Why we need an International Day of the Bam

Maybe even as far back as when it was considered acceptable to bash the missus over the head with a blunt instrument prior to dragging her into your cave and forcing her to rustle up a some dinosaur casserole. 

Yes, that’s right, 1999 or thereabouts. (And that joke didn’t go down well there either.)

Actually, I’m completely in favour of having a special day to bring issues such as domestic violence and gender under representation into the public arena.  It’s good to talk and I’ve always felt that discussing stuff that was once hidden away behind closed doors is the first step in the process of encouraging people to take responsibility for their actions and try and find a better way of dealing with whatever it is that makes them behave like a caveman. 

(Or for that matter, cavewoman.)

Anyway I survived and managed to have a bit of a laugh with the women present, none of whom were humourless crew-cut harpies in Doc Martens and bib overalls, which was a pity really, as it would have confirmed my prejudices and innate sense of stereotyping.

The next day I flew to Sydney to catch a concert by one of my all-time musical heroes, Neil Young.  Such a trip is a major undertaking for me, living as I do in the bucolic hamlet of Swifts Creek, since it’s a 5 hour drive just to get to the nearest airport, but sometimes you have to do these things, as life in this town, idyllic as it essentially is, only really offers authentic culture in the shape of a strawberry yoghurt carton.

(Note to residents of The Creek, especially members of the Bowling Club - that was also a joke.)

Neil was as brilliant as ever – rocking the audience’s socks off – but it was the after gig revelry – in a couple of Sydney’s many, many bars which, for me, really made the weekend one to remember.  Or forget.

We were in The Rocks, the oldest part of town and for the benefit of those who’ve never been, the local version of Byres Road or The Grassmarket, a 24 hour party location, with all the excitement, carousing and exceptionally dodgy behaviour such a setting invariably delivers.

Two young lads – early 20’s – were going at it hard, necking Bundy rum, an infamous Aussie elixir renowned as the bevy of choice for serious topers, indicated by its (unofficial) slogan – ‘a fight in every bottle’.  Trouble was brewing, you could tell, you didn’t have to be a genius to work that out and for connoisseurs of deleterious saloon-bar ambiance like me – I’ve spent a lot of time in Paisley - it was simply a matter of when.

When it did, not much later as that secret ingredient strong drink contains – the stuff that compels imbibers to say things like: ‘who you looking at?’ and ‘did you just call my pint a poof?’ -duly kicked in.  Windmill punches, lots of grabbing and full-on swearie words, you know what it’s like, wrecks it for everybody.

Needless to say, we made our excuses and left – (no, actually we just left), leaving the 2 pissed pugilists to slug it out toe to toe, not an easy or graceful thing to achieve when you’re so blootered you can hardly bite your own fingernails, only to arrive at another pub where, minutes before, the horrific incidence of a glassing had just occurred. 

Now, call me an effete, lily-livered shandy-drinker but personally I’ve never considered fresh blood adorning a pub floor to be the most convivial of furnishings so we decided to cut our losses and head back to the Hotel, the location where people of a certain age and an in-built aversion to drunken mayhem should probably never stray in the first place.

Now I realise that events such as this are, whilst not exactly unknown, not quite as endemic as right wing politicians and assorted panic merchants would have you believe.  I’m not even sure that they’re getting worse, since Glasgow city centre back in the 1980’s wasn’t exactly Playschool, but I hardly think that’s any reason to be complacent.

Nobody with even a quarter ounce of brain matter wants their big Saturday night out to end up in the A&E Unit, no matter how much their behaviour suggests it; it’s not a good look and let’s face it boys, doesn’t make you attractive to women.

(Or at any rate, not to women who take a pride in having their own teeth and don’t crave an appearance on The Jeremy Kyle Show.)

Sex, as is the case with most issues which affect men, is the key.  People like me who have always eschewed violence – well, more or less – have habitually used the expression, ‘I’m a lover not a fighter’, to explain away their aversion to belligerent activity.  And with good reason, too.

Pissed-up blokes in pubs who end up swapping punches, head butts and flying beer glasses with other similarly blotto lieges rarely – if ever – go home with the good looking blonde everyone’s been admiring all night.  In fact, one of the main reasons men get completely pie-eyed in the first place, if you ask me, is because they intrinsically know they have absolutely no chance with her anyway.

It’s frustration that causes fights, misplaced macho vexation borne out of a total lack of confidence, poor self-image and esteem.  Believe me, I know.  Even though I’ve never been there.  Well, not really.

So what’s the answer then, smart arse? 

Well, I don’t think there is one.  But a start might be an International Bams Day when self-destructive and anti-social behaviour is acknowledged and pondered in an atmosphere, not of castigation and rebuke, but of support and assistance.

Blokes who batter could be encouraged not roasted, encouraged that is to talk about their behaviour, get help, reflect on their lifestyle and maybe channel their ire in a positive way.  Like building their self-esteem, working on their weaknesses and making themselves, dare I say it (dare, dare ) – more attractive - to others and, perhaps more importantly, themselves.

In the meantime, fellas, keep on fighting, if you feel you must. 

But take on the chin the only person you’ll end up beating to a pulp, the only one you’ll batter senseless, the only enemy you’ll eventually bring to his knees … is you.