commentary by Patrick H. Moore
We Americans like to think we’re tough, and I suppose by some standards we are, but for sheer fist-fighting prowess, we’ll probably never catch up with our friends in the British Isles.
This important truth of life was brought home in spades the other night in Glasgow, a fist-fighting town in a fist-fighting section of Scotland. However, the incident in question may not have been a fist fight. It may have somebody getting “glassed” (cut up with a broken bottle), or it may have been some other form of violence. What is relatively certain is that a group of plastered Scots birds hit the roof and kicked butt when an irate male asked them to pipe down during the premier of that incredibly popular flick, 50 Shades of Grey, at the Grosvenor Cinema on Ashton Lane in Glasgow’s west end on Saturday night.
(I don’t know much about 50 Shades of Grey other than that it’s raunchy, deals with S & M, and both the book and the film are immensely popular. Everybody and their brother and sister and even their maiden aunt and hermit uncle are reading it, watching it or both.)
Reports naturally vary with respect to what exactly happened at the Cinema on Saturday night, but the general outline is more or less like this. Apparently, the Scots whiskey was flowing freely and apparently tough Scots birds were belting it down with womanly gusto, rendering many of them drunk as lords (duchesses).
A foolish fellow asked them to quiet down. This was a mistake. He was assaulted (the specifics of the assault are unclear) and the police were called to restore order.
Some theater patrons claimed the victim was “glassed” and that the staff had to wipe the blood off the seats before the next showing, but these reports have not been verified.
Agency at The Telegraph reports:
A spokesman for Police Scotland said: “At approximately 8pm on Saturday 14 February police responded to reports of a disturbance at the Grosvenor cinema.
“Three women have been arrested for alleged disorder offences and inquiries continue to determine the full circumstances surrounding the incident.”
A young man from Glasgow reportedly had gone “to see the raunchy flick with his wife”. Before he even got inside the theater, he reports seeing three women in the process of being arrested.
I’m not entirely sure I trust this gentleman’s opinion, however, based on his churlish critique of the film itself which he described as “the worst film I have ever seen.” Realistically, it may not be a masterpiece of enduring cinematic art, but on the other hand, it probably has certain redeeming features – appealing body parts if nothing else. But, perhaps, I am a dreamer.
Actually, it sounds like a pretty cool scene. Folks in Glasgow appear to really know how to let their hair down. For one thing, instead of just diet Coke and sickeningly sweet, over-priced soft drinks, liquor is apparently sold right there in the cinema.
And management is apparently proud of the fact that this was the only questionable incident of the weekend during which this fine film was shown to “nearly 2000 customers.” A commendable record, I would say.
I guess the only real issue is whether or not the victim “was glassed”, which seemingly makes all the difference.
* * * * *
And with that, I will recount the time I narrowly escaped being punched out (if not “glassed”) by four large, irate California women. Here’s what happened:
It was 41 years ago, 1975 to be exact. I was with my lovely first wife gleefully eating heart attack food in a suburban coffee shop. The place was jam-packed. I was wearing a blue jacket of no great importance which I foolishly took off and placed on a seat to my right.
At some point, four large, muscular California women came in and sat to our right. Either we were all seated in one large booth or our table adjoined theirs, but somehow there was little separation between their thick, brawny haunches and ours.
I knew it was a bad scene and I carefully attended to forking the thousands of calories into my mouth. My lovely first wife did the same. We were worried and for good reason. These women were not only large and broad; they had ‘tude galore and were sending mean looks our way. They looked like they ate glass for breakfast, but only after first carving you up with it. So I was as circumspect as possible…
The food was so delicious that my sweetheart and I eventually forgot about the ladies and proceeded to babble happily while shoveling it in. But all good things come to an end and soon it was time to depart. We paid the bill and left a tip.
As we stood up, the horrible truth dawned on me. There was my blue jacket disappearing under the great haunch of the woman sitting immediately to my right. Only a single sleeve was visible. The rest of it was invisible. I knew her imprint and perhaps her pleasing scent would flirt forever with the fabric of my blue jacket.
I cleared my throat, girded my loins and spoke up:
“Excuse me, but I think that’s my jacket you’re sitting on.”
She ignored me and shoved an entire turkey drumstick into her mouth. I envied her healthy appetite.
I repeated myself. My foe apparently had the marvelous ability to down entire turkey drumsticks without chewing. She looked at me, her eyes contemplating mayhem. It was clear that I was in a state of clear and present danger and that my lovely first wife was also in grave jeopardy.
Finally, she spoke. “F___ off, you little twerp.” She glanced to her right, her eyes locking with those of her even more Godzilla-like friend who nodded grimly.
(And just so I make myself clear, these women were in no way corpulent. They were Amazons, specimens such as I’d never seen before and have never seen since. They were athletes, weight-lifters, Olympians. Arnold S. in his prime had nothing on them.)
Suddenly, a little lightbulb went on in my pea-brain. I turned to my wife and whispered for her to run. She did. She had barely cleared our table when I sprang into action, with all the speed and power of the great Quixote in his prime. With cat-like agility, I grabbed the sleeve of my blue jacket and yanked. It didn’t moved. I yanked again. I heard the agonized rasp of cloth tearing violently. I heard my wife screaming for me to run. To my horror, my sleeve appeared in my hand, truncated from the beleaguered body of my blue jacket.
At that moment, my opponent rose to her feet: 6’4”, 275 pounds, of steely, adamantine muscle. I hit her once right in the chops, a sterling uppercut that would have KOed a normal person. Instead my hand bounced off her face like a child bouncing on a trampoline. My knuckles are still sore 41 years later. I ran. There was no pursuit. Apparently, I was not of sufficient importance to be obliterated. Perhaps my stern opponent kept the remains of my jacket for a keepsake. Perhaps she used it for a snot-rag.
* * * * *
It is now 2015. I have been married to Lovely Wife #3 for 21 years. I am old and I still shiver when I recall the incident with the four Amazons. Still, I wish I had been in the Grosvenor Cinema on Ashton Lane in Glasgow on Saturday night. Just because I am not as tough as rugged, drunken Scotswomen does not mean that I can’t hold my own (or at least keep my mouth shut).