I've been involved in a few scuffles at gigs, which I think falls in the category of 'argy-bargy'. Last time I threw a punch would be over 30 years ago. One secret is to keep your thumb outside the fist. I saw the results of someone making this schoolboy error on a night out in Birmingham. He landed a fairly ineffectual punch to the side of the head of his opponent, then doubled up, howling, clutching his hand. This allowed the gentlemen who had been struck to take his revenge by knocking him across a table of drinks. By this point I was on my toes - I've been around plenty of these and they were never my idea of fun.

You did the right thing by removing yourself swiftly!

A life spent between market towns and small cities has seen it's share of pointless spats. A completley different situation to a potential mugging as alcohol is nearly always involved.

I've walked friends away from situations many, many times and this makes me feel slightly better about the odd time I gave in and wacked someone.

A lad tried several times to hit me (still don't know why) in an altercation that had been going on late one night for a good ten minutes. All I wanted to do was to go home. There were only so many blocks of his fists I could take before I tapped his crown jewels with my toe and then nudged my knee into his exploding nose. He got up, bloodied, bruised and bent over only to start the whole "come on then" process again. I strongly suggested he made his way home at which point he drunkenly swung for me falling into a bush, leaving me to make good my escape.

It is never big and it is never clever.

Not since I was 14. There was some pretty good-natured argy bargy going on at school once - you know the kind of thing: dead arms and suchlike - and someone got a bit arsey about it and went for me in earnest, flailing a foot in my general direction, which, as luck would have it, dislocated my thumb. It's the only time I've ever seen red: I grabbed his tie, nutted him as hard as I could, punched him with my unfucked hand in the stomach, and when he tried to kick me again, I grabbed his heel and flipped him onto his head, knocking him out. Oops.

Long story short, we ended up sitting next to each other in casualty, followed by a week's suspension. Never again, not least because the mental image of my thumb pointing the wrong way over the back of my hand still makes me feel sick.

and I hope it's never necessary again. Don't know what I would have done in your situation, but you handled it well and it's good to hear you ended the night unhurt as I read the post with a growing sense of unease. I reckon it was the soothing tones of Ms. Bush that had you in the Zen like state which allowed you to stay calm and then remove yourself from the situation. Perhaps you should make a 'Street Fighting Man' playlist which you could switch to as you near your destination to get yourself mentally ready in case a scrote tries to separate you from your possessions in the future. Or maybe not.
I vaguely recall reading a Lee Child book in which his character Jack Reacher [if you're not familiar, he is an indestructible fighting machine] strongly suggests that a punch is always a bad idea [not for Jack, for mere mortals such as us] because whilst it may have a negative effect on the target, it will almost certainly do you more damage than the recipient. Now, if I could just remember what he suggested you do instead...

Violence never solved anything...but I always cheer the Karate Kid fillums when the villain comes to grief.

Mind you, if it ever came to protecting my family I would want to hit an attacker with whatever came to hand and worry about the rights and wrongs afterwards.

I hate being around violence. If I saw a fight on a night out it'd sour things to the point where I'd go home. I avoid confrontation and feel ashamed if I'm even a bit sharp with someone on the phone.

I guess I'm just a coward!

But I have been tempted. Thing is, it actually hurts to punch someone.

Whatever about the ethics, what a fabulously well-written account!

an element of violence, actual or threatened, was often needed to get the money out of the promoter at the end of the night.

The 'investment' of all that beer and dope into the body of a large roadie/van driver was often paid back in hard cash at those times.

It was useful that, many times, the promoter was a hangover from the hippy era who seemed to think that accusing us of being breadheads was an acceptable way of doing business.

I was mugged by about half a dozen teenage thugs about two years ago. I was on the way home from a pub in Stroud Green Road near Finsbury Park,London. They got nothing from me. To tell the truth I don't really know if it was apotential mugging or just an unprovoked attack. I did try to leg it but they got the better of me. I could post a pic or two but it would only put the massive off thier tea and cakes. Needless to say I looked like one of those pics you see when a pensioner takes a bad hiding and they report it in local press. I have lived in the Finsbury Park area for almost thirty years. I have only been attacked once. It really shook me up though and although I'm confident walking about I'm still not the same as I was before the incident. Sorry to stereotype but they were hooddies with faces that I couldn't see. It was also within 1/2 mile of where I live. I now have a feeling of apprehension when I see more than one or two in a group of an evening. I imagine you may well feel diferently about getting about for a while too but it will fade as time goes by as mine is continuing to do. £2000 compensation which took 18mths of chasing to get didn't really help much to tell the truth ( maybe I should have spent it on myself rather than put it in the savings account!). Now to your question - Have I ever hit anyone - not since school but I'd give the two grand back to be allowed to pulp the six little shits individually( with their hands tied behind thier backs obviously!!!).

Outside Redhill station. I fancied his ipod, although this horrible screeching sound coming from it nearly put me off.

He legged it though.

Wuss.

I did judo for two years and discovered that a simple sweeping move with the foot which hooks behind the inner or outer ankle can usually fell someone who is approaching you in an overly aggressive manner, because they really don't expect it, and end up looking foolish on the floor. I wouldn't advise using it if you haven't practised it extensively. But it's been almost twenty years since anyone last had a go because I look reasonably hard and people who start violence are usually cowards. (I'm actually as soft as sh*te). I also once nutted a mugger who was after my Walkman in a Manchester backstreet. He only got the headphones. I got a headache.
A friend of mine, who is an ex-Karate champion was once in a similar situation to the Captain having emerged from a Soho record shop to find a mugger pointing a knife at him."Give me your wallet" he shouted. Having disarmed said mugger and holding him against the wall he whispered in his ear "I've got a better idea, why don't you give me your wallet". That, my friends, is class.

But I had been out with for a curry and a drink with a mate and we'd deliberately chosen a Tuesday night expecting it to be quiet in the absence of weekend revellers. We were chatting quietly in the corner of the pub when this pillock came over and tried to snatch my pint. I grabbed it back, told him to p*ss off and thought that was the end of it. A little while later he came over again, snatched my pint once more and started drinking it. This time I emptied the pint over him and decided to assist him out of the establishment. I propelled him towards the door somewhat forcefully only to hear an almighty crash as the side of the doorway he happended to collide with was snibbed shut. This certainly had the effect of making him too dazed to put up much of fight as I finally got him out of the building. I had thought the days of me getting involved in this sort of fracas had finished long ago.

But only with wasps, flies, mozzies and other airborne critters. It usually works as I have a black belt technique with rolled up publications. I am generally a non violent person and it is always only in self-defence. Also I don't use The Word, only the Evening Standard or the Metro usually.

I have also been violent to various inanimate objects, especially computers. Does that count?

I did engage in fisticuffs once as a teenager but stupidly did the thumb-inside-the fist schoolboy error mentioned by el hombre malo and broke my thumb.

Well... yes. But it hardly counts in that I was 11 and it was a flail in the direction of someone rather than a punch. That someone being a 13 year old and therefore huge, to my eyes, physically. He was in short a would-be bully who had been niggling for some time sounding me out as a possible victim. One lunchtime he was in my locale being generally sarcastic to me and about me. I tried a fairly high-pitched 'Fuck off' but that unsurprisingly acheived nothing so, quite out of character, I launched at him swinging. From about 3 feet away. Bear in mind I could have only connected with him with the lightest of touches at that remove but he nevertheless jerked his head back in some shock.

He laughed at me but he never went anywhere near me again. The stupid-looking, red-faced, straw haired c**t.

and I'm glad it ended peacefully. That guy sounds like a dufus amongst dufuses.

As much as I hope such an episode never happens to you again, may I suggest the following response if you should encounter another arsehole in the future. Fix him with a steely glare and say "Leave it pal. You're messing with Captain Underpants... and that is a *big* mistake."

some years back, I'd returned to outpatients to have the little finger on my right hand attended to which had got broken in a cycling accident, having previously attended their A&E.
I got called and sat down. This nurse looked at me contemptuously and sneered "Broke it punching someone in a fight, did you?"
With some incredulity at her lack of compassion I explained how an idiot driver had caused me to brake sharply and go flying over the handlebars.
She didn't apologise. She probably hated cyclists more than fighters.

I'm a 6 foot 4, sixteen stone wimp

It's been a long time since anyone tried to pick on me

I think that there is a natural fear that if I hit anyone it could hurt

When actually I would probably run a mile

Was it quite late at night? Usually there's fleets of taxis outside, so I would have thought you'd have had some backup had things got tasty.

but I'm going to some gig tonight and I'm a bit worried they might be a violent crowd on the evidence I've heard, so I'm packing my knuckle-dusters just in case...

Some time ago I was out taking the air with a couple of old school chums.We spotted our old school nemesis,sat fishing on the banks of the River Dee.Payback time.Creeping up behind him we launched our attack.Nothing too violent,we just pushed him into the river.It was glorious,seeing him soaking wet,huffing and puffing with a look of total shock on his ugly,stupid mush,while we stood on the bank convulsed in laughter.God it felt good.
Sometime later I heard the same arsehole had been on the receiving end of a severe hammering no doubt handed out by another one of his earlier victims.Served him right,Karma and all that.

used to attend Kickboxing training twice a week and ended up as sparring partners. We would kick and punch merry hell out of each other for an hour. Best marriage therapy ever .

Although there have been opportunities, I have elected not to.

Once such chance was in Huddersfield, after a football game. We'd stopped at the chippy on the way back to the station and although we weren't "in colours", a local baseball-cap wearer invited me to join him in impromptu fisticuffs.

As he adopted the preparatory stance, I floored him with a single blow by asking "Why?". Sadly my blow was only rhetorical, whereas his was physical, busting my nose into my chips. Seeing that even this didn't prompt a response, and presumably assessing this a victory the like of which had escaped his beloved Terriers, he took the Captain Underpants route and legged it.

how you'll react in certain situations.

A good few years ago, I was in a pub with my girlfriend and a few mates; a knob-head started being a pain, and I did the standard, "Look, we don't want any trouble" line. It genuinely pained me for weeks - if not months - afterwards: why hadn't I stood up to him more? Should I have hit him? What would I have done if he'd hit me?

As it happens, a year or so later, we were similarly hassled by a large, drunken oaf. He came over, shouting, "You think you're really clever don't you?" I replied that, actually, I did rather well at school. This wound him up even more, and it looked like it was going to turn nasty. Yet, rather than being angry or afraid, I was genuinely cheesed off that he was ruining our night, so I turned to him and retorted, "Look, I think you've entertained us all for long enough. Why don't you just f**k off?" There was a short, morbid moment when I thought he was going to redecorate the pub using my cerebral cortex, but, to be fair, he just said "Fair enough", and walked away.

It was only later on that I realised...he could've easily duffed me up, and the best plan really is to run off! I'd been a complete fool. I was, however, vaugely heroic in my friends' eyes for about 3 days.

...recently came to the end of a three year stretch in prison. During one visit he nodded in the direction of a man, sitting at an adjacent table, who had unwittingly killed someone with a single punch. There, but for the grace of god, goes anyone who has ever taken a wild swing at another human being.

I didn't learn the lesson. A couple of weeks ago I punched a moving car that had jumped a red light and very nearly knocked me over. The cuts on my knuckles have almost healed.

in the last 3-4 years actually. Let's just say a situation escalated until a VERY annoying individual who had threatened members of my family was pushing their face within six inches of mine repeatedly saying in a singsong voice "go on then hit me you wanker." So I did, - we ended up rolling on the floor like 13 yo wooses except I was over 45 - until we were pulled apart by security. It did make me feel better though.

...he went to the hospital, I went home."

My stepmother, who's in her late 50's recently took up martial arts. She risen to the rank of blue belt, which means she getting the experience the guy in this clip talks of. She could probably kick my ass now....

I got into a few rucks at school but none since. It was a 50/50 split between being the victor and the fallen. I've successfully avoided any trouble since, even when I've been out with a few 'handy-types'.

That is one of the 'benefits' of living next to an Army garrison, especially when you look different (long haired/scruffy/gothy/basically anything not army looking) from the soldiers. All of my friends have had the same experience, as fighting is considered quite normal around here.
Much as I try to get away from the trouble, it is not always an option, and I have often ended up worse off than the aggressor.
The police have often been less than helpful as well, as they tend to think anyone fighting must be as bad as each other. Bastards.

of “The Massive’s” more massive people – 6ft 2 and still under weight for my height. I’ve been told by a number of people that I look quite intimidating; something of a shock and surprise to me, but I guess in repose I’m not a very smiley person.

As a consequence I’ve never really had a fight, not even at school. I did get bullied by older guys, and in turn I tried my hand at passing this on to those smaller than me, but my heart just wasn’t in it, and I gave it up. As an adult, there have been one or two close calls – nearly always at gigs as it happens. I just seem to be a magnet for the nutters who don’t like the fact that I’m not jumping around, or in one instance, not applauding enough. But I also know that I really don’t have the confidence to start a ruck, so I’ve always walked away or diffused the situation as best I can. I suppose my thinking was quite strongly influenced by a policeman who was a mature student in my year at college who told me “I learned the hard way. If you think it’s going to start, be first in, and don’t be half hearted”. And showed me a couple of scars from the days when he’d waited to see what developed.

In years gone by I suppose this left me with a mix of fascination and fear for those people for whom the occasional bout of fisty-cuffs or indeed a good kicking was commonplace. I hoovered up books and films on football hooligans and gangsters, slightly in awe and slightly repulsed by these most alpha of males.

As I’ve got older, the awe and fascination have gone, but the fear remains. Having never got into a proper scrap, I’ve no doubt ended up with an exaggerated view of what it’s like (how painful it is), and a sense of regret and inadequacy that I don't have the necessary nerve.

There again, a few DIY implements have seen me open a can of whoop-ass on them.

It's been mentioned before, but the way you react to a situation does have a lot to do with the circumstances surrounding it. Fortunately, I've never been called upon to defend myself, nor anybody I like but I do often wonder what I'd do if the problem ever arose. To be honest, unless my would-be attacker was a nine-year old girl, or Mahatma Ghandi, I'd probably end up worse off. I'm 6' 2" but only 11st, so it's not going to take much to hurt me physically (ironically, however, I do tend to have a high pain threshold). At school, I was good at avoiding trouble by keeping any ill-advised thoughts to myself, because I knew I wouldn't win in a fight; and making friends with enough people to have back-up if I required it. If I was ever mocked- especially when I was younger, and more intimidated, I'd often have their own friends sticking up for me.

In my mind, I'd floor my nemesis with vocabulary, and reasoning. Or a swift punch that sends him reeling backwards into his shell. Mocking him as I turn and walk away with a pretty girl on my arm.

I've been punched once, but I was so taken aback by it, I didn't even think about retaliating. I was stood outside my work one evening, waiting for the bus to go home when a group of lads walked passed me; unfortunately one of them appeared to take offence to way I was stood (maybe it was because I slouch?) and proceeded to redecorate my nose with a single punch.

1) Thief who stole cash box from business I was running.The smash to the face lifted him off his feet and through the business' plate glass front door where I gave him a bit of a "shoeing". At that point a Police Transit was passing and all hell broke lose as Old Bill pounced on me mob handed and arrested me with Attempted Murder!!!!
I was pointing out that it was him who stole the money in the cash box but this was falling on deaf ears until they ran criminal reports on both of us and mine was clean and his as long as your arm. We agreed that the GBH was to be wiped out by the theft charge and after the couple of hours this took all returned to normal....apart from the plate glass in the door, and probably his face and ribs.

2)Caught the Ex-wife and bloke "getting it on" in my front room, proceeded to take anger out on his face....and divorce bint of a wife.

I am 6foot 3 and 17 stone, and a very mild chap 99.9999% of the time, and have only punched someone on these two instances....it's not big,clever or planned as I know there is only going to be one result if I loose it, and it's not me that's going to end up with a lamping.

...though when at school, I did the "Go on, hit me, hit me right here" and angled my chin toward my aggressor. To this day I have no idea why, though I can remember the slightly diseased anticipation that I'd called this bully's bluff.

Needless to say, I was suitably surprised when he did indeed hit me and with sufficient force to knock out a molar.

Through salty blood and hot tears, I thanked him for helping me get rid of the wobbly tooth, like this had been my plan all along, and hated myself slightly more.

but not in last 36 years although have come close a couple of times.
I basically abhor bullying. Around the age of 13 a kid in my school used a gang of friends as his back up in attempts to extort sweets and money from me. This went on for 2 or 3 weeks and i was getting increasingly morose about it. One day he basically cornered me against the school fence with a couple of his cronies in tow. I was eating toast at the (break) time and he basically said if I gave him my toast he would "let me off' as if I had done anything in the first place. Something snapped inside me and I just thought fuck it - this ain't gonna go away. I hit the bastard as hard as I could. He went down but one of his mates tripped me so that we both ended up wrestling on the playground until the teachers came and broke it up. He didnt try it again afterwards so I guess it was worth it. Only other time is when I flipped with a good friend who again put me in a spot where I could either back down or lash out. Both of these instances taught me not back people into a corner whether it is in my business or private life.

for I am a professional Taekwondo instructor

I have always worked on the assumption that you can talk yourself out of trouble, or run away from it. I did get clipped lightly by a wild, drunken swing from an oaf a couple of years ago and was tempted to have a go back when someone else dragged him away and leathered him but this is incidental. My one big experience starts in 1986..

My mate Gary was at Pompey Poly. His room-mate was an interesting guy. Jewish, he claimed that he had been trained by the Israeli security services in krav maga, an extremely efficient and violent form of self-defence and that he was the poly "enforcer" for any Jewish students who suffered anti-semitic abuse. The veracity of this was never established but, by hell, he taught me and Gary some filthy tricks. The foremost was always to take the principle of running away as fundamental. If you can't, kick sand in his face and run away. If you have to go in, go in hard and unpleasant. Trouble will normally be in a drinking establishment. If it looks like it's about to go off, make sure you've got a mouthful of beer. Spit it in the aggressor's face. He cannot help but wipe it away. Whilst he's doing so, shin him in the bollocks. And run. Never kick for the bollocks if he's sighted, far too easily defended. Go for the load-bearing knee, kicking outwards, using the sole of the foot. Never punch. Too difficult and you hurt your hand. Use a heel-strike. The heel of the palm, driven upwards into the angle of the jaw, straight arm at impact, drive with the legs. If things get in a grapple, go for thumbs up the nostrils or the angles of the mouth and rip outwards, then the eyes. There was lots more of this stuff.

A year on and I'm at the Owens Park Friday night bop, a Manchester Uni social magnet. For whatever reason, a bunch of locals had infiltrated the place looking for aggro. I was chatting to Jez, a mate of mine and also a noted nutcase. His right arm was in plaster after he'd broken his hand. Punching his twin brother. He was thinking it might all go off. Five minutes later, my mate Brian, scrum-half for the firsts and part of the bouncing team that night, was confiding in me that it was going to go nasty and that the police were outside. Then it happened: It was one of those time-dilation things - what took seconds seemed like ages. There was an explosion of violence on the dancefloor; at the centre of it was Jez, holding a local scrote by the hair with his good hand whilst kneeing him in the face and beating him on the back of the head with his plastercast. Other ne'er-do-wells were trading blows with rugby boys. Brian came past me, wrestling with a tracksuited scratter. In my peripheral vision, someone was coming in, swinging a glass at Brian. My mouthful of beer was forgotten but the heel-strike thing wasn't and I caught him perfectly. I felt a horrible crack as I made contact and he was hurled sideways by the unexpected blow. It then all blurred as lots of students piled in and the locals were all wrestled out of the doors. I was sweating and shaking. What had I done? I'd probably broken someone's jaw. Lots of people were bright-eyed and adrenaline-fuelled after the victory. I was horrified. He'd remember me. His mates would come after us all. I'd go to jail.

Of course, there were no repercussions. The locals realised that fifteen or so strapping rugby lads with a taste for violence backed up by a lot of mates were probably best to be steered clear of. And someone's fractured mandible healed and was, presumably, chalked up to experience.

Owens Park went to polycarbonate glasses a couple of weeks later.

A couple of years ago my daughter called down from
her bedroom that someone was making a noise in our front garden. I opened the front door to find a lad throwing my rubbish bins at my front window ( he had done the same to my neighbours houses I later found out). When I called out to him he told me to "fuck off". Something snapped and as I walked towards him he turned on his heels and scarpered. Foolishly I chased after him (in my bloody work slipon shoes). He led me onto wasteground not far from my house and faced up to me in very intimidating manner. I genuinely thought he was going to batter me, him bring six foot plus and me five foot three. So I swung a punch, hit him square on the chin and he went down and didn't move. I was so scared that I ran home and told the police the whole story. The police came out and told me an eyewitness from a neighbours house had reported exaclty the same incident. They had already been to the wasteground and the youth had left, so he wasn't seriously hurt thank god. A few weeks later I had literature from
my local polce station about how to cope being "a victim of crime", which I didn't expect. I realise how differently this incident could have turned out so I don't recommend this sort of behaviour to anyone.

I've found that as I've got older, people seem to leave me alone more. However, when I was younger, being a skinny, tall, spikey haired slightly odd clothes wearing youngster used to get me into some situations in war torn Bracknell.

One occasion I was sat on the wall at the bus station eating a mini milk ice lolly. It was all I could afford (and I didn't realise what kind of message it was putting out). 3 men (at least they were men to the 14 year old me) came up and asked me what I thought I was doing. I answered, politely, that I was eating a mini milk and talking to them. They may have mistaken my naivety for sarcasm and began a process of trying to get me riled. They asked me what I though my hair looked like (answer - hair that's been dried upside down with soap). They asked me why I wasn't wearing any socks (answer - they'd look funny with with espadrilles). I got other questions which I answered in an honest but non conversational way. They then asked if I was a wanker. This came with some malevolence. I answered honestly (I'm 14 after all). This seemed to confuse them a little. I was fearing the worst but I then saw one of my friends older brother (who had a bit of a reputation) so I sort of stood up, said hello and wandered over to him. It turned out he knew the 3 men and that seemed to be enough - don't hit someone (a kid as well) that knows and acquaintance. I still don't get that part t this day.

Bracknell was an ok sort of place but it did seem to have a few people who measured themselves by their reputation. Most Sunday league teams had one or two in each (again being a skinny, spikey haired, 2CV driving centre forward came with a few issues in the Bracknell and District Sunday League Div 9) but in all my formative years, I only ever got punched three times and only replied once. One of the three ran off as I got up (moral victory to me) and the other was being jumped by 4 boys in the year above. I took it well and they helped me up afterwards (Bracknell being a sort of politely violent place).

I don't really miss that part of my youth.

I seem to be at the other end of the Massive, being a diminutive 5'7".

That has inspired my instinct for self preservation since I grew up.
At school, though...different story. Growing up in the 80s playing rugby, you could, if you had a spiky personality, be guaranteed to engage in fisticuffs. To the extent of breaking my wrist with a badly thrown punch (I was off balance, he moved at the last minute...)

Outside of that environment, I only hit anyone in a good cause. A guy who wouldn't stop bullying my (smaller, younger) brother and wouldn't listen to reason. Which I genuinely tried...and then ended up with "do that once more and I'll smack you". He did it once more and ended up with a fist/face interface situation.
Similarly when the (why is it always them) older, bigger boys wouldn't stop messing me and kid bruv playing a game. Same scenario. Ended up with me in the Deputy Head's office. Me, at the towering 5'6" I was then, and the towering, lanky knuckledragger. Little and Large. I was asked why I had decided to hit him in the stomach and then knee him in the face. "Well sir" *looks knuckledragger up and down* "Dad told me that if you get into a fight, finish it as quickly as you can. So I did"

I can say in all honesty I've never picked a fight with anyone, and I've never hit anyone smaller than me. That said, I wasn't averse to it at school.

Nowadays - I walk away. In fact, I try to avoid people when it's dark. Virginia is a right-to-carry state. The prospect of the local mugger/loonytunes pulling a semiautomatic has cured most of my antagonistic tendencies.

I'm a 1st Dan black belt in aikido but have never fully mastered the passive approach. Hence being stuck at this level for 7 years.
I hate Bullys and tend to step in if i see someone needs help. I'm a Phil Mitchell lookalike but a couple of inches taller(saw him on Brighton seafront,so i know for sure) and like others have commented it helps to keep idiots and muggers away but Club doorman think you've come along just to start a fight with them,so there is a downside.
Living in Spain there's a lot of shouting and people getting right in your face but very few punches are ever thrown. The don't look like a Victim advice is sound enough,but remember if you throw a punch at someone be prepared that the other bloke could be "Rock" or someone like "tkdmart " (see above),Then you are in trouble.If you do throw a punch,throw it first and make sure the other bloke doesn't get up from it.

I got volunteered for regimental boxing, the first time I'd gone near sparring. The first time getting punched square in the face fundamentally disturbed me for the rest of the night, because I hadn't been able to do anything about it.

I'm glad to report that actually, after its happened once, you sort of get used to it. handy to know I suppose.

I have now retired from boxing, maintaining my record of one fight, one loss.

was possibly had by myself in that dodgy kebab shop opposite Foyle's bookshop in the Charing Cross Road about 10 years ago. The fight was over Philip K Dick. I can't quite recall the forensics, but it had something to do with the merits of Valis. (I was for it, he - a total stranger - preferred Ubik). At one stage I had the bloke in a headlock, while knuckling his scalp, shouting "Total Recall? I'll give *you* Total Recall."

2 years ago threatened to be "had" while in a pub toilet doing a number 1. Man unleashing this threat is the local moron who has got form going back 20 years and banned from most pubs in town. New landlord and back he comes. Stream of invective unleashed towards me while stood at said urinal, my beer soaked brain was considering the options. Go in as hard and quick as possible being top of the list. The landlord then hove in to view and ushered the dipstick out and then banned.
The morons friend then came out of the wc cubicle where he had been sheltering and asked me if I was alright! Never better was my false reply.

After the Youth Club dance in 1967, Chunky Potter attacked and commenced to beat me up. I was completely surprised by this as, hitherto, Chunky had been a friend and during the evening no harsh words had passed between us at all. In my confusion, I failed to react as the blows fell. Fortunately for me, Maureen (the girl who lived next door) was also there and she, despite her diminutive stature, jumped onto Chunky's back and distracted him sufficiently for my brother to intervene. The next morning I reported to the doctor with a split lip, black eye etc for treatment and necessarily had to explain how this had happened. And that brought about the end of my intimate relationship with the doctor's daughter as she was forbidden to have anything more to do with the type who gets into fights at the Youth Club.
I bumped into Chunky Potter the following week on the bus and he was nice as pie. Friends again. He couldn't remember exactly why he'd had a go at me but thought it might have had something to do with me laughing at his mate's flared trousers. Bizarre.

about the stories behind famous photographs in newspapers over the last year. The one which sticks in my mind was about the guys accused of the murder of Stephen Lawrence (but the charges later dropped).

There was an inquest into his death, because of the lack of a proven murder charge, and these 5 guys had to appear at the inquest building on a certain day. There was a large angry crowd outside the front of the building, jeering as the guys went in. The crowd then waited for them to reappear.

The press photographers made their way to the back or side doors, as they reckoned the police would try to smuggle them out, away from potentially ugly scenes. However, this photographer got a tip-off from the police that the 5 guys would be leaving by the front door: the police apparently had no inclination to give the guys any easier time than they had to.

When the guys came out of the front doors the crowd erupted in as nasty a mood as expected, and the photographer snapped the guys’ reaction to the crowd. Which was not to be afraid or indignant, not to hide & try to run, but to immediately and without fear turn violently on the crowd.

And this was the photographer’s point: regardless of these guys involvement (or not) in the murder, this instant showed they were no strangers to street violence. You are then left to draw your own conclusions (other conclusions are available).

I agree with the above. I read in the other papers at the time that Dacre personally knew Steven Lawrence's father prior to his death. This was understood to have effected his opinion. That's what often happens with intolerance, the more you know of others; the less you fear. Not sure how that squares with Mail readers who appear to fear the modern age

that it's a braver man who backs down from a fight. Being sober and avoiding confrontations in the first place is even better, though.

although I've taken a couple of random kickings - when I was living in Brighton, the concentration of bona fide nutters made walking around at night "interesting".

I did once, to my own astonishment, use tai chi in a fight, though.

I'd been doing it for a few years at that point, mainly because I was a bit of a stoner and it seemed like a nice stoner thing to do - but also because it's great excercise, good for posture etc. I knew it had its roots in martial arts but never took that seriously, for me it was just an opportunity to wave my hands around while feeling nice and spiritually charged up... "Slow motion raving" as one friend put it.

So anyway, one Saturday night, about half eleven, a group of us were walking down Brighton's North Street. We'd just come out from doing the cabaret club I ran, so I was with a mixed bunch of mainly musician mates, all in high spirits and burbling away amongst ourselves. It was middle of Euro '96, so there were lots of other groups of people in high spirits too... one such group of late teenaged lads was bantering with us as we walked for a while then headed off to lech at some girls. I think they got a knock back because they returned in much nastier mood and things erupted rather suddenly.

We were all quite drunk, they were all VERY drunk, so it was complete chaos, a lot of people circling each other, punches being flung quite randomly... a couple of our number were quite hardened fighters, from St Albans and the Welsh Valleys, and were scuffling with two of the bigger lads, a mate of mine who has knackered legs was getting kicked on the floor and it all looked quite nasty.

One of the lads came barrelling towards me, fists raised, and it was just one of those moments like in films where everything goes very quiet and slow. I was suddenly well aware of how off-centre he was, and all I had to do was step very slightly to the left as he lunged, get a hand under his armpit and put my weight behind him.... and sure enough he went flying, right off his feet and into the road. I'm certain I could never replicate it, but it was quite a moment.

The fracas ended as raggedly as it had begun, with us all in one place and the younger lads scattered, so I can only surmise that we kind of "won".

Please, journey back in time with me, back to my teenage years. Taking the train into town with a group of female friends, on our way for a happy night out.

A couple of stops along, another big gang of teenage girls got on.

They started picking on our friend Jackie - verbally taunting her, commenting on her clothes. None of us knew what to do; we all froze and hoped they'd get bored. We were in a crowded carriage, no-one seemed interested in helping.

Then we arrived at Camden Town. The girls got off - and two of them grabbed Jackie's coat and dragged her off the train with them.

So, we're all sat on the train, and a gang have our friend on the platform. And still, no-one is doing anything. And then I realised that really, no-one was going to do anything, and something very bad was going to happen to our friend.

I don't really remember what happened next, beyond yelling "RIGHT!" and charging off the train.

Apparently I then shoved the two girls who were holding Jackie, allowing her to escape their grasp and run back onto the train. Leaving me, on my own on the platform, now surrounded by a gang of hostile teenage girls.

As they came at me, apparently I was just a mass of ridiculously flailing limbs, trying to push them away, trying to punch them away, trying to kick them away.

Eventually, one person decided to help out - whoever the mystery man was, he came off the train, grabbed me by the scruff off the neck and pulled me out the ring, helped me back onto the train, back to my still-dumb-struck friends.

And that is the story of how I probably threw a punch, but still to this day have no idea if it actually connected with anything or not.

No matter how passive or quiet you are, no matter how much you try and sit there, minding your own business in the corner, doing a crossword or whatever, there's always somebody who wants to spoil it for you. My Grandad left me in his will fifty nicker and a pair of brass knuckledusters. I've never had the occasion to use them, thank God, but I'm glad I've got them. I've been battered for having "pointy shoes" (1977), "nee eyebroos" (1973), and "being a cunt" (1985). I smashed somebody in the face with a phone receiver at a party in 1982 because he came at me with a kitchen knife, does that count?