Ready For Anything.

Hi.

 Sorry that it's been a while since I posted. Had the chance to have a few days off, trying to fit a week into a few days is hard work. Not as hard as some have it but troublesome enough.

 Again this one is from about five or so weeks ago. It highlights issues that are effecting so many people and those who work the doors are finding themselves confronted with this time and time again.

 Wednesday. Nights are drawing in, getting colder. Time to start wrapping up, starting to feel the chill now. Many cups of tea and a thermos of soup. The little freedoms that make working on the door bearable in the cold weather. It was busy, midweek footfall was booming, streets bustling with many new faces in town. Time again to have to teach a few what no means, that they are not beautiful and unique snowflakes. The students are back in town. Joy. These days your average student is not the gangly armed little critter that they used to be. Everyone seems to be into body building in various forms, this combined with their lack of, well, brain makes them all the more fun. 

 Whilst wiping the noses and checking the nappys of a small group who wanted to come (yes you need ID, no I don't care if your daddys a lawyer, no we don't take facebook as ID, no you can't come in just to have a poo, mate I don't care if you poo in the street, yes I am horrible) a lone figure attatches himself to the rear of the group. Drunk. Tall. Stocky. Yeah, lets get rid of this one shall we..

Hang on. Wait. Alarm bells. Why?.. Watch worn on the left arm, a good watch, wouldn't reflect the glare of the sun. Boots, well worn and expensive. The kind of boots you could yomp all day in. Nothing that can be grabbed hold of in a fight, short hair and no rings. Tan on the forehead and wrists.

Squaddie.

I've a lot of respect for those who have been there, as I've stated before, my life has been violent. Been shot at, stabbed, had cars driven at me, attacked with an axe (seriously) all in the name of cash. But these lads and lasses have gone that extra and done far worse for country.   

 Still, drunk is drunk. 

"Not tonight mate, no disrespect but you've had enough.."

"You what?.."

"Said not tonight mate. Try somewhere else."

"Fair enough pal, gotta try though ain't ya?"

Should have seen it coming, should have been on the ball more, saw the threat, didn't expect the punch. The sound a well placed experienced hit makes in your skull is a doozy. It echos, itthrums through you. The sound was like steak being hit with a hammer and I'm the steak. Blocked the left hook, come on mate, give me credit. The sound his nose made on my forehead more than made up for the cheeky love tap he gave me, lets play then dickhead..

 Now this isn't the first time I've had a tangle with members of the armed forces. Myself and Owain used to deal with different regiments in Liverpool. He took the Commando's and I took the Para's. Is not a boast, we were always battered, bruised and bloody after each and every fight, these folks are made of something else, something more than the averege punter. It hurts to fight heros.   

He's blind, the next three punches miss or glance off the top of my head. He goes for a grapple, we are locked up now, he's going to go for my knee's. Bingo. There's the forward kick. Missed. He's going to try and get me to the floor, time to turn this one around. In one motion I turn my hip into him and as a lumbering mass akin to a whale and a pot of petunias he sails over, legs in the air. I follow through the door and land in the lobby. Nice shot.

 Grappling on the ground is often a messy affair. In the ring both fighters are not wearing much and are, to a certain extent free to maneuver their opponent to the desired hold. Not so much when you are fully clothed. It's frenzied, hard work. Gasping for air and clawing for purchase. I find that the most direct methods are the ones to win. Bite, claw, eye gouge and always egrediaris ad balls. Not nice but to loose is to get, in short, fucked up.

 I manage to get him on his back. End game. He's going to try and flip me. Plant knees to stop it. He's going to try and push me off. Come in close to defy his reach. I wrap his right arm under us, pin his left under my knee and insert my thumb into his eye whilst I push my thumb under his jaw at the top of his carotid artery. Soon he will slip into unconsciousness. Night night mate.

He starts to cry.

 These are not tears of any loss that I have experienced. These are tears of hatred, rage, crushing destruction, uncontrollable as they are plenty. A broken man. I remove my thumbs and release his arms.

I hold him.

Both of us on the floor enbraced. I hug him hard. As if I can squeeze the pain from his fractured mind. Held like a babe.

"It's ok. Your safe. Your ok. Breathe, it's all going to be alright.."

Six foot tall, 18 stone, well build, broken. What have they done to you boy. What have they done? His tears spent, he wipes the snot from his face. I ask him if he's ok, he mumbles affirmative. I get up and give him my hand. We stand in the lobby of a nightclub in the middle of Manchester. And for the first time in a long time he's safe.

 He takes two sugers and pours them into the swirling darkness of the cup, slowly the grains fade away. He explains that he came back from Ganny three months ago and just can't cope. I've heard this song before and the tune I like it not, but dance we must to the morbid jig of the war machine. His heads gone, nothing makes sense anymore. He apologizes for everything. For the fight, for breaking down. Not needed mate. Not at all. I give him a number that I've given a few folks. They will help. Until then time for a brew. 

As I watch him disappear into the thronging masses of the night, I thank him. All of them.

There's always a way out. Always someone who will listen while you talk. Don't let it build up until you feel like your head is going to explode. Talk to someone. Together you can try to rebuild. There's always a way. 0800 138 1619.   

Speak soon, stay safe.