Cheers Darlin'

Dear Octopus,


A friend of a friend - for the sake of the story let's call him Barney - was backpacking through South America some years ago, and late one October night arrived in Bogotá looking for a good time. He'd heard and dismissed all of the grim, whitewashed warnings of the ethereal city's reputation for trouble, and due to both a curious nature and strong constitution for hard drugs found himself partying in the vilest, dingiest and most unpleasant bar in all of Colombia, if not the whole world. (Or so he said. Clearly he's never been to Bob and Maureen's Karaoke Bar, as we have.)


Testament perhaps to the robustness of his aforementioned constitution then that he managed to keep a healthy pace with the HIGHLY intimidating locals in what apparently became a thoroughly serious and equally debauched drinking competition, perhaps reminiscent of the Nepalese event of similar ilk portrayed so colourfully in Raiders Of The Lost Ark. Barney flew to the challenge with verve, consuming an inestimable volume of spirits over the course of the evening, and although not winning the competition formally, at least ingratiated himself enough with the locals to be considered welcome. Lucky Barney.


As is often the case in these situations though, the important thing is to know when to quit. Happy would have been the traveller who thanked the patrons of this establishment for their hospitality and went on his way. Sadly, this was not Barney. Riding high (very high) on the wave of the party he challenged his drinking rival to a re-match. Mere minutes into the second competition - the opening salvos only just fired across his bows you might say - and Barney was on the cusp, literally, of being violently, violently, violently, violently ill. It was perhaps fortuitous then that he ran to the bathroom with his hand already over his mouth, as had he not done so it would have ended up there anyway, so disgusting was the scene that confronted him behind the rusty tin door. A sink; overflowing with unidentifiable flotsam. Walls covered in graffiti that contained - even with his limited grasp of Spanish - some very crude sexual imagery. A single toilet cubicle, locked.


And nothing else.


Fearing that vomiting on the walls or floor may burn some of the diplomatic bridges that he'd so merrily forged with the locals already (locals that were not to be antagonised unless absolutely necessary, he was quite sure) Barney decided that his only option was to kick the cubicle door in and hope it was empty.


It wasn't.


A man was sitting on the toilet. And Barney was sick, all over him. Exorcist sick. Sicker than you or I in all of our idle, London-based misdemeanours could ever hope to fathom. He was sick on the cubicle's occupant from his throat right down to his lap. He made the man a living Jackson Pollack.


Now this presented Barney with a dilemma. Highly inebriated as he was, he calculated that there was a 90% - 95% chance that this was an ordinary, God-fearing fellow, who happened to be taking a dump in the wrong toilet on the wrong day. A wife, children, a clapped-out Volkswagen with no exhaust. A good guy on the ragged edge; who would be appalled and probably quite angry, but ultimately would prefer cleaning himself up and going home to making a fuss. On the other hand though, there was a remaining 5% - 10% probability that this man was a 'not to be el fuckoed with.' It was a rough bar after all. There was a chance - slim as it may have been - that this man just happened to be a gangster, a ruffian, a psychotic drug-dealing desperado or associate of one such character, whose first and natural reaction to this previously untested sleight would be to pull out either a knife or a gun and have Barney returned to London by air freight.


In his mind, he figured it wasn't worth taking the risk.


Barney punched him in the face. 


And ran.


Hideous as these actions may seem to us, armchair observers as we are, punching this man in the face after having vomited on him may have saved Barney's life. The man could have been anyone. He had enough time to get away, just. But then again, he may have just added injury to a very real insult; to a hapless guy who must have gone home to his wife that night wondering why the Good Lord had so scorned him. 


Who knows. But it's a good source for debate. What would you have done? What would I?


It's all hypothetical I suppose. You always hated tequila. I only bring this up because I think I got vomited on and then punched-in-the-face-by-way-of-apology last night, metaphorically at least. It's okay. Like with Barney, it'll make a good story one day.


Your loving friend,


Action Squid