Sunday night fights, live from Crouch End

I love drunk people!

There is nothing more satisfying than the sound of a drunken brawl late at night outside of one's window. Late Sunday night, usually a quite night around these parts, I was sitting in my room listening to some music (Mozart's Exultate, jubilate, K165) and playing Solitare and I could hear the sound of yelling outside of my window. Now, my room is on the second (third, in US terms) floor so to hear someone yelling thirty feet below through a closed window while wearing headphones is pretty significant.

I go to my window, open it up, and down below two women are having a Grade A argument. I was hoping and praying for a cat fight (because, you know, they might kiss and one things leads to another...) but it almost surpassed cat fight to all out blood-thirsty brawl. But, they were drunk so that was never going to happen. The will was there, but the body is weak.

They tried, oh how they tried, to have a brawl. But, you just can't when you are boozy in the extreme. You end up throwing punches wildly in the direction of your opponent. Momentum takes over and you end up looking like a four year old swinging a baseball bat, spinning around and around. Actually, I think it looks like what a fight would look like underwater or in outerspace; not the crisp, clean movements of Muhammad Ali, rather the slow, belaboured swings of Jacques Cousteau in a wet suit.

Of course, no one curses like a drunk. Drunks can hurl abuse at one another with the grace of a freight train. Those two women, fighting over a man, did not disappoint in that sense. I would have thought that you could only refer to someone as an effing whore, slut, slag, etc. so many times before it lost all meaning, but these two breathed fresh air into every word. That takes talent... and a lot of peppermint schnapps.

All in all, it was an amusing five minutes before I retired for the evening.