Of mice and men

As a man I am faced with a common dilemma.

At what point is it acceptable to confront a fellow guy? The issue can be very murky – a number of variables come into play. Is he bigger than me? Has he got hard mates? Will my mates run away if all hell breaks lose?

Then of course there is whether or not you should even raise your hands in anger? My clenched hands are pacifists and rarely strike people.

However, at the weekend my commitment to remaining calm was tested to the limits.

It’s Saturday and I’m in Market Place – great music but aggressive regulars – so the chances of trouble are high..

Needing a drink I fight my way to the bar and ordered four bottles of beer (I’m not flash it was on offer for £10!).

On my way back a guy cheekily asks me if he can have one of my drinks. I laugh and continuing trying to battle my way back to my spot on the dancefloor.

“Give me one of your drinks,” the comedian says. He grabs one of the bottles in my hand and tries to wrench it from my grip.

With my hands full he manages to grasp it and, before I can remonstrate, he’s taken a large swing from the bottle.

Crunch time.

I turn back to fight my case, after all, I’m no mug, I’m a big lad, I can handle myself, this man is taking a liberty.

I spin on my heels.

He’s bigger than I remember.