I am a pacifist in every sense of the word.
If there's a brawl in a bar down the rough side of Swansea (which is the North, South, East, West and Centre of the city), you can be sure that I am running in the opposite direction, like a blubbering Forrest Gump trying to convince people it's nobody's fault at all. Nothing is too much of a crime for me. What's that? You spilled my drink over my final dissertation copy after you rocked my table so hard the cup fell over because you were ravaging my girlfriend on it whilst looking me square in the eye? Come off it! Everyone fucks up once in a while! Let's get a pint!
There is only one battlefield a student should ever occupy, and it isn't even a sports field (that's just another form of combat- even the (in)famously rowdy and absolutely fictional Swansea University Chess and Cribbage Society have been known to throw a left rook on a knight out... *cough*...). Some sports teams fight with other sports teams- Rugby Union and Football occasionally sparr over really important topics like whom spilled what over whom- and if you're incredibly unlucky, you could find yourself scrapping with a member of your own society, or even a good friend! But of course, when the red mist descends, the face doesn't matter, just as long as you manage to rearrange it into an unrecognizable pulp.
Why does the (mentally, sub) average man feel the need to show another man what his fist feels like at speed? Do actions really speak louder than words?
Now, I'm no psychologist, but I not only live with one, but have also been punched by him 3 times in the side of my head, and so hopefully can shed some light on the situation, and I have come up with two theories, which I shall briefly bore you with.
1. It's a chance for a man to justify to himself his gym membership. After all, as I argued in my previous post, lifting bits of metal up and down for an extended period of time repeatedly isn't very manly, but, thanks to violent TV films and TV shows, such as 1960s Batman (POW!), fighting is seen to be a sign (BIFF!) of valour and courage. I've never seen a picture (THWUNK!) of Chuck Norris lifting, but I have of Justin Bieber. I have however, seen Chuck Norris fight (needless to say, he won). So surely fighting is a manly activity? It's about as manly as buying a drill, or fitting a shelf!
2. His kitchen is a disgrace.
The kitchen is the one source of all students' rage. Deadlines, exams and positive chlamydia tests are bad enough, but a dirty kitchen is enough to put me in such a swirling rage, I'd be tempted myself to find the nearest bystander, force his teeth down onto the kerb and stamp on the back of his head. It's a disgraceful sight that would break the moral of any man after a tough day at university.
But because he is a man, and he is at university, his kitchen HAS to be a disgrace. Years of social inequality and shit jokes has taught him that the only person who should be associated with a kitchen is a WOMAN, and they are not very manly. In fact, they're the least manly people on the earth! They should be cleaning the kitchen while the big manly man is watching the big game on the big screen with a big beer surgically attached to his big arm, shouldn't they?
But secretly, men despise dirty kitchens. Nothing grates us more. A man's home is his castle! It should be kept in a pristine manner! Dust and grime is about as welcome in his house as an incontinent Jehovah's Witness, spewing shit out of two of his orifices! Leave my castle alone, you cretin! So when the penny drops that, because he's a man and because he's a student, he is destined to live in a shithole, the man is not happy. The man is mad. But he can't be seen to be mad, and herein lies the difficulty. What can be done?
A kitchen, as a communal area, is a minefield to negotiate. At first, you hope for a blitzkrieg against your housemates. Absolutely level them with your hygiene standards and inform them that they are in your eternal debt until they perform a similar act of heroism. This, in the history of university, has never happened. Trench warfare ensues, where you sit in your respective dug-outs, lobbing the odd passive-aggressive remark over the top, and hoping it hits somebody. Occasionally, you peek over no man's land, only to see a potato which didn't quite make it to the bin coming straight at you. Then, somebody from the north starts hailing artillery south. It's near you, but not aimed at you, you just watch on. Confident their artillery has made some inroads, the aggressor then marches across the battlefield, only to find his attack blunted by his own derelict bowl of half-eaten pasta, the hypocrite!
So battle rages on between the unstoppable force and the immovable object. But, like shaking a Diet Coke with a Mento in it, something's going to burst. Occasionally, it blows up in the face of the deserving criminal. But most of the time, it's just some poor bastard who trod on your foot in a nightclub. He's sorry, and you know he's sorry. But then you think about your shit kitchen, and you perform a David Haye tribute act in full view of 20 bouncers. If only they knew the truth! Your kitchen is disgusting, and this man here deserves to bear the full brunt of your wrath!
Maybe invite him round for a cuppa the next day to help him understand. Then knock the cunt out with an egg-stained frying pan.
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