Pub Fights

When I was a junior journalist another guy said if you get into a fight in a pub always kick the other guy in the balls first because if you don’t he will do it to you.

Will he, I asked?  They always do he said.

Another guy showed us a gun, an automatic.   Have you a licence, I asked.  Yes, he said.  Maybe they were easier to get then, pre the blood and murder days of the seventies.  Have you any shells, I asked.  I’ll have to get some of those he said.  Why do you want a gun?  Someone might pick a fight with you in a pub he said.

I told this to a European barman.  So you shoot them, he said.

The postman, also about my age, was a friend or acquaintance.  A drinking buddy.  Though well able to drink on his own.  He told me this.

That fellow staying at your digs came to the post office to collect a packet.  He opened it, it had bullets in it.  He took out a gun and loaded it at the counter.  We thought we were going to be held up. Then he walked out.

I told this to a relatively sane acquaintance.  He must have been mad, he said.

Who isn’t?

Did I ever get into a fight in a pub?  More or less, though it continued outside.  Someone objected to something I said. In mitigation, I was drunk.  That was a long time ago, I tell it now for the historical record.

I apologise for using the word balls.  Perhaps I should have said testicles.  Female readers, adjust as appropriate.

There’s more where this came from.

Ireland.

Love lives here despite the odds.

I live to tell the tale.

Tich Ennis

24th May, 2016

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