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The time I beat the shit out of a six foot four Irish hit man

Like most of the memoirs, this one starts with Hamish and I at a bar drinking beer. We finally decide to move out to the street frontage, mingle with our public and play one of our favourite games on some strangers. AIM: To pretend that Hamish and I are strangers, stage a fight and end up beating the shit out of each other. It can prove itself to be quite entertaining, but not on this occasion. This time it proved itself to be a fateful error in our drunken judgement

So, I strike up a conversation with some Irish fellows as Hamish stands back waiting for his cue to enter. It was coming along nicely until one of them happens to mention that his occupation was that of a man who deals out the death card on a daily basis, laughs at fear and would as sooner snap my neck like a twig than continue a conversation.

The message “Abort! Abort!” throbs on my brain and I decide to wrap up this nice little chat with my neck in tact and get the fuck outta there!!…. but then Hamish enters. (I don’t believe that this guy truly was a hit man, although he did look a lot like Ray Winston and I wasn’t willing to take that gamble) Hamish introduces himself to the two Irish guys as “Jonno” which was always a fun little slant on the game -but not on this occasion, for as we all know, if there’s a fight… ‘Jonno’ is the first to get hit!!!

So of course, the cut-throat enforcer doesn’t take too much of a liking to this unwelcomed intrusion. He quickly punches Hamish in the eye before his silky velvet tones have even had the chance to win him over with charm & wit. I quickly jump up and grab the apache’s arm as he goes in for another.

“ What are you doing? Do you know who this is?” In a desperate attempt to reason with the executioner before he ‘rubs out’ my friend.

“ aye doun giv a fuk hoo e is! Hoo tha fuk duz e tink e iz sittun at me taeble uninvite-ud?” He retorts with a conviction I’m not messing with.

“ He owns this bar!” I explain. I’m obviously out of material and lying my tits off, but it’s just enough to get the drunken slayer away before he snuffs us both out!

Our friend ‘Wool’ quickly goes to get an ice pack, as Hamish is set to film a cherry ripe commercial in a few days and the swelling could have him out of a job!

But before he does, the Irish invader comes back wanting to blacken Hamish’s other eye. He’s obviously a perfectionist with an obsession for symmetry. But before he gets a chance, our manchild grabs the hit man by the lapels and throws him on to the road, sits on his chest and proceeds to beat that Ray Winston face into a pulp.. Screaming “You like that mother fucker!?!”

The fat bastard didn’t know what hit him! He was so drunk and shell-shocked that such a little fella would try anything that he barely moved through the whole scuffle. I was swiftly pulled off by a friend and our celtic assassin runs off into the night with his tail between his legs… well, actually, I didn’t know this at the time (as I thought he was running away from ME) but he was just in the process of getting up to introduce me to Jimmy Hoffa when the cops arrived and saved my arse.

Now, of course you would think that this unbelievable night would end there! But no, I felt alive, drunk as all fuck, but alive all the same. I had testosterone and adrenalin pumping through my veins. I was man. More man than child than ever before… and most likely ever again. I took the elbow of the closest female and said “That’s our cab innit?” Very much like the neanderthal grunt a Cro-Magnon man would give to his mate before dragging her back to his cave. She agreed without question and there you have it, The sex was mine, bad drunken sex, but The sex all the same.

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