Every now and again when I’m out on the town having a few froffies, some overly drunken fuckwit will come up to me and challenge me to some sort of physical confrontation. Generally, I won’t have done anything to provoke this type of violence other than stick out like a sore thumb on a dance floor or at the bar of a pub. I find that it’s predominantly the shorter blokes fronting up for a fight as well, as if the notion of beating the shit out of someone bigger than them somehow validates their never-ending quest to re-affirm their masculinity through engaging in reckless violence.

Over the years, I’ve seen quite a bit of this recklessness; I’ve been jumped by a dozen blokes at a party, hit in the head with a shovel, a miniature baseball bat (why do they make miniature baseballs bats if not to hit people in the heads with them) and lengths of lead pipe, had bricks thrown at me and been cornered by half a dozen thugs at an end of school-year party in a vengeance attack for making one of their mates cry (he literally cried after I punched him, what a pussy) on the last day of Year 12 (he threw eggs at my car, he deserved it).

The incident with the shovel was somewhat humorous, looking back…

Me and a few mates had turned up to a party looking for another mate who’d messaged and stated that he was getting hassled by a few guys there. Now, alarm bells should have been flashing at this stage but he was our mate and we ventured to the house where the party was being held to try and retrieve him before things went south.

We arrived, and it was clear that our mate wasn’t there. Suddenly we were surrounded, Lord of the Flies style, by a dozen or so 16-17 year olds, all with the malnourished look that one can only obtain from eating copious amounts of 2-Minute Noodles (and nothing else) in a 1950s fibro-sheeted house while a family member nurtures their pack-a-day cigarette habit in the adjacent sitting room.

I spoke to one of the urchins for several moments, trying to ascertain the whereabouts of my friend. He kept saying, “You don’t want me to get my brother involved, cunt, he’ll smash you”, or words to that effect. I was in the middle of a witty retort when I heard a sudden clang, as if someone had viciously rang a church bell inside my head.

I turned around and saw another one of the halflings with a garden shovel in his hand (we were in a backyard). Blood jetted from an open wound in my head like a commercial sprinkler. It was time to get out of there.

I ran out onto the street, knocking the halflings out indiscriminately as I fled. As I ran up the side of the house (a brick veneer number) one of them lunged at me with the brick. I hit him in the face so hard that he was out on his feet before he fell, and slid down the exterior wall of the house like a piece of gherkin on a McDonalds restaurant window. We ran out onto the street and I dispatched another over a small retaining wall right as he was about to strike one of my mates.

At the hospital, I received 3 staples in my head. I wasn’t able to have anaesthetic because I’d been drinking. It fucking hurt.

Moral of the story? There isn’t one. Sometimes you have to fight cunts.

/end communication