It wasn’t quite the Plains of Abraham, but it happened almost as quickly.
I have nothing against French Canadians; I’m not a huge supporter of the FLQ or anything like that, but generally adopt a live and let live attitude when it comes to our Canadien cousins. So I hope the events of this particular night aren’t taken as evidence of anti-francophone sentiment… the bastards.
Successful navigation of a night at the bar involves many factors. These involve, but are not limited to: psychology, chemistry, physics, sociology, and good eyesight (a career in kickboxing would be handy, but rarely required).
One of the regulars at my local pub, tends to become amorous when she’s tipsy. There is no inherent harm in this and it is a woman’s prerogative to flirt. The target of her affection on this evening was a beanpole Quebecois. He seemed harmless enough at first, but as the drink flowed and the evening progressed, she became slightly less amorous.
I was outside having a smoke when we made eye contact. She mouthed, “help me” and the deal was settled. I removed my watch and handed my Blackberry to a friend. As I walked inside, it dawned on me that his wingman was a giant with a serious attitude problem. I knew that if it came down to it with his friend, the giant’d be on me like stink on shit and probably from behind too.
So I did the math.
I walked up to the giant and cracked him one. Cheap shot? Sure. But honour is for the medal ceremony, not the battle. We wrestled for a bit before we were pried apart. Our dear French cousins were asked to leave and escorted from the bar.
The deed done and the French invaders repelled, I put my watch back on, checked my text messages, and finished my smoke.