April 19, 2017 by writehandman.com.au
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.
I was standing in a wine-bar. We’d been drinking for hours, so all my mates had slowly drifted off home. I was left with Charles, a really nice accountant, who I hadn’t met before that evening.
A completely pissed Irish bloke was wandering around aggressively bumping into people. Being a small bar, there was no security, so this bloke felt free to give shit to everybody.
Me – “Remember I was telling you earlier what a great poker player I am Chucky?”
Charles – “Yes Cool Hand (my self-ascribed poker call-sign), you made it sound like you’re quite the master.”
Me – “You’re about to see, the bluff.”
Charles looked at me quizzically. The drunk Irishman shoved him in the back
Drunk agro dude – “You spilled me F#CKEN beer. Get me another, before I… smash… your… face… in.” He stood really close and looked down at nice guy Charles
Nice Guy Charles – “I don’t want any trouble.”
Drunk agro dude – “A F#CKEN DRINK. NOW POOFTER!” He started poking Charles in the chest.
Any fight here, would last about one punch and then I’d be stuck in the middle of it any way. So I dived into, stone-cold bluff mode.
Everybody in the bar watched, glad he had moved on from them. He was about my height, but not nearly as heavy. I had to use my 112.4kg size, as my bluff. 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 and away. 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 drunk and I wasn’t banking on nice guy Charles being much help.
Me – “Look here Guinness. By your homophobic slurs and Chucky-poking, I suspect you and I are going to be punching the shit out of each other very soon. Now you seem like a decent enough bloke, so in the spirit of full disclosure, I have three things you should know scrapper.” I sipped my drink.
Drunk agro dude – “I’LL SMASH YOU.”
I wanted to flee.
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 flummoxed.
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.”
Drunk agro dude – “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’d want to 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 to smash this f#cken 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 f#cken hammer?? I don’t want to get hit by Thor’s f#cking hammer! An’ he give me all that voluntarily. Who’d say they hit like Thor’s f#cken hammer if there weren’t somethin’ to it? OH SHITE. I’ve picked THE WRONG F#CKEN GUY! Of all the soft suits in ‘ere, I picked the wrong f#cken guy. F#CK.
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 all gave me 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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