I fought a lesbian and won.

She stared at me gobsmaked. As if she could not believe I had just done what I just had. To be honest, I could not believe it either. And neither could the ten or so onlookers, who were doing what onlookers are known to do, but from the safety of their bar stools.

Through her stare, I could tell that she was slightly upset, too. This was possibly to do with the fact that my right foot was firmly lodged in the crevice of her posterior. Possibly not the best place to lodge a foot, granted, but it’s trajectory and intention was firm and resolute. I had planted it there for a good reason.

That’s right. I kicked a lesbian. Right up her bum. Thwack.

I had my reasons and am unrepentant. Not that I am a lesbian hater. On the contrary. She could have been a donkey. The fact that I use the word ‘lesbian’ to describe her is neither here nor there.

Let me explain. I have inserted flights of fantasy in appropriate parts to make me feel better about the whole affair.

In my local bar, there is much tom foolery. Tom doesn’t appear to mind. But notwithstanding this, much is said and done in jest. I love it.

I was (innocently?) minding my own business (which means I was drinking my sixth or seventh Duvel, telling jokes to the barman), when the lesbian in question, also drinking Duvel, seemed to take an instant disliking to me. Sometimes my jokes are really bad and unfunny – which is what Duvel can do – so I almost empathised with her.

But anyway. She just seemed to not like the very presence of me. Call it a chip on her shoulder. Call it a dislike of bald, slightly chubby men drinking Duvel. Call it what you want.

I cannot fathom a reason for it; she just did not like me.

She began a bout of name calling. Now, as a native English speaker, I am particularly fond of the creative use of the language. Nothing thrills me more than the apt selection of words to accurately describe what you feel. When you convey, accurately, what you feel to another, and that other accurately understands what you intended, you can consider yourself a good communicator. Well done.

So I was rather disappointed when all she could fathom to speak was “Hey, gay boy!”

Strange. I suppose I should be impressed by her wonderful ability to state the obvious. But as a veteran bar-goer, I have learnt that such uninteresting jibes are best left on the bar floor. Which only seemed to incite the lesbian more.

She continued her verbal hissing, summing up her English vocabulary as best she could and continued with her attempted torment.

No problem. I had been abused by bigger, uglier and fiercer people than her. And perhaps she was letting off a little steam, and I was the whipping boy. Again, no problem. The world is surprisingly peaceful with a glass of Duvel in your hand.

However, things began to escalate when she repeatedly walked past me, bumping in and knocking my jacket and jumper on the floor. Repeatedly. Now, I know that my dress sense is perhaps somewhat lacking in that there is no sense, but to express it in such fashion was somewhat misplaced, I felt.

It was at this point that I became vaguely irritated. It was my favourite pink jacket that she was disrespecting. Call me what you like, but disrespect The Pink, and I become slightly perturbed.

“Just ignore her,” came the support from the barman. Ignorance I do particularly well. But repeated ignorance is difficult for me. As is silence.

At which point my transformation occurred. From gentile bar-goer to therapist.

Yes. Therapist. An attitude adjustment therapist. And I believed that my services were indeed required.

I then promised myself, that the next time she performed her usual trick, I would enquire as to the nature of her disagreement. Which meant I would ask her what the hell her problem was.

When she passed my way again, she did the same again as expected. I quickly got up; but then she began to run!

A glorious chase ensued. Which was quite impressive and amusing, as both my legs were far drunker than I had originally thought. And someone seemed to have installed a glass door which I had not noticed before. She ran outside, and I struggled with the new found door with an impressive amount of speed.

Anyhow, I caught up with her, just outside the front of the bar. And without hesitating for moment, lodged my foot into her backside.

It seemed to have the desired effect. I walked back in. To some degree of applause and cheering. And the barman shouting out at the lesbian that she was not welcome back inside.

But for the next few hours, up until now, I felt pangs of guilt for kicking a woman.

What a ghastly and utterly detestable thing to do. But then again… if a woman can forget to be a woman, then can a gent forget to be a gent?

And perhaps, some people only understand a thwack. No amount of patience, talking or cajoling will achieve the speedy, quick result of a thwack. It gives clarity to a bad situation.

But I don’t think it will make me popular with the pacifists.

It does make for a good bit of story telling, though.