Wiry muscles are always under greater strain when stretched over so long a frame. If he kicks off he'll thrash wildly like a demonic flaying machine been designed by a medieval torturers assistant in an attempt to impress the boss.
He's also Irish... This always means the extra added bonus of street fighting techniques only the scummyist people learn. And learn fast... There is no mercy for the weak in the concrete jungle of the inner cities and the kid who doesn't figure out that the main point in a street fight is to make sure you whack the bastard attacking you into the ground before he does the same to you doesn't get to grow up and have kids.
He's been drinking heavily all day, chasing Guinness down his throat with whisky and water. The sure sign of a hardened drinker. Guinness on it's own is bad enough in the wrong hands but those who drink double whiskies to keep it company are often skittish, volatile and unpredictable from one second to the next.
He is talking to me. Or attempting to anyway.
The words are slurred but the eyes are sharp. He's drunk but edgy. There is a strange brown sludge covering the hand he is offering me in a gesture of friendliness. I consider the possibility that it is his own faecal matter and decide the consequences of not shaking his hand may well be him taking umbrage and lashing out at me. I shake his hand and quickly empty one of the drip trays into the sink so I have an excuse to wash my hands as soon as possible and hope he doesn't think I am washing my hand because I shook his hand and think it's dirty in some way. The outcome of this could also be him taking umbrage and lashing out but it's fine and he continues his slurred speech.
An old trick used by barmen the world over is listening without actually listening. I practise the discipline, and believe me there are wise, bald monks in temples who cannot do it, for the next hour. He finally succumbs to the inevitable: The bar closing; and sinks the remainder of his pint. his hand is offered again but tbis time he has decided I am worthy of a friendly hug. I give him a hug hard enough to show him I am on his side, but won't be pushed, and he nods his head and gives me a look to show he knows the score...
We are kindred spirits. Brothers in arms. Fellow soldiers in the War between Us and Them.
He's also Irish... This always means the extra added bonus of street fighting techniques only the scummyist people learn. And learn fast... There is no mercy for the weak in the concrete jungle of the inner cities and the kid who doesn't figure out that the main point in a street fight is to make sure you whack the bastard attacking you into the ground before he does the same to you doesn't get to grow up and have kids.
He's been drinking heavily all day, chasing Guinness down his throat with whisky and water. The sure sign of a hardened drinker. Guinness on it's own is bad enough in the wrong hands but those who drink double whiskies to keep it company are often skittish, volatile and unpredictable from one second to the next.
He is talking to me. Or attempting to anyway.
The words are slurred but the eyes are sharp. He's drunk but edgy. There is a strange brown sludge covering the hand he is offering me in a gesture of friendliness. I consider the possibility that it is his own faecal matter and decide the consequences of not shaking his hand may well be him taking umbrage and lashing out at me. I shake his hand and quickly empty one of the drip trays into the sink so I have an excuse to wash my hands as soon as possible and hope he doesn't think I am washing my hand because I shook his hand and think it's dirty in some way. The outcome of this could also be him taking umbrage and lashing out but it's fine and he continues his slurred speech.
An old trick used by barmen the world over is listening without actually listening. I practise the discipline, and believe me there are wise, bald monks in temples who cannot do it, for the next hour. He finally succumbs to the inevitable: The bar closing; and sinks the remainder of his pint. his hand is offered again but tbis time he has decided I am worthy of a friendly hug. I give him a hug hard enough to show him I am on his side, but won't be pushed, and he nods his head and gives me a look to show he knows the score...
We are kindred spirits. Brothers in arms. Fellow soldiers in the War between Us and Them.
"Politics is the art of controlling your environment" Hunter S Thompson.
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Now playing: Oasis - Cigarettes & Alcohol
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