(no subject)
I fully expected to never again write in this journal - to the inexplicable disappointment of a few people, it seems - but given the events of Saturday evening and some misapprehensions that already seem to be arising about them, I thought that I better put fingers to keyboard here once again. Since Facebook still doesn’t have a useful blogging feature, my dusty old LJ account seems like the ideal tool.
While hurrying to catch the coach to Leicester last night, tripletakeover and I found ourselves caught behind a large knot of scene/trendy kids in their late teens or early twenties, walking three or four abreast in multiple ranks, completely blocking the after-hours public right of way through the Broadmarsh Centre.
“It’s okay,” I said politely from behind them, “Take up as much space as you like, nobody else might need to get through here.”
All of the young ladies and all but one of their young male companions moved over to allow my friend and I to get past them, but there’s always one - short hair, grey T-shirt with unreadable golden logo, three-quarter length shorts, unlaced and floppy trainers - who thinks they’re a comedian.
“Can I touch your hair?” he said to me as I passed him.
I felt no need to dignify such a rude and stupid request with a reply, so I was somewhat surprised when the little shit just grabbed a handful of my hair anyway. On reflex, I jerked my right arm back, breaking his grip on my hair and driving my elbow into his sternum with enough force to make him take a step back. I glared at him, turned, and continued on my way. He did not like that at all.
He then proceeded to follow tripletakeover and I the rest of the way through Broadmarsh, yelling increasingly incoherent abuse and demanding that I stop and fight him. I ignored him, which he also seemed not to like.
We exited the other side of Broadmarsh, and we were obliged to stop at the kerb and wait for the lights to stop the traffic on the main road so we could cross. He caught up with us here, and I believe this is where the first punch was thrown. He put a right-handed roundhouse into the side of my head while my back was turned, raising a small lump just on my right temple.
“WHY WON’T YOU TURN ROUND?!” he screamed.
“Because you’re so ugly I don’t even want to look at you,” I replied, still keeping my back to him.
The lights changed, and my friend and I started to cross the main road. One of Boy Genius’s female companions was trying to restrain him by this point, so we were most of the way across before he caught up with us again. Unfortunately, by this point tripletakeover had dropped back out of my field of vision, so as I glanced back to check where she was, Boy Genius swung another punch. I think he was aiming at my chin, but he missed and landed the blow on my neck, my left clavicle taking most of the force.
Remember what I said about Boy Genius’s footwear? He overbalanced so badly he fell out of his shoes, sprawling in the middle of the road, one trainer on, one left behind. I was unable to contain myself, and burst out laughing. I was still hooting as I gathered up my friend and went on towards the coach station.
Unfortunately, he didn’t like that either, and continued to follow us, still roaring abuse and demands that I fight him. My friend and I are both “skinny” and “ugly”, apparently. Heh. Anyway, he then came into the coach station after us, and made another grab for my hair, which I politely deflected, and walked away. Then he took another shot at my head while by back was turned, catching me on the right hand side of the jaw (I later found that this had caused me to cut my lip against my own teeth, but I hadn’t noticed that yet).
Since we had more or less reached the appropriate stand to catch our coach from, I had nowhere else to go now, so I was forced to finally face the little bugger. He tried to hit me in the face again, but that was easily deflected. I think this caused the final collapse of his temper, because he then just bared his teeth and bodily went for me, which was very silly. He grabbed my hair again, but he also put his neck in such a daft position that it would have been rude not to slip my right arm over the back of his neck and under his throat, before taking my right wrist firmly in my left hand and straightening my back just enough for his own weight to start crushing his windpipe against the side of my right forearm.
I held him like that for a second or two so he could get a sense of what it was I was doing, before calmly telling him “You let go of my hair, and I’ll let go of you.” He didn’t, so I maintained the pressure a wee while longer before repeating my suggestion. Again, he made no move to release me, so I shifted my feet slightly, increased the force I was applying to his neck, and again made what I thought was my eminently reasonable offer. By now, his two remaining female companions were both shouting at us; the large, dark-haired ugly one demanding that I release him, and the small, blonde, cute one advising him that he should let go of my hair.
By now I felt enough in control of the situation to look over my shoulder at the ugly brunette and inform her that I would unhand her friend as soon as he stopped bothering me. I think it might have been about now that Boy Genius started to go a funny colour, because the pitch of the cute wee blonde’s imprecations went up a notch or two.
“You let go of my hair, and I’ll let go of you,” I repeated, and this time he very deliberately released his hold. I gave it another second to make sure he wasn’t going to try for a better hold or to throw another punch, and then I let go of him too. I waited while he straightened up to see if he had regained his sense and his temper; he was rather red in the face and a bit watery around the edge of the eyes, but he was okay.
“See? That was easy,” I said, smiled, and once again turned and walked away, heading down the length of the stand to reach the bay our coach was scheduled to stop at. He didn’t follow us again, and that was the last I saw of him.
So yes, I believe that was the first physical fight I’ve been unable to walk away from in the almost eleven years since I moved here.
Quote of the Day:
“It is a foolish man who goes to war on an insult.”
- Robyn Young, Crusade
While hurrying to catch the coach to Leicester last night, tripletakeover and I found ourselves caught behind a large knot of scene/trendy kids in their late teens or early twenties, walking three or four abreast in multiple ranks, completely blocking the after-hours public right of way through the Broadmarsh Centre.
“It’s okay,” I said politely from behind them, “Take up as much space as you like, nobody else might need to get through here.”
All of the young ladies and all but one of their young male companions moved over to allow my friend and I to get past them, but there’s always one - short hair, grey T-shirt with unreadable golden logo, three-quarter length shorts, unlaced and floppy trainers - who thinks they’re a comedian.
“Can I touch your hair?” he said to me as I passed him.
I felt no need to dignify such a rude and stupid request with a reply, so I was somewhat surprised when the little shit just grabbed a handful of my hair anyway. On reflex, I jerked my right arm back, breaking his grip on my hair and driving my elbow into his sternum with enough force to make him take a step back. I glared at him, turned, and continued on my way. He did not like that at all.
He then proceeded to follow tripletakeover and I the rest of the way through Broadmarsh, yelling increasingly incoherent abuse and demanding that I stop and fight him. I ignored him, which he also seemed not to like.
We exited the other side of Broadmarsh, and we were obliged to stop at the kerb and wait for the lights to stop the traffic on the main road so we could cross. He caught up with us here, and I believe this is where the first punch was thrown. He put a right-handed roundhouse into the side of my head while my back was turned, raising a small lump just on my right temple.
“WHY WON’T YOU TURN ROUND?!” he screamed.
“Because you’re so ugly I don’t even want to look at you,” I replied, still keeping my back to him.
The lights changed, and my friend and I started to cross the main road. One of Boy Genius’s female companions was trying to restrain him by this point, so we were most of the way across before he caught up with us again. Unfortunately, by this point tripletakeover had dropped back out of my field of vision, so as I glanced back to check where she was, Boy Genius swung another punch. I think he was aiming at my chin, but he missed and landed the blow on my neck, my left clavicle taking most of the force.
Remember what I said about Boy Genius’s footwear? He overbalanced so badly he fell out of his shoes, sprawling in the middle of the road, one trainer on, one left behind. I was unable to contain myself, and burst out laughing. I was still hooting as I gathered up my friend and went on towards the coach station.
Unfortunately, he didn’t like that either, and continued to follow us, still roaring abuse and demands that I fight him. My friend and I are both “skinny” and “ugly”, apparently. Heh. Anyway, he then came into the coach station after us, and made another grab for my hair, which I politely deflected, and walked away. Then he took another shot at my head while by back was turned, catching me on the right hand side of the jaw (I later found that this had caused me to cut my lip against my own teeth, but I hadn’t noticed that yet).
Since we had more or less reached the appropriate stand to catch our coach from, I had nowhere else to go now, so I was forced to finally face the little bugger. He tried to hit me in the face again, but that was easily deflected. I think this caused the final collapse of his temper, because he then just bared his teeth and bodily went for me, which was very silly. He grabbed my hair again, but he also put his neck in such a daft position that it would have been rude not to slip my right arm over the back of his neck and under his throat, before taking my right wrist firmly in my left hand and straightening my back just enough for his own weight to start crushing his windpipe against the side of my right forearm.
I held him like that for a second or two so he could get a sense of what it was I was doing, before calmly telling him “You let go of my hair, and I’ll let go of you.” He didn’t, so I maintained the pressure a wee while longer before repeating my suggestion. Again, he made no move to release me, so I shifted my feet slightly, increased the force I was applying to his neck, and again made what I thought was my eminently reasonable offer. By now, his two remaining female companions were both shouting at us; the large, dark-haired ugly one demanding that I release him, and the small, blonde, cute one advising him that he should let go of my hair.
By now I felt enough in control of the situation to look over my shoulder at the ugly brunette and inform her that I would unhand her friend as soon as he stopped bothering me. I think it might have been about now that Boy Genius started to go a funny colour, because the pitch of the cute wee blonde’s imprecations went up a notch or two.
“You let go of my hair, and I’ll let go of you,” I repeated, and this time he very deliberately released his hold. I gave it another second to make sure he wasn’t going to try for a better hold or to throw another punch, and then I let go of him too. I waited while he straightened up to see if he had regained his sense and his temper; he was rather red in the face and a bit watery around the edge of the eyes, but he was okay.
“See? That was easy,” I said, smiled, and once again turned and walked away, heading down the length of the stand to reach the bay our coach was scheduled to stop at. He didn’t follow us again, and that was the last I saw of him.
So yes, I believe that was the first physical fight I’ve been unable to walk away from in the almost eleven years since I moved here.
Quote of the Day:
“It is a foolish man who goes to war on an insult.”
- Robyn Young, Crusade