The recent seizure in Dublin of 7,000 Samurai swords confirms a phenomenon experienced in many major cities: the adoption by hooligans of exotic weaponry.

True, some of these may have been destined for sinister, cravat-wearing collectors of Asian martial paraphernalia. Some may have been sought by interesting individuals who like a challenge when filing their fingernails.

But the majority, clearly, were destined for hoodlums. Aspects of this phenomenon are beyond my understanding. If you go up town on a Saturday night, you might see, say, 10 or 11 fights. These are mostly comical affairs, involving chimp-like posturing, punches at fresh air, and wild kung fu kicks that would set the late Mr Bruce Lee birling rapidly in his urn.

But I've never seen anyone produce a Samurai sword. I suppose the idea is that it will have a stunning effect. There you are, flying six inches in the air for a kung fu kick, when your opponent suddenly produces a gleaming, curved blade bearing the mystical runes: “Made in Hong Kong.”

If you're with colleagues similarly engaged in pugilistic endeavour, you might very well say: “Right, chaps. Let's put into practice the excellent defensive manoeuvre perfected by the Romans on the Rhine: run like the clappers!”

Many years ago — when I was young, carefree and not as smelly as I am now — I was present at an incident when a small knife was pulled. It wasn't aimed directly at me, but I was with a dozen members of the Enid Blyton Appreciation Society out on a bender.

There were only three hoodlums and, for a few seconds, the lion-tamer and accountant in my head debated what to do. Lion-tamer: “You could try a kung fu kick.” Accountant: “Nope.” Lion-tamer: “Well, what about a punch to his gonadular region?” Accountant: “Nope.” Lion-tamer: “Well, at least consider getting your trousers to the dry-cleaner as soon as possible.” Accountant: “Excellent idea. Tax-deductible too.”

As the hoodlum taunted one of our number at the front — I'd adopted a strategic rearguard position — my body took over my mind, covering it in ice. My body did not want to be punctured by that sharp thing. I stood petrified with fear. And the sad thing is that the nedular individual felt confirmed in the power conferred purely by possessing a blade.

A mate witnessed a similar incident some years ago, except it was three weasel-like neds with knives against one robust middle-aged fellow. The man punched one of the neds in the hooter, while the other two brandished their blades but were too scared to use them and, mercifully, the altercation petered out.

But people seem so callous nowadays. In the past, your ned might have said: “I have the advantage of you, sir, being as how I have this Samurai sword an' all. So I will spare you on this occasion. But think on. Now, let's shake hands and I'll buy you a pint of grog.”

Today, the cheeky little sods are likely to use their weaponry: even a Samurai sword, though I haven't heard of anyone being beheaded, which is always a risk with these gewgaws. A question occurs: where do you keep such a weapon? Do you stick it down your trousers and walk with a limp? Or do you put it in a hockey stick cover and risk mockery from decent citizens out getting blotto?

Picture our ned getting ready to go out on a Saturday: “Now, have I got everything? Fags? Yup. Keys? Check. Mobile. Yup. Money. Yo. Oh, good lord, I almost forgot my Samurai sword. Silly me.”

Some of these yobbos are setting out as if for war. And, while it is true that many may not know their elbow from their arsenal, you cannot underestimate the unpredictable psychopathology of any individual who sets off on a Saturday night in 2009 with the accoutrements of a medieval knight from Japan.