Funny thing, heroics.
I mean, if you're not a firefighter or a doctor or a soldier, say, then you don't go around saving lives or shoving a bomb up the enemy's arse and winning medals on a regular basis.
It's tough for a librarian, for example, to be a hero in the course of a normal day. Well, the opportunities aren't there as a rule, are they? Unless there's a load of armed robbers running around nicking copies of the latest Harry Potter. Then you'd have to attack them with library cards, or something.
But no, if you've got a normal job then being a hero is surely a case of how you react if, by chance, you ever happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
And thus it was that myself and two mates were sitting having a beer in the King's Arms by the river in York. It's a famous pub, the one that floods, but that night it wasn't flooded.
Well, we'd have been fucking silly to be sat in it if it were under eight foot of smelly River Ouse water.
But though it was dry, it was brass monkey weather. Fookin' freezing, in fact. And we were nice and cosy by the fire sippling our pints of Samuel Smith's.
Suddenly, an ear-piercing scream came from outside. As a journalist it is my duty to a) chase ambulances, b) doorstep the victims of tragedy, c) make stuff up and d) run outside to see what the fuck's up when I hear a girl scream.
Even when it's minus three.
So out I dashed, followed by my two mates. There, on the quayside, was a girl. And there, in the river, was her numbskull boyfriend who'd thought it would be funny to jump off the bridge. Ho ho.
He was pissed, it was - as I've mentioned - freezing and the river was flowing fast. And he'd very recently got to the point of realising that the one thing it very obviously wasn't anymore was funny.
Fortunately there was a lifebelt (busloads of drunken Geordies chucking themselves off the bridge every race day had persuaded the local council that the lifebelt was a good idea). So I grabbed it, threw it in the water straight at the plonker's head, screamed at him to grab it and shouted to my mates to drag the guy towards the quayside steps. Then I went to calm the girl down.
A couple of minutes later and the lads had got the shivering piece of shit safely to the side. 'He's alright! We've got him!' shouted one of them. At this point, the winsome wench I was holding in a very protective and heroic manner decided to give me a hearty snog in gratitude for the communal saving of her boyfriend's life.
I even got a quick feel of her tits, too. She was happy to profer them, in fact.
Later, back in the pub, the guys were indignant. 'Hang on, T. Ok, you were the first out, you threw the belt - but we did all the huffing and puffing and pulling. Yet you got the snog AND copped a feel, ya bastard!'
The secret of heroism?
Delegation. Every time.
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