Fight Club
1. I have only ever been in one physical fight in my life, I was 10. I called Mark Faulkener a “big Jessie”. He took exception and pounced on me and ripped out my newly pierced hoop earring. Sore. Clearly Mark wasn’t an advocate of the “Sticks and stones may break my bones…” philosophy.
It’s been two months since this event happened and it has taken a bit of cogitating and digesting, in the words of former Masterchef host, Loyd Grossman ,before I could write it up. Reasons for this are bewilderment and embarrassment. You’ll understand why in two ticks.
The Scene: The Moorings Bar, Aberdeen Harbour. Never go there.
It’s 10 minutes before Meeester’s band go on stage and as punishment for being as stupid as to marry the bandmates, Misssy M, Ma Leys and Missy A are told to go and earn their keep (their “keep” being some future mystical revenue that will ensure their safe delivery to the South of France and a life of cocktails and lounging- please God) by handing out flyers to the audience. All of a sudden, Misssy M hears the voice of her younger sister, Misssy A. “Don’t TOUCH me! You RUDE woman!” Misssy M turns to see Misssy A face to face with a being who she nearly called Brick Shit House Lady until she checked herself. Brick Shithouse is about 20 stone, possibly with a few too many male hormones, and shouting and spitting god knows what beverage in the face of Misssy A, “If it’s not the UK Subs or the Damned, I’m not fucking interested!”, she spits maniacally. Misssy M wants to go over and explain that Dave Vanian is probably now working at Specsavers and Nicky Garratt is a chartered accountant. Instead she stops her PR duties and goes over to help her sis. “I’m handing you a flipping leaflet. Read it or don’t read it. There’s no need to spit in my face!”, Misssy A says to Shit House in a manner to suggest she is in control of the situation. A quick exchange of looks between the two sisters confirms this. Brick Shit House says, “Blah Blah Blah!” and spits some more into Misssy A’s face. Misssy A moves on. The band starts to play. They are, of course, flipping wonderful. Assembled rock beauties, Misssy A, Misssy m, Oscar’s Mama, Ma Leys and Tourettes Linda are enjoying themselves aplenty. Then they spot the Brick Shit House at the front pogo-ing and generally doing something that flirts unsuccessfully with the vaguest definition of dancing. “Check out Brick Shit House! It might not be the UK Subs or the Damned but she’s having a great time.” Misssy M observes. “Mental fucking bitch”, Tourettes Linda adds. The group love the turn of phrase of the Tourettes Linda and possibly clap with delight. They also check out the companions of Brick Shit House. They seem a lot younger than Shit House, but it’s dark and difficult to tell. The pair are both dressed bizarrely. One is in red and black leggings with a red leather high waisted jacket and permed peroxide hair; the other is in black and white leggings and a bum hiding black smock top and Kelly Osborne black hair). They agree they haven’t seen the like since 1988. Stripy Red and Black has turned round and well, if she isn’t sixty if she is a day. Holy crap, she looks like Sue Barker’s granny. They all clock this. Having already spotted a woman (maybe) that looks like Gimley’s wife at the bar (complete with beard) and a guy who has filed his eye teeth into points, Sue Barker’s Granny is the newest addition to the group’s collection of Moorings oddities. Then it happens. Again Misssy M hears Misssy A’s voice behind her. “Don’t push me…..Urrrggggh!” Misssy M turns to see Misssy A push the Brick Shit House with all her force. It appears Shit House had come off the dance floor for a breather, spotted the purveyor of the offending leaflets of the very band she has just been enjoying, pushed her over with her considerable might and then (and this is the weirdest bit) grabbed her arse cheek, sinking her nails into it. The woman is quite clearly clinically mental. And something happens to MisssyM. Her head explodes with anger and says to her, “No-one attacks your wee sister, what are you going to do about this, then MisssyM?” And then another thing happens, the latent Weegie comes out of Misssy M’s sub-conscious and says (very calmly they are later told, by a stunned Oscar’s Ma who watches on aghast), “You! Beat it! Get lost!” All of a sudden Brick Shit House’s henchwomen appear in the shape of Sue Barker’s Granny and Eighties Throwback Kelly Osbourne. Shit House is foaming at the mouth and both Misssy M and Misssy A are shitting themselves. They’ve never done this before. What happens now? Do they wait to get pummelled or what? What does the inside of a Black Mariah look like? Sue Barker’s Granny, Eighties Throwback Kelly Osbourne, and Brick Shit house move uncomfortably close to the sisters and make the kind of noises that start a “bitch fight”. But the sisters front it out and warn the assembled harpies off verbally, without swearing but in the voices they use when they naturally get annoyed, the accents of their youth, the accents of those parents who have avoided fist fights before them. “Get lost, the lot of you! You two, take your mate home before she causes some trouble.” And then the most bizarre thing happens. They leave. They actually leave. They leave the bar. The sisters checked. And checked again. And that, my readers is proof that Aberdonians are scared of Weegies. Right there. Even skinny 8 stone girlie ones who have never had a fight in their lives and were actually physically shaking in fear the rest of the night. The sisters are now feared throughout the toon of Aberdeen but have retired to their normal lives to be thoroughly embarrassed and frightened that anyone tells their mum of what went on that night.
The MeeesterMartin Missives
As I usually get ants in my pants on day four of any holiday, I was granted special permission from the Fuhrer to attend an “event” to stop me bugging the rest of my tribe. This event was- Mouy Thai or Kickboxing to the rest of us. I clambered into the pick up with the rest of the full blooded males from the hotel, chewing raw meat and demanding Thai brains spattered all over my face from a kick that could KO a kangaroo.
Actually I was a little worried. How would I handle seeing severe pain? Would I have to fit into that annoying man thing, you know, the one learned at school from playground fights, or could I leap into the ring, Ghandi-like, and show a nation the error of it’s ways, extending the hand of peace (and getting bitch slapped for my trouble)? Hmmmmmmm.
I made a pact with an ex soldier called Steve that ON NO ACCOUNT was he to let me volunteer for any “Kick the Shit out of the Drunk Farang” contest, even if it was the eight year olds. ( I am as many of you know a master of the ancient Scottish martial art- Up Yu).
And so it began. First of all two greased up kids whacking the living bejesus out of each other. Actually, it was a lot more like dancing, and I began to think that this whole show was a set up to cream it in off the tourists. A fact I shared with my immediate neighbours, two fabulous Aussies called Kate and Derianne. Being Australian/ Kiwi, they instantly connected with me through the international language of swearing and we fecked and arsed our way through the whole shebang.
But then it really started- eight young men (twenty five is the retirement age for Kick Boxers) fighting knockout to win the title. Champions from every local Island and the main man from Bangkok. Only three rounds instead of the usual five so they went at it hammer and tongs.
And I loved it! It was energetic, skilful and edge of the seat. There were two knockouts- and I mean knockouts- lads lying prone on the floor and being woken with smelling salts and some rather aggressive neck manipulation. (Not a Doctor in sight!)
Me and the ladies went for “Pinkie” as we christened him to win. He had an honest face that could take a kicking and looked like the boy next door.
I had asked the gentleman next to me what each competitor was called. He answered Yes each time. He looked like the old guy in Gremlins, complete with stringy beard. However, I already have an Eve, which I on no account feed after midnight, so I left him to it.
Pinkie smashed through his first round beating a mulleted bouffante easily. Second round he just made it to the final with more elbow and knee action than his opponent. Then, after a “show match” between two tired older boxers which got rather heated towards the end. It was- The Final.
Pinkie was facing the Thai Mike Tyson. He was hard as a bag of nails. As my Scottish screeching echoed round the stadium, Pinkie fell over in 35 seconds, his honest face squashed against the canvas. Ach. Bollocks.
The MeeesterMartin Missives
As I usually get ants in my pants on day four of any holiday, I was granted special permission from the Fuhrer to attend an “event” to stop me bugging the rest of my tribe. This event was- Mouy Thai or Kickboxing to the rest of us. I clambered into the pick up with the rest of the full blooded males from the hotel, chewing raw meat and demanding Thai brains spattered all over my face from a kick that could KO a kangaroo.
Actually I was a little worried. How would I handle seeing severe pain? Would I have to fit into that annoying man thing, you know, the one learned at school from playground fights, or could I leap into the ring, Ghandi-like, and show a nation the error of it’s ways, extending the hand of peace (and getting bitch slapped for my trouble)? Hmmmmmmm.
I made a pact with an ex soldier called Steve that ON NO ACCOUNT was he to let me volunteer for any “Kick the Shit out of the Drunk Farang” contest, even if it was the eight year olds. ( I am as many of you know a master of the ancient Scottish martial art- Up Yu).
And so it began. First of all two greased up kids whacking the living bejesus out of each other. Actually, it was a lot more like dancing, and I began to think that this whole show was a set up to cream it in off the tourists. A fact I shared with my immediate neighbours, two fabulous Aussies called Kate and Derianne. Being Australian/ Kiwi, they instantly connected with me through the international language of swearing and we fecked and arsed our way through the whole shebang.
But then it really started- eight young men (twenty five is the retirement age for Kick Boxers) fighting knockout to win the title. Champions from every local Island and the main man from Bangkok. Only three rounds instead of the usual five so they went at it hammer and tongs.
And I loved it! It was energetic, skilful and edge of the seat. There were two knockouts- and I mean knockouts- lads lying prone on the floor and being woken with smelling salts and some rather aggressive neck manipulation. (Not a Doctor in sight!)
Me and the ladies went for “Pinkie” as we christened him to win. He had an honest face that could take a kicking and looked like the boy next door.
I had asked the gentleman next to me what each competitor was called. He answered Yes each time. He looked like the old guy in Gremlins, complete with stringy beard. However, I already have an Eve, which I on no account feed after midnight, so I left him to it.
Pinkie smashed through his first round beating a mulleted bouffante easily. Second round he just made it to the final with more elbow and knee action than his opponent. Then, after a “show match” between two tired older boxers which got rather heated towards the end. It was- The Final.
Pinkie was facing the Thai Mike Tyson. He was hard as a bag of nails. As my Scottish screeching echoed round the stadium, Pinkie fell over in 35 seconds, his honest face squashed against the canvas. Ach. Bollocks.
