Bit 1.5
More cheering, this time because someone's kicked someone else rather than the ball, and the "kickee" has lamped the kicker. And people wonder why half the city is a lawless, godforsaken hellhole.
And then the doors swing and in walks a vision of what life would be like if you, ooh, let's see, spent all your cash on hookers, booze and drugs, and then lost your job, family, income and self-respect as a consequence.
"Bloody hell, it's Handysides!" Rob's actually managed to tear himself away from the authorised GBH on the TV now. "Christ, he's a mess."
You couldn't put it more succinctly than that. If you wanted to elaborate you could say he's an unkemp, unshaven, stinking, urine-sodden, beer-soaked mess, but the essential "mess-ness" is what counts. And I, for one feel massively sorry for the guy. Yes, alright, I called him a cretin before, but...well, no-one deserves to have fallen so far.
The shambolic figure made his way unsteadily towards the bar, and half-lunged, half-fell at the counter top.
"Gi' 's drin'" Now, that's not good - he's lost the ability to speak. Although interestingly not the ability to shout. It's quite sad really watching the people edge away form him at the bar. Five minutes ago you couldn't have got near the place, now there's a clear space around him that's rapidly increasing in diameter. Except...
"You fucking stink." Ah, trawler guy. How did I guess that if someone was going to be tactless it would be him? Interesting accent too - Icelandic sailor by way of Cornwall by the sounds of it.
And then things go wrong. Handysides looks up at Trawler man, utters some kind of scream and launches himself at him. Handysides is a big man, but big in the wrong way, and it's almost predictable as we watch him punched virtually halfway across the room by Trawlerman. This isn't right. Not right at all. And then Trawlerman advances towards him and kicks him hard in the ample gut. He's been learning by what he's seen on TV.
"Hey, mate, there's no need for that." Oh dear, this is how all brawls start. Someone always tries to play the Good Samaritan.
Oh. That was me.
I can see Rob looking at me with a mixture of incredulity and fear as Trawlerman steps over Handysides' limp form and heads my way. No-one's watching the football any more. Probably they'll get a good showing of foot-Remi instead.
"You friends with the little maggot?" Interesting. He's virtually drooling as he speaks...maybe the anticipation of doing someone harm is making his mouth water. And where the hell is Rob going?
"E's na' fren'. L'il shi' nik' m' job!" Well, thank you Handysides. I should have known.
Trawlerman turns round, kneels down, and delivers a bone-crushing punch to Handysides' gut. What a relief there's not much bone to crunch there. "Shut up maggot. Your turn's later." He cranks back his arm to hit him again, but this time someone reaches in and holds his arm back.
Oh. That was me too.
"That's enough," Why oh why am I starting like this? Reason never works. Run away! Oh no, too late.
I don't think I've felt anything like that. It was like having a car driven at my face and the next think I know I'm creering back into the table behind me and I hear the sound of breaking glass. I think I may have "spilled someone's pint." But right now, I'm more concerned with the blood flowing liberally from my mouth and nose. Need to get back up.
Oh, a boot in the face. That always tends to wake you up from whatever strange world your brain takes you to. This is getting quite worrying now. Where the hell is Rob?
Trawlerman leans down, grasps my collar and hauls me up off the deck. His breath reeks of fish - looks like I was right about him on virtually all counts. Trawler sailor - check! Raving psychopath - check!
"Listen, you fucking little prick..." But I'm anything but listening. I can't see much anymore - things are going a little hazy, not to mention red, but there's definitely movement over there.
"Hey Garth, the maggot's gone!" and then blissful relief as I feel myself falling to the floor. I think the maggot may have saved my life there, but then I don't think anymore because I'm too busy passing out.
And then the doors swing and in walks a vision of what life would be like if you, ooh, let's see, spent all your cash on hookers, booze and drugs, and then lost your job, family, income and self-respect as a consequence.
"Bloody hell, it's Handysides!" Rob's actually managed to tear himself away from the authorised GBH on the TV now. "Christ, he's a mess."
You couldn't put it more succinctly than that. If you wanted to elaborate you could say he's an unkemp, unshaven, stinking, urine-sodden, beer-soaked mess, but the essential "mess-ness" is what counts. And I, for one feel massively sorry for the guy. Yes, alright, I called him a cretin before, but...well, no-one deserves to have fallen so far.
The shambolic figure made his way unsteadily towards the bar, and half-lunged, half-fell at the counter top.
"Gi' 's drin'" Now, that's not good - he's lost the ability to speak. Although interestingly not the ability to shout. It's quite sad really watching the people edge away form him at the bar. Five minutes ago you couldn't have got near the place, now there's a clear space around him that's rapidly increasing in diameter. Except...
"You fucking stink." Ah, trawler guy. How did I guess that if someone was going to be tactless it would be him? Interesting accent too - Icelandic sailor by way of Cornwall by the sounds of it.
And then things go wrong. Handysides looks up at Trawler man, utters some kind of scream and launches himself at him. Handysides is a big man, but big in the wrong way, and it's almost predictable as we watch him punched virtually halfway across the room by Trawlerman. This isn't right. Not right at all. And then Trawlerman advances towards him and kicks him hard in the ample gut. He's been learning by what he's seen on TV.
"Hey, mate, there's no need for that." Oh dear, this is how all brawls start. Someone always tries to play the Good Samaritan.
Oh. That was me.
I can see Rob looking at me with a mixture of incredulity and fear as Trawlerman steps over Handysides' limp form and heads my way. No-one's watching the football any more. Probably they'll get a good showing of foot-Remi instead.
"You friends with the little maggot?" Interesting. He's virtually drooling as he speaks...maybe the anticipation of doing someone harm is making his mouth water. And where the hell is Rob going?
"E's na' fren'. L'il shi' nik' m' job!" Well, thank you Handysides. I should have known.
Trawlerman turns round, kneels down, and delivers a bone-crushing punch to Handysides' gut. What a relief there's not much bone to crunch there. "Shut up maggot. Your turn's later." He cranks back his arm to hit him again, but this time someone reaches in and holds his arm back.
Oh. That was me too.
"That's enough," Why oh why am I starting like this? Reason never works. Run away! Oh no, too late.
I don't think I've felt anything like that. It was like having a car driven at my face and the next think I know I'm creering back into the table behind me and I hear the sound of breaking glass. I think I may have "spilled someone's pint." But right now, I'm more concerned with the blood flowing liberally from my mouth and nose. Need to get back up.
Oh, a boot in the face. That always tends to wake you up from whatever strange world your brain takes you to. This is getting quite worrying now. Where the hell is Rob?
Trawlerman leans down, grasps my collar and hauls me up off the deck. His breath reeks of fish - looks like I was right about him on virtually all counts. Trawler sailor - check! Raving psychopath - check!
"Listen, you fucking little prick..." But I'm anything but listening. I can't see much anymore - things are going a little hazy, not to mention red, but there's definitely movement over there.
"Hey Garth, the maggot's gone!" and then blissful relief as I feel myself falling to the floor. I think the maggot may have saved my life there, but then I don't think anymore because I'm too busy passing out.
posted by U-B | 1:57 pm
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