Monday, 10 March 2008

The sheer horridness of going to work

I thought today was going to start as a wonderful day. Check out the mist on this playing field, which I passed on the way into town. It had a peaceful, mysterious feeling.

Twenty minutes later, I am torn between reporting a barking fuckwit in a van to the Plod and hauling him out of the front seat and braining him with a tyre lever (a tyre lever for a bike by the way is about 4 inches long and made of plastic). Braining someone with a bike tyre lever would generally have to consist of ramming it up a dickhead's nose.

So much for Monday starting out on a happy, planet-loving note.

The middle of the day was spent on the Monorail, in the stinking heat, with a broken down air conditioner. In a carriage full of sweating, fat chicks that disdained both a shower and deoderant. Hell is other people's armpits.

Then I went past this on the way home. This is outside a pub called Paddy Maguires, and I used to drink there a bit back when I worked down that end of town. It has a beer garden which faces the tram lines, and you can see part of it to the left of the escalators.

The two idiots on the ground were fighting when I got to this spot. I had stopped to swap the lenses in my sunglasses to a darker shade, when I heard some yelling and swearing and looked up from my lens-swapping exercise to see people in suits standing around tut-tutting and walking away from two drunken dickheads rolling on the ground.

Everyone kept their distance, especially those in the beer garden. I know from long experience that if you get up out of your chair in that beer garden, you'll never sit down again. A full blown gang riot could have been in progress at this spot (which is also right out the front of a Harry's Cafe de Wheels pie cart) and the pie scoffers and beer swillers would not move a muscle. Except perhaps to pick up their mobile phone... and even then they'd just use it to take a photo, rather than call the Plod.

It took a few minutes for a security guard to appear, and all he did was hold up one hand and make a phone call. The two idiots continued to roll around on the ground, with me missing most of the action as I was fumbling with my camera. I didn't want to get that close, since both turned out to be covered in blood. I presume one or both of them went at the other with a glass, and the results were rather reminiscent of an abattoir.

When I got home, I commented to J that if it had been a man assaulting a woman, I would have been over there like a shot and kicked the bugger in the balls. But it wasn't anything like that - it was two drunken wastoids having a biff, and as such, it did not merit my involvement. The biff was not even interesting enough to hold my attention for more than 30 seconds. I looked, I photographed, and I rode on.

There is a measure of space (I think) called a AU, which stands for Astronomical Unit (I think). It's an enormous distance - something to do with the sun (I think). If I was the Plod called to this bum-fight, I would be measuring things with TU, which is the length of my truncheon at full stretch. Given that these idiots were already covered in blood, whacking them a few more times with a lump of wood would do no harm.

Someone really pissed God off today.

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