Low life
Right-hand man
Jeffrey Bernard Last Saturday afternoon I went with a friend into the Mecca betting shop in Greek Street to listen to a race commen- tary. I had a financial interest in the event and was anxious to hear how my money would run. I heard very little of the race thanks to a man who was making a lot of noise watching a football match from Germany on television. I remonstrated with him, pointing out to him that a betting shop was primarily a place for horse and greyhound racing punters and not one for football freaks and yobs. At that he asked me to to step outside and I did.
That was my first mistake. You should never accept such an invitation or make it. Either you walk away from the situation or you hit your man immediately and as hard as you can. It would be understating the case to say that I am a trifle ring-rusty. I am on the scrap-heap. But I went outside on to the pavement with him noting that he was probably 2 lb lighter than a cart-horse. The second mistake was to think. It is amazing how many things you can think of in a split second and in a split second I was mulling over matters concerning street fights. It occurred to me that if I began by jabbing a left on to his nose it might disconcert him somewhat and bring tears to his eyes, putting me into soft focus. It was during these considerations that he caught me flush on the chin with a right-hander. I have been hit harder. The punch didn't matter. What did was my head hitting the pavement. It made a sickening noise like two coconuts being banged together and the pain nearly made me vomit. I thought I might lie there for three weeks.
Now I have seen a lot of the police in my time, usually an unwelcome sight, but on this occasion they appeared quite miracu- lously out of their blue. Shades of the US Cavalry in the last reel. There was a uniformed policeman and an unmarked squad car which must have been cruising Soho on the look-out for drug dealers. My opponent was bundled into the car and was nicked. My head hurt so much I thought of taking it to hospital for an X-ray but it recovered slowly over a couple of drinks in the Ming Chinese restaurant. All that hurts now after four days is a pelvic bone, seeing as how my flesh now no longer acts as a cushion. My friend went off to Vine Street police station to make a statement and I kept hearing echoes of the skull hitting the pavement. The manager of the betting shop, I heard later, had telephoned for the police at the 'off' and so thanks to him. I would not fancy his job. There are some dodgy customers in that shop but he can't help that. But the man who put me on the pavement was, I am pretty sure, a stranger on the manor. He looked like one of those people who can start a fight in an empty room and I wonder what he got when he came up to face the beak on Monday.
I had resolved shortly after being lifted to my feet to fight only women and children from now on, but something much more frightening than the man with the right hand marched into the Coach and Horses the following day. A gang — that is the only word — a gang of 12 lesbians walked in throwing out challenging glances at us poor men nursing fractured skulls or hangovers. I find lesbians really rather frightening. They do actually hate you whereas men like the right hand merely want to duff you up. That is pretty mind- less of them but it is not as awesome as hate. Not much is.
In a strange way I would quite like a return with the right hand if I was equipped with a large spanner or a car starting handle which was a favourite weapon in the 1950s. No, I wouldn't. He might just possibly be okay and I know how nasty I can be in circumstances which involve something as trivial but irritating as asking someone to switch off the television or turn it down. I could have hit the Colonel over the head with the television set in the day room of the hospital last week if he had looked as though he would live to see the News at Ten.
Well, to be a mite realistic I don't think that Saturday was the last occasion on which I shall be whacked but at least I shall bob and weave a bit the next time I come out of this unlucky corner. And to think that 30 years ago I liked to hear the call 'seconds out' followed by the bell. Both the bell and the bell for last orders are to be dreaded now.
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