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I regret I didn't beat them

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.