It's like that scene in a friends episode where things get heated amongst two of the women (dunno their names) and Joey says "They're gonna have a fight. Quick! Throw Jello over them!"
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I think honeybaby has slipped down low on her chair, is utilising the high speed in which fingers can glide across polyester and the fact the the rest of the team have gone out on a field trip this afternoon.
I once had a scuffle in metalwork when a boy stole the vice I'd bagsied. I tore his shirt and to my surprise he gave in. That was it. In my whole life. Except my sister, but that doesn't count.
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I've successfully managed to avoid "proper" pub-style fist fights so far. I've been in a few pushy-shovey things, but they don't really count, and have helped split up a couple of brawlers on several occasions.
Most of my fighting career spans Western European martial arts stuff and about 15 years of medieval battles: All pretty good humoured rugby-style bruising and the odd minor hospitalisation.
The nearest I've come to anything serious and permanent is nearly losing an eye a couple of years back (smacked in the eye-socket with the butt-end of a tournament mace) - but it's fine now.
I'd like to think all those years of training would help in a Real Fight™ but suspect my first move would be to Do A Runner.
my best friend kicked me in the **** one time. i kissed her boyfriend. i was a bad friend. there was lots of hair pulling, and clawing, and when i finally removed myself from her vice- like grip i turned round and saw that there were two twentysomething males hiding behind a car, sipping from cans of cider and watching intently. i dont think it was very hott though. it might have been. is teenage girls fighting automatically hott?
quote:Originally posted by dance margarita: i turned round and saw that there were two twentysomething males hiding behind a car, sipping from cans of cider and watching intently. i dont think it was very hott though. it might have been. is teenage girls fighting automatically hott?
See the responses and you get a chart.
Mask = to the death
When = slow
Guys drinking cider behind a car = no poppage, hair pulling, fanny paff.
I once chased my sister up the stairs after she called me "fat arse". She ran to the bathroom and locked herself in. I then kicked the bathroom door in. My sister screamed and leapt into the bathtub, cowering and covering her head. This surprised me so much that I immediately stopped and was no longer angry. I just kind of said "yeah and don't ever call me fat arse again!" before walking out and worrying about how much trouble I was going to be in over the unhinged bathroom door.
Also, my dad once hit me over the head with a telephone. Not one of your itty bitty mobile phones of today but a great, clunking moss green 70s style phone.
-------------------- They give you a pen as fat as a modest cock and you're expected to dab it on the page, as though you were mopping the dregs of an afternoon Tommy. Posts: 1847
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Remember in mid-August the year before last, when I posted that photograph of me with one side of my cheek collapsed and my eye like a bust fruit? After a few wisecracks, people were sorry to hear how I'd been punched twice in the face that weekend. I'd spent Sunday morning from midnight to 6am in hospital with Modge, retching into a cardboard bowl in a striplit waiting room, with her trying desperately to keep me from slipping unconscious.
Turned out, after five days during which the swelling went down a little but my face was still scarily lopsided, that it was more serious than a bit of a bruise. The doc sent me for X-rays (another 6 hour wait in the same hospital) and next day the specialist told me as a matter of fact affair that he was going to book me urgently into hospital on Sunday night, because my cheekbone had been smashed and they were going to have to cut in through my mouth to stick a metal pin in my face. For a few minutes I couldn't even stand up, from the shock.
I think I mentioned, on some thread about violence or vengeance at the time, how my brother bowed his head and winced the next Saturday when he looked at my damaged face. You can imagine my parents and grandparents didn't have a great weekend. You can perhaps stretch to imagining how I felt when Modge left me in a ward with six strangers for the night, with my operation booked for 8am next morning.
I couldn't eat properly for a fortnight afterwards. I was looking ill and wasted even in September.
From some possibly-misplaced loyalty I lied to the police about it that Saturday, and then lied to TMO and almost everyone else I knew, and didn't say that it was "Roy" who had slammed his fist twice ito my face that night, after we decided to have a jokey spar like in Fight Club and he flipped because he thought he might lose.
Then, from some motive of forgiveness, I met Roy for a drink six months or so later, and he told me how he'd felt pretty big about putting someone in hospital. He also treated me to the knowledge that he'd seen a solicitor who'd advised him to lie about it if it ever came to court.
Probably like a fool, I went for one more drink with Roy after that; and invited him back to mine. After a line or two of coke he took off his shirt and glasses and threatened to kick me in, because I was being moody, or was always sneering at him, or some other valid reason. Modge had to stand in front of him, putting herself between our bodies, to keep him from hitting me.
I didn't say any of this because I was friends with Roy as a kid, and I think he has good qualities which are evident on this board, and I was trying to do the decent thing by not turning anyone against him.
But I learned very quickly after that Saturday night that punching someone and being punched isn't remotely funny, cool, attractive or endearing. Roy seems never to have learned that, or he seems to have forgotten it. I'm sick now of reading his cheeky hard-man routine, and his bit-of-a-naughty-boy persona.
I’ve forgotten his name. Smiley, that was it. The worst thing about it was I became friends with Smiley’s sister a few years later and was introduced to him. “This is my brother, Paul.” Horrible knowing smile.
I'd have been about 20 years old – , like so many other bad things that happened around that time, it did me the power of good.
I used to fight a lot when I was a teenager. I wasn’t very nice but, by the time my I crossed paths with Smiley, well, I’d realised most people had grown much bigger than me, I’d realised I didn’t want to get nicked and I’d realised I didn’t want to get hurt. It had been a good couple of years since I’d been in a fight.
We were hanging around in the car park outside the leisure centre and next door to the pier. We rarely went down there anymore. We preferred to smoke in our cars, at the cliff tops or do trips and wander around the spar gardens tightroping walls or sometimes pretending to be Lancasters, lying on the walls, making bomb whistles and hallucinating the exploding flowers beneath us.
But, for whatever reason, we were in the car park. Smiley was trying to reverse his car – he was a couple of years older than me, a squaddie. He wasn’t officially ‘cool’ and he was hanging around with teenagers, four or five years younger than him. Anyway, on the social ladder, he shouldn’t be allowed to talk to us, there was no way on earth I could back down to this man.
So we didn’t move when he reversed his car out. We were pricks. He carried on reversing, may have sounded his horn, I can’t remember. Either way, eventually Kim moved, Darryn moved and then Jamie moved. Only I stood in the way of Smiley’s car, creeping backwards toward me. I was a right horrible prick, as I said.
I think I intended to move. I can’t imagine I was out to actually start a fight because, as I said, I’d grown out of that kind of thing by then.
I still had my little fucker ego, though, so when Smiley actually reversed his Cavalier into my leg, I couldn’t back down. I brought the flat of my palm down hard on the boot of his car and dented it. He got out and walked toward me. I have this strange memory that he was wearing a Stetson. He was that kind of idiot actually, so it’s possible.
He invited me onto the beach for a fight. Actually invited me. Like we were at school, meeting at the Rec with crowds and look outs for teachers and shit. “What the fuck is this,” I said, “Grange Hill?”
I was amazed, I was amused. I followed him onto the beach. He stripped off his shirt as we walked – actually stripped to the waist. I smiled an incredulous smile, shook my head and followed him.
A crowd was gathering, Dean and Whittaker were there – they were proper thugs by then but when we were at school both of them had taken a pasting from me.
“Fucking hell,” I heard Whitaker say. “Just watch Jonesy fucking kill this guy.”
He really meant it too. He was genuinely excited. For these ham heads, me getting into a fight was like Larry Holmes coming out of retirement.
It didn’t last long. I had a certain amount of respect for Smiley’s honest, almost Queensbury approach to the whole thing. We squared up, he hit me, hard. I landed a couple of punches. I ran at him, head in his stomach, hoping to over balance him. It worked, we hit the deck. We struggled on the floor, a few messy punches were thrown. Dean Scott decided to help. He ran at Smiley and aimed a kick. Smiley rolled over and Dean missed. That’s the last thing I remember. Dean kicked me in the head, as hard as he could, and he had big feet.
I jumped up and ran at Smiley, fists raised. He wasn’t there. He seemed to have the power of teleportation on his side. How did he get over there? I turned and ran at him. A group of people (who seemed to materialise where they weren’t before) grabbed me and said “You’ve had enough, Jonesy.” Smiley had his hands raised in a passive gesture. He didn’t want to go on. He felt sorry for me.
I’d been out spark for about 30 seconds I think. Enough time for Smiley to hit me a few times, get up and walk 10 yards or so away from me.
As far as I was concerned, Dean had knocked me out cold by kicking me in the head. Smiley must have landed at least two punches on my prone figure because my eye was banged shut and I had my chin opened up enough for a few butterfly stitches. I certainly don’t remember him doing that to me. I was concussed, did a fair but of throwing up, had a headache for a couple of days. That was how I tried to remember it: someone else kicking me in the head, Smiley beating by unconcious body. It's bullshit, I think. I think I got a good kicking by a man in a Stetson in front of a crowd of people who knew me. I must have been flailing around like a complete spastic for Dean to even consider getting involved. I must have looked a right cnunt. And I was.
quote:Originally posted by Dr. Benway: one of vikram's mates punched me in the face until I had a bleeding nose and lip, yet I was unable to even put his hair style in danger.
yeah well, it's one of my friends yeah. they're all crazy hetero. they could kill you with thei index finger. they know nintendo, bitch.
that was quite the homoerotic fight. amp was there too. she will vouch. it was the gayest. benway bled on my expensive wooden floor.
did roy really hit kovacs? was he responsible for the damage? as much as kovacs and i have a long history of antagonism, i hope this is not the case. but if it is, i vaguely remember him blaming on black men, which says a lot about him if i remember correctly. i smashed my jaw in drunken bike crash. i win!
anyway, i am drunk out of my mind and typing amazingly well. just walked from euston to shoreditch. benway and me got fucking trashed and had good conversation tonight. didn't we steve? and! i hit on a teenager and was totally shot down like a fucking loser which is what i am. lol. ask steve!! but whatever, who gives a fucking shit about anything. it was only about the aesthetics anyway. bleurgh.