Seeing as this is the 'Fights Go Here' forum, I thought i'd post this here. Thats disclaimer number one over and one with. Disclaimer number two: I'm prolific when confused.

I just got started on. Not half an hour ago. For those of you that don't know about English colloquialisms, 'I got started on' means 'someone just tried to pick a fight with me'. It was the weirdest thing.

I left the pub at about quarter to two this morning. Yes, I know its Easter Sunday and yes, I know pubs usually close at half past ten on Sundays in this country, but since these new bloody licensing laws have come in we're legally allowed to stay open til half past two and, seeing as our manager knows almost everybody in York, we usually do, to accomodate staff from other pubs coming in after their pub closes and etcetera. I can't complain, as I usually get bought lots of drinks during my shift, and I'm allowed to drink while I work (today I made myself the strongest White Russian in history after being bought copious amounts of vodka and kahula during the night).

There is one drawback though, in that the time the staff leave the pub is usually the same time the clubs kick out, and so my walk home is shared by the odd straggler from one of York's few nightclubs. Usually they hang around in groups of two or more, and so have better things to do than, for example, try and beat me up (I have long hair and I live in the north of England. Enough said). So basically, as comfortable as I am with passing the odd drunk arsehole on my way home from work on a night, I'm not too used to having them try and start fights with me.

Until tonight.

I was the last person to leave the pub tonight. We'd got rid of the last of the customers at about twenty-past one, my boss finished his drink at roughly half-past, and my other colleague's taxi arrived at about quarter-to, leaving me to lock up, which I duly did. As I left, I noticed one slightly drunk man in a white shirt staggering on the other sid of the road. This is a normal occurance, and so I had no problem with crossing to his side of the road myself. In any case, if I hadn't have crossed the road, I'd have been walking in the opposite direction to where I live, which would have been even sillier. So I cross the road and find myself walking behind him, but not for too long as, though we were walking at roughly the same speed, he was covering more ground, staggering as he was from side to side over the pavement, allowing just enough room for my comparitively sober legs to move past him as I made my merry and oblivious way home.

With that feat accomplished, I started thinking about other things, like the plight of the six-a-side football team I play for (we played dreadfully in our first match and lost 1-0, and I'm not sure whether the low scoreline reflects the strength of our defence or the ineptitude of their attack) and whether the baked-potato van that parks on the corner of the road sells chips. These meanderings faded away however, as I noticed that, against the laws of physics, the person who was moving slower down the street than I was catching up.

I turned the corner, smartly avoiding the baked-potato van by virtue of the fact that it was a good twenty feet away (i'm dextrous like that) and made a conscious decision to pretend to look at the menu, whilst actually glimpsing behind me to see where the drunk guy was. I can't tell you whether they sell chips or not, but I can tell you that this guy had definiately worked his way a little closer than he had been five minutes ago. With every step I could see his shadow, elongated by the dull lights of the city-centre behind me and sporadically foreshortened by the street-lights above, gradually ebbing closer to mine, and so I did what any normal person would. I crossed the road. I needed to anyway (this paticular road accomodated my route on the other side), and believed that I could quell my paranoia at least a little with the knowledge that whatever potential predator my presence had aroused was at least two widths of tarmac away.

The 'cross the road' tactic has a 100% success rate in the defeat of paranoia, but ONLY when the other person does NOT cross the road almost immediately after you. This was one of those occasions. Time for tactic two.

Tactic two, when you feel that someone is following you, is to slow down. That way, you can feel completely relaxed when said person walks straight past you. I've had it done to me a couple of times, watching a frightened old lady stop and move to their left whilst walking in front of me down the narrow passage that leads to my road (I shouldn't really use the term 'narrow passage' as it sounds rather ominous. In truth, you could fit a substatially sized lorry down it and it hugs the side of a large, well-lit and expensive looking hospital). Slowing down, in my experience, is a perfectly good way to make sure the person behind you isn't following you for the sole purpose of kicking the shit out of you.

It does not, however, work if said person slows down to walk at the same speed as you, and walks next to you for a good few yards.

What to do now? I honestly had no idea, so I just walked a bit quicker. I pondered whether that paticular tactic would work until the realisation that I wasn't being paranoid at all introduced itself via an angry kick in the leg.

I moved aside quickly and watched the guy stagger a few paces forward, obviously confused by the fact that, with one leg thrown at me, he couldn't move forward in quite the same way as he had been before (i.e. diagonally). He turned round. I stopped, and did pretty much nothing, as he'd started talking about how I'd picked on his brother and I was, having spent the last six hours behind the bar of my pub, confused as to how this had happened. The conversation we had lasted for about five minutes of 'scared Liam' time, but in earth seconds probably lasted thirty of them. During this time, I tried to reason with him.

"Who's your brother?"

'Does he come into our pub?"

"...The pub I work in, i've been there for the past six hours and..."

"No I don't think I did start on him"

"Me and who?"

"No I haven't been on the street with anyone tonight"

and

"I don't even know who your brother is, mate..."

...are just a small selection of phrases which don't disuade drunkards with wanting to punch you, as I found out after uttering the last phrase to the accompaniment of him grabbing a tighter grip of my jacket and raising the fist of his other hand up to the side of his head. From here on, thought processes about anti-paranoia tactics and methods of disuasion were put on hold, and fenian instinct took over.

The first punch clipped the top of my rapidly ducking head. The second two hit the hands that had moved to cover it, the third one thumped rather hard into my temple.

The fourth one jarred his jaw.

What can I say? I'm an overly eloquent writer from the seed of a big angry ginger ex-boxer. I love genetics. I hate, however, the fact that I have next to no strength in my arms. If my half-cocked impression of a Roberto Duran uppercut had stunned the drunkard, it was for a yoctosecond at most. The impact of my fist on his chin was dwarfed by the impact of the audaciousness of my retaliation on his anger, and it looked like I was about to be on the recieving end of 'a fucking kicking', as they say in Paris.

Needless to say, common sense took over. Realising my jacket was momentarily free from his grip (presumably he needed that hand to further club me with), I turned and ran. Three paces and about fifty feet later (I know, I was suprised at the sheer velocity of my yellowness too) I hear a cry from behind me. It was the first fathomable thing the guy had said since we first met, five Liam-time hours ago.

"Oh... SHIT! Fuck! I'm such an IDIOT!" he wailed. Common sense left me. Inexplainable empathy replaced it. I slowed, turned, and carefully walked back towards him. He looked at me with a kind of sorrowful scowl, and walked on towards me. We met beside a lampost, and he apologised, and sat down, and we chatted.

His name is Darren, he's unemployed but doesn't want to be, he smokes (I gave him a cigarette), he doesn't really like hitting people unless he's actually met them before (which I suppose is commendable), has a bit of a problem with drugs and alcohol (no shit...), is very apologetic when drunk and he has a brother whom, supposedly, had put him up to the task of following me and fighting me as they saw me leave work. He's really quite an amiable chap, when you get beyond his somewhat aggressive interpretation of a hand-shake.

It was around then, upon his mentioning of a brother, that I'd realised that his face looked familiar. He looked an awful lot like (i.e. like he could be a brother of) a lad of about my age who occasionally comes to our pub on an afternoon and drinks (get ready to knowingly raise those eyebrows) Stella Artois. This brother, if my deductions are correct, is the same person as the first guy I barred from this paticular pub, nine months and about three different owners later.

I'd barred him for picking a fight.

Now, this guy knew my old boss (the second one) and so he got himself un-barred late last year, but I've always treated him with a bit of caution since although not, I'd thought, with any degree of obviousness. It would appear that I'm wrong.

With tommorow being a week-day, as well as the day after I was due to get a kicking off of 'Big Darren', he may well be coming in for a drink or two. Possibly with some friends.

Any ideas what I should do to his guy? I've thought about straight-barring him, but I'm sure I can do something even eviller...

Hire Darren to beat up his brother.

Have Brad ban him. I think it works in England, too.

Also, I'd start carrying around a tire iron.

Visine in the Stella. Tobor in the loo. Innocent expression afterwards.

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gabe_billings wrote:

Also, I'd start carrying around a tire iron.

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"I've heard of a nine-iron but thats ridiculous!" [/club comic] [/pun]

Bar him for a month. Tell him (when sober) that it's not good to have a drug and alcohol problem, but if he calms down and doesn't cause trouble or pick fights (especially with you), he can come back as long as he behaves. That's what I'd do, for what it's worth, but then again I'd have put him in an arm lock the second he made to grab for my jacket, which in this situation would have been a mistake, so goes to show you what I know...

That was really long. Someone tell me what he said so I don't have to read it.

He said:

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lima wrote:

Seeing as this is the 'Fights Go Here' forum, I thought i'd post this here. Thats disclaimer number one over and one with. Disclaimer number two: I'm prolific when confused.

I just got started on. Not half an hour ago. For those of you that don't know about English colloquialisms, 'I got started on' means 'someone just tried to pick a fight with me'. It was the weirdest thing.

I left the pub at about quarter to two this morning. Yes, I know its Easter Sunday and yes, I know pubs usually close at half past ten on Sundays in this country, but since these new bloody licensing laws have come in we're legally allowed to stay open til half past two and, seeing as our manager knows almost everybody in York, we usually do, to accomodate staff from other pubs coming in after their pub closes and etcetera. I can't complain, as I usually get bought lots of drinks during my shift, and I'm allowed to drink while I work (today I made myself the strongest White Russian in history after being bought copious amounts of vodka and kahula during the night).

There is one drawback though, in that the time the staff leave the pub is usually the same time the clubs kick out, and so my walk home is shared by the odd straggler from one of York's few nightclubs. Usually they hang around in groups of two or more, and so have better things to do than, for example, try and beat me up (I have long hair and I live in the north of England. Enough said). So basically, as comfortable as I am with passing the odd drunk arsehole on my way home from work on a night, I'm not too used to having them try and start fights with me.

Until tonight.

I was the last person to leave the pub tonight. We'd got rid of the last of the customers at about twenty-past one, my boss finished his drink at roughly half-past, and my other colleague's taxi arrived at about quarter-to, leaving me to lock up, which I duly did. As I left, I noticed one slightly drunk man in a white shirt staggering on the other sid of the road. This is a normal occurance, and so I had no problem with crossing to his side of the road myself. In any case, if I hadn't have crossed the road, I'd have been walking in the opposite direction to where I live, which would have been even sillier. So I cross the road and find myself walking behind him, but not for too long as, though we were walking at roughly the same speed, he was covering more ground, staggering as he was from side to side over the pavement, allowing just enough room for my comparitively sober legs to move past him as I made my merry and oblivious way home.

With that feat accomplished, I started thinking about other things, like the plight of the six-a-side football team I play for (we played dreadfully in our first match and lost 1-0, and I'm not sure whether the low scoreline reflects the strength of our defence or the ineptitude of their attack) and whether the baked-potato van that parks on the corner of the road sells chips. These meanderings faded away however, as I noticed that, against the laws of physics, the person who was moving slower down the street than I was catching up.

I turned the corner, smartly avoiding the baked-potato van by virtue of the fact that it was a good twenty feet away (i'm dextrous like that) and made a conscious decision to pretend to look at the menu, whilst actually glimpsing behind me to see where the drunk guy was. I can't tell you whether they sell chips or not, but I can tell you that this guy had definiately worked his way a little closer than he had been five minutes ago. With every step I could see his shadow, elongated by the dull lights of the city-centre behind me and sporadically foreshortened by the street-lights above, gradually ebbing closer to mine, and so I did what any normal person would. I crossed the road. I needed to anyway (this paticular road accomodated my route on the other side), and believed that I could quell my paranoia at least a little with the knowledge that whatever potential predator my presence had aroused was at least two widths of tarmac away.

The 'cross the road' tactic has a 100% success rate in the defeat of paranoia, but ONLY when the other person does NOT cross the road almost immediately after you. This was one of those occasions. Time for tactic two.

Tactic two, when you feel that someone is following you, is to slow down. That way, you can feel completely relaxed when said person walks straight past you. I've had it done to me a couple of times, watching a frightened old lady stop and move to their left whilst walking in front of me down the narrow passage that leads to my road (I shouldn't really use the term 'narrow passage' as it sounds rather ominous. In truth, you could fit a substatially sized lorry down it and it hugs the side of a large, well-lit and expensive looking hospital). Slowing down, in my experience, is a perfectly good way to make sure the person behind you isn't following you for the sole purpose of kicking the shit out of you.

It does not, however, work if said person slows down to walk at the same speed as you, and walks next to you for a good few yards.

What to do now? I honestly had no idea, so I just walked a bit quicker. I pondered whether that paticular tactic would work until the realisation that I wasn't being paranoid at all introduced itself via an angry kick in the leg.

I moved aside quickly and watched the guy stagger a few paces forward, obviously confused by the fact that, with one leg thrown at me, he couldn't move forward in quite the same way as he had been before (i.e. diagonally). He turned round. I stopped, and did pretty much nothing, as he'd started talking about how I'd picked on his brother and I was, having spent the last six hours behind the bar of my pub, confused as to how this had happened. The conversation we had lasted for about five minutes of 'scared Liam' time, but in earth seconds probably lasted thirty of them. During this time, I tried to reason with him.

"Who's your brother?"

'Does he come into our pub?"

"...The pub I work in, i've been there for the past six hours and..."

"No I don't think I did start on him"

"Me and who?"

"No I haven't been on the street with anyone tonight"

and

"I don't even know who your brother is, mate..."

...are just a small selection of phrases which don't disuade drunkards with wanting to punch you, as I found out after uttering the last phrase to the accompaniment of him grabbing a tighter grip of my jacket and raising the fist of his other hand up to the side of his head. From here on, thought processes about anti-paranoia tactics and methods of disuasion were put on hold, and fenian instinct took over.

The first punch clipped the top of my rapidly ducking head. The second two hit the hands that had moved to cover it, the third one thumped rather hard into my temple.

The fourth one jarred his jaw.

What can I say? I'm an overly eloquent writer from the seed of a big angry ginger ex-boxer. I love genetics. I hate, however, the fact that I have next to no strength in my arms. If my half-cocked impression of a Roberto Duran uppercut had stunned the drunkard, it was for a yoctosecond at most. The impact of my fist on his chin was dwarfed by the impact of the audaciousness of my retaliation on his anger, and it looked like I was about to be on the recieving end of 'a fucking kicking', as they say in Paris.

Needless to say, common sense took over. Realising my jacket was momentarily free from his grip (presumably he needed that hand to further club me with), I turned and ran. Three paces and about fifty feet later (I know, I was suprised at the sheer velocity of my yellowness too) I hear a cry from behind me. It was the first fathomable thing the guy had said since we first met, five Liam-time hours ago.

"Oh... SHIT! Fuck! I'm such an IDIOT!" he wailed. Common sense left me. Inexplainable empathy replaced it. I slowed, turned, and carefully walked back towards him. He looked at me with a kind of sorrowful scowl, and walked on towards me. We met beside a lampost, and he apologised, and sat down, and we chatted.

His name is Darren, he's unemployed but doesn't want to be, he smokes (I gave him a cigarette), he doesn't really like hitting people unless he's actually met them before (which I suppose is commendable), has a bit of a problem with drugs and alcohol (no shit...), is very apologetic when drunk and he has a brother whom, supposedly, had put him up to the task of following me and fighting me as they saw me leave work. He's really quite an amiable chap, when you get beyond his somewhat aggressive interpretation of a hand-shake.

It was around then, upon his mentioning of a brother, that I'd realised that his face looked familiar. He looked an awful lot like (i.e. like he could be a brother of) a lad of about my age who occasionally comes to our pub on an afternoon and drinks (get ready to knowingly raise those eyebrows) Stella Artois. This brother, if my deductions are correct, is the same person as the first guy I barred from this paticular pub, nine months and about three different owners later.

I'd barred him for picking a fight.

Now, this guy knew my old boss (the second one) and so he got himself un-barred late last year, but I've always treated him with a bit of caution since although not, I'd thought, with any degree of obviousness. It would appear that I'm wrong.

With tommorow being a week-day, as well as the day after I was due to get a kicking off of 'Big Darren', he may well be coming in for a drink or two. Possibly with some friends.

Any ideas what I should do to his guy? I've thought about straight-barring him, but I'm sure I can do something even eviller...

---

ummmm, i always go for the 'kick the living fuck outta him' option and have had much success at it the few times i've actually had to throw down.But if this is not within the realm of possibilities for you, a blackjack is always a good investment....

good luck. drunken combative guys are always a pain in the ass, but not as bad as sober combative guys...

You could always download the movie here if you're worried Darren might come at you again after you kick his brother out yet again. I still don't understand how a guy could hold a grudge that long and decide to have his brother settle it instead of himself... what a wuss.

By the way, I hear that movie includes such tactics as the "groin slap" and the "ear pull".

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lima wrote:
Any ideas what I should do to his guy?

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It's true, I'm really am a potato!

With excellent grammar skills!

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attitudechicka wrote:

I still don't understand how a guy could hold a grudge that long and decide to have his brother settle it instead of himself... what a wuss.

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Sounds more like typical "Wrong place at wrong time" scenario with a couple of drunken charva* shits, were it not lima they'd probably have twatted some bloke in the taxi rank or any other random that came along, the grudge just gave them the excuse to single him out.

Trouble you have now is what to make of Darren, is he going to be cool next time, or will it all be forgotten in some drunken haze and next time they get a chance will they try again? Like you said he only fights people he knows, and well if he remembers he knows you now. From what I gather from your story you're more of the chilled out peaceful sort of guy, but you're also in a position of power, isn't there some sort of community pub watch thing in York where if you get barred from one pub you're barred from them all? If you have the power to deny them the drink then perhaps this threat is all you need to hang over their heads. Perhaps you've already done enough in talking to darren, but you never know.

Id be careful, but I wouldn't push the issue unless you absolutely felt you needed to, but then at the same time perhaps a little vindictiveness should be the way forward, couple of laxatives in their stella should do the trick.

And failing all this you could always move to Doncaster...

*Charva / Chav - Product of an underachieving failing school system , a 'cynical get what you can for as little effort' society and poor social standards. Known by many names accross the country (for instance in Glasgow they are known as NEDs (Needs Education Desperately) which is an fairly accurate portrayal. Charva's think tracksuits are the height of fashion, not to mention burberry (the hooligans colour of the season), and no music is worth playing unless the vocal track has been pitch shifted to make the singer sound like a chipmunk. You may initially feel sorry for them until they smash your car window, break into your home, swipe your record collection to flog at cash convertors which they put towards some very cheap drugs, a few 2 litre bottles of very poor inexpensive cider. After which all compassion takes a holiday and you realise you no longer care if the human race is doomed to failure as long as it takes these vile morons with it, however sadly due to their state financed breeding programs (Female charvas equate having an illigitimate sprog to some guy on the street corner as akin to winning the lottery thanks to all the cash they recieve to bring up the young bastard) and lack of welfare reform, they're likely to out live us all.

This all sounds really complicated. I'd just move to America where we don't have baked potato vans.

Don't british bartenders have shotguns under the bar like American ones?

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HCRoyall wrote:
Don't british bartenders have shotguns under the bar like American ones?

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No, unfortunately in this country bar folk must make do with angry door-people pumped up on whatever their steroid of choice is. Speaking of which, could you not persuade one or two to give Darren and/or his brother?

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HCRoyall wrote:
Don't british bartenders have shotguns under the bar like American ones?

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AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

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Id be careful, but I wouldn't push the issue unless you absolutely felt you needed to, but then at the same time perhaps a little vindictiveness should be the way forward, couple of laxatives in their stella should do the trick.

And failing all this you could always move to Doncaster...

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This has been my chosen action. I had a laugh and a joke about it with my flatmates when I got home that night, and did the same with the barstaff at my pub the day after. Haven't seen either of the brothers since.

Although I can't remember what Darren's brother's name is, I know that, since he started coming back to the pub, he's been pretty well behaved. He's a bit of a scally alright (scally = chav = ned etc) but he isn't too bad. I'm gonna leave it for now. I doubt it'll happen again, and if it does, i'll probably act the same way. I don't scare easily. Running away was more a pacifist act than one of being scared.

Its not as if i've never been in a fight before. Its only five years ago that I was fourteen stone, shaved of hair, angry of nature and having the sort of look that had me followed round shops my suspicious security staff every so often. I never really acted like that sort of person, but I was born and bred in Grimsby, so it just came naturally.

York is the polar opposite of Grimsby in many ways. Its clean, smells of chocolate sometimes (from the Nestle factory) and its roughest areas are places you wouldn't think twice about walking through, even at two in the morning on a saturday night. Grimsby is Grimsby, stinks of fish (seriously) and is home to a council estate that was officially 'worst in Europe' for two years in the late nineties. It also had the highest teen pregnancy rate in Europe a few years back. Guilty.

I was chatting with a mate in the pub about a week ago. He's from Hull, which used to be worse than Grimsby but has since had a bit of money pumped into it and, in parts and in small doses, is alright now. He told me one of the funniest stories I've ever heard about York's interpretation of the dreaded 'chav'.

He was walking down the street one night, at about midnight, and passed a Spar shop, which for those who don't know is the brand name for a large group of loosely connected newsagents throughout the country. Its also main meeting place for local ne'er-do-wells. Anyway, walking past this shop, he overheard a conversation between two teenagers.

Chav 1: "Aw man, get on that"

Chav 2: "I can't man, I can't"

Chav 1: "Aw c'mon bud this is good shit man"

Chav 2: "Its too harsh man, its too strong, nah man"

Chav 1: "This is the good shit, know what I mean like? Get on it my son"

Chav 2: "Its too strong, I can't take it, I can't handle that shit man"

Chav 1: "Aw man this shit is good. Fuckin' 'ell man this is good stuff"

What were they talking about?

Sherbet Dip.

I swear, York makes people soft. What kind of self-respecting chav would stoop so low as to talk about sherbet in the same way the chavs of Leeds talk about crack? Is it any wonder people get sick of it and start find excuses to beat up random people on the street?

Anyway, thats my story over and done with, hopefully. What fights has everyone else been in (or ran away from, in my case)?

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ivytheplant wrote:

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HCRoyall wrote:
Don't british bartenders have shotguns under the bar like American ones?

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AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

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I've never been in a fight. Not even a single punch. I attribute this to the fact that I'm a pretty easygoing person and in the few somewhat tense situations I remember being in, I was usually able to calm things down through a combination of level headedness and comedy.

Nowadays I'm guessing it's a mix of two facts. One, I'm just not in the kind of places where people mix it up. You don't throw down during story hour at the library or at the playground. Two, I'm 6' 2", 260 pounds, bald with a goatee. Unless I were shitfaced, I probably wouldn't pick me if I was looking for someone to start a fight.

And if I ever did get in a fight, I could always use my kid as a shield.

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gabe_billings wrote:
I've never been in a fight. Not even a single punch.

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mandingo wrote:

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gabe_billings wrote:
I've never been in a fight. Not even a single punch.

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i hear this from guys sometimes and it always blows my mind. that seems like a pretty blessed life. i grew up in a barrio and i didn't really have a choice. i remember in second grade i was dopily skateboarding around when i was jumped by a 5th grader who pummelled me and gave me a bloody nose while i just stood there with my arms down, not sure what i was supposed to do. i looked at my nephew when he was in 2nd grade once and he was so tiny. that's just too damn early to have to learn to fight. later that year (still 2nd grade :\), i broke a guy's arm when he started a fight with me. he was a big heavyset guy and when he went to kick at me, i grabbed his leg and pulled up. his weight fell on his arm and snap. i've probably been in 20 fights in my life, including one where a guy shoved a gun in my mouth and i ended up running over him with my car. another time, i got into a fight at a 7-11. i closed the guy's eye (which i'm proud of cause that's hard to do in a 3-minute fight) then he and his friend fucked off and i went back to pumping gas. lool. i drove off just as the cops were pulling up. i quickly turned off into a neighborhood and took my gun out of my backseat (you only get a gun stuck in your mouth once before deciding to get your own, believe me) and threw it in my trunk because i knew the cops couldn't search there. i took backstreets and got home without incident. that was the last fight i was in and only one i've been in over the age of 18. it's been 14 years. hopefully it stays that way :\

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i'm at about the same level, not counting scrapes, fracases and slight altercations. i guess that since i've been a bouncer off and on for the last 10 years, that aint too bad. luckily i've always managed to come out on top except the time when i was 18 when 5 dudes kicked the living shit out of me.

once you've had that happen you vow to yourself you'll never let it happen again. so i started working out and got into hapkido and muay thai where i learned the awesome destructive power of the elbow which i had to employ last weekend against a guy who just wouldn't let things go.

i bought a gun too. just in case...

Fuck, if I wanted to read a novel I wouldn't be on the internet.

I've only been in two fights in my life, both in 6th grade.  In the first, I got extremely lucky and knocked the jerk down in one lucky-ass punch.  In the second, we scuffled for a moment until the jerk grabbed my hat, threw it on the ground and ran away like a sissy.

Thankfully, that's it.

i got beat up by a gang of metalheads for saying all metalheads are gay because of rob halford :\

I always thought metalheads were gay because they're not nearly as badass as they think they are.

I always thought metalheads were gay because those 80s metal videos are incredibly homoerotic.  What with all the spandex and the guys touching each other and the makeup and the hair...

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HCRoyall wrote:

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ivytheplant wrote:

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HCRoyall wrote:
Don't british bartenders have shotguns under the bar like American ones?

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AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

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I'm guessing that must mean I was naive enough to think people west of Texas and north of Virginia were smart enough to allow bartenders to do so.

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Oh no, I agree completely that bartenders should have shotguns under the bar. I don't think a single bar around here doesn't have one. Even the bowling alley does.

But this is Britain. Last time I was there, my guide told me to bury my keys deep in my luggage (a large ring of lab keys on a chain that I kept on my belt) because if I used it in self defense, my attacker could sue me for assault and I might lose. And if someone tried to rape me, I was better off just lying there and thanking the guy for not killing me instead of fighting back.

Now, I don't know if it's the same now, but considering there was a recent call in the UK to ban pointed kitchen knives because they are deadly weapons, well...let's just say I doubt they'd let bartenders have a shotgun under the counter.

Also, people tried tobeat me up a lot in elementary school because my dad was law enforcement and was constantly arresting my classmates' older siblings for underage drinking and poaching in the park. By the time high school rolled around, people just pretended I didn't exist.

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UnknownEric wrote:
I always thought metalheads were gay because those 80s metal videos are incredibly homoerotic. What with all the spandex and the guys touching each other and the makeup and the hair...

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I always loved watching the big butch guys at my high school talk about how awesome Twisted Sister and Whitesnake were. They didn't like it when anyone pointed out how effeminite they all were.

I haven't been in tons of fights, and am not too good at doing it, but in one of my last ones a guy in a bar put me in a headlock so I picked him up and dumped him ass-first into a 55 gallon drum that was being used as a trash can. His head and legs were the only thing sticking out and his girlfriend had to help extricate him. Tee hee hee!

I think anyone in most of the States, even the most anti-victim ones like New Jersey, is in a poor position to advise a UK citizen on use of force. The UK makes New Jersey look like the Wild West.

See, if some whacko I didn't know attacked me on a city street at 2 AM in the US, he'd be very lucky if I didn't let some air out of his neck. I'm not saying that's a good thing, considering that lima got out with no blood on the sidewalk and no charges pending and no angry chav looking to avenge his brother. I can't say that would be the case if it had been me.

But where I live, a law-abiding citizen can walk around with a Buck knife and a .357 on his hip, and it's the deranged, unemployed dope fiend attacking you in the street who is considered the criminal. UK lawmakers think we have that backwards. So I have no idea what I'd do in lima's shoes. Probably what he did.

Still, even though mere possession of a blackjack or pocket knife would probably get you 2 years in the UK, there may be options. A stout little metal flashlight or pen or umbrella or even a hairbrush is a huge improvement on bare knuckles and may not be considered an "offensive weapon" in the UK. I say "may not" because the authorities there are so fucking insane, I don't know what they'll say next.

Maybe you can dream up a professional reason why you need to have a screwdriver or wrench on your person at all times.

I should add that I'm a little, skinny desk jockey, and so I feel that going fast for the throat is my only chance of stopping anything like a real attack. Bigger, tougher guys may have more slack. Then again, maybe they don't. I dunno, because I've never been a tough guy.

As a super hero, I get into many battles, and I always triumph, for I am DAAAAARWIIIIIIIING DUUUUUUCK!!!!!!!!!

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boorite wrote:
I should add that I'm a little, skinny desk jockey, and so I feel that going fast for the throat is my only chance of stopping anything like a real attack. Bigger, tougher guys may have more slack. Then again, maybe they don't. I dunno, because I've never been a tough guy.

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fuck yes. even the toughest guy in the world ain't gonna do much with a knife in his throat.

except maybe bleed on you profusely.

Liquid laxatives in his last drink of the night.

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crackpanther wrote:

I haven't been in tons of fights, and am not too good at doing it, but in one of my last ones a guy in a bar put me in a headlock so I picked him up and dumped him ass-first into a 55 gallon drum that was being used as a trash can. His head and legs were the only thing sticking out and his girlfriend had to help extricate him. Tee hee hee!

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There's been a recent wave of stabbings and shootings here in the UK but it's for the most part poor inner-city kids who want "respect" and the latest mobile phone who are cutting and mugging each other*

I hate to say this but as a middle-class adult white male who lives in a quiet suburb, and who has the awareness to stay out of dangerous situations, unless I go looking for trouble, I'm not likely to see any in this country. I'd sooner walk through any town in New Jersey on a Saturday night than Middlesbrough. Not that I would.

Oh, word from a policewoman I know here too: re improvised weapons that you can get away with in the UK. Small metal flashlights are great, car keys for poking eyes, and you would even get away with an improvised flamethrower in the form of a lighter and a can of hairspray or similar. My favourite that she told me are to carry sharpened pencils for jamming in your potential attacker/rapist's thigh. Break off the end once you hit an artery.**

*Apart from the guy who shot a pregnant woman in a row over a parking space.

** Jes_Lawson takes no responsibility for potential criminal actions or eye-gougin' 

So do the police still not carry guns over there or what?

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BigFrank105 wrote:
So do the police still not carry guns over there or what?

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Of course not. Just dirty great big boots with which to kick people to death. I don't think british police need guns. My dad's a copper, and every one of his mates in the force were huge. One guy, at 6ft 5, was dwarfed by only one person.... his 6ft 6 wife, who was also in the police (and quite cute, if a little freakish-looking at first sight).

People tend to trust the police over here, I think. Theres no british copper whose going to pull up a fourteen year old tourist for 'jay walking' without telling him what the hell 'jay walking' is. Or maybe I was unlucky..

I always carry my keys around with me, so if I think somethings about to start, I get em ready in my pocket. But thankfully I've never actually been in a fight, I'm a pretty laid back guy so people tend to get on with me (to my face anyway).

The main problem around here is Neds, they just love to pick fights for fuck all reason, and there is always a group of them. I nearly got jumped once, or stabbed as the guy had a knive, but thankfully I managed to talk my way out of it (the guy wasn't that big, I probably could have taken him, but it was his 7 mates standing just across the road that bothered me)

I was pretty fucking glad to get home in one piece that night.

But that aside I've never had any trouble, but loads of my mates have been jumped, for fuck all reason. Just the wrong place at the wrong time I guess.

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lima wrote:

People tend to trust the police over here, I think. Theres no british copper whose going to pull up a fourteen year old tourist for 'jay walking' without telling him what the hell 'jay walking' is. Or maybe I was unlucky..

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I like it when I get pulled over for a "broken taillight" and the next thing I know, I'm being beaten and charged with running a white slave ring.

Okay not really, but I don't trust most of the cops here. A few are good, but the rest are power hungry bastards who are so insecure about having a small dick that they take it out on the rest of us. I'm predisposed to trusting police thanks in part to my father, but after living here, it's a miracle I don't run screaming whenever I see a white Impala.

/comics/ObiJo/250125/

fuck the police and i say it with authority

The problem is that 99% of cops might be swell professionals, but it only takes one fuckup to ruin your week.

South Louisiana had some blue-ribbon police work going on when I was there, like the time the LaPlace police pulled over a couple of black guys on the Interstate and wouldn't let them go without a bribe. The black guys wrote a check, and the crooked police actually cashed it. The Feds became very interested in this canceled check.

I have this theory that life and death power over your fellow man is damaging to your psyche. So over time armed cops become assholes. Maybe UK cops are better tempered because they can't kill anyone anytime.

A friend of mine, Kerri, was just telling me this story at work today about a co-worker of hers at her other job. This should show you just how efficient Canadian police are (and before someone asks, no, they aren't all mounties and ride horses. In fact, the RCMP [royal canadian mounted police] here in saskatoon have a Camaro that they drive around in the summer)

So, anyways, Kerri works at a video rental place in a less-than-fantastic part of town. There haven't really been a lot of problems recently in this specific area, and its well lit and lots of businesses... Oh well. So her coworker was done his shift at about 9pm, was walking out to his car, and this guy comes up to him, demanding money. This guy is holding a big metal pipe. Co-worker just ignores him, and tries to get into his car, so as to not create a huge scene. He ends up getting hit in the back with said pipe. The guy with the pipe looked like he was about to start shit-kicking him, so the co-worker gets up and high tails it back into the store.
After the police were called, and they came in, and spent over an hour getting a description of said attacker, they proceed to tell him that there's little chance of finding the guy, he's probably long gone by now.

DUH. You spent an hour getting a description. Our police like to set speed traps rather than cruise around, making sure that people aren't getting beat with pipes for no reason.

Oh, also, my 13 year old sister got propositioned for drugs while going to see a movie with two of her friends of the same age. I heart Saskatoon.

i live in cleveland, ohio.

 your story, chilling though it may be, seemed kinda like a tale from a place that's just starting to think about a downward slide instead of inventing new paths for the carcass of humanity to slide down.

the fact that people still try to rob you armed with a length of pipe should be a dead giveaway...

We got pulled over for drink-driving last night. Ridiculously laid-back experience. I don't think I'm going to go into details just yet as lead-pipes and firearms were definitley not involved and it would just bore you to know 90% of routine police work is uneventful and paperwork-based.

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little_kitty wrote:
In fact, the RCMP here in saskatoon have a Camaro that they drive around in the summer

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I've got this slipped into the space between the driver's seat and the door in my car.

It's a 6 D-cell Maglite, not a giant black dildo. It weighs about 5 pounds. Possibly at some later date it will serve as the beatdown stick that it is.