Saturday

Zen 1071: So this bloke comes running up to me and says: 'My mate wants to fight you...'

I was walking back to my hotel, it was about midnight and I was mildly hammered.

I took my headphones off.

"What?"

"My mate wants to fight you," says the lad. He looks about twentyish. Judging by hairstyle and dress, he is probably an estate agent.

I look back up the road to where his mate is standing. I look at the estate agent.

"Well, I don't want to fight your mate."

The estate agent looks offended, like I've turned down an offer of hospitality.

"What's he saying?" says the mate up the road.

"He says he doesn't want to fight you."

I start to walk off, but the estate agent steps in the way.

"Look, I really don't want to fight you either, so if it's all the same could you just fuck off?" says me.

"How much do you weigh?" says the estate agent.

I'm wondering where he's going with this but decide that talking is probably preferable to fighting. It's been a long night.

"I'm about 17 stone."

"What's that in kilos?"

I am exasperated.

"About a hundred and something."

"Ah Jesus," says the estate agent, "He's too big."

"He's too big. More than a hundred kilos," he shouts to his mate.

"He's never," his mate shouts back, "He's lying to you."

"Have you two finished?" I ask.

"Yeah. I suppose," say the estate agent, taking an executive decision, "It's a shame Shane's not here."

"Yeah," says I.

"Goodnight mate. Happy Christmas," says the estate agent.

"Yeah," says I.

Belfast is a strange place.

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