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Boulevard of broken dreams

I have just left the umpteenth call of some form of violence or anti-social behaviour. I am on the way to yet another shout at one of the clubs that occupy a relatively small area and within easy staggering pissing and vomiting distance of the Royal Grand Hotel.

This up-market establishment must look forward to the bank holiday weekends and its associated drunken assholes who suddenly gain that all important alcoholic width of sudden knowledge and inspiration.

As I speed forth to one of the clubs where the doormen have decided to refuse entry to one of a group who is already well oiled, his mates decide that he IS coming in with them and there is nothing that the doormen can do to stop them. They are not exactly Spartans, but because they outnumber the doormen they have a false sense of bravado to add to their distinct form of gobbiness.

Their odds on survival take a bit of a nose dive when about 6 rather large mates of these doormen, who have heard the commotion on their own walky talky system, arrive to ask what all the trouble is about. They have left their own doors nearby unprotected from drunken invaders. Cue the arrival of the rather brightly coloured and highly visible Police officer and the problem is offloaded. Now add to this the assistance call and everyone who is left uncommitted starts to make whilst those who have already found a suitably menial point of focus with something deemed more urgent politely state they are not available. Never in my day on district. So now you have a bright yellow sandwich. Like the mustard between the black shirted muscle and the alcohol soaked twats. No pickle but in a bit of a pickle.

Eventually the gobbiest twat, who just knew he had the rights of the land on his side instead of offering at least some form of reasoned argument decided to make all forms of simply ludicrous and pathetic threats, is arrested because he could not work out the benefit of advice from anyone. He never even had to phone a friend, he was an idiot all by himself. Me and the boy are forming that welcome circle of impenetrable teeth and before you know it, drunken twat is bound, gagged and heading for some free bed & breakfast. My mobile form of funfair had swooped against the flow of traffic and after putting my boy back into the van I headed off a short distance to the Royal Grand where 4 men were damaging the signs at the front of the hotel that told everyone the name of the hotel, the chef, the menu etc etc etc.

As I approached the Royal Grand there were indeed 4 men, not youths, but men, walking away into the car park. I approached and got out of my van to talk. As I did so one of the men turned and offered me some form of friendly advice and began to generally flail in my direction like the best Kenwood in rather a stiff dough. I was able to avoid these but did notice his three mates slowly walking in our direction with an unfortunate type of purpose. I began to struggle with the first man and keep in close to avoid the flailing bits and did manage to get hold of one part of him. As we struggled he suddenly began yelling and fell to a crumpled and writhing mass on the ground. I had only a minor death grip on one wrist and upper arm so the worst he would have sustained is perhaps a small chinese burn.

To my amazement, relief and total joy, my mate had somehow got through the tiny gap in the window and had fastened himself to the back of the man. After a short death grip around the head I was able to cuff him and my mate was between us on the floor and keeping the other three at a safe distance. None, it seems, wanted to be next on the menu.

I was able to get to my radio and call for some backup and then noticed the faces lining the Royal Grand’s windows. They must have thought this was some form of bank holiday show laid on for them. After what seemed like an age the fight bus arrived and 4 brave backup team consisting of a PC and 3 specials got out, this was shortly followed by a traffic car that had finished patrolling its latest route and had come to see what was on offer.

The hotel were concerned that there guests might be a little concerned at the goings on. They were going to take down the signs so declined to prosecute anyway.

A boulevard that contains a posh hotel and several late night refreshment houses is not a good place to be for too long on a bank holiday weekend.  


4 Responses

  1. Sounds like another typical Bank Holiday weekend in good old England.
    Perhaps the male your mate assisted you in detaining will now realise that the police are not a free punch bag. In years to come when his children ask him “Daddy just how did you get that scar on your back?” he has the guts to tell them the truth….. or not.
    Good effort by your mate!!!!!!!

  2. I’m sure i have heard that story before….

  3. There’s nothing better than a smart dog who knows when he’s needed.

  4. “He never even had to phone a friend, he was an idiot all by himself.” Love that.

    It has got to be a drag at times, dealing with this type of situation.

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