Friday, 7 August 2009




Yeh, yeh, you startin egh?

I am. Most people, most, don't fight that much, I mean what's the absolute point? All that essentially occurs is injury. Who actually wants their bodies to hurt on purpose; fighters that's who. That's why most people prefer the odd verbal interplay and vicious wit assault to purple humps and blood blazers. But some, some do. These people will be referred to as follows:

Non fighters = Readers

Street fighters = E Hondas

E Honda

Matty's melancholy. The dope dealer stole his street. His Mrs, Mercedes has been punctured by his mates J P, D J, T K, and Vowely. Deal or no deal was a repeat. Matty's drinking, Matty's not thinking, Matty's walking, Matty's bloody barking. Matty's diconnected, Matty's feeling rejected, Matty gets ejected, Matty falls. Oi mate watcha doin? Matty doesn't know, Matty just throws, hits, kicks and splits, shits a brick, wipes it on bricks and wakes up with memory destroyed, thoughts wiped and a grim reaper smoking a joint on top of a three legged bulldog barking in gothic text “knig of the worlb” wrinkled by confusion.

Family Fight night

We miss so many fights that were probably mental fun to watch. I remember once I saw a gaggle, yes gaggle of scallywags attacking each other with bits of plank, soggy chips, bottles, bikes, tarpaulin and rocks. So eclectic were their armorments I wanted to hang around to see their chunky skull’s further forays with hurtful implementation. “No, they’ll attack us.”

They should use old coal pits. Whenever the call comes FIGHT, FIGHT, FIIIIIGGGHHT! Across the hills citizens would gallop to throw piss soaked charity shop items at these two ruffians that pound sweat, to blood, to muscle, to brains until one, or both dies to the raptures of goading house wives entrenched by saliva. Leaving kids to pick through the remaining colon canons, skull helmets, and gut braids. Tell me that isn’t better than Butlins.

War and pieces

Soldiers don't fight, they shoot. They shoot, run a bit, maybe blow up a wedding, play hide and seek, risk their lives for the sake of political monopoly, dress people up like scarecrows, count down to things, fly over places, give local kids sweets, die, kill each other, and walk around like Victorian Khaki coated explorers in search of tombs and caves. But they don't fight.

On our Saturday streets hordes of garbled meat-brained people slosh their fists kick their high-heels and shout passions while the army struggles to recruit people to die for them. If only they did ₤1.50 cocktails and had a boom box we could take on the world. We’d lose, but think about the spacious bars.

Brotherly Hate

If you have ever had a brother or sister, unless you were super-dupa tootie-fruity wankee-doodle buddies, you had fights, big ones. I remember I used to fight with my brother about nothing, about everything, and about things that didn’t even exist or made sense whatsoever.

I think violent toys cause violence because I used to fight about hypothetical wars between transformers and turtles every week for about two years. To settle all qualms forever, the older brother, by law should get first dibs on everything and if two people want the same thing; break it in two or shit on it. This will counter balance the- younger brother gets away with everything law, currently enforced.

Fighting when you're young makes essential use of the foot, lots of kicking, legs were super arms and they hurt more. When it got dirty, hair grabbing, kneeing and scratching worked a treat. Yes, girl fighting. You didn't punch, more grappled, inflicted then ran and hid. Essentially childhood was a war of attrition for most siblings. Power came, left and was ultimately stared out for.

What, big Big school?

The day had come when your worlds outside your Granddad’s tickles and Brother’s Kick boxing. The world of: nuggies, chinese burns, skipping rope whips, wedgies, toilet flushes, scraps, bullies, taxing and big Big school, appears horrific. For a start, toilet flushes are easy to avoid, cos they didn’t exist. Someone’s older brother watched one too many American teen films and made a nation of 10 year olds eternally fearful. To finish, as you know * the rest did exist and girl fighting didn't help one bit.

* If you have not gone to big big school yet and you’re reading this. To be safe skip over all words starting with F, B, S, or C and maybe G and D oh and T and don’t say to your family or teacher you’ve been reading on the internet, how do you do jolly roger.

(RECAP) Blah, blah, blah…girl fighting didn't help.

Due to the Action /adventure films I was watching combined with a rather delusional idea of power I believed that I daren't punch anyone because, I might kill them. Yes, the constant feeling of causing death with these weak un-coordinated, untested mitts prevented any such playground fighting that wasn't a pushing contest in rain; that I lost.

Winner and loser

Most people are both, unless your wearing shin-pads fighting a dwarf, you’re getting hurt on you. I don’t think success is ultimate, pain free, awarding of sexy people, trophies, hoards of money or a can of pop. Sometimes you can’t even watch it later on Crime Police Stop Action 9.

Danger Displacement

In this age of GBH, war games, and petty aggression it seems you have to commute from a burrow in effing forest to avoid dissent, even then your bipartisan squirrel negotiations skills need serious up notching, or your out by your short and furries. Nay bother; if you tackle a fight situation with advanced hostage negotiation skills, there might be a hope.

Scene one:

In a bar a large muscle plant blooming with steroid sweat and stretched linen bumps into you and spills his lager. Obviously, he thinks it’s you.

Oi, Oi you spilt my facking pint you cant.

Ok so what are your demands?

Well I want another pint

How about something better


You can leave here, no police will follow you, here’s a Mc Donalds voucher and you can go anywhere in the world with that. Just don’t hurt the kids.

Or befriending can work, maybe.

Oi, Oi you spilt my facking pint you cant

Right I probably did bruv, are you a bluey or a reds man?


Fucking nice one. Hey! Dares a lot o’ poncey twats in ere, lets go somewhere, bluer.


After you, what’s your favourite pie, cream or meat?

Or the ever faithful Foreign.

Oi, OI you spilt my facking pint you cant

I can’t vot?

You cant!

I am sorry, I don’t understand your crazy man English. I am a German peasant, vi am tracking my family who fled to this country. My name is Florian, Florian Himmler.

Use yer ed

Fighting has a lot to do with mental strength with a powerful neurological superiority that towers over any weaker mortal. Hmm. If you have the self-belief and will to win but the other person has swartzapecks and a gun, you’re meat paste with a hint of spectacles.

Bloody animals the lot of them

Other than Pandas awwwhh, the whole animal kingdom fights. Slapped faced, shoe horned dogs rip each others hairy, pitted skin off. Upperty cocks defend with sharp pointy pecks. Cantangered horses herd, hit and bite steaks off their rumps. Lions hook claws while muscle and strength is torn. Snails slime bottom bubbles to smother their own mother. So we as animals must be preordained to fight, fight for our territory, fight for our superiority, fight for our food!

No, because our territory is just a flat or a house not a rock. Mike Tyson isn’t superior to sat on salad sandwich and we can get all our food from a thing called a su-per-mar-ket.

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