Wednesday, 21 January 2009

And Then, Dear Reader, I Punched Him

When I wrote my post on wrath I mentioned the time I punched someone in a night club. This is, I assure you, not something I do on any sort of regular basis. After dredging up that particular incident I mused upon it somewhat.

My memories stirred, I delved into my archives for the account of the incident I wrote at the time. Looking at the journal entry I wrote back then, nearer the beginning of this decade, I spotted some background context I had forgotten about. Funny how these Very Important Things diminish in time to Things I Have To Concentrate Upon To Recall. So, if you wish to read the story of the time I punched a man in a night club, read on, and travel with me to a different Luka in a different time.

(Cue harp strumming and wibbly wobbly time travel effects)

During my recent introspective phase (will I live, will I die, will my facial nerve be damaged and leave me looking lop-sided and dribbling?) I became very, very depressed. Which is a pity, because my eyes swelled up and looked horrible after all that crying, which just made me more reclusive and self-pitying. Funny thing was, when I got my Good News ("looks non-malignant") I felt nothing at all. Everyone else was really happy and bouncing around and I felt numb. This made me think there was something very wrong with me. I also felt resentful at how bloody happy everyone was.

Then I went on a Dealing Successfully with Stress course. Turns out I'm stressed. According to the little graph they showed me I'd moved beyond the peak of Very Stressed, into the trough of Burn Out, which is when you are physically unable to respond to stimuli any more.

Many aromatic bubble baths, several tantrums and a smashed hairdryer later, I'm feeling somewhat better. So much better, in fact, that I decided to go out and celebrate my lust for life this weekend.

I stopped feeling quite so miserable and started to regain my old stroppiness. I started off by giving my boss the lecture of a lunchtime on the issue of medical information being confidential, plus every other poor management decision ever taken. Hah!

So, Friday night loomed large. Come girlfriend, come drink and dance with me! Finished my vodka stash while waiting for her to arrive at my house (she's always 30 minutes late), which was foolish because I hadn't done my make-up first. This is why I go out looking like Bob Smith.

Pub. Good. Vodka. Yum. Shout "I want to live" in suitably melodramtic fashion all night. Go to my town's Premier (only) Nite-Spot. Happy happy happy. Bottles of V Ice. Make girlfriend laugh so much she gets a stitch and has to have a sit down while I attempt to burp her.

Hmmm....a stag party. Seem harmless enough, high spirited but OK so far. The hen party contingent are also in, dancing away in their L-plates and semi-inflated condoms. Shudder. But they're keeping themselves to themselves. One of the stag party comes and dances with us - he's quite funny. A roly-poly, bespectacled, rugby-shirted chap, dancing in comical fashion, going for laughs, but not actually touching or bothering anyone. We allow him to share our space.

There is another guy - a big bear-like creature, with unattractive stubble, beer-belly, jeans and checked shirt. He is drunk and touching up every female on the dancefloor. He cannot walk from one side of the room to the other without touching every woman he passes. He tries to dance with us, we blank him, turn our backs, move closer together. He grabs my friend, feels her arse and goes for her boobs. I elbow him in the flabby man-tit and he seems to get the message and moves on.

I, however, keep an eye on him. I'm having fun, yet I am aware of him pawing other, less fierce, girlies. Some of them look barely 17 - tiny in their crop tops and hipsters. He must be late 30s, early 40s. He uses his size to get what he wants. He grabs a tiny girlie by both hands, to dance with her. She pulls backwards, he doesn't let go. Her friend tries to grab her hand to pull her back to her, he doesn't let go. I keep an eye on it, my Xena-drive in neutral but ready to engage. I later spot him picking a girlie up off the stage. Git.

Yet another stag party member, a little short-arsed fucker who reminds me of the truck driver in Thelma and Louise starts trying to muscle in on us. Again, we go for the nicest brush-off possible, we blank, we bank. Nope. He's still there. Don't touch me. He's only little. One hefty push and he doesn't come back.

Still happy. Impress girlfriend with the speed at which I can knock back voddy when a good track comes on. I knew it would happen. As soon as I get a drink something good will come on. (Drinks are Not Allowed on the dancefloor in our Premier Nite Spot). Have finished drink before waitress can get my change into my outstretched hand. Onto floor -
yay! See myself on video screen - I do look like Bob Smith! Turn my back to video camera.

DJ plays "You Sexy Thing". Always alarming. People start doing the most unsexy things imaginable to it. Spot pudgy girl massaging own poorly filled bra. Look away. Spot wanker on stage get nob out, grab girlie and force head down onto it. Look away. Spot spotty back. Look away. Spot extremely pissed-up 18 year old bloke in sunglasses snogging 60 year-old woman in halter neck lycra dress and ankle socks. She is keeping her mouth firmly closed - denture-worry, I'd guess. Look away. "Jump Around" comes on - phew! Jump around. Feel a bit over-fizzy and have to stop.

Dancefloor thinning out now. Only 20 minutes til closedown. Big sweaty checkered shirt git is looming near. Don't even think about it. He's there in my peripheral vision, just behind my shoulder, grinning. Moves nearer.

"Fuck off" I say, mouthing the words carefully so no ambiguity can exist. This inspires gleeful joy in coming closer, he can dance wherever he likes. "Fuck off" I say again, consistency, if not originality, being my strong point after such a long evening. Nope. That didn't do it. "I haven't done anything to you, " he says. "…Yet".

Right. I lean forward and give him the lecture of a nighttime. I hiss into his sweaty ear. "I've been watching you, all night, letching and groping all those poor little girls. They've been having to dance sandwiched between their friends to try to keep you away, you fat, sweaty, repulsive bastard. If I were you I'd be fucking ashamed of myself".

He was sort of shaking his head and trying to laugh, and I step back, returning to my friend on the dancefloor, and he follows, quite angry now, I can't hear exactly what he's saying over the music, but it seems I've dented his male pride a bit, and I'm saying "look, just fuck off" quite forcefully now, complete with bared teeth and, uh-oh, I've punched him in the face but luckily the bouncers haven't seen. He retreats to his crowd and a huddle ensues with a bit of looking in my direction.

Hmmm...perhaps now would be a good time to get my coat...


Old and past it said...

It must have felt sweet to smite that ursine knobhead...... Shame on him for bringing checkered shirts into disrepute!

Helga Hansen said...

snogging 60 year-old woman in halter neck lycra dress and ankle socks. She is keeping her mouth firmly closed - denture-worry, I'd guess....

That is wrong on sooooo many levels!! And count yourself lucky - my neck of the woods doesn't have a premier nite anything!!!

Ms Robinson said...

I don't think you just punched him: you punched the whole night. You were lookin' for trouble.

B said...

Yay Luka!
Yay Vodka!
Yay quick exits!

Boo sweaty checkered shirt guy!
Boo premier nightclubs!

Sulpicia said...

Assholespotting. Very nice. Vodka has a way of facilitating clarity of thought followed by action. (Not to mention "Yes, I'm alive, fuck.") I would not, personally, include this under the sin of wrath.

Some Chilean Woman said...

I need friends like you when I go dancing.

Carnalis said...

you're a star .. a xena-star (i hope you have a xena outfit somewhere in your wardrobe)

over-fizzy .. yeh, know that feeling :)

puckrup said...

A real pleasure to revisit this story! I swear, you need to be training womenfolk to respond to such retarded advances with equal force - firstly, because gals like you and Xena are so strong and sexy, and secondly, for sheer entertainment value when the club arseholes get poleaxed. Justice!

Luka said...

Old and Past It - I have never been able to feel calm about checkered shirts ever since. Or button down collar Ben Sherman shirts. Or hair gel.

Helga - it was so strange, in that she was truly not that interested in him yet he persued her all night.

Ms R - let us be grateful I didn't have access to a rifle and a clocktower.

B - Boo indeed to premier nite spots. It was a sticky carpeted, noisy hell.

Sulpicia - really? I felt wrathful. Reading it back now I note I keep insisting I was happy but I don't think I was.

Some Chilean Woman - I am good to have in your corner.

Carnalis - I'd like a Xena dress, but leather is so pricey. I may have to get creative with a chamois or two.

Puckrup - thank you. I don't suppose I changed his world view at all but I did have a momentary satisfaction before hiding in the loos for a bit in case he came looking for me with his mates.

Ro said...

Is this what I miss by not going clubbing? I suppose that life would be much more boring without the variety that you describe ... but I think I'm happy to leave it to others :)

Luka said...

Ro - you are missing nothing, believe me. The venues may change but the characters and plots are much the same in any club on any evening.