Tuesday, February 19, 2002

Fight! Fight! Fight!: So, there I was in Reading Post Office, standing at the back of the world’s longest queue. One hundred and five pictures of the Queen waiting in my wallet to pay for the privilege of driving my wreck of a car on Britain’s roads for another year when the fight broke out. It was ace.

The line was stretching out the door, when in walked some old boy, who marched up to the counter and declared “I’m in a hurry. Serve me next.” Well, it was hardly surprising that the people behind him, some of whom had been waiting since 1987, took violent exception to this. Words were exchanged. Particularly some other old boy, seventy years old if he was a day, who made his feelings known very loudly and put his dukes up ready to offer the interloper out. Drink may well have been a factor. I hope so.

It all went off. Fists flew. Old geezers and little old ladies went flying. More blows were landed in the first ten seconds than in ten years of WWF Wrestling (ie at least two or three). Then the heavy weaponry came out. Old ladies’ handbags. Loaded with the accumulation of decades and at least one house brick. A walking stick flew through the air like an exocet missile. It was like the Somme, fought out all over again by the original participants. At some stage during this geriatric warfare someone called the police. I left. My car remains untaxed, but at least I’m still alive.

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