The other day I got into a fight. Nasty it was. It wasn’t delicate fluid and heavily choreographed like in the movies. This was an out-and-out brawl. T’was fun though.

The fists were flying, the legs were kicking, the mouth was swearing. It was foul play but all’s fair in street fighting. I had no idea who I was fighting or how many of them there were. I was just fighting them regardless. They may be completely innocent bystanders. They may be people trying to stop the fight. They may have been women or children, who knows? All I know is once the punches are thrown, they never stop. Even if I have to chase a policeman down the road and pounce on him like a wolf, the fight has started and it doesn’t end.

There’s such a thrill in fighting. Pointless drink-fuelled violence really gets the blood flowing. It’s a whole lot more fun when I’m not in my own country. Then I get to put some national pride in the whole thing. It’s just an excuse really and any excuse will do. Just “looking at me funny” is a good enough excuse. In fact, just being within arm’s reach is a good enough excuse.

Then as I’m arrested, I do what I always do. I turn to the arresting officer and say, “Oi mate, do you know what the football score was?”

I love fighting, because, you know, I’m a complete fucking idiot.