taking fire

Or: Air and Stu narrowly avoid a kicking.

So Stu and I had been out for a drink at Pear Tree. Excellent civil evening, bumped into a couple of acquaintances, four Hoegaardens and ready to go home.

Bit peckish, I decide a quick KFC would be a nice treat. Crispy strips and fries. We wander down towards the bridges, passing Forbidden Planet. Talk of tomorrow’s festivities.

Reverie interrupted, some guy behind us has turned and is shouting something at our backs. I turn to catch a glimpse of lone bearded tracksuit giving usual pavement hassle (someone bumped someone else). No problem, move on. Attempt to continue conversation. Becomes evident guy behind is not giving up, following us at 10 paces. We stop and wait to hear what he has to say. Mid/late twenties, ginger beard, blue tracksuit. He approaches shouting at Stu. I stand in front of him close enough to register his foul breath and Newcastle accent. Usual pish about not getting out of way. Stu points out that he had moved, and could say the same thing about beardy. Two beats of silence; nothing is happening. I say “aye cheers mate” and we walk on ignoring him.

Stu prudently is looking over his shoulder to observe beardy every 4 paces. I pace on wondering why beardy was being so wide when he was outnumbered. Note guy was not an obvious baseball-capped ned, but an English twenty-something. Stu notes that beardy is shouting something across the road.

Stu quote: “I’m probably being paranoid but…”. This is Thursday night, 9.30pm, still fairly light, people everywhere. There is clearly no chance we are going to be attacked. I’m on the verge of asking Stu to stop looking round and potentially winding the guy up. Then, “I think they’ve coming after us”.

At this point we reach crossroads with Royal Mile. We simultaneously recognise sanctuary of the taxi rank. Stu: “How about we take a sharp right here”. I am in total agreement, we step up to first of several glowing taxi lamps and stand waiting, “Aye let’s stop here and see if they come round. Surely…”.

Sure enough ginger beard barrels round corner with four other guys in furious pursuit, all clearly wound up for a total rumble. After only a second’s hesitation we sharply step into first taxi, me: “Leith Walk please, could we go now”. Beard grabs the door of taxi from outside – pointing at Stu – as his pal pulls up and starts punching the taxi window. Taxi driver not happy. Either my adrenalin is in the house or for some reason beard is not pulling taxi door terribly hard, I get it closed pretty easily. Door is kicked, driver is shouting at gang through passenger window, “nothing to do with me, leave the taxi alone” and other similar pro-taxi comments. For one bonkers second the driver looks like he’s going to get out (to do what I have no idea). Not even 10 seconds have passed since we got in. I strongly suggest to driver that he lock the fucking doors; watching the red LOCKED light on the door willing it to come on. Finally he gets the message and locks up but the traffic lights immediately ahead are red; we are stuck here while they crowd outside. The only other guy I clock is again disconcertingly our age, wearing a woolly hat and gloves. He looks way too sensible to be punching black cabs with strangers inside, but that’s what he’s doing.

At this point we’re still way too calm; not in Fight Mode at all. Just rationally trying to get things moving in total disbelief that we could have been catapulted into Rumble so quickly and for so little reason.

Then sudden calm outside as all five of them sprint off at top pace down the left of the Bank Hotel. I vaguely wonder if they are off to get their car to follow us; no, a police car has chosen that second to drive down Royal Mile with the blues and siren on full blast; at this holy noise the thugs disappear like ghosts in a cheap exorcism. Game over.

We are unnerved mostly in a retrospective kind of way; the knowledge that we narrowly avoided what would have been a significant kicking with no provocation. Amazement at the evident fury achieved on their part over nothing. Also because relatively speaking Edinburgh has little trouble.

A brief chat assures the driver we were the victims in the scenario, his words for them: “trash”.
After dropping Stu, the driver hints that “the worst thing for” me is that the kicking might have dented the taxi. I briefly compose a sentence efficiently packed with abuse to throw at him should he suggest that I’m responsible for the damage. Thankfully no and out; glad to be home.