Slabberin

‘Wat tha fuk ar youy slabberin abouyt?’

Pink drink drips from his wide wet lips. He’s about a foot wider than me and a fair few brain cells shorter. I’ve never been in a fight before. It’s quite exciting but I hope nobody’s watching because I’m not sure my couch Kung-Fu is going to be strong enough.

‘Aw easy noyy big mawn,’ I reply as I savour the fear of the longest moment of my teenage life.

A few minutes before I was drunkenly ordering Malibu and Coke, catching odd looks from the barman who knew I was only 15 but either didn’t care or was ordered not to. We drank next to the Police Station; a razor wire ringed fortress squatting at the top of some saint’s hill. They had better things to deal with in the 90s than beardless boys, drowned in their dad’s Brut, hunting for beer, craic and wimmen.

‘Youyr cruzin fer a fukin bruzin.’

He nods left to right like the Churchill dog but after it was funny. His audience accept the invitation and circle round, pubs were closed now and entertainment thin on the ground.

‘Fuck you, you fat cunt.’ I smile. In for a penny, in for a pound.

He has a knife. I think it’s a Stanley knife but I don’t dare acknowledge its presence. My brain stupidly dredges up flashes of my father’s shed and the green hard-shelled grey steel blade I wasn’t allowed to touch but always did. It cut some pretty impressive welts in his railway sleeper workbench.

I’m whippet thin but not nearly as fast so his quick side-slash hits me about an inch above my right elbow. The shock forces me into throwing a haymaker more likely to put my shoulder out than put him down. I miss. At least I manage a smirk on the way down.

‘Stay the fuck doyn.’

...and I did. For the next six years. At least this version sounds better than the truth about that Stanley knife.