She Went Into The Toilet And Never Came Back

He who cast the first bottle was soon forgotten in the tussle that
followed. Knees were introduced to groins. Shaved heads decorated red.
Most brawlers thought my ashtray frisbee a tad excessive, but this was
the heat of battle.

I lassooed a chair above my head and let fly, missing everyone, save
the pinball machine whose lights I knocked out. The landlord cursed.
Bodies continue to land before, on and beyond his bar. He repelled all
advances on his till with a snarl, a bottle of rum and genuine threats
of legal action.

No one knew who called the ceasefire, but it was universally accepted.
Brawlers froze like a Christmas Day in the trenches, perhaps. A
casualty cut her way through the crowd, small hand held to small
forehead. Men with eyes followed her all the way into the ladies,
violence no longer the object of their desire. The respite was
short-lived. The tap shut of the toilet door was the battle cry.
Hostilities resumed.

Pool cues were snapped in two over knees and employed as anorexic
baseball bats, if you please. A raw hand paid for a game, but used the
triangle as a grenade, the chalk as shrapnel, the balls as cannon
fodder.

A flashing blue ended the performance. The law came to restore and
order us all to spread 'em and introduce hands to walls. The landlord
surveyed the scene with distaste. There were superficial injuries to
pub and punter alike. Thoughts returned to the casualty. A WPC visited
the WC and returned empty-handed.

But when the drinking day was over, and cautions had been grudgingly
accepted and shards of glass swept from sight, those who were there
were sore but not without satisfaction. Because on that day as we tried
to kill each other, we'd stopped and smelled the roses.