The knife is here, the executioner, the teacher, washing in the grubby blood of the rapist, the rapist of intelligence, the rapist of the thoughts of honest men and women, the rapist of those who seek truth and justice.
I want a place where man can live in peace, in harmony, with respect for himself, neighbours, the community.
Where is such a place?
I take you to the scene of the blood knife of a quiet rural pub. We go there in peace and contentment, hoping for a log fire, horse brass wall welcome, only to find a foul-mouthed, abusive young linguistic thug in a harangue against decency. The others accept it as part of modern Britain. But I do not, cannot, and will not, so the question is: What can I do about it?
The aforementioned post-youth yet-to-be adult of liquid inebriation, inability of morality, fortitude, and manners, trying to get my attention. He walks over, and in a slightly nasal whine, beloved of the unintelligent, speaks to me.
‘What are you doing here, mate?’
The 'mate' is cut off, rather like a ‘Mayh.’ I think that it is called a glottal stop.
The little bastard begins to ask questions. His girlfriend, or maybe the slut of the night - these days, it’s difficult to tell the difference - watches, licking the over make-up lips, that must taste glue and tacky to kiss. The aroma of so off-the-shelf cheap eau-de-toilette from Boots, or the reject counter of ‘Seconds’ is permeating the wood fire air. Rather in the way of a Herefordshire cow, she is tough, pungent, and memorable. She is under the illusion that she is classy. No one else, outside her group, thinks so.
The permanganate trio of girls settles down at a table near a jukebox where they can indulge their intellectual thoroughbred brains in listening to the latest ‘hits’. We hear ‘You’re beautiful’, etc, ad infinitum.
Their boys bring the drinks. There is a gin and tonic with a slice of third-world lemon for one, for the other, a rum and coke. I think Viv Richards drinks that. Who is Viv Richards?
No, you wouldn’t know.
The third has a barley wine.
She will be pissed out of her mind before one am. The rest will follow around two thirty; bloody peasants.
He always hated using that. It upset him. Peasants were millions of small farmers worldwide who struggled, almost literally every working day of their adult life. How had it come to be used in this way?
No, it was derogatory term, aimed at the brainless, cultureless masses that throng the places of entertainment. Take a weekend, in a small market town. What do most people want to do? They want to enjoy themselves, right? Then, what do they do? They remain at home, watching TV, listening to the wireless, or CD’s. Why? Because in so many places, people think it is too dangerous to go out.
Right. We go back to the pub. Mr. Bigmouth is trying to flex his muscles, to make an impact on the group, and on me. The latter is not working. He looks around, cocky and sure.
He must impress the girl; otherwise, he is not going to get sex tonight. He knows that, and that makes him brash, or in his case, brash-trash.
‘Why you looking at my girl?’ he says.
I respond that I don’t know what he is talking about. He huffs and puffs, with the intelligence of the pig in the children’s yarn.
‘She said you’re looking at her, giving her the eyeball.’
His mouth opens with the exertion of thinking. He turns, to make sure the group is watching him. They are, sitting at the table, drinks at their mouths, looking as aware as the frog before the snake strike.
I ask him
‘Let’s be honest; who on earth would want to look at that woman? she has too much make-up; she has no fashion sense. I have seen refugees with better dress technique. I know who she reminds me of, the girl I saw two weeks back, coming out of the Sexually Transmitted Diseases centre. Yes, I think it’s her.’
There was a pause; he was trying to take in the long sentence and tricky word or ten. His lower lip protruding under the upper, in the manner of an overworked brain in a cranium of dubious intelligence.
‘You trying to insult my missus?’ he said in a nasal, tough-guy tone.
‘I didn’t realize it was necessary to insult her,’ I rejoin. ‘She seems to insult herself already, with her clothes, perfume and language.’
He watches me.
‘You want trouble? You are looking for trouble?’
I look at him; the area where we were by the bar is now quiet, and there are a number of people holding their glasses and looking at us. Most of them use the ridiculous one-pint glass or mug.
I answer.
‘Actually, I am.’
He looked unsure.
‘You are what?’
I said that was looking for trouble.
This seemed to confuse him further.
‘I love trouble. I have a small number of simple yet challenging hobbies. I enjoy music, proper music, not the numbing rubbish you listen to. I enjoy chess from time to time. Chess would be too tricky for you. In chess, one has to think. I like to write poetry, but that, you might think effeminate, but to me, it is an intellectual exercise. What else do I do? I wallop people that annoy me.’
I watch him trying to digest this onslaught of contradictory information. He stares for a full thirty seconds.
‘I’m going to take you apart.’
I nod and tell him he is welcome to try.
‘Listen, you old bastard, I don’t want to thump an old bugger like you, but you push me, mate, and you’ll know about it.’
I laugh, further annoying him. Then, I get serious.
‘You want to try something, you little ignorant bastard, you try it.’
He begins to lick his lips. I was not sure whether he had taken a fancy to me. I know he had a girl, but these days, who knows … or maybe he was letting off mental steam. Either way, he looked pitiable.
‘You look pitiable, go back to your table and try to impress someone less bright than me.’
‘You watch yourself,’ he snarls. ‘You better not mix it with me.’ There is a weak, slightly nervous laugh.
‘Yeah, I’d like to see that.’
He turns to the group at the table.
’Hey guys, this prick is on his way out.’
He turns back to me, and it is then that I hit him. There was a palm to the nose, temporarily shutting his eyes with tears, and then I swipe his legs; he goes down like a sack of potatoes, when it’s empty. The girls in the group began to yelp as I hit his head against the brick of the wall. He drops to the floor, blood coming out of one ear, his mouth butchered by the force of the thrust.
His girl comes over, crying.
‘You bloody leave him alone, you bastard.’
It was quite obvious that she had learned little, too. I hit her, and there is the noise of the intake of breath of the now quiet bar.
‘Watch your mouth, lady,’ as I bang her head into the bar top.
She half-screams, half-faints, and then collapses on the carpet.
The other people at the table keep quiet.
The knife is here, the executioner, the teacher, washing in the grubby blood of the rapist, the rapist of intelligence, the rapist of the thoughts of honest men and women, the rapist of those who seek truth and justice.
I want a place where man can live in peace, in harmony, with respect for himself, neighbours, the community.
Where is such a place?
