My missus has just been kicked in by two chavettes.
We'd just been in a recently reopened (and moderately posh) pub in Caerphilly next to the train station. An awful band and a high temperature (open some windows ffs) drove us to go home. As we passed the main bus stop in the middle of town, we wound up walking behind some young tart (about 15) and what was perhaps her boyfriend or something, as they had just emerged from the bus stop to have some kind of chat.
After about 20 paces the girl suddenly stops, spins around and demands of my missus what the fuck she's looking at. My missus denied all knowledge, and the girl spits that she (missus) was giving her 'a filthy look' in the bus shelter as she (chavette) was talking to another girl. Accusations and denials flew back and forth, the equally young boyfriend baffled by the whole thing and saying we should just walk on. I'm tugging on the missus' hand to urge her away, as she tells the little bitch for the 20th time that she doesn't know who she is, doesn't care, and wasn't looking at her.
Suddenly a punch is thrown, and my missus is struggling to prise the chavette off her against the low wall that seperates the sidewalk from the embankment leading down to the castle. I start trying to pull them apart but my missus gets knocked down onto the ground and the chavette lays into her. One of her mates, seeing all this from the bus stop, runs over to get a few cheap and easy kicks in as I struggle desperately to hold them off and protect my missus from serious injury - I'm in particular trying to keep a hand across her mouth to stop any nose breakage or teeth being knocked out, while simultaneously pushing the chavettes away and asking them to stop it already.
The volley of punches, kicks, hairpulling and swearing continues for what seems like an eternity before the chavettes decide they've proved their point and vanish. My missus has blood all over her face, her glasses are half broken on the ground next to her and her right eye is swollen to the size of a squash ball. A lock of her hair is on the ground, having been wrenched out of her head.
Onlookers look on, and in spite of my pleading she refuses medical attention or the calling of the police, and we wander up to the pub just 50 yards away to ask the advice of the bouncer. He advises that even if we don't want to call 999 to at least report it tomorrow. One of the onlookers comes up repeatedly stating she couldn't help us before as she had her (also rather young) daughter with her, but kindly gives her name and contact number as a witness.
A kind taxi driver takes us home (which takes all of 90 seconds, as we live just outside the city centre). The missus goes in and cleans herself up while I prepare my mother's patented emergency ice pack (rubber glove stuffed with ice cubes) to put on her black eye.
An hour later, and she is very very lucky. All teeth present and correct, all the blood is from a handful of abrasions from their trainers and there's no proper cuts or wounds, and the swelling in her eye has gone down significantly with the ice pack.
Fucking hell, though. Not the best way to end a Saturday night.
Though if the police do come around, they will probably do this too.
