You’ll never beat the Irish

I had an interesting near-death experience recently on the way home from the pub. Myself and one of the lads I share the house with, a Scottish bloke who in the interests of national stereotypes we will call Hamish McFlatmate, were homeward bound after a couple of quiet midweek pints in our local hostelry. Neither of us were even remotely pissed, which is my way of saying that the pickle we were soon to find ourselves in was not even remotely our fault.

About a hundred yards from the sanctuary of our home, we were crossing a narrow street when a car that was speeding up the main road turned into the street we were traversing without indicating and screeched to a halt exactly where McFlatmate had been standing a nano-second before I’d pulled him out of the way of the oncoming vehicle.

As McFlatmate and I paused to shake momentarily and contemplate the closeness of the shave we’d just had, I looked into the car from the driver’s side and noticed that the three occupants of the car that I could see were puny Asian teenagers who seemed to be labouring under the delusion that making two grown men shit themselves with terror was a hilarious way of passing an evening. When I was their age I’d have agreed wholeheartedly, but now that I’m older and wiser I was merely enraged. I glared at the driver, gave him the finger and walked on. It was only then that the nightmare began to unfold.

As McFlatmate and I continued on our way, the passenger door of the car opened and the scariest looking man I have ever seen emerged. Think Grant Mitchell when he’d just found out Phil had slept with Sharon on EastEnders and you’ll have some idea of the scowling, hulking, shaven headed menace that was approaching us. Much to my dismay, he chose to ignore McFlatmate completely and focused what little attention he could muster on me.

“You facking cunt! You fink you’re facking hard giving my mate the facking finger, eh?” he enquired. “We’ll soon see how facking hard you are when I beat the fucking shit aht of you, you facking racist wanka.”

Racist? I was agog. But while it was the car driver’s flagrant disregard for the rules of the road I had taken exception to as opposed to his ethnic background, this didn’t seem an appropriate moment to get involved in a debate about my reasons for giving him the bird. It’s no exaggeration to say that I was more terrified than I have ever been before in my life, standing there frozen with fear like the proverbial rabbit caught in the headlights. As Grant Mitchell approached, I stood rooted to the spot, stared into his eyes and resigned myself to being on the receiving end of the mother of all beatings.

Although I was aware of McFlatmate’s presence nearby and could hear him mumbling something along the lines of “Och mate, we didnae mean you nae bother,” I was all too aware that he would be about as useful as a bunch of carnations in the ensuing death match. As luck would have it, it was my unbridled cowardice that saved me.

Looking back, I can only conclude that I was the first person this mutton-head had ever attacked who had not run away or made any attempt whatsoever at self-defence. Instead, in my wisdom I just stood there at peace with myself and utterly resigned to whatever unpleasant fate was about to befall me.

Consequently, the muttonhead became less and less sure of himself as he approached me, no doubt wondering why on earth I didn’t appear to be afraid of him. He broke eye contact with me for long enough to glance back at his mates in the car before looking at me again.

“Next time I see you you’re facking history, prick,” he spat, before turning on his heel and walking back to the car. As he sat into his seat, slammed the door and glared out the window, I did what any self-respecting man in my situation would have done. I gave him the finger..

This time all four doors of the car flew open and with McFlatmate’s sterling advice of “Fucking run for it ya bastard!” ringing out through the night sky, the pair of us sprinted the remaining distance to our house in record time with a profoundly annoyed Grant Mitchell doppelganger and what seemed like half a sub-continent in hot pursuit. The fact that I’m typing this column with my fingers, as opposed to a knitting needle strapped to my forehead should serve as proof that we made it safely indoors in a state of delirious exhilaration, at which point McFlatmate thanked me profusely for saving his life while simultaneously bollocking me for almost getting him killed. It seems you’re damned if you do and you’re damned if you don’t. Or something.

Funnily enough, on a taxi-ride to Dublin airport recently, I was treated to a very erudite briefing on the state of the Irish nation by the kind of Dublin cab driver I’d always assumed only existed in caricature.

“Jayzus, they’re even giving the fucking jungle bunnies cars now, wha?” he wondered aloud as we pulled up at a set of traffic lights beside a black motorist. “There’s friends of mine can’t get work for love or money and the jungle bunnies is coming over and getting cars off the Eastern Health Board. Fucking disgraceful.”

Showing the kind of bravado that was conspicuous by its absence when I’d been accused of racism myself, I told my driver to, “Keep your comments to yourself and just drive the car.” After a couple of miles worth of indignant silence we passed a black woman pushing a pram. “Should I go wan to the airport or do ya want me to stop and give dem a lift home?” enquired my cabbie before collapsing over the wheel with mirth.

Ireland of the welcomes indeed.