Communal segregation and the black sheep mythos

Melton may be a great many things, but one would never make the claim that it is under-populated. Quite the contrary, it's crawling with lifeforms of varying value that by and large range from the dirtiest scum to the mere ne'er-do-wells, with your occasional exception to the rule like my sweet self.
It should come as no surprise then that nearly every train that stops in Melton will be packed to the gills with our kind. While other areas might provide a conservative few, us Melton kids come in droves, hastily shoving in and scrapping for one of those elusive seats to park upon. Is it proportionate to our overall growing numbers? Can so many of us simply not afford cars of our own? Or deep down are we just such unyielding fans of Thomas the Tank Engine that we all metriculate into the train station in the hopes of seeing a choo-choo, and the subsequent ride is just happenstance? I'll fathom a guess at 3, because it was an unnecessarily long suggestion and warrants a couple read-throughs.

Tragically for us simple folk, Melton remains without an electric train system. Now I could be a right whinger and flail my arms, citing our growing community and apparent love for trains as reason enough to give us an upgrade, but for the time being, I'm realistic.
We're flanked by Rockbank on one side and Ballan two stops in the other direction. It's almost as if Melton was created with the sole intention of being a near-literal example of 'the middle of nowhere'. Anyone with delusions of grandeur, remind yourselves, our claim to fame is that we have a Wave Pool. Neighbouring Bacchus Marsh has fruit vendors. We're still an insignificant speck in the bigger scheme of things.

So it's not like I'm demanding we go electric quick-smart. For the record, I love V/Line trains. They're comfortable and staffed by friendly people (you show me a Connex employee who isn't a prick, and I'll happily let you in on the meaning of life, as I'll have discovered it long before then). What I do want, if indeed V/Line is our longterm traveling option, is a more efficiently run system.

Melton truly is the red-headed stepchild of the train system (such a statement makes me think of Annie transforming into a train for some reason. Sorry sweetheart, but we don't collect things like ashtrays and art). Trains are unreliable and infrequent; I can't trust the damn things to ever be anything but inconsistent. I leave for work two hours early (a 40-minute train ride from home to destination) because if I wait for the next train, a delay of 15 minutes (a very realistic scenario) will result in my tardiness and no doubt subsequent termination.

I shake my head in utter contempt thinking about trains that whiz right past Melton, yet make a stop in Ballan. BALLAN, people. A locale so devoid of life it'd be a suitable location to film your next Raccoon City disaster without any interruption from intelligent life. Actually, zombies in 'the Ballan time forgot' wouldn't surprise me.
Of additional note, this morning the express train from Ballarat to Melbourne shot past, shiny and on time, practically mocking us as it went by, a deadly reminder of that which we could just not have. If it were indeed a descendant of dearest Thomas, 'Look but don't touch, fellows!' it would have tooted cheekily in its Ringo Starr-narrated voice.
The train we Melton misfits would then catch was eight minutes late, only a single set of carriages and a downgraded older model to boot.

Last night (a Tuesday), I missed the 8:25 pm train and had to wait until 9:55 for the next one. Are you trying to tell me that nobody needs to travel to Melton on a Tuesday night for a whole hour and a half? That's ridiculous; a Connex train line (assuming they leave every 25 minutes, most lines even more frequently) would fit three services in that time frame.

So here's my theory; Australia hates Melton. They fear us because we're different. We grow in numbers and try to get respectable jobs and educations, but are seen as inferior and as such we're subject to insults and disrespect, forced to ride on an older, less cosy train, and left to wait for ages while others are served promptly and frequently. Put short, Melton is a minority. Segregation, lack of rights, all that jazz.
But just you wait. Someday we too will have our say. We're allowed to vote, who knows what's next! World domination, methinks.

PS. The title of this BLOG was originally just 'Communal Segregation', but adding the suffix makes it feel more like a uni essay, which is incidentally what I'm supposed to be doing right now.

Shakespeare's Shorts

Denim. That's right. Shakespeare wears jean shorts. It's a recently unearthed fact that may shock you. Additionally, he wears Bond's jocks. And oddly coloured socks, to boot. ...And the less said about Shakespeare's tatts, the better!

Indeed! I am referring to the imminent oncoming production of Shakespeare's Shorts, my fifth straight production with HTC Youth and what will be the last in that streak of acting performances with the company (GROUNDBREAKING!!!) Iffin you haven't already gotten the gyst, it's sexcerpts from Shakespeare (excerpts actually, but I mis-typed it and thought it best to just leave it for comedy's sake) performed to great success by some of the finest acting talent you'll find in all of Victoria. ...oh, and me, too!

Having had to shift roles due to drop-outs, my talkative friend Iago has been given the old boot to the wayside, to make way for me to take the reigns of the ghost in Hamlet. I'm a manipulative old codger you see.

It's on Friday, 16th of May at 8pm at Heidelberg Theatre Company (36 Turnham Avenue, Rosanna - RIGHT NEXT TO ROSANNA TRAIN STATION) and guess what? It's free! That's right, we're giving performances away! That's how generous we are. And how can you be generous? By coming and lending your old theatre-bound chums a bit of an audience, oui?

NAKED PHOTOS

...Are found everywhere all over the web, for any kind of man/woman you desire. They're not readily available in my BLOG, a BLOG wherein I'll stay rather cautious, for it seems as though I've forgotten all of the things I had promised to say this time in my prior BLOG effort. Instead, I'm listening to Aqua, knackered from working the day shift (damn that day shift!!), a wee bit tipsy (as I usually am), and feeling the need to discuss whatever's on my mind. And no, it's not how many naked photos I shall post. That number hovers around the realm of zero.

For today, we shalt look at the upcoming production with HTC youth. For those of you unaware, this is my fifth straight project with HTC, giving me the second-longest streak, bested only by that dastardly Jess. This month it's a wee little piece we've dubbed Shakespeare Shorts, for those looking for a little Willie. ...ie., excerpts from Shakespeare productions, possibly the most infuriating concept I've ever dealt with.

Nothing against ol' Shakey, but I'm really, really, really struggling with lines and elocution. I'm excellent with learning lines, because they become phrases to me. I learn them word for word, and I'm fairly unyielding on how they're delivered. In the case of Shakespeare however, I'm really at a loss as to what I'm saying (something that will come to me with time), but above all else, I'm dwelling on how I'm going to remember it all!
Currently I'm taking on the roles of Lysander (Midsummer Night's Dream) and Iago (Othello), with a brief cameo as Mustardseed (Midsummer again. Wanted a mechanical, didn't raise my voice quickly enough). For anyone unfamiliar with the roles, Lysander is a man in love with his chick Hermia, until a magic spell makes him disgusted with her, and fall in love with another woman. Meanwhile Iago is a bitter prick who's jealous of Othello and wants him out of the picture, and intends to manipulate others to get what he wants. Finally, Mustardseed is a fairy. It's funnier if you pronounce it "Moostard".

Lysander is a pretty meaty role, with a lot of moving around and trying to work my way around three other people, while Iago... hoo boy... Iago likes to talk. I mean. REALLY likes to talk. Consequently, his confidant, one Roderigo, can't seem to muster up much of a response. Example;

IAGO

Lechery, by this hand; an index and obscure prologue
to the history of lust and foul thoughts. They met
so near with their lips that their breaths embraced
together. Villanous thoughts, Roderigo! when these
mutualities so marshal the way, hard at hand comes
the master and main exercise, the incorporate
conclusion, Pish! But, sir, be you ruled by me: I
have brought you from Venice. Watch you to-night;
for the command, I'll lay't upon you. Cassio knows
you not. I'll not be far from you: do you find
some occasion to anger Cassio, either by speaking
too loud, or tainting his discipline; or from what
other course you please, which the time shall more
favourably minister.

RODERIGO

Well.

That's right. "Well." That's how he responds. You'd be excused for mistaking Roderigo for Samantha Stephens. In the particular scene we're doing, there's a total of 835 words. Roderigo speaks 41 of them. For those who aren't mathematically inclined (this includes me, because I'm only just finding this out now too), Iago then commands 794 words. How many of them being of any relevance is another matter, but we'll leave that one up to the experts.

Honestly, I just think Shakespeare absolutely hated the guy he cast as Roderigo, and cut out whatever massive speeches he originally had. Certainly doesn't make sense for a Shakespeare character not to have anything to say, everyone loves to talk, talk, talk. In any situation whatsoever! You can't get them to shut up, actually. Example one, Macduff's young son in Macbeth, shortly after being stabbed:

Son

He has kill'd me, mother:
Run away, I pray you!

Observant little corpse, oui? Example two, Friar Laurence of Romeo & Juliet utters the phrase:

FRIAR LAURENCE

I will be brief, for my short date of breath
Is not so long as is a tedious tale.

Afterwards, he says a couple lines that equate to 307 words. If that was a short breath to our good Friar, then I'd hate to see him when he's feeling long-winded. Any more examples would be easy to find. I guess what I'm saying is, everyone present in Shakespeare would be most excellently be played by Grampa Simpson.

But I digress. Not so much as Shakespeare, or Victor Hugo for that matter, who bogged down Les Miserables with so much stuff that there are at least five books completely irrelevant to the novel's plotline (save the last little part of the Waterloo chapter), or more accurately 121 pages of digression. And that's in the really small font that you can hardly read. And what's the payoff? You're a more astute person, armed to the teeth with information about how a monastery works and how the sewers of Paris were built. Lemme condense it for you, Vic; Valjean's hiding in a monastery. Valjean's hiding in a sewer. Simple as that. Valjean certainly does a lot of hiding. Just very wordy hiding, I must note. And while we're at it, everyone in France needs glasses, because nobody in Les Mis can seem to figure out who each other is after a short period of time. More mistaken identity than a Shakespearean comedy! And just as many wordy digressions!

Righto. Is there any other direction I can go with this curious little BLOG? Looking over everything I've just said, I can't go any further down. One may suggest that the only direction would be up, but that's not true at all; it may maintain this level of irrelevance and continue merely going forward. Forward is a direction, you know.

Perhaps then I should abandon ship and end this miserable little diatribe, leaving you all to scratch your heads and ask yourselves 'What the dickens did I just read? Shakespearen plays? French novels from the 1800s? An apparent lack of nude photographs? Pish!'
Sorry y'all. Gotta do it. Tempted to just keep going, but it's going to just turn into utter tosh like how Te Informo is my favourite Latin song and how when I began this BLOG I was listening to an Aqua song, and now upon completion iTunes has hit another Aqua song, with another 13 songs squeezed in between them. One would then suggest that this BLOG took 52.1 minutes to construct, if one should feel the need. One just did, you realise.

...And did anyone really come here just for naked photos? Wowsers trousers. Y'all could seek a better model than yours truly for that.

Won't you take me to funky town?

Come on... please... won’t you please, please take me to funky town? I’m very quiet and I’ll take care of myself. I don’t eat much or take up too much room. I’ll be certain to stay out of your way. You won’t regret it, nosirree!

You know what I regret, though? My neck pain. At some point last night I obviously twisted it or cracked it in such a way that now the only comfortable angle I have for it is with my head dangling off towards the left as though hanging on by a thread. It’s in quite significant pain here, I’m sure that’ll bide me well at work tomorrow.

Consarnit, I’ve done it again. Leapt into the exciting razzle and dazzle of the world of BLOGging, completely oblivious to the fact that I have nothing to say. Perhaps I’m approaching this whole thing wrong? A quick glance at the top BLOGS reveals that the hot subjects that everyone reads with great interest revolves around politics, how to land the guy of your dreams and, ironically, the idiocy of coveting a popular BLOGspace.

Well blow me down! I can surely address some of these issues, oui? Let’s crack into it then, shall we?
Politics! There appear to be a lot of them these days. It seems that every country has at least some sort of politicing in it. And though in some instances not to the greatest level of success (coup de tat and all that sort of excitement), it seems unavoidable these days - you’re gonna find politics. However, need you look any further than in your own society? Dwell on this for a time, I’ll touch on this in a future entry. (Dramatic build-up? A cliffhanger of sorts?)

How to land a hot guy! Go out with me. Obviously. I don’t see any other way of doing it. I’m told that there are supposedly lots of hot guys out there, but I don’t find any of them attractive, so clearly they’re not.

Stop coveting a popular BLOG! ...Okay, I will. My neck pain is enough initiative to terminate this endeavour, let alone the second most popular BLOG telling me to stop now, while I’m behind. One of these days I’ll have something of substance to say, rather than just sustenance. Yum.

I Served Corey Delaney

And do I really give a toss? Not really, I just figured that it’s the kind of subject title that will draw in potential readers. That and my HAWT picture, in which I look entirely unfriendly and mildly homicidal.

Now then! Let’s observe some things that irk me. Simply because that’s what’s really on my mind right now...
1. People who are convinced their opinion actually means something...
Everyone’s opinion matters, no doubt, it’s just that some opinions matter more than others. I find myself shaking my head in utter pity for the people who are so self-obsessed and think themselves pensive simply because they try and be more mature than everyone else and hold an opinion in everything. I realise that, until I am somebody in the world, the opinion I hold means jack all. I just spout it because I’m an arrogant bastard, not because I think I can make a difference.
Granted, some people will make a difference, and their opinion will matter, but let’s observe... IT’S NOT BY APPEARING MATURE ON MYSPACE. All these emo’s venting their thoughts and their ’pieces of failure’ really need a new perspective on life. Go outside and play ball, morons.
I blame poetry. Not for any particular reason, other than I find poetry to be the lowest form of communication known to man.

2. People who repeatedly stab the button at a pedestrian crossing...
I want to cross the road. I press the button, I wait. It’s a simple process, one of mankind’s many handy little features that is both effective and accessible to even the dumbest people. So why then, do others who subsequently arrive at the crossing, also feel the need to stab at the button... repeatedly?
Come on you jackass, what did you think I was doing there? Just waiting for your contribution, unable to press the button myself? What is the red light next to the button illuminated for? A warning that someone could potentially press the crossing button more and more?
It’s as though these people are convinced it’s a system of priority, that the more the button is pressed, the quicker they’ll be able to cross. A little note, folks, the crossing does not respond based on the amount of people who are supposedly there. So pressing the button again and again and again will not make it realise, ’Golly! That gent right there really wants to cross. Best we let him...’
...And the next person who presses the button when I’m already standing there should be shot. Lacking the testicular fortitude to brandish a gun, I’ll likely just shoot an intense glare.

3. People who go on the Internet to complain about how horrible their life is...
You have the Internet, a computer on which to use it, and a house in which to hold the computer. You’re not living the worst life in the world, just ask the starving children who have none of the above.

4. Teenage morons...
I firmly hold the stance that most every year level below mine was cursed with utter idiocy. I admit, my mates and I were stooges. But we, like the people before us, were good ol’ boys whose mischief never hurt anyone. We never made a specific attempt to make others feel bad, nor did we walk around thinking we were top shit. On the contrary, we were rather convinced we were stupid and made an effort to make that a fun thing.
Kids these days think that they’re the greatest, emulate whatever popular fad comes in from America, and butchers it to look like some sort of ludicrous joke. Just last year, riding the train home from uni, I saw a class of what... year 11’s? Something like that. They had their American brands, their out of uniform hats, even some bling, and they had mouths so filthy you’d think they were about to spout sewerage. And I never realised it at their age, but yes indeed, you do look like idiots. Not at all like the people you emulate, but degenerate little wiggers whose next step in life is likely to be towards unemployment.

5. An unshakeable feeling of obscurity...
So let’s set the scene. I’m at Galactic Circus, working the Cyber Coaster (roller coaster simulator that flips and spins, etc.) and this kid wants to ride. He’s no different from anyone else, pretty much the epitome of the kids I described in my last point. I tell him that he’ll want to take off his sunglasses and his hat for the ride, and he does so. (Who wears sunglasses indoors? At night?) He throws his hat into the little container outside of the ride, holds his sunglasses in his hand and sits inside. I start up the ride and turn around, and what do I see? A whole film crew, camera, boom mic, the whole shtick, filming this. I look back down at the hat inside the container, and I realised... ’Shit. I just served Corey Delaney.’
The ride ends, I open the canopy and miraculously the sunglasses have reappeared back on his face. He hops off and goes on his way, being filmed the whole time. There I stood. My acting career at a standstill, routinely doing shows to audiences so small you could count them on your fingers, and putting my heart into performances to be forgotten within the night. Corey Delaney throws a party and people know who he is, no doubt evidenced by the fact he’s being filmed going to Galactic Circus.

...Methinks I need to throw a party. Bring your friends. Bring your enemies. Bring your grandmother. I don’t care, just be as noisy as humanly possible. And be sure to tell everyone about whatever show I’m doing while you’re there.

The match

He's ranked number 11 today. 76 points to his name, multiple victories collected. He's been playing for a while, taking on each team as they come.

The other player occupies the 221st spot on the leaderboard, and he only ranks ahead of a couple of other saps by virtue of default. His first two matches after months of inactivity have netted him four points, managing two goals in two defeats.

The two will play each other in a match of soccer. The first is heavily favoured in what should be a no-contest. His opponent is unprepared. His opponent is without a strategy. His opponent is without a prayer. His opponent is me.

The best of three series begins, and I see what I'd observed countless times over my playing career. The same opposing team members. The same cheap hits. The same overused tactics. For my players, the opponents appear to be competing in double speed. The opportunities we have with the ball are far and few between, and somehow we always end up playing right into the enemy's clutches. We madly pass the ball between one another, each terrified of what would happen should we hold onto it for too long. Any hapless soul adorned in our team's symbolic red is liable to get assaulted at any moment. A punch in the back of the head here, a cruel tackle into the unforgiving fence there. Often, we are hit even when the ball isn't on us, a foul violation that we've gotten all too used to.

Our passes are constantly intercepted, and when the ball is being carried by the opponents, a pitiful game of pursuit begins. We dash about after them, but somehow they know our exact moment of arrival, and pass it on. Each attempt to strip the ball is evaded, leaving us sprawled in the opponent's tracks. The ball whizzes between their players like a pinball machine, or soaring over our heads like we were children who'd had our bags stolen by the schoolyard bully.

Our goalie doesn't stand a chance. Balls fly past him as though on fire, and at times it seems like he's defending against a barrage of six balls at once. He wouldn't be surprised if, thinking himself in perfect position to block a shot, the oncoming opponent were to clutch the ball between their feet and, with a wicked grin, leap into the air and glide right over his head, landing behind him for an easy goal.

We've become quite familiar with the members of the enemy squad. They've been on many teams just like this one, with the same cheap stunts and dirty tricks. We see these plays develop and we know exactly what they're going to do, but we are powerless to stop them.

We fall, 5-1 in the first match, and bravely take our medicine to appear, as a token gesture, in the following 4-0 beating.

In frustration and utter disgust, I take a deep sigh and end it all.

Everything goes dark.

After a moment, I stand up, and vow not to play Mario Strikers online for another couple of months. From his part of the country, the rival player will not be going out tonight with his gorgeous and wonderful girlfriend to party with friends, because he is without the former, and the small number that make up the latter will be doing just the same as him. He will play on into the night, amassing hundreds of points in a video game as though it meant something, his one escape from the real world, where he is pale, feeble, miserable and socially retarded.

He will dominate the world of online gaming, while his opponent will continue to succeed at life. His opponent is popular. His opponent is attractive. His opponent is healthy. His opponent is me.

Tony & Jess vs. the scumbags

So I suppose you've all been wondering, how did the screening of the short film go, Anthony? Well, the answer would be; it was great! ...If you love crummy delivery and poor expression. The film itself was really good, both the quality of the filming and editing, as well as the work of my fellow actors, but I was dreadful. Absolutely dreadful, I'm really disappointed... To be frank, I thought I was better than that, y'know? I'm not the harshest critic and people have told me I did a fine job, but I can't convince myself of that. It's all a learning process, though.

It was the aftermath that really gets you thinking... We left fairly early so that we could catch a train back to Jess' place (must've been 10ish, I guess?), and decided to have a snack beforehand. We went to a souvlaki place on Russell Street, and were waiting out the front for some potato cakes when a woman approaches us. She's the scummy, trashy sort, you know what I mean. Trailer trash, if only she could afford the trailer.
She asks us for money, and I'm not really into the idea. Just to see where she's at, I ask how much money she wants. Her reply? $16.
...What?? Was she serious? Not a couple bucks, she wants a whole 1,600 pennies to be laid on her. That's no chump change, nosirree! She wasn't about to get that kinda moolah from me; what did she think she was, a stripper with directions to the toilet?

I'm the generous sort though, and I realised I had $2 floating around my pocket (I was specifically aware of this because I got into a bit of a thing with the souvlaki guy beforehand claiming he short-changed me. I was mistaken. He was not happy.), and considering for a while beforehand I thought I didn't even have this money, I decided it best to pass it along. She thanked me, but didn't leave. Sign number one that this wasn't going to be good.
Jess' bag was sitting open on the table, and, as is often the case with my darling Jess, the item on top was a pack of cigarettes. Ignoring the fact that Jess is on the phone (speaking to Andrew, no less), she just asks her for a cigarette. This is quite audacious for a variety of reasons. Number one, the aforementioned phone; she's in the middle of a conversation, how rude is it to just butt on in demanding free stuff? Number two, I'd already given her about as much as I was likely to. I gave her two dollars, she should've taken a hint that that was it and moved along, if I wanted to give her a cigarette I'd have done so. Cripes, if I wanted to I'd have given her balloons and a Chinese finger trap, but I didn't want to, and as such, I did not. Number three, she appears to already have a lit cigarette in her hand. In all honesty, I could just leave it at that.

Now, Jess has this new thing that she's a big fan of, if someone gets in her grill she just takes them down a peg, rather than take their nonsense and hand out cigarettes like she's a convenience store (though I must say, if Jess actually was a convenience store, that'd be really cool. She'd make a lot of money doing that). She says simply, 'I've been asked for fifteen cigarettes today. I work hard to pay for these, I'm not giving you any.'
The woman takes a moment to process this, conversation not being one of her strong suits. Her face twists into a frown, she leans over and replies, 'Excuse me, do I know you? Why are you being so rude to me?'
Well, fair enough. Scummy woman thinks Jess is rude. We thank you for this opinion, and will consider it for future reference. Best you be leaving now, shnookums.

However, she's not going to just take her (my?) money and leave, she continues to ramble on, declaring Jess to be a 'farking' cow (she didn't really say 'farking', I'm just a nut about editing. Besides, with the way this broad butchered the English language it's not out of the realm of possibility she actually did), and she turns to walk away, but not before flicking ash from her cigarette in Jess' face.

...Oh hell no.

I did not just see that.

Time to bash this crazy bitch and take my money back.

I spring up, and start walking after her, helpfully shouting that she cannot get away with that, even when I gave her money and everything. She shuffles off into the convenience store next door, and I start walking back to my seat. Come on, I wasn't going to follow her into the shop, then I look crazy, don't I?
Fortunately Jess wasn't fazed, she was actually laughing about the whole thing. Though it wasn't quite as funny when our dear scumbag resurfaced, bringing her boyfriend out with her. Again, you know the sort. Filthy, wearing a Holden cap, and brandishing some rather unpleasant facial hair and an even more offensive odour.

He's quick to get in my face (much to my nose's chagrin) and says something to the effect of 'don't you 'farking' touch my girlfriend'. Obviously he's had this sort of experience before, she must be a real hot item around the ugly tree society. Frankly, I'm still pretty peeved myself, so I'm not backing down from this guy, meanwhile she's blathering on the sidelines with, 'She's being such a rude cow, now she's laughing on the phone! Why are you laughing, huh?' Clearly Jess is laughing because you're a freaking nutter, love, but that's another matter.
I make a witty rebuttal to the man's fury, in the form of 'Nah mate, she flicked ash in my 'farking' girlfriend's face, pal! This 'shpit' is not on.' (hehe, sometimes editing out swears is fun!)
I don't recall what his response was, something derogatory and low-brow no doubt, but his body language was rather telling. He was clearly getting in position to punch me in the face. This was troubling enough, but the whole while his scummy girlfriend was slowly approaching Jess, and she hissed something rather troubling.

'Don't you think of 'farking' throwing that at me.' I turn around, to see that Jess has a cup of Diet Coke she got at Hungry Jack's in her hand, holding it up in a defensive gesture. Jess stands, and I try and discourage this plan, but it's cut short when the woman goes to push her. Jess responds by flicking the cup's contents at her, though I had stepped in to stop this crazy bat from laying a finger on her, so of course was in the middle and ended up covered in it more than anyone else. Perhaps that was Jess' plan all along, to get me soaked so we'd all have a good laugh and become fast friends. It's doubtful, though, so I won't pursue that concept further.

By trying to separate the two, I've infuriated the guy even further, who now rumbles 'Don't you 'farking' touch her!' as though I had scooped her up, flung her through a window and lodged my thumb in her eye. I hadn't hoped to appear a woman-beater, though in all honesty I'm still not sure what her gender was supposed to be anyhow. It was on like Donkey Kong at this point, he stepped forward and it looked to all the world as though this would result with the untimely demise of yours truly, but who should step in and break us up?

Was it Jessica, brandishing not just a cup of Diet Coke, but an entire vat of the stuff? Was it the souvlaki guy, ready to put aside our differences and prior dispute over the sum of two dollars, and deliver a mighty wallop? Was it in fact Andrew, springing magically through the phone line ready to 'make it rain', as t'wer?

...Nah, I think it was the guy from the convenience store. Or a helpful passer-by, I'm not too sure. Point is, he told them to 'fark' off, and they quickly slithered away from the Coke-covered scene. He went on to inform us that it wasn't our fault (hurrah! Justice!), we'd done nothing wrong and that he's 'sick of those two scumbags. They're always asking for money, and if they don't get what they want they start 'shpit'.'
Well, that was all I needed. We were acquited of blame, free of injury, and could now rest easy with the knowledge that, if we're ever in a pinch, this bloke is liable to surface and clear things up. I'm really hopeful that that last part's true, I live in Melton, I need a guardian angel sometimes.

So that was the sum of our night, really. Some poor acting by Tony, a couple (really, really excellent) potato cakes and a damp shoulder. Though it's worth adding, before leaving the guy looked me in the eye with pure hatred, and muttered 'Stupid 'farking' American'.
Well, the joke's on him! ...I'm not American.