuss over you whilst also admiring your hard man credentials.

In short, though, and in all seriousness, don’t get in a fight unless you can't avoid it. You don't want to end up in Casualty with a glass in your face.

The golden rules are: Run when you can. Don’t forget to defend yourself. Don’t do anything that’s going to hurt you more than them. Get it over with quickly.

Happy scrapping!
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Thu 14 Mar 2013, 12:17, 21 replies)

I have quite a big nose.
I found this out the moment I started school. I am also built like a streak of piss, and have the sort of face that some people love to hate.

In my early 30s, having left a stunningly crap staff Christmas party, I decided to dip into my old local in my borough of Mordor, and have a sharpener before going home.

The pub is pretty empty, and I prop up the bar with a cigarette and a pint, enjoying a quiet moment.

There is a bloke a few feet away from me doing the same.

"Oi." says bloke.

Oh god, thinks I - here we go. I ignore him.

"OI." says bloke, "OI BIG NOSE!"

This prompts me to go a bit Steve Martin on him - "Honestly?! Really?! Is that the best you can come up with?! Jesus Christ man it's pathetic! It's RUBBISH! Get some GOOD material because that's CRAP!" rar rar rar I rant on for a bit - against my better judgement, I add, as the bloke is really quite big and hard-looking.

Somewhat taken aback, the bloke initially appears to concede "Alright, mate, alright ..." and then the kicker "So, er ... do you fancy a fight?" he asks - almost coyly.

I look him up and down, "No!" I say, "You're about six foot three and built like a shit brickhouse; I'm five foot eleven and built like string! You'd KILL me!" What the fuck gives me the impression that being this shouty and aggressive to him is a good idea I don't know.

"Fair enough." says bloke, and returns to his pint and pondering.

Ten minutes later, he reaches into a pocket, and pulls out a quid.

"Here you go," says bloke, "I bet you a quid down that that bloke over there can't spell dyslexia."

Christ.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Thu 14 Mar 2013, 11:53, 5 replies)

I had a scrap with an obese grubby pikey from the local camp when I was about 10.
He was a proper gentlemen about it, set out the rules and everything and we set to with gusto.

He wasn't exactly a prizefighting Brad Pitt, although he did speak very fast and almost totally incomprehensibly.
I wasn't much of an opponent either so we seemed quite well matched.

Inevitably it broke down to rolling on the ground after a few minutes of half hearted punching and wrestling. As each of us grappled for a good position to pin the other's arms and commence a facial workover, the fat fucker farted very loudly and made me laugh so much that I became instantly weak and helpless.

To be fair to him, once he had me pinned, me still laughing, he then told me it was a draw and let me go.

Not once did he mention scatter cushions, those fillums aren't at all true to life.
( Infidel , shit and wrong, Tue 19 Mar 2013, 1:50, 2 replies)

Hablo no Espanol!
To this day I still have no idea what really went on...

I'd been on a drunken night out in Barcelona with a bunch of work colleges and I somehow ended up walking back to the hotel by myself, through a very dodgy part of town. Drug dealers, prostitutes, graffiti, that sort of vibe.

As a couple of young men walked passed me, I had just enough time to think "Were they talking about me?" and the next thing I knew there was a knee up in my back and an arm round my throat forcing me to the ground.

Well more fool them! Not only did I have a couple of years of boxing training and Wing Chun under my belt, I was also drunk enough to think I knew how to use it! So I dropped my body down faster than I was being pushed and twisted, getting a clear view of the guys face. My plan was to spring back up and clock him square on the nose, when suddenly some more sensible part of my brain yelled "Stop! What the FUCK are you doing?! You are weak like a kitten! Try something else first!"

So I panicked and yelled "Hablo no Espanol!"

And they stopped. Just like that. One of them helped me back to my fight. "English?" he inquired. "Si, si". "Ah.. lo siento" (sorry). I noticed that my mobile phone had fallen out of my pocket and was lying just in front of them. I looked at it. They looked it. Then one of them picked it up, dusted it off and handed it back to me. We said both say "Adios" and I fucked off back to the hotel as fast my legs would carry me.
(Rampant_Hedgehog He's horny and prickly!, Sun 17 Mar 2013, 12:31, 4 replies)

How to get pummelled
Smale's mention of a biker's pub reminds me of an incident I once witnessed. My favourite pub used to be half-taken-over by a local biker gang on a saturday - they would have one bar, all other punters had the other bar. All fine and friendly, and never any trouble.

One day I was sitting in the non-biker side, and I noticed an old git walk in carrying a video camera. This was the 90's, so the camera was one of those large shoulder-mounted jobs. I noticed that it was currently recording, which I thought was a bit odd as he was just carrying it like a briefcase, not looking through the viewfinder.

He headed across our bar and into the biker's side. A minute or so later he returned at a run and headed for the exit, closely pursued by one of the leather-clad fraternity - a bloke who, not coincidentally, happened to be there with a girlfriend who was wearing a short leather skirt.

Attempting to use a video camera the size of a Morris Minor to film up a biker girl's skirt, while her boyfriend is in the room, is apparently a pretty reliable way to start a fight. I have a feeling he wished he'd come with a smaller camera - or at least a jar of vaseline - a few minutes later...
.
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Thu 14 Mar 2013, 15:10, Reply)

Ah memories...
Back in me yoof, in the dark satanic MIGHTY Macclesfield, much drinking and moving about to music had taken place at The George. We moved in our collective to the local burger shop. While waiting outside, a local lass passed us by shouting at anyone who listened. Seeing she was a bit refreshed, we waited out the storm and in time she passed us by and in to the burger shop we went, half a dozen at a time as it was only small.

Having successfully obtained the food, I wandered into the night once more. She was back. With her 'man'.
"it was him, he were laughin at us" she said to anyone who stood close enough, her fella then gave them a good dose of lookin at... none of us caved though and the pair moved over to a corner with some more of their friends that had gathered.

I turned to one of my fellow night dwellers and whispered (I'm sure I whispered it, but alas no, twas more of a shout) "Aren't ya glad she's not ya mum eh?" I then took I bite of my burger, feeling triumphant I had summed the situation up with such wit.

Her fella heard my claim and came bounding over. I managed to duck his fist of fury that was aimed square at my face. But his momentum threw him on my back. I was now giving a piggy back to a man who wanted to hurt me in many ways. He had a good grip of me too. At this point I remember vividly shouting out "ay! watch me burger!".

His arm had swung up ready to deliver the killer blow. At this point 2 things happened in quick succession. first my mate managed to grab his arm mid flight, stopping the punch. and second the blokes mates came running over shouting "leave it, it weren't him, leave it".

More importantly, the burger had survived (it was a double cheese burger, £2.50). I Don't know what I'd've done if i'd dropped that burger. Probably bought another I guess.

That's the only 'fight' I've ever been in.

Length? I never apologies for length, only content.
( Ya What Skiddlyboop, Thu 14 Mar 2013, 11:58, 2 replies)