Fight Night

As you've probably heard, I almost got into another punch-up last night.

The circumstances, as they usually are, were quite silly. While I was ordering cocktails at the bar of a trendy upscale restaurant in Newport Beach with my crew, an older gent sitting next to me contrived to lean over and rub his back against me a few times and then complained loudly that I was standing too close to him. Very odd.

It set me off. I told him repeatedly to fuck off, directed a variety of non-mild epithets at him, and even picked up a small serving plate with which to strike the bastard in the face. That was when he backed off and turned around. My chums, bartenders, and a friendly tattooed couple sitting near us were all visibly relieved. His date looked embarrassed for him.

When he was ready to leave, my adversary came up to me and, offering his hand, apologised for his behaviour. He was drunk. Fair enough. We've all been there. I don't hold grudges.

I've found over the years that in these kinds of situations it pays to be bold and daring, and to not tolerate the petulance of ill-mannered strangers. Still, it amuses me to think how quickly I escalate such encounters, especially when I'm drunk on gin.