in the gutter

Lil and me sitting in the Costa Cafe in the Whitewater Centre in Newbridge.
We were relaxing into our highly popular mother and son routine.
I felt them before I saw them.
The two cheap girls had drifted into the cafe and were looking around with sad silly vacant eyes.
Such worthless specimens you ne'er did see.
The opposite of sex, I think it's called.
Their male companions were queueing at the counter.
A bespectacled man and a bearded man.
In recent weeks this group, all four of them, and a fifth absentee, had made us the object of certain delinquent harassments at the Whitewater Centre where apparently they are staff members.
So here they were again.
The males just as unprepossessing as the women.
Let me put it this way.
They didn't have a lot going for them.
As projecting their inadequacies onto other human beings is their stock in trade, we might readily understand these two have a lot to be inadequate about.
Presently the bespectacled man sat down with the hags of Bearna.
This left the bearded man alone at the counter.
A wry thought came to me.
Alone at the counter was a very bad place for that man to be.
I waited until he caught my eye.
He tried to hold the stare but it was less easy for him when his friends weren't at his side.
I stood up slowly.
I walked towards him.
He looked a little bit shaken.
I stook in the queue behind him.
A moment passed.
What passes for confidence among the lower orders came back to him.
(By lower orders, Heelers means people who attempt to cover their own inadequacies by intimidating other people. - Ed note.)
Wee Beardy looked over to where his friends were sitting.
He made some hand gestures to them.
He made some faces towards me.
He did a little jinking sidestep.
I let the scowl on my face do its work.
The situation became less fun for him.
He shifted from foot to foot for a few minutes.
Occasionally he looked to his friends.
Occasionally he waved.
Occasionally he turned towards me.
The queue was moving very slowly.
It became much less fun for him.
My stare held only contempt.
He turned away and tried to converse with a girl in the queue.
I let him talk for a minute.
Then.
I said.
"What a squeaky voice."
He went quiet.
He tried to talk to the girl again.
I gave him another minute.
Then.
I said.
"What a sssssqueaky voice."
He fell silent.
The girl left.
I gave him another minute.
Then.
"Scum."
I said it loudly enough.
He stood there.
I gave him another minute.
Then.
"Sssscum."
Louder this time.
More distinct.
My voice held that very special intonation which most of you will never have heard from me. Normally I retain it for those rare occasions when I inadvertently mention management at the Leinster Leader and the Johnston Press. Those brilliant fellows who fired me from my job last year just before Christmas.
(In the Heelers pantheon of contempt, the Johnston Press is right at the bottom. Then you've got the Jihadi's. Then you've got this bearded coward in the coffee queue. - Ed note.)
The bearded coward stayed silent.
I paid for my coffee.
I dropped a coin.
The bearded coward went to pick up the coin.
"Don't touch my money," I said.
"I'm just trying to be friendly," he squeaked cheekily.
"Don't try to be friendly," I snarled.
The bearded coward lapsed into silence.
The coffees arrived.
I sat down.