What literally just happened:
I was sitting here, watching Heroes, when I heard a loud ruckass coming from outside. Not close enough to be on our property, but close enough to hear people yelling fuck every second word.
I lent to the window of the study to get a better hearing, and was able to determine that it was coming from everyone’s favourite bowling club (of previous fame on this blog). Perhaps there was another hold-up, or maybe, as was to be expected, there was drunken behaviour. I recalled, as I raced from the study to the bathroom (where the window has a great view of the back pattio of the bowling club), that my mother had told me there was another wake for a funeral happening there – the third in two weeks. I turned the bathroom light on, climbed into the bath and looked out the window …
To see a group of people massed together swearing and carrying. Complete with shoving. “This is going to get good” I though to myself as I watched. I could determine, from the drunken rambling and the behaviour, that there was the son and daughter of a mother who had recently passed away. I determined that the daughter had made light of, or made a disparaging comment of, the mother’s death, and the son was carrying on – calling his sister a “slut”, “mole”, a “fucking *insert anything here*”, among other things. I smiled as the group began to get a little more physical – the son began to go round to every member standing on the patio and clap loudly in their face while rambling on about thank-you’s. Ridiculous behaviour, I thought, though probably slightly better than the episode of Heroes I was missing out on.
The daughter then either colapsed, fell over, or went to her knees in tears. The son keep acting like a fool, but some of the other men tried to usher him away. There were other customers out on the patio – customers who, ultimately, decided to ignore all this. A big man stuck his head out the back door … only to retreat instantly. It was obvious other patrons and the owners wanted nothing to do with this altercation. I question their responsible service of alcohol, their security, and the safety of other patrons and staff.
Suddenly there was a breakout fight. But not just any fight ….
The daughter and who I deemed to be the wife of the son (though I have no real evidence for this) began to hair-pull, shove, claw and scratch their way into a melee.This went on for ten second. Twenty second. Thirty second. A minut. No one was stopping them! The drunken son was continuing to rant off his head how much of a “fucking *insert word” his sister was, and how she was disrespecting their mother, the funeral, and how big of a disgrace she was.
It was around now that I saw lights turn on in other houses from positions they couldn’t see. I wondered if they had noticed my light, or my silhouette in the window, and if this would deter them from continuing. I turned the light off and invisibly snuck back up to the window to continue my viewing.
The catfight was still raging, though now two other women had got in – perhaps to try and break them up, but they were about as successful as the Australian Democrats Party in keeping anyone honest. The drunk son had begun to shove anyone near to him all in the pursuit of getting closer to his sister to yell in her face some more. He succeeded and the two had a sparing match.
This continued. My sister, who had been listening from her room window (right beside the study window), decided that the best seat to watch this from was, yes, the bathroom. She stood along side me as we watched this brother and sister duo go at it. I wondered to myself if my sister and I would ever reach a breaking point like that we were witnessing. In a somewhat touching moment, I though I wouldn’t be capable of acting the fool and idiot the man I was watching towards my sister. However, the touching moment was short lived as the episode of Jerry Springer unfolded some more.
Other patrons from inside the joint came out to quieten the people down – not to stop them or request that they leave. I watched a few people leave of their own accord. Others managed to get the sister inside the building, while others again kept the brother outside. Things began to quieten down (as best they could with Drunkey McGee still rambling, so my sister left, as did I. But we both took up vantage point again as the voices got louder – yes, people had broken their respective lines and the brother and sister were back into it! The problem was that it was indoors. We left the window, assuming it was over …
Boy were we wrong.
These people were so loud that when they took it into the front car-park,you could still hear them! My mother came out of her room and this was teh conversation as we passed in the hallway:
Mother: Did you see …
Mother, Sister, Thomas: Hahahahaha!
We knew what was happening, and it didn’t need explanation. My parent’s window is wide and has the best view of the bowling club behind our house. The three of us stood there listening to what was happening. You could hear most of it, but you couldn’t hear all of it – nor could you see it. With resolve I said “Forget this, I’m going over there”.
I ran into my room, threw my sandles on and raced downstairs, out the back door, out the back fence, and into the night. The bowling club has a bush running along its edges, and there’s eight to ten feet wide strips of land between the bush and the property fences. I ran along that strip of land that is adjacent to our property. When I reached the end, I ran up the parallel side. All in the cover of darkness, and still with drunken voices filling the night. I came to the end of the bush, and crouched down low. It was the perfect vantage point.
There I was, shadowed by the bush, my head stuck out, able to see the whole of the parking lot – and these drunks in all their glory. The catfight has started up again – though this time it looked like some sort of lesbian foreplay. The two women were rolling around on the asphalt, hands in each other’s hair, nose-to-nose, struggling against one-another, repeatedly saying the word fuck. Like I said: lesbian foreplay. The men were holding back the brother. Other people were making a getaway – a car reversed (nearly collected some of the men) then sped forward, turned (nearly ran over the catfighters) and then sped out the driveway – not wanting any part of this party (or the pending police). The son started up again, going so far as to stand over the two fighting women and yell abuses at his sister. I smiled the whole time, and wondered if I’d be privy to such behaviour at my new job.
Some of the men began to yell at one another, and then the son began to pick one of them out and started to push him. The pushed quickly became the pusher and I thought there would be a real fight on. Unfortunately there wasn’t, and the abuse started again. Though it was centred around the son’s sister being a disgrace. This continued for a good ten minutes.
Finally someone twigged and they said they had all better leave before the cops got there. It took some time, force, and yelling, but they managed to get the son into a ute. Now, I’m no expert, but the ute that was there was, at best a three-seater. But I swear there was excess of eight people standing in that car-park. People climbed into the front cabin and other climbed into the pick-up tray! Yes, it was a hard-top, but people climbed in – including the son. He sat on the edge, his legs dangling over, still yelling and screaming about his dead mother, his disgrace of a sister, and the word “fuck” (everything slurred mind you) as the car looped around the parking lot, avoided the catfight (yes, still going), and made a get away. The last image I saw was the son either being pulled down or falling into the tray and the lid coming to a close.
You would think that because fuel-for-the-fire source number one was gone, it woudl all be over. No no no. Don’t be hasty little ones. The catfight was in full swing now. The two had stopped rolling around and had sat up a new Karma Sutra position – the were both sitting, nose to nose, one woman had the other in leg scissors, while the other tried to head-butt her opponent. A lone man in a white shirt (a solid fellow – my word a a short, fat, bald man you wouldn’t want to mess with) and smoking was watching over the two – either to make sure no one died or that someone was there to see and clothes come off. He vainly tried to talk them down, but the wrestling continued.
Again, this went on for some time, before they both struggled free and the daughter tried to walk away. She had, through this time, been calling the other woman a “slut” and “mole” – then quipped that she was going home to her dog with which the other woman could sleep with. The other woman said that the daughter was, in fact, the dog.
The daughter threw her handbag to the floor and brought up the Dukes – saying that she wasn’t “a fucking dog” and was ready to punch on. The other woman then said that the daughter wasn’t a dog, when she clearly had five second earlier. The other woman began to sympathise with the daughter – “I respect you! I know what you’re feeling”. The daughter swore some more and walked down the driveway – obviously to go back to her dog (which may or may not have got lucky tonight). The other woman followed, rambling incoherently, while the lone man in the white shirt puffed away on his cigarette, and with one hand in his pocket, trotted off after them.
Satisfied that there was no more to be seen, I race back home, jumped my fence (in a fashion not too dissimilar to the thieves who jumped my fence late last year) and went back inside to write the post. As I got to the end of the first paragraph, the night was again split by noise – the noise of sirens. You could hear the police coming. They got louder … louder … and stopped. I expect that they caught up with the remaining trio as they walked down Lambeth Street.
What will become of this rowdy group? Who cares. What did I miss on Heroes? Who cares. Was my night made all the more interesting because of that bowling club we back on to again? Yes, and I’m quite thankful for it.