layer of beer on the tiled floor caused the men to slide and clutch at one another for support. Each in turn, unable to stay upright, crashed cursing into other men. The result was mayhem.
Fuelled by alcohol and bruised from their falls, men vented their anger on the nearest stranger. Within seconds a full-scale brawl surged across the floor of the public bar. Jugs of beer crashed and shattered on the hard floor adding an additional hazard to the flying fists and boots as with shouts of fury and howls of pain, waves of men surged over the whole area.
Stuart found himself fighting on two fronts-to protect himself and to protect Brendan whose drunkenness made him an easy target. Stuart’s sober state did give him an edge over his belligerent attackers who were finding it difficult to swing effective blows in the crush of bodies. At first he managed to ward off most of the punches but inevitably one got through and sent Brendan sprawling. Instinctively Stuart turned to assist and in doing so received a blow to the back of his own head, knockinghim down beside his friend.
“Put the boot in!” shouted a voice above them. An excruciating pain shot through him as an army boot thudded into his ribs. Two more equally painful blows followed before another voice shouted, “OK, mates, that’s enough!” and Stuart and Brendan were left coughing and moaning on the floor in the corner of the bar while the brawl continued to surge above them. Deciding through his haze of pain that nothing was to be gained by trying to stand, Stuart put his mouth to Brendan’s ear and shouted, “Stay here. Don’t move. If we get up they’ll probably kill us!”
The blow, the fall and the alcohol resulted in Brendan’s drifting into a half-conscious state punctuated by an occasional moan of protest when a foot stood on him or a body sprawled near him. As Stuart lay on the sodden foul-smelling floor, hunched partly in pain and partly as a means of protecting himself from further assault, above the din he heard orders being barked out. Slowly the shouting subsided. Summoned by a barman’s telephone call the police had arrived in substantial numbers to deal with a familiar problem-a pub closing time brawl.
The police sergeant, aware that at any time his men could be called to another inner city watering hole to deal with the same problem, ordered the barroom to be cleared. Subdued by the sight of a phalanx of blue uniforms, men lurched towards the door and out into the street, assisting their mates who, through injury or drunkenness were unable to make it on their own. As the last few staggered away the sergeant surveyed the bodies strewn about the floor-some moaning and some lying still.
“Looks like bloody Waterloo,” he muttered. “Check to see if any of these layabouts need medical assistance.”
The policemen began working their way across the floor checking each man. “Most of them are just drunk, sarge,” said one of the policemen while the rest nodded in agreement. “Bit of blood but nothing serious.”
Hearing a load moan, the sergeant indicated the corner where several men, including Stuart and Hamish were lying. “Check over there.”
Two policemen walked gingerly across the slippery floor towards the group and, as Stuart began to prop himself up, one of them asked, “You OK?”
“Yes, except that I got booted in the ribs and it’s hard to breathe. He indicated Brendan who had fallen into a deep sleep. “My mate’s OK. He just needs time to sleep it off.” He began to struggle to his feet and winced as one of the policemen leaned forward and lifted him under the armpit.
“Sore, is it mate?” he asked.
“Yes. Might have cracked something,” he muttered as he slowly got up to his feet. He smiled wryly at the policeman and gingerly put his hand against his side. “The irony is that I didn’t even have time for a drink. Came in here looking for my mate and suddenly all hell broke loose.”
“That’s not true,
Fuelled by alcohol and bruised from their falls, men vented their anger on the nearest stranger. Within seconds a full-scale brawl surged across the floor of the public bar. Jugs of beer crashed and shattered on the hard floor adding an additional hazard to the flying fists and boots as with shouts of fury and howls of pain, waves of men surged over the whole area.
Stuart found himself fighting on two fronts-to protect himself and to protect Brendan whose drunkenness made him an easy target. Stuart’s sober state did give him an edge over his belligerent attackers who were finding it difficult to swing effective blows in the crush of bodies. At first he managed to ward off most of the punches but inevitably one got through and sent Brendan sprawling. Instinctively Stuart turned to assist and in doing so received a blow to the back of his own head, knockinghim down beside his friend.
“Put the boot in!” shouted a voice above them. An excruciating pain shot through him as an army boot thudded into his ribs. Two more equally painful blows followed before another voice shouted, “OK, mates, that’s enough!” and Stuart and Brendan were left coughing and moaning on the floor in the corner of the bar while the brawl continued to surge above them. Deciding through his haze of pain that nothing was to be gained by trying to stand, Stuart put his mouth to Brendan’s ear and shouted, “Stay here. Don’t move. If we get up they’ll probably kill us!”
The blow, the fall and the alcohol resulted in Brendan’s drifting into a half-conscious state punctuated by an occasional moan of protest when a foot stood on him or a body sprawled near him. As Stuart lay on the sodden foul-smelling floor, hunched partly in pain and partly as a means of protecting himself from further assault, above the din he heard orders being barked out. Slowly the shouting subsided. Summoned by a barman’s telephone call the police had arrived in substantial numbers to deal with a familiar problem-a pub closing time brawl.
The police sergeant, aware that at any time his men could be called to another inner city watering hole to deal with the same problem, ordered the barroom to be cleared. Subdued by the sight of a phalanx of blue uniforms, men lurched towards the door and out into the street, assisting their mates who, through injury or drunkenness were unable to make it on their own. As the last few staggered away the sergeant surveyed the bodies strewn about the floor-some moaning and some lying still.
“Looks like bloody Waterloo,” he muttered. “Check to see if any of these layabouts need medical assistance.”
The policemen began working their way across the floor checking each man. “Most of them are just drunk, sarge,” said one of the policemen while the rest nodded in agreement. “Bit of blood but nothing serious.”
Hearing a load moan, the sergeant indicated the corner where several men, including Stuart and Hamish were lying. “Check over there.”
Two policemen walked gingerly across the slippery floor towards the group and, as Stuart began to prop himself up, one of them asked, “You OK?”
“Yes, except that I got booted in the ribs and it’s hard to breathe. He indicated Brendan who had fallen into a deep sleep. “My mate’s OK. He just needs time to sleep it off.” He began to struggle to his feet and winced as one of the policemen leaned forward and lifted him under the armpit.
“Sore, is it mate?” he asked.
“Yes. Might have cracked something,” he muttered as he slowly got up to his feet. He smiled wryly at the policeman and gingerly put his hand against his side. “The irony is that I didn’t even have time for a drink. Came in here looking for my mate and suddenly all hell broke loose.”
“That’s not true,
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