"You're a great writer. You have so much talent. I love everything you write. You're wasting your life. Seriously, what are you doing with your life?"
I dunno, kid. Would a great writer misspell "groomsman" three times, then leave the third mistake there (above) just so he could question your assertion (while publicising it cos it's still a sweet thing to hear)? This one would. Still, that got to me. Nothing I've tried to write since has seemed worthy of anyone holding such high opinions of my ability to piece syllables together.
As much as that stung me then, even I was surprised by the anger it brought about in me. At least I didn't threaten you with any meagre manner of violence. Hell, I'd never threaten a woman....ok, I'd rarely threaten a woman. She almost had it coming, so, sorry Emma, for you did not. This one goes out to you. Boom, name-check city!
I have threatened people. Me. Really. No foolin'. Four of 'em. It's chronology time!
Incident the first: Dublin Bus, circa 2009
Picture the scene with my word pictures- sitting on a bus, making my way from my sprawling, and opulently palatial Dublin residence (author may be using exaggeration) to the other side of my fair city. Beside me sat a girl I was sweet on (fun fact: I grew up in the 1950s) and courting and we were simply negotiating the journey from mine to hers. Then piped up a dude a-fissin' and a fussin', spoilin' and agitatin' for a fight.
"You look like a rooster."
Oh yeah, I had a shitty mohawk going on. That much may have been my bad.
"That yer mam with ya?"
Quick to anger and straight to malice, yet always aware that a raised voice or betrayal of ire would lose me the fight before it had begun, I turned slowly to the voice, and in a calm, measured tone spoke to it with eyes locked on those of its owner:
"Insult her again, I'll break your fucking nose."
I turned back to my own business as if not one harsh word had been uttered. I have abhorred ill words being spoken of any lady in my company, much less one with whom I was in some manner of love. I'd never threaten a woman (ok, we'll get to that).
"Will you? I'm a boxer. Do you really want to try it?"
He was a culchie, and looked the sort. Shit. Hurriedly that hatchet was buried by me, at least partially in accord with the insistence of the supposedly wronged "damsel". Also, I imagine the severity of my own words had likely dawned on me. The fuck was I gonna do? Punch out a guy on the bus for a quip about my hair and an inconsequential insult of my girlfriend? She was no more Adrian than I Rocky. You're damn right I backed the fuck down. Impetuous but not fucking stupid.
THREAT #1: Defending then girlfriend's honour.
NOBILITY SCALE: 7ish.
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Incident the second: The Czech Inn, February 2010
In the midst of the Jameson Dublin International Film Festival, and the post shift drinking that it provides a showcase for perhaps even better than it does the films themselves, arose an uncomfortable air. A man with whom I and many others out that night were rather well acquainted seemed intent on burning even the smouldering embers of the bridges that once tied us all together in friendship. He had made his distaste known for us in a form even below that of a teenage girl, and thus far beneath the station of a man in the neck of his 30th year. None of us could fathom why his grudges had been fostered and festered, nor why he continued to come out to the pub solely to be near us and yet to ignore any attempt to engage him in polite conversation. It was clear he was trying to make it clear that he was sulking by obstinately refusing to acknowledge anyone other than his girlfriend and....*ahem* other female "friend".
For the purposes of this retread, I will provide aliases as appropriate/
"Hey, Mia, how are you? Deadly. Soon Yi? You good? And hey to you too, Woody."
Upon hearing his name, Woody switched from ignoring my presence to actively displaying his ignorance by turning to face the wall rather than acknowledge me. I wished him luck with that, met the embarrassed looks of the women and retreated to my table. Moments later he did the same to a female acquaintance of mine. That would not stand.
I waited for him to leave his seat, and head to the bathroom. I lay in wait outside.
"Hey, Woody. Listen, you can ignore and disrespect me all you want, but if you ever treat a friend of mine like that again I'll kick your teeth down your fucking throat."
That got his attention, and a response. Further fighting words were exchanged through gritted teeth approximating smiles as we made our way back to our respective tables. Maybe ten minutes later he made to leave. I offered a toothy smile and broad wave.
"Bye, Woody."
He didn't like that. Not. One. Bit. Head to head, ego to ego, we squared up.
"Let's step outside then, Deebs. Come on.."
"Nah, Woody. You've got your women to think of. You're not worth my time tonight."
Thing is, I could have taken Woody. Dude resembled a less in shape version of a veteran film director who was more than twice his age, and man, did I want to follow through on that one. Strangely enough, I was asked for a report the following day from one of my festival superiors who had it that I did just that. The rumour mill was founded on Chinese Whispers and they had mangled the night's events beyond recognition.
"Deebs threatened Woody."
"Deebs and Woody fought."
"Deebs hit Woody over the head with a chair and now Woody's in a coma."
"I hear Deebs and Woody fighting is this year's surprise film."
THREAT #2: Defending then friend's honour....partly.
NOBILITY SCALE: 6 maybe.
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Incident the third: Rick's Burgers, February 2010
So, my hackles were up. Where would one usually find their hackles? Low down, I suppose. Feet? Well, my hackles were up around my shins at the very least. Only one day had passed since the second threat on my resume, and I had a craving for meat. Thus, Rick's glorious burgers were in demand.
"Oooh Justin Timberlake."
Yes, I was wearing a hat. Of course I was wearing a hat. Not a hat I was a particular fan of, but a hat nonetheless. Nobody mocks my hats, nor compares me to any other person who may choose to wear hats. I sauntered down to the culprit, never blinking.
"You better watch yourself. Better watch what you say to me."
So, maybe getting called Justin Timberlake is not the most insulting comparison I can imagine. It was the principle of it, though....or whatever. Testosterone was coursing through my veins, OK?
THREAT #3: Defending my hat's honour.
NOBILITY SCALE: 1 (I didn't even like the hat)
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Incident the last: McEwan Hall, August 2013
I'd tamed the beast of my threatening behaviours, kept it locked down for three and a half years and left for a new country. It couldn't find me here, in Edinburgh, during Fringe, at Hot Dub Time Machine.
Ah Hot Dub Time Machine. They called it the "Best Party Ever". I knew we were onto a loser when I saw the queues of the several hundred people heavily populated by messes of folk throwing up in between gulps of their vodka heavy 2 litre bottles of Irn bru. Late night Fringe events are often those to be feared in my experience.
You may have noticed that my trigger for threats had grown more sensitive and less noble in intent over time. I defended a girlfriend, not one I stayed with for a whole lot longer. I defended a friend, who I wasn't so friendly with truly. I defended a....hat. A hat I did not like.
This time, it was far more important and personal. Let me walk you through it, dear reader.
A drunk dude, far bigger, and far sweatier than I, had been knocking up against a female amigo for some time when she finally snapped and pushed him away. Hey, these things happen at gigs.
He turned and made to swing for her. I jumped in between them.
"Woah, woah, woah. Dude, you do not hit a woman. Back away."
You may notice that this was not a threat. There was nothing to be gained from threatening this guy at this time. The night continued.
We danced a circle about a collection of bags at our feet. This had attracted the ire of our drunken ape man and his mate, still sore at the events from earlier. I eyed them suspiciously.
"Dude, walk through them and kick their shit about. Do it."
He turned and made to carry through on his cohort's words. I jumped in between them.
"I know you're angry. I get it. This won't help. You'd just piss off a bunch of people. Walk away."
Again, no threat. We're getting there. The female amigo from the original altercation caught my attention.
"They're staring a hole through your back, Deebs. I don't know what they're planning but watch out."
I heard them talk behind me of "fucking me up". I turned.
"It's not worth it. I'm not here to fight you man."
"Where are you from?"
"Dublin, man."
He smiled a partly toothless smile, shook my hand and shuffled off into the sunset. It was crystal that my origins were key. Had I said Glasgow I'd have been a stain on his shoe. We Irish are adorable. Sweet Child Of Mine filled the air. Suddenly I was hatless.
Oh, yeah. I was previously wearing a top hat to go with my shirt, tie and....er....shorts. Throw that in with the image of all that went before. Poor toothless, sweatmonger must have thought his conscience was being represented by a Victorian gentleman.
I scanned about my immediate horizon. A top hat disappeared quickly out of view amidst a nearby circle of revellers. I approached, got right up close with eyes locked and spoke in my same measured tone, with voice moderated to reflect my displeasure.
"If you touch my hat again, I will FUCKING END YOU!"
She was a girl of no more than 21 or 22 years. Her mouth remained agape as I backed away with eyes still locked in rage.
You never hit a woman. You never threaten a girl....unless she tries to steal your top hat.
THREAT #4: Defending top hat from criminal mastermind.
NOBILITY SCALE: 10 or I will fucking end you....ALL OF YOU.
Disclaimer: No women were harmed in the writing of this piece. A hat was slightly damaged.
Disclaimer: No women were harmed in the writing of this piece. A hat was slightly damaged.
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