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One of my principal regrets is that I did not violently punish four teens who were abusing me one day in the laneway by my house in Kilkenny, Ireland. Even though I hate violence, I regret what I did not do that day.
One of the lads had been there at the start of it and had propagated it in the ugliest way and there they were, out of the range of the video cameras, calling me a "paedophile," as I was going up the stairs to my own house.
I was holding a six-pack of Tuborg beer, which is packed into cardboard an ideal weapon. One of the lads was carring a hurley, an ash sport stick, another ideal weapon. I could have taken it from him.
I play this incident in my mind, over and over. No scenario I can realistically imagine makes me glad that I did not shove that beer into the face of the fucker standing closest to me, kick the head of the little ass-face who had helped start the whole thing, and who was sitting on an electrical box within range of my heel and then figured out what to do from there.
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