Until one of them decided to punch me square on the nose, daze me for a short moment and then piss off. I will not name names. Girl 'A' was trying to draw some money out of a hole in the wall, but the machine (quite sensibly imo) stole/ate her card. Girl 'H' was pulling a determined and pissed Girl 'A' away from the machine, got angry and it deteriorated into a pointless catfight.
With me being sober, and them being Rosie's friends, I figured I'd step in and just calm the situation. It worked for a split-second. Girl 'H' calmed down. I turned to Girl 'A' with a reassuring (yet 'oh ffs') glance. Little did I know, Girl 'H' wasn't actually finished. As my back was turned, she drew back a fist. And as I turned back towards her, I was caught square on the bridge of my nose.
As I say, I was slightly dazed, but more angry than anything. I spent the rest of the night frustrated that she was a girl (starting to doubt that now tbh), which meant that if I drove my fist into her neck (looking to stun and restrain) I would be a woman-batterer. Despite the fact she threw the first blow for no fucking reason whatsoever.
Lesson learned: Some posh-accented girls are just thugs and probably would've been arrested if not for the fact they have boobs rather than bollocks.
Anyway, after a pizza, a coke and a calm-down from RosieM (bless her cotton socks), I set off home. Thought I'd take my time. Late at night, not in a rush and no traffic. A delightful drive, I must say. Then comes a couple of coppers in a van (Phil Mitchell and David Mitchell by the looks of it). After half-a-mile, they flash me their lights and sirens (honestly, you filthy lot) so I pull onto the hard shoulder (I'm fairly certain they aren't allowed to just stop you on a motorway, but it was empty so no harm done).
Phil Mitchell lookalike gits aaaht of 'is vaaaaaan (I can't keep that up) and comes over to my car (passenger side). He says 'I have reason to believe you've been drinking, mate.'
'I'm sorry, sir, but I haven't touched a drop all night. I was DD, but my mates went AWOL'.
'You're only doin 60 on a motorway, son. That could be considered dangerous and I think you've been drinking.'
'I'm not in a hurry, the roads are empty and I am just driving carefully.'
He grunted at my retort and pulled out his breathalyser. He instructed me to seal my lips around his tube and blow. Don't blow my lungs out, but just steadily for a sustained period. Morecambe-and-Wise-style double entendre's aside (There's no answer to that!), I did as he said. 'If it's below 35 (that's the legal limit) you 'll be on your merry way'.
I blew for about 7 or 8 seconds and the reading came up with a nought. Nothing. A big fat ZERO. Rather like his head. He then simply said 'Right piss off you little shit.' As he walked back to his van, I was hitting various instruments in the car in a silent rage, mouthing the air blue! My God, was I pissed off at this point. Fuming all the way home with a slight tingling sensation behind my left eye (I assume because of Girl H's impersonation of Muhammad Ali). I trudged into the house (after battling with my wallet when it decided to play hide and seek with my front door key), shoved my stuff on my bed, cleared up the dog mess in the kitchen and settled down for some Shaun of the Dead. Then I typed this up.
Happy fucking New Year, eh?
Anyway, after a pizza, a coke and a calm-down from RosieM (bless her cotton socks), I set off home. Thought I'd take my time. Late at night, not in a rush and no traffic. A delightful drive, I must say. Then comes a couple of coppers in a van (Phil Mitchell and David Mitchell by the looks of it). After half-a-mile, they flash me their lights and sirens (honestly, you filthy lot) so I pull onto the hard shoulder (I'm fairly certain they aren't allowed to just stop you on a motorway, but it was empty so no harm done).
Phil Mitchell lookalike gits aaaht of 'is vaaaaaan (I can't keep that up) and comes over to my car (passenger side). He says 'I have reason to believe you've been drinking, mate.'
'I'm sorry, sir, but I haven't touched a drop all night. I was DD, but my mates went AWOL'.
'You're only doin 60 on a motorway, son. That could be considered dangerous and I think you've been drinking.'
'I'm not in a hurry, the roads are empty and I am just driving carefully.'
He grunted at my retort and pulled out his breathalyser. He instructed me to seal my lips around his tube and blow. Don't blow my lungs out, but just steadily for a sustained period. Morecambe-and-Wise-style double entendre's aside (There's no answer to that!), I did as he said. 'If it's below 35 (that's the legal limit) you 'll be on your merry way'.
I blew for about 7 or 8 seconds and the reading came up with a nought. Nothing. A big fat ZERO. Rather like his head. He then simply said 'Right piss off you little shit.' As he walked back to his van, I was hitting various instruments in the car in a silent rage, mouthing the air blue! My God, was I pissed off at this point. Fuming all the way home with a slight tingling sensation behind my left eye (I assume because of Girl H's impersonation of Muhammad Ali). I trudged into the house (after battling with my wallet when it decided to play hide and seek with my front door key), shoved my stuff on my bed, cleared up the dog mess in the kitchen and settled down for some Shaun of the Dead. Then I typed this up.
Happy fucking New Year, eh?
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