Every man wants a Clint Eastwood moment (without any violence of course). I write this self-indulgent blog post, with all due respect to drunk, aggressive, Irishmen.

We’d been drinking for hours in a little bar in the city, all my mates had slowly drifted off home and I was left with Charles, a really nice accountant who I hadn’t met before that night.

A completely pissed, agro Irish bloke was wandering around aggressively bumping into people. There was no security, so he felt free to give shit to everybody and was coming our way.

Me – “Remember I’s telling you earlier what a great poker player I am?”

Charles – “Yes Cool Hand (my self-ascribed poker call-sign), you sound like you’re quite the master.”

Me – “Watch the bluff.”

Charles looked at me quizzically.  The drunk Irishman shoved him in the back

Agro Irishman – “Ya spilled me FOCKEN beer. Get me ‘nother, before I smash ya face in.” He stood really close and looked down at nice guy Charles.

Nice Guy Charles – “I don’t want any trouble.”

Agro Irishman – “A FOCKEN DRINK. NOW FOCKER!” He started poking Charles in the chest.

Any fight with Charles would last about one punch and then I’d be stuck in the middle of it any way. So being pretty pissed myself, I entered bluff mode.

Everybody in the bar watched, glad the nutter had moved on from them. He was about my height, but not nearly as heavy, so I had to use my 115.4kg as my “raise.” Whoever said sometimes the best defence, is a good offence, nailed it.

Me – “Whoa back there Fightin’ Irish!”

I slowly but firmly, pushed the finger he was stabbing into Charles’ chest down. He turned to me. Nice guy Charles was relieved. I wasn’t. My heart pounded, but I had to give a persona of cool confidence. Bouncer-style, I pushed out my shoulders.

If I pulled this off, I was effectively Clint Eastwood. If I stuffed it, I was trading punches with an Irish madman and I wasn’t banking on nice guy Charles being much help.

Me – “Look here, Guinness. By your Charles-poking, I suspect you and I may be trading blows very soon. Ya seem like a decent enough bloke, so in the spirit of full disclosure, I have three things you should know, Michael Collins.” I sipped my drink.

Agro Irishman – “I’LL SMASH YA.”

I wanted to flee.

But I couldn’t.

Me – “Number one, Guinness I am twenty kilos overweight. I’m slow. If you dance around like Michael Flatley, I won’t catch you.”

I gave him a confident wink. He seemed a bit taken aback.

Me – “Number two, I have a very sensitive nose, Irish. Land a good punch there and my tears will flow like your Ma’s when you left the old country.”

Agro Irishman – “Me ma?” He seemed a bit confused.

Me – “But here’s the most important thing, Fightin’ Irish.”

I motioned with my hand for him to come in closer. He did. I nearly whispered. I even put my hand on his shoulder for effect.

Me – “I hit… like Thor’s… fucking… hammer!”

He looked at me and blinked.

I was overjoyed with my presentation. I spoke slowly, calmly and… toughly. Just like Clint.

Me – “I thought you should know.”

He stumbled and steadied himself.

Me – “I can see you really want to have a scrap. I get it, you’re Irish and you’re on the grog. It’s not your fault. But what you certainly don’t want to do… is lose a fight. Not in front of all these people.” I smiled at him warmly.

Because he was practically falling down drunk, through his face I could nearly see his thoughts ticking over –

I want ta smash this pissed focken Aussie! He’s been insultin’ me. He’s slow an’ has a weak nose. I can’t lose. These rich pricks’ll know I’m a fighter just like Pa was… But hold on now… Thor’s focken hammer?? I don’t want to get hit by Thor’s focking hammer! An’ he give me all that voluntary. Who’d say they hit like Thor’s focken hammer if there weren’t somethin’ to it? OH SHITE. I’ve picked THE WRONG FOCKEN GUY! Of all the soft suits in ‘ere, I picked the wrong focken guy. FOCK.

Me – “Maybe it’s time you left, Irish. You can’t take a pint of Guinness, drop a potato in it and call it a cocktail, in this place.” I was on a roll.

He stared at me for a few seconds more. I put my beer down. He turned and left.

The patrons gave me a round of polite applause. I was Clint Eastwood.

Charles – “Holy shit Cool Hand. You’re a fighter!”

Me – “Jeez no Chucky. I’m just a great poker player.

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Thanks for reading. I write blogs oftentimes just to be able to claim when meeting a new person at a Hornswood party, that I am in fact… a writer (whereby my wife generally jumps in and proclaims “he’s actually NOT a writer”). If you could Share far and wide via the buttons below, that would be amazing. I write stuff for a few small companies, but I need to one day be a famous contributor to the noble art of blogging. And check out the brilliant new craft-beer home delivery business I have set up with a few North Shore dads (gettincrafty.com.au) Cheers