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Dreadful Nonsense

"I've read your blog. it's really funny. you should write a column." - Jon Ronson

We were watching the rugby today (in which Ireland KICKED SOME WELSH ASS, in case anyone isn’t aware) in the Irish pub up the road from us. It’s an excellent pub, shaped like a barge, so that all the space inside is due to length rather than girth (insert your own penis related gag (no pun intended) here). It’s also excellent at keeping in the smoke of the last 35 years, the smoke of every cigarette ever smoked inside its walls. Thankfully, the owners have installed beautiful stained glass sky lights, so that when the sun streams down from above, the rays are immediately fugged up by the 1980s pop video amount of smoke filling the room, and you feel at home and doped up to the eye balls and unable to breathe. It’s like being in a damp room that’s catching, very slowly, on fire. But the fire is not alarming enough to leave behind the sweet, sweet Guinness. Oh, the Guinness.

Anyway. While we were all happily watching Ireland KICK SOME WELSH ASS, a man from a table located away from the majority of the Irish contingent watching the match, and away from the main screen, walked up and past us on the way to the toilets. He seemed to have something of a swagger about him, walking like I imagine Liam Gallagher would if he had just literally shit himself. That kind of wide-legged, hip-swinging, I’ve-Got-Piles-The-Size-Of-Onions kind of swagger that some men adopt thinking it makes them look masculine but actually just looks like a Jack Russell trying to square up to an Alsatian - misguided, and bound to lead eventually to terrible trouble.

On the way back from the toilets, he stopped in the middle of the room - not quite blocking the view of everyone watching, as the screen is mounted high up on the wall, but certainly blocking a lot of the lower half of the screen. He waited for a moment, noted the score (Ireland were, at that point, 2 points ahead) and screamed at the top of his English accent “COME ON WALES! COME ON! BEAT THE PADDIES!” He then paused for but a moment, and continued to waddle his way back to his seat.

My question, which I put to He Who Only… very soon after the event, was WHY THE FUCK would you go into an Irish pub and then scream that kind of thing? He Who Only… had the very clear and obviously correct answer that he was only looking for some kind of response. It was to all of our credits that we collective ignored him, with one table swapping looks and a bit of a giggle, but not really anything else. I personally would have happily shot him in the head. I hate people who feel the need to try and kick off fights or even just vague ill feeling, but my response to them is always simply the urge to shoot them in the head.

Thankfully I don’t have a gun.

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