Thursday Night Fight Night

I am not long returned from the usual weekly trip to the Dolphin for a quiet pint with Mr. Kitson. But this was no ordinary night...

















a seemingly uneventful setting for the evening

As is our custom we approached the bar and bought our drinks. Mine - a sensible coke; Mr. Kitson's - some dark ale that shimmered with an unearthly sheen. So far, so good. Nothing seemed amiss. This however totally changed after Mr. Kitson returned from the pub's facilities.

It all started when the fiercesome landlady gave one of her slightly more drunken customers marching orders. He took objection to her demand and proceeded to hurl some bottles on the floor and cause a very noisy disturbance. Mr. Kitson and I, though both travelled men, have never been in an Irish pub so are unfamiliar with what sensible patrons do in such an event.

After waiting a moment to see if the raucousness would die down we noticed the young drunk swayed into a position between us and the front door. We agreed that our swiftest exit was via the back entrance. With S.A.S. levels of stealth and cunning we reached it and made our separate ways home. The dolphin may even now be still vibrating to the sounds of drunken revelry, but Mr. Kitson and I are long gone with tracks only an Apache scout could follow.