Our street is situated in a quiet residential area filled with middle class families and surrounded by coos (that’s cows) in fields. Not much happens here. Which is why in the dead of night when one hears a ruckus out in the street we all get rather excited.
I’ve just drifted off when my dreams are interrupted by the booming male voices arguing outside my window. Being the nosy cow that I am, I reach for my glasses, perch them on the end of my nose and bound towards the window. I peel back the blind and peek out.
There, right in front of our garden stands a young man wearing ladies high heels and a tight t-shirt. He’s clearly drunk, swaying in his stilettos and wailing incoherently. A few metres away from him stands another man, clutching firmly onto a manbag, yowling like a caterwauling tomcat and pointing the finger at Stiletto Boy.
Next thing I know, Stiletto Boy and Manbag Boy lunge at one another and my heart leaps in my chest as I realise there’s a fight in my street!
There’s nothing better than watching a fight from your window, up high where you are safe and warm and know that you aren’t getting in anyone’s way. If I were brave enough I would even have used this as an opportunity to spur them on (“Come on, fight him like a man, stand up for yerself, ye big jessy!” etc) but I’m not
b) that dumb
c) asking for trouble.
“Ye effin’ bas, ye!”* Cries Stiletto Boy as he raises his leg and gives a swift kick to his opponent’s stomach. “Get it up ye**, ye clatty dobber!”***
I pick up my mobile phone and text my brother who’s here for the weekend and is still awake watching a late night movie downstairs.
“Look out the window!” I text, excitement making it difficult for my fingers to find the buttons. “There’s a fight in our street!”
A few choice insults are thrown around outside as the two men circle one another.
My phone vibrates and I read, “I know, I’ve been watching for ages! Is he wearing high heels?!”
I snicker softly as I look around at the other houses in the street. Some people are openly standing at their windows, staring out, others are less conspicuous, like myself, and the only evidence of them sneaking a peek is by the slight gape in the curtains or the blinds.
Both boys are in some kind of headlock now and I’m worried for Stiletto Boy’s ankles; such silly shoes to pick a fight in.
I consider calling out some advice; “Ah go on Stiletto Boy, take off your shoe and smack him with it!” “Hit him with the left, the left I said, THE LEFT!” But I decide that watching a fight and getting excited about it is shameful enough.
Someone has called the police, as they always do in this neighbourhood at the first sign of any shenanigans and within moments a police car arrives with a flashing blue beacon on the roof. Unfortunately this brouhaha does not appear to merit a siren.
Manbag Boy then proceeds to kick Stiletto Boy in the balls which sends him to the ground, wailing in a strange, high pitched cry. Manbag Boy runs off into the distance and one of the policemen runs after him while the other deals with Stiletto Boy.
And then it’s all over. Some people stay at their windows – the show might not be finished! – but eventually it becomes clear that that is our excitement over for another year in this street, and shadowy figures retreat, lights switch off and I climb back into bed.
This is as exciting as it gets living in a wee village in the suburbs of
Bonus Scottish Insults
*Ye bas - you are a bastard
**Get it up ye - 'ha ha!'
***Ye clatty dobber- you are a dirty penis