One for the Road: Bar brawl…

Ifought a man in a pub the other night and they didn’t even kick me out.

In fact, not only did I escape ejection, but the staff actually rewarded me with a big bucket of alcohol for my efforts.

There is a licenced premises here on the island of Ko Phi Phi Don that lets its patrons scrap with impunity.

As a matter of fact, not only do they allow it, they encourage it.

It’s called The Reggae Bar, but it should be called The Colos-Siam or The Thai-NF.

Because, while it is true that the venue is not lacking in terms of Bob Marley music, Jamaica flags or men smoking terrifyingly fat and pungently aromatic reefers, the Rastafarian theme is not the real reason that it’s the busiest bar on the island.

The way it works is as follows: Staff walk around the pub, which has a boxing ring slapped right in the centre of it, with signs raised above their heads that read ‘Raise your hand if you want to fight. Equipment provided. Volunteers get a free cocktail bucket’.

Those who fancy themselves then throw up a fist to let the world know they’re willing, whereupon they are taken into the ring and paraded around until another member of the crowd accepts the challenge.

Then the pair strip down to their bare bellies, jump into the ring, stick on a pair of gloves and, with zero regard for factors such as size, experience or sobriety, proceed to punch the heads off one another.

Needless to say, the craic is colossal and the health and safety hazards are equally enormous.

Well, on our first night in the place, we managed to bag two ringside seats. They were so good I was half-expecting Brad Pitt or some other A-lister to land in and tell us to shift.

Anyway, as members of staff strutted around the ring, trying their best to entice punters into taking a fight, I assured my visibly nervous girlfriend that she had no need to worry.

“I’ll be staying on the safe side of the ropes, where the beer is cold and the threat of a broken nose is remote,” I promised.

“Good, because you’d have to be stupid or insane or both to be getting into a boxing ring and you full,” she said.

But, for the first hour or so, she had no reason to be nervous, for I had no notion of getting in. In fact, as the circus unfolded, one mismatched contest after another, almost all of which were ending with either one or both competitors leaving the ring with a busted mouth, black eye or leaky nose, my prudent reluctance with regards to the prospect of making the leap from spectator to participant only hardened.

“Not a mission will I be getting in there,” I reiterated, as some big heavy fella came spilling through the ropes and almost onto our table. However, as the night wore on, my confidence became bloated by the beer.

Before long I was saying stuff like “Thon’ is clean useless!” and “That boy couldn’t bate snow off a rope!” and “I could take that big donkey and him has about four stone on me!”

Then I came out with the line that sealed my fate: “Niamh, if you weren’t here I’d be getting in.”

“Sure why don’t ye?” came her sobering reply.

It appeared that, unbeknownst to me, a combination of intoxicating liquor and all my cocky slabbering had conspired to create within her the impression that, though I mightn’t seem it, her boyfriend might actually be handy enough with the fists.

“Ye think I should?” I asked, hoping she’d revise her newfound faith in my fistic capabilities.

“Aye, sure why not? Most of these boys haven’t even boxed before and you have. It’ll be a bit of craic,” she replied merrily.

So, deprived of the excuse of an overly protective girlfriend whose poor nerves I was looking after by not fighting, my non-participation quickly lost its chivalrous sheen and was exposed for the naked cowardice it always was.

“Right, I suppose there’s no point hanging about,” I said, standing up from my seat, raising my hand and trying to make my 5’9 and 11 and a half stone frame appear as imposing as possible.

Within ten minutes I was in the ring, tipsily boxing my way towards a convincing and comfortable victory.

As I arrived back to my seat, a plastic medal around my neck and a bucket of icy alcohol in my hand, there was herself looking up at me.

“Jude Gallagher would need to watch his spot on the Ireland team when you get back,” she laughed. “Half a dozen pints in ye and I reckon you could take him.”

“I know… But imagine what I’d do to him with ten in me.”