The Thrill Of The Fight

I'm not really one for conflict. Anyone who personally knows me would agree with that. Well, actually, anyone who personally knows me wouldn't really know that since I tend to be so reclusive I often forget what the sun looks like. (Then again, you're not supposed to look directly at the sun anyway so please disregard that last statement.) Typically, however, whenever a spat happens to break out, be it between drunkards outside a nightclub at 3am or between girl friends who've shown up in the same shade of blue that particular night, if I'm anywhere in the vicinity I'll tend to hang around on the periphery of the congregation with my arms wrapped around my chest and a vacant stare at a nearby closed-down, burnt-out former garage or something as the token "sane one" just in case an ambulance needs calling and everybody else is too hysterical to do it... that is if I care enough to stick around at all.

Recently, close friends of mine fell victim to the idle, drunken slurs of a resident of the untamed North West. It's difficult to romanticise the events that followed, but essentially expletives were exchanged, pint glasses met pavement and hair was pulled. During this early morning heated banter (which in my head is fancy talk for "passionate disagreement" [which in my head is pussy talk for "fight"]), it's commonplace for the arguers to be assisted by an entourage who serve two functions: 1) to stand up for the relevant party and contribute anger-infused noise to "beat" the opposition, and 2) to pull their chosen fighter away from the rabble citing reasons along the lines of "they're not worth it".

Sometimes these things happen by accident; sometimes someone happens to be outside the wrong pub at the wrong time, bumping into wrong person and sharing the wrong verbal communication. Eventually, the scrap escalates so much and one or more of the participants are so drunk that you suddenly have no idea what you're fighting about anymore, other than the fact verbal communication isn't working anymore and the prospect of inflicting physical injury is on the cards now.  Of course to some people it comes naturally when just going out looking to start some kind of argument; for some, it's the thrill of the fight, rising up to the challenge of a rival.

I, however, refuse to engage in such activities wherever I can help it. This probably makes me sound like some absolute wimp with absolutely no backbone, and that's absolutely true. But I prefer to think of it in terms of how pointless it is to fight and argue when, really, we all just get one go at existence (in our respective incarnations as long as we're physically aware), clinging onto this rock that's tumbling through nothing forever and ever until we drop. Somehow, I can't help but think that life's too short.

And that's just the fight with the street stranger. Meanwhile, long-standing feuds amongst friends are still ongoing.