Breakfast Club

In McDonald's, Hammersmith, at seven in the morning, I found myself in a fight with three men. I hadn't planned to be there, but then again, I hadn't scheduled to avoid it, so perhaps the blame lay with me. It was a pathetic, surreal affair, as unstaged fights often are; no flair, no precision, not a patch on the fictionalised fisticuffs beamed into our screens every day. There was no pounding rock soundtrack, no satisfying thunks or smacks, blows reduced to little more than hugging, punches landing like drunk ducks on a frozen lake, how very disappointing. It was an odd match up too, in the red corner was a guy with a 2Pac-4eva tattoo on his right bicep, contrasting nicely with his eyes that had been accentuated with a delicate eye line. It was kind of a HomeBoyGeorge look and I can't say it was working for him. He'd just ordered his food and was carrying it over to a table when this dishevelled bum walked in, scabby and peeling of skin, shouting ‘you wanna do this then?’. Well, GlitterGhettoBoy obviously did want to do whatever this bum wanted to do, as he dropped his tray, squared off and pulled out a chain, whirling it round his head as he advanced. Weapons! we, the onlookers, thought, Now we're getting somewhere! Sadly, his chain wasn't very thick, so although it sounded mighty impressive as he slashed and whipped it through the air, the other guy brushed it off like a tickle. They came together like two bears covered in honey, and us breakfasters sat back, munching our mcmuffins, and watched five minutes of primetime hugs, tickles and occasional biting. I had my money on NotQuiteSixPac, but Scabby made a glorious lunge and floored him just as the police arrived, and I lost my hash brown to a guy next to me.