I had intended to write more about Saturday, and this afternoon, but for something that happened this evening. Photography is dangerous! Hold that thought and we’ll get back to it.
I had taken photos of each band/musician in the first of the MOKFest concerts on Thursday night, though not with any great hopes of success. The stage is too far away and my 4 year old digital camera struggling to keep up. See this post on one of last year’s concerts to get a sense of the place, which has great acoustics along with the bewitching smell of old wood and plaster covering up a suggestion of dry rot. Their quality is moot, however, since iPhoto ate all the photos as I uploaded them. So it’s Picasa from now on.
Saturday was the Festival Parade up Main Street. I stood at the point where the parade turns right into a side street, a good spot for close-ups, with the downside that the street is split longtitudinally into light and shade. Perhaps some good shots there along with a lot of blah. See last year’s parade on Google+ until I process this year’s batch. More photos of the harbour in the afternoon, most of which I’m pleased with. Another evening concert in the same building, same problem, but I took them anyway. Then a Sunday afternoon concert, ditto.
I’m not enough of a musician to give you an idea of the music, except that it was mostly traditional Celtic and I loved it. I’ll try to write something separate later.
Sunday evening. Photography is dangerous. I stopped by the harbour around 6:00 to take photos. Pottered about doing that for a while and ended up photographing a pile of rusty anchors and chains.
Lo and behold, this bloke walks up and pisses into my picture. Tall, young, skinny, Scottish, very drunk, close-cropped hair, earring in right ear, and wearing a blue t-shirt with TENNANTS across the chest. He asked me what I was doing, while still in mid-stream. I explained briefly and asked him what he was doing. Then he said I should come and meet his wife – she’d like me. I politely declined and started to walk away.
He grabbed my left arm and tried to drag me down to the end of the pier, presumably to meet his putative wife, who I never saw. I resisted, we struggled, and he fell over on his back. I walked on, he pursued, caught up and turned to block me. Then he grabbed my shirt with one hand and thumped me on the left ear with the other, while pushing me back against a shed. I got free and said I’d call the the police. At that point he walked off, but I wanted a photo for identification, so I said, “Turn round, I want a photo.” He continued on and I saw him off with a final, “Fucking coward,” then went straight home to call the police.
Now this is the irritating bit. I phoned in a good description and told them he was probably still on the pier. Ten minutes later a couple of police officers showed up to take my statement, admitting that nobody had gone to look for him since they needed my statement and a complaint of assault first. As an atheist, I’m not required to turn the other cheek. I want this scumbag caught and punished.
The odd thing is that far from being upset or shaken, I feel really good, proud I stood up to the thug. I can see why thrill-seekers crave this sort of adrenaline rush. That said, I hope next week will be rather less interesting. In fact, I’d settle for boring.