The Boss, the Bike, and the Chav.
Back in the days of retail, we were in the middle of a parade of shops. That's a strip mall for those in the colonies. There was a route around to an enclosed parking area to the rear, and this caused us much amusement as people occasionally turned into there hoping it would be a short cut around a nearby set of traffic lights. Nope - dead end, and much amusement, thank you very much.
The Boss was doing some washing up in the back of the shop, and this being a warm day required that he had the back door open. A guy on a bike drove in, did the usual looking around, turned around, and went back out. A comment denoting amusment should be added in here.
A minute or so later, the Boss noted that the four-by-four (SUV for the colonies) belonging to the locum pharmacist (next to us was an apothecary) was rocking slightly. He noted the appearance of the top of a crash helmet above the roof of said vehicle, and he made a noise approximating, "Oy!".
A young and chavvy voice came back with the immortal phrase, "You won't catch me, you fat bastard."
Fate loves to be tempted, yes?
The Boss was giving away thirty yards, thirty years, and perhaps ten stone in weight. The chav headed off at full chavvy pelt, ran down the alley that served as an entrance to the parking area, jumped on his bike, kick started it, and set off.
After ten feet, he went down in a tangle of limbs, chav, bike, and Boss. The Boss ended up beneath both bike and chav, and said bike was leaking oil quite freely by this point. Unfair though it may have been, he didn't let go.
The first I heard of this was when a customer came in the front of the shop where I was and told me that the Boss was fighting with someone outside the bread shop. I went out to have a look, and indeed he was on the ground with a biker.
"Bring your cleaver!" the Boss snarled at me, for I was indeed a butcher in those days.
"Get off me you fat bastard!" whined the chav. "I can't breathe!"
I had the wrong impression at the time. For some reason I had the idea that the biker had come off and the Boss was trying to get his helmet off as it was preventing him from breathing.
"Wouldn't the bone saw be better?" I asked, not remembering that the Boss rather approved of the Saudi Arabian method of dealing with petty thieves.
Oddly enough, the chav stopped struggling at that point - though only briefly. The Boss wrestled him around and knelt on the chin area of the helmet. The chin strap for this helmet was attached at the sides, and with the Boss's weight on there they moved to the side, tightning the strap rather nastily.
"I can't breathe, you fat bastard!"
Needless to say, the chav didn't get away. A reasonably burly son of apothecary owner and myself watched over him as the Boss tried to clean up. The police arrived and patted the guy down - a syringe and needle were in his pocket. They soon found out that he had prior form, and that the bike had been stolen a week or two back some twenty miles away.
Net result? The owner of the vehicle being robbed had to claim on her insurance for the damage. She bought the Boss a six-pack of some expensive beer. His glasses were broken beyond the possibility of mending, he still aches in various places from it, he could have been stabbed by a syringe, the local newspaper wasn't interested in a 'have a go hero' story (they usually lap it up), and he wasn't impressed by the beer. Oh, and his shop coat was ruined.
Not worth it, folks. Just not worth it.