Friday 3:18pm:
BANG! Down goes the roll book. An unnecessary cinder block detailing who’s who and what background you came from. It lay sprawled on Giles’s desk and she like a fat old cloud stood over it.
“Mr. O’Brien, is he here?”
“He is Miss” said a voice. “He’s down the back.”
“Benny O’Brien?”
“Yes hello?”
“Up here now”
“Ara balls.”
“WHAT DID YOU SAY??”
“Nothing. Nothing. Life is only brilliant.”
I get up after a moment of hesitation and follow the order like a good boy because, let’s face it, I am that, and all the lads laughed at me as I did.
“BAHAHAHAHAHAHA”
“The smell a shite coming off your bag, O’Brien” says one of the lads. “What is it exactly?”
“It’s exactly that. Shite and yes, it’s shtink.”
“You best get home rapid and wash it lest we all die from the stench.”
I was laughing now.
“There’s a greater waft’a piss coming out of your mouth Maloney.” I says to him. “So let my cute little bag be the least of your worries. Got it?”
That quietened him.
Two seconds later I’d squeeze my tight little ass down into the desk directly in front of hers, and like all things new I figured it would take some getting used to. But get this reader. It didn’t. It didn’t take any getting used to at all. In fact, I actually quite liked it here. In this new position there was no nasty draught niggling at me like there had been in the other place. It was a welcomed change in a lot of ways. Your boy here was now on top, and comfortable. Actually fucking winning for once.
WARNING. WARNING.
CHEAP SHOT INCOMING:
Next up, to act as a source of entertainment for us, I said I’d pay her a compliment. “Hey Mrs.” I says to her. “You look absolutely stunning today.”
The comment would derail her. Off she went into a psychological tail spin.
“Erm. . .Excuse me?”
“I said you look stunning today.”
In fairness, all women want to hear that shite though don’t they? Of course they do. Sadly, I don’t think this particular broad had ever seen or heard of a compliment before in her life. BUT, thanks to your boy here, that was all about to change; and when I say that for the next 3 minutes I’d butter her ass up like some unruly thanksgiving turkey I fuckin well mean it. Like Adonis, I filled that bitch up with some of the most preposterous and fantastical shite talk a woman could ever hope to listen to, and guess what Paddy. . .
“What?”
“She ate it up so she did. Nom Nom Nom Nom Nom. She devoured my beautiful string of lies like it were apple tart and custard and why wouldn’t she, hah, coz the fuckin size’a her.”
“As you said, at the end of the day. . “
“At the end of the fuckin day that’s the only shite they want to hear coming out of our mouths.”
“That’s all they want to fucking hear sham. Isn’t it typical.”
Fintan Brennan put up his hand then. He had a question apparently.
“Yes, Fintan?”
“Just wondering Benny. . .erm. . .what did ye discuss?”
“How do you mean?”
“Like, what did ye speak about while ye were chattin?”
“Oh Jesus lots of things, Fintan. We spoke about lots and lots of things. The whole gamut was almost covered so it was.”
“Could you elaborate?”
“Well, I had to appeal to her feminine tendencies didn’t I? I had to engage the woman as it were. I had to entice her. This was paramount. We talked fashion and make-up and clothes and earrings, boob size, the education system (and the state of it) and MAKE UP AGAIN and guess what lad, GUESS FUCKIN WHAT. .”
“What?”
“I actually enjoyed myself. Can you believe that?”
“You did?”
“Yes. And thoroughly so.”
“Fair enough. .”
“And not only that. Not only did I enjoy myself. I would go on to realise something else. Something fairly important.”
“What did you realise, Ben?”
“I realised, for the first time in my life Fintan, that every woman – no matter how dreadful she is appearance wise – deserves to feel beautiful every once in a while, you know? Special. Think about it; as young men, what else can we really do? Nothing. Nothing whatsoever save pay them a compliment every now and again – even if they do look like Shrek on fucking steroids. For me, it’s not about that. Is it ever.”
“Well what’s it about then?”
“It’s about the thought, isn’t it? Dickhead. It’s the thought that counts. Surely. These little messages of love and affection can go a long way in this world. Especially for our women. Our blessed women. And blessed is the man (or men) who can dish out such words so freely. With devotion and without malice. Do you understand? . . . .well, do you?”
FINTAN FROZE.
“Do you hear that?” I says to him.
“I don’t. What is it?”
“That’s what we call a delicious silence.”
“Oh right.”
“And guess what else. . .”
“What?”
“It’s about to get a lot worse.”
“I swear I meant nothin by it lad.”
Much to my chagrin I didn’t get the blazing round of applause I had initially hoped for. Personally I thought my speech was decent to a degree. Water tight in certain measures. Thought provoking. Inspiring. Informative. Arousing. But most of all, I thought the damn thing was somewhat relevant to the cause. To our cause. I mean, why do you think I went on about it for so long? I was trying to make a point. I wanted to make a show of me and an example out of her. Anyways, turns out I achieved none of those things. At all apparently. God dammit. Chagrin central for your boy here. Chagrin central. What a desperate state of affairs. I didn’t inspire anyone, anywhere, in any time zone by the looks of it. Nor had anyone become aroused by my musings. No man, woman or child touched (figuratively speaking). And because of this, my error – because I had failed them spectacularly in my presumptions – I would go on to receive one of the worst, most brutal rinsings of my young adult life so PUT ON YOUR HAZMATS; shit about to get messy. Lads I had known for years “as friends” were now out, In Force, thirsting after my blood and eager to see my demise. Can you imagine that? Talk about heathens.
The whole experience, if I may say it, was an earth shattering slap back into reality. A slap I probably deserved in a lot of ways and that’s ok. I tell you what, by the time I re-surfaced I had a head on me like a baboon’s arsehole. BUT, I stood my ground throughout it all, I think. No I did. Of course I did. I stood my ground Like A Man, not because I wanted to, no way, but because I was fucking well able to do it. YES.
I stood my ground and I let them have their moment of glory in the sun because, like it or not, that kind of stuff is important too. For any young man. Very important. It nurtures growth and treats character. It creates new paths. Paths that go into something else. Something new. I would take the whole thing on the chin like a miniature brute. BING BANG BOOM. Not because I was ignorant to the fact. No, no. But because I was a champion. In this effort, I was a fucking man.
And So It Begins
“WELL WELL WELL.” said a voice finally. “Get a load of this absolute unadulterated ass kissin shit talk coming out of O’Brien. Do ya hear him lads?”
“Oh we hear him alright. Spineless good for nothing git.” and with that a pencil flew from somewhere catching me nicely on the ear. The pain was fast and sharp but it didn’t hang around for long.
“May the divil fuck you.” I thought to myself (of the perpetrator). “May he fuck down on you sideways and ride you into a hellish re- incarnation.”
“Are you alright, lad? Sorry I was only messin.”
“I’m grand. I’m grand. I’m grand.”
“Here Ben. Tell me this. . .”
“What is it?”
“Are you a homosexual all year around or just part time? Asking for a friend.”
“Ara suck it Brady.”
“Oh you’d like that wouldn’t you ya big batty boy.”
“I’m glad you’re having fun lads.” I goes to them. “Keep smiling and enjoy the slag while you can. I’ll take it til the cows come home, not because I like it but, believe it or not, I actually enjoy seeing you all so fucking happy.”
“Awwwwwwwwh.“
“HOWEVER. . . .”
And just like that (at the flick of a switch) there was a panic among us. The lads had not expected such a tonal shift in my voice. Or for me to turn so serious so quickly. The last few minutes had been full of niceties you see, with them slagging me and all, pulling me this way and that, but now all of a sudden things weren’t as nice as they had been and I know for a fact they sure as hell felt the CHANGE. But me, no – I couldn’t stop laughing. Why? Because sometimes that’s all it takes. One simple word to put the shits up them. I half realised then that I had mastered the art of persuasion. . “WUHU”. .or was, at the very least, close to it.
“Oh fuck. “What’s he going to say to us now?”
“However lads.” I says to them. “I fear you are all missing the point of my efforts here today and for that inconvenience you can thank each of your individual retardations for they have you ill timed as a people and thoroughly stupid in everything else. . . .Congratulations.”
“Thank you boss.” they all replied. Sheepish gits. “Your approval really means everything to us.”
* * * *
THE BEAST GILES would thank me soon after that, albeit dismissively; her big head buried deep now into one of the rusty drawers behind her desk and we all wondered why that was. Surely to God an arbitrary move. Surely to God above. That old chestnut – you know it – of ‘pretending’ to be doing something when in actual fact you are doing nothing at all. Ya, ya, ya.
“Look at her go.” said Stocky Mac. “What an unmerciful wet wipe she is.”
“Wet and fat.”
“Our very own THROLLUPS MCGINTY.”
One of the guffer lads piped up then and smelling the tips of his fingers he said: “Hmmmmm. She reminds me of something this one hai. Or someone. I just can’t pin point who or what exactly.”
“Would it be a raped ape, MJ?”
“YES.” he replied, jumping around with glee. “A RAPED APE. YES. YES. YES. That’s exactly what she reminds me of. A BIG RAPED APE. Ah thank you Simon. That was really stressing me out there for a minute hai.”
“No bother horse. I was thinking the same myself.”
“She’s a fucking buffoon is what she is.”
“Well, yeah that too.”
“I wonder what she’s looking for in the drawer though.” said Pat O’Dowd. “It looks interesting. Would it be snacks I wonder?”
“Hahaha. Would it be snacks.”
“I’m just saying like. . .”
“Of course its fucking snacks ya donkey. What else could it be?”
“I dunno. . .”
“Not lettuce or vegetables.”
“WAIT. HANG ON A SECOND. . .”
“What is it, William?”
“Would it. . .would it be our exams I wonder? Aren’t we due exams back this week or next week or sometime around now? Do you think she got around to correcting them?”
“By God. You’re right. We ARE due exams back this week. That could be exactly what she’s rooting for in there, if she’s not rummaging for snacks of course. Well done William sir. Sharp as a tack as always.”
To be fair, it was a very good catch by Willy. Our exams were indeed due back to us. Religion and French. Fantastic. Two piss poor subjects and each one more useless in life than the last. Give it to me Jesus, s’il vous plait, and whoever that Pontius Pilate fella was that had him strung up onto the crucifix like that. I am ready to fail at everything once again. ONE MORE TIME. . . .WITH FEELING.
“Wait. Hang on a tick.”
“What is it, Steven?”
“How is French a useless subject?”
“Who speaks French though?”
“The French do. Obviously.”
“Exactly, and don’t get me started on religion. OK?”
“D’accord.”
“Are you being serious right now bro?”
“Serious about what?”
“That whole French thing.”
“I am being serious yes. Why?”
“Well, I want to learn don’t I.”
“You want to learn about something that is practically useless?”
“How is it useless though? That’s what I’m asking.”
“Take a guess for yourself. . .”
“You want me to guess is it?”
“Oui. Yes I mean.”
“I couldn’t venture a guess if I tried.”
“Just Christ will you just tell the lad already. He doesn’t understand.”
“IT’S USELESS BECAUSE EVERYONE SPEAKS FUCKIN ENGLISH YOU GOON. WAKE UP WILL YA AND SMELL THE BEGONIAS.”
“Oh right. . “
“Read a book you miserable git. Watch YouTube. Or porn. Have a wank. Have another one. Wank through the first one into the second one. Or throw cold water into your face. I don’t mind. 800 years is all I’ll say to ya boy. 800 fuckin years. You remember that? Probably not. Coz I don’t. But that’s ok too. Just try and feel the meaning of what I’m saying to you. Alright?”
“Alright.”
“They starved us of our language since day dot, and you sit here, in 2008, WITH HAIR LIKE THAT, wondering why French, of all things, FRENCH, is a useless thing. You pathetic cretin. Eight generations. EIGHT. Unacceptable goings on. Unacceptable. . . . .By the way, how’s your Mother?”
Conor Dolan spoke then.
“Nah mind his mother.” he said. “I wonder will Big Titty Kitty here collar a Monty’s corned beef for herself while she’s rooting around in the press there. She’d be doing well if she does.”
“Can you imagine. . .”Extra mustard there please, Michael. Good lad.”
“On the first one or the second one Mary?”
“On both please and say nothin.”
“Shur I’ll be be sacked if I say anything, Mary.”
“I’ll have you sacked if you say anything ya little bollix. We don’t want that now do we?”
“No we don’t want that now, Mary.”
“Coz I’ve never liked the look of you.”
“That’s grand.”
“And when I don’t like the look of people, woeful things can happen.”
“I’d believe it.”
“Good.”
“But Mary dear. . .”
“What is it luv?”
“I need to ask you something else? Would you mind if I did? It’s in relation to your sandwiches.”
“What about my sandwiches?”
“Do you want salad in them or no?”
“DO I FUCK WANT SALAD! WHAT ARE YOU ON ABOUT?”
“But Mary wait, salads are good for you.”
“I DON’T CARE WHAT THEY ARE.”
“They’ll give you loads and loads of energy and maybe – just maybe – as a result, you might hate me less.”
“I DON’T GIVE A SHITE WHAT IT IS OR WHAT THEY’LL DO FOR ME LAD. NO FUCKIN SALAD I SAID.”
“Okay.”
“JESUS CHRIST CHILD WHATEVER YOU DO. PLEASE. HOLD THE GOD DAMN SALAD. I SIMPLY CANNOT REITERATE IT ENOUGH.”
“Holy smokes.” said Murphy. “I’m no scientist or nothin but I’d say this woman must shit rings around herself. Like an army tank.” and of course we all started laughing again.
“I’d say she has an arse like a piper’s lip. And you know what else?”
“What is it?”
“The last thing you’d need or even want out on the battlefield is this big lump’a lard traipsing after you, digging up all the trenches and killing all your good men. Christ, if war itself wasn’t bad enough like.”
Legs Maher stood up then; a lanky string of a fella, and said:
“BLAME THE COMMISSIONER.”
“What’s that legs?”
“BLAME THE COMMISSIONER I SAID. Someone should, you know, sack the bastard or whoever the hell is in charge of this operation, for he is a total ass, a fool, and has got it all wrong.”
“Don’t forget the emergency squad?”
“What about the emergency squad?”
“She’s not to go in there.”
“Oh no.”
“Or into the ambulance unit.”
“Why not?”
An awkward pause would happen here; well, among the smarter boys.
“COME AGAIN MIKEY?” we said.
“Is it because of erm, because of her immense heft is it?”
“AH FOR FUCK SAKE! WE ARE PISSING INTO THE WIND.”
Poor old Mikey Lee, the boy who had asked the question, hadn’t a lot going on between his ears. In fact, some of us had even questioned if he had a brain in him at all. ‘Doubtful’ was usually the consensus. You see, he always needed guidance – our Mikey. More guidance than most mainly due to the criminal nature of his fucktard parents along with the endless bouts of neglect he had received as an infant; you know the score. Because of this, Mikey had the focus of a daddy longlegs and about as much charm as a spasticated dung beetle. Still though, nice enough lad you know. Very, very harmless. But in our minds, no matter what way you dressed it up, for Mikey Lee, things were always going to be bleak. And we all thought he would probably die young in some stupid catastrophe like accidentally setting himself on fire or falling into an open man hole. That’s what people with very small brains do though, isn’t it? They do stupid things that don’t make sense. They end up not only hurting themselves but a lot of other people too. Friends, family, other loved ones. #Nightmare.
Deco The Stump was the first up to aid Mikey in this line of business. He wanted badly to explain it to the lad – the situation – so that he could fully and finally understand not only what it meant, but where it was all coming from and just why oh why on earth we were giving this atrocious beast of a woman such a fuck of a time behind her back. In Deco’s mind, it was the right thing to do and God bless. With the right approach our little dullard Mikey might just tune in to what was fuckin going on around him.
“Mikey me lad.” Deco goes. “It’s not just because of that, her immense heft. Oh heavens no. It’s because of. . .well. . .ya know.” Mikey was listening hard now, very hard. So hard his eyes had started to squint a bit, like a Chinaman. And for Deco; well, he was determined wasn’t he? Determined to really drive home the message. In this effort, his only instinct was to take little Mikey up by the scruff of the neck and speak down into his ear like some hardy grown up, using any sort of “big word” his still developing little mind could just about throw together.
“Her staggering heft is surely one thing.” he says to Mikey. “but if she, this fat fuckin sow, were to engage any of the aforementioned in any way, shape or form here today, yes I said aforementioned, do you know what would happen?”
“What would happen, Deco?”
“All of our good men would die, Mikey.”
“They’d all die?”
“Straight away they’d perish.”
“The bad, good and average. GONE. Just like that. Click.”
“From the stench alone.”
“Or just from simply looking at the bitch.”
“If scour was a woman, Mikey.” Deco concluded. “If scour was a fucking woman.”
Johnny Turfbite stood up then and stroking his face he said: “Yeah but, won’t they all die eventually, captain? I mean, isn’t it only the natural way of life as God himself intended?”
“Exactly my point, lad.” I says to him. “It’s real stuff and as natural a thing as me and you having small flutes between our legs. So why not leave them be?”
“I suppose.”
“Trust me, the world will do her bit and eat them all up when she’s ready to. UNDERRRRSTOOOD?”
“SIR YES SIR!”
“Some of them deserve it more than others.”
“YOU DESERVE IT LOFTUS. YA BOLLIX!”
“BUGGER OFF CORCORAN. I’LL GO AHEAD AND BURST YA, YOU SWINE.”
“DO IT SO!”
“GO ON LOFTUS, GET HIM! HE SAID A BAD THING ABOUT YOUR OUL LADY!”
“He did WHAT. . .?”
The room stopped dead. Loftus, visibly shook, eventually got up out of his chair and I could see it in him now, as plain as anything, that the harsh quip had gotten to him; like really gotten to him. You see, it was common knowledge that Lofty’s mother – Monica – was never to be mentioned or discussed by anyone, at any time, day or night; and when I say that I fuckin well mean it. Not in any capacity was the woman ever to be objectified or deliberated over and if she was and you were caught well, it was God help you.
“Monica Ellen Patsy Loftus. That’s her full name.” someone exclaimed.
“That’s right.” said Stump Cleary. “But wasn’t she Dunne from behind one time?”
“She’ll always be Dunne from behind. The slag. Nod, nod, wink, wink. D’ya get me?”
Lunchtime was always good for this sort’a craic. That 45 minute window was our place. The craic was real here. It was meaty and oftentimes dangerous. We would skive off for hours every now and again only because we sort’a could. Lax teachers and what have you.
For this extra-curricular boredom, we chose smoking cigarettes and football as our main activities. If you were lucky at all, you might even see a scrap happening some place, and whether or not that scrap was any good all depended on who was involved in it.
The simpletons were good fighters. They were decent like. The Guffers were too. No surprise there. They were bull thick little fuckers, frustratingly stupid, sharp, and naturally built for that kind of abuse: thus making them proud ambassadors of the stereotype. Lugs Mannion often said they had a massive tolerance for pain, and he was right; THEY HAD. Those boys could (and would) go for ages on end, knocking fucking lumps out of each other and cursing and throwing some of the deadliest right and left hooks you’ve ever seen in your life – with blood and everything. Praise the Lord. This was, of course, from a spectator’s point of view, WHAT YOU FUCKING WANTED. You got all the thrills and the frills, and lorry loads of un-hinged excitement. It was perfection.
Sadly, this was what life looked like on the daily for a Guffer. The poor things never had much fortune in this world. Noble outcasts to some, insufferable pests to others – they sat confused within our society. Outside’a stealing groceries and riding their own sisters; this fighting caper at school, honestly, was just about all they were ever fucking good for; and more than anyone else, they’d always make a point of enjoying it.
BUT THEN AGAIN, who didn’t love a good tear up eh? How could you not? That whole experience of seeing a lad you didn’t like get a serious beat down in broad daylight, in front of people, and girls, and the humiliation of it all, was akin to letting a cow eat grass out of your hand or sticking your willy into the hoover at home. Me? I could watch fellas beat the piss out of each other til the cows came home, and ten more times after that should there be enough light left in the day. But get this: I’m no fighter. At no point was I ever there to partake in violence. I was there only for the sport, and the theatre of it, and a’course. . .the craic. I’d show up just for those things. Not because IT was a violent affair; that was inevitable. Or that I was a violent man, because I was not. It was about the spectacle. The buzz. The fear. Somehow, we had been slyly tantalised into wanting more of this “thing” and everything else that came with. Classic junky behaviour if you ask me but we didn’t mind.
For us, it was never about good grades or praise or accolades or any of that homosexual nonsense. It was about fuckin smoking and football and scoring goals and shlaps and blood and piss and snot and finding ourselves and all that good hearty ‘lad stuff’. This was our God given assignment we felt – our story – and at the end of the day, as boys, we just had to sit our arsheens back, smile, take it by the balls and fuckin go.
However, when boredom struck us down – and believe me she did – instead of retreating back to class we would instead assemble ourselves into the middle of the lunchroom for a chat about ‘Zi Grande Elephante’. And that’s where we’d stay. Proud as fuck. For ages and ages. Huddled into groups. Dissecting theories and scratching at our holes, wondering if he (Lofty) had really loved his mammy the way he said he did. Or was it all a hoax? Could it be a hoax? A cover up for something else perhaps? Something a bit more, I don’t know, sinister. Like, what if our boy Lofty was actually sheltering himself and his ‘over aggressive nature’ beneath a veil of thick undiagnosed autism? Ooooooooooooh now that’s interesting. Had the lad in fact been a BLANK at heart all this time? A big dirty fuck off BLANK with gruesome sexual tendencies towards his own fuckin mother? GASP YOU SAY. And if that was true, if he were this type of cretin, how bad was it? Was it ‘bad bad’ or just ‘average bad’? Like, did he ever stick the tongue down her gob or drop the hand? It was hard to tell. We’d spend hours questioning these things. Hours. And sometimes I do wonder why.
I guess, for us looking in, the whole affair just seemed a little unfocused. Or contrived. Or maybe it was just plain wrong. Wrong and downright unnecessary because that’s no way to treat your mother surely. Or is it?
I wouldn’t mind but the same woman was probably the most basic looking yoke going as well. I mean, if you met her out on the street and you looked at her once, I guarantee you wouldn’t be turning to look at her a second time. Would ya hell. You’d derive more pleasure I’d say out’a watching an old man dry his bare balls on a towel that was too small for him. . .Well, I would anyways.
“What did he say about my oul lady, Tommy? Tell me.”
“I couldn’t be sure what was said Lofty.”
“You know bloody well what was said so ya do, ya cunt. I know by the big thick head on ya.”
“I swear to God I don’t.”
“SPIT IT OUT!”
Tensions grew then the second Loftus cocked back his fist and squared up to Tommy. Like Elmer Fudd he was with the big wide eyes and gargantuan red face.
“Lamp the head on Loftus.” someone shouted. “He’s about to bursht.”
“He has a face like a slapped arse.”
“All he’s missing now is the hat, the gun, the brown coat and the bit’a steam to come flying out of his ears. Haha.”
“Lofty please. Please. I don’t want any trouble.”
It was a panicky bit’a business now this. Real panicky. Loftus was a strong boy ya see. A fuckin brute of a mush for his age. If Daddy ever saw him he’d say he was a bull thick ignorant sort of a cunt, or something to that affect. Or an absolute ape of a child, which he absolutely was. Tommy Conboy on the other hand, the nemesis, was none of these things in any capacity. Poor Tommy. He was but a wisp of a creation. A wisp of a creation with a big mouth and spectacular acne; much known to the rest of us as Pizzaface or Spot The Chancer, because he was that. Despite this – his shortcomings, Tommy still had an arrogance to him. He had a gall. A neck. Actually, someone once said he was neck from the arse up and they were spot on. What’s worse, is that the lad could go through his whole life almost ignorant to the fact. Not good. Do you realise how dangerous that can be if one is not properly equipped to deal with the ramifications of such behaviour? It’s like a death sentence or something very close to it. One of the lads, Joey Morley, once said that “Tommy talks a big game, the biggest, but the same lad wouldn’t fight sleep if he was fuckin paid to do it by the tele.” And you know something, I’d have to agree with him.
“SPIT IT OUT.” Loftus roared. “SPIT IT OUT OR I’LL FUCKIN BREAK YA IN HALF.”
“It’s hearsay.”
Corcoran laughed at Loftus then but Loftus, in his dyer fit of rage, was quick to face him, much to Tommy’s delight.
“Oh thank Christ for that.”
“HEY CORCORAN. DON’T YOU be mentioning my oul lady. You ringpiece.”
“She’s a beautiful woman, that’s all I said, relax will ya!”
“Coz I’ll rip the head clean off your damn shoulders if you do it again, ok?”
“Go for it horsebox. Try and stop me. You should be flattered.”
“A child is all you are. A God damn child. And us here trying to have an intellectual conversation like adults, like. . like men.”
“I’m on a roll baby.”
The place erupted.
“Corcoran don’t start, ok? Don’t make me bring your sister Charlotte into this. Miss ‘Botched Implants’ herself. Let that be enough now yeah? I don’t want this to go any further ok SO DON’T MAKE ME FUCKING DO IT!”
The place fell down silent again. Corcoran stared at Loftus and said nothing for a while. Because of the remark, Big Boy Corcoran would bury his big head deep into his arms and cry like a little wimp, like someone half his size and age.
Crying in such a way that, to look at him, you’d swear he was just after committing some woeful, heinous crime against a family member or something. As an accident like. But because the lad was half fuckin stupid – I mean there was a bit of a lag in him – the whole thing was only catching up with him now, hitting home, and because of that all he could do was ball his eyes out like a crazy person.
“What was only hitting home now?”
“The severity of his actions, however accidental, and the grim trajectory of his fate because of said actions.”
The comment had got him good and rightly so. It was the ultimate cheap shot from Loftus. Probably the lowest one could go with him. “AHA SEE.” said Loftus, shouting now. “I knew that’d quieten ya. You prick. Go back home now to Dolly why don’t you with her big fake infected arse. Jolene. Jolene. Jolene. JOLEEENE.”
Joe Morris stepped in then and told Loftus to calm the hell down.
“Hey Loftus. Calm the hell down.”
“He started it didn’t he, bringing my dear and lovely looking mother into it, he should’ve known better.”
“I know he should’ve known better. But leave him be now ya? The damage is done. You’ve gone and hurt him.”
“Oh have I yeah!?”
“Yes. You have!”
“Well screw him, he’s only a big willy head.”
Noel McGuire let a roar out of him then “AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH” and it frightened the bloody piss out of us all.
“What in the Jaysus was that?” he goes. “Did someone throw a a pencil at me?”
“YES. IT WAS ME. WHAT YOU GONNA DO ABOUT IT?”
“Damn you Finnerty. I’mma get you when you least expect it.”
“Eat badger dick.”
And just like that the room was alive again with endless abuse and chartless chatter that bounced and shot around the place like a thing on drugs.
“I just wanted to get your attention is all.”
“That hurt though babez! What’s the problem?”
“You owe me 50 cent is all. I’d like it back please.”
“I’ll give it to you tomorrow.”
“Hey Duffy?”
“But you said that to me yesterday!??”
“What is it man?”
“Will ya go away from around me, I said I’ll give it back to ya and that’s the end of it.”
“Duffy, can I get a fag off you later on? Afterwards like?”
“I’ve only two fags left Spud.”
“A drag or two then? Please.”
“Yeah ok. Meet me in the bushes after.”
“Here, why am I always picked last at football training? I’m always on the B Team?”
“You’re on the B Team because there’s no fuckin C Team. Now shush.”
“I have to say .” said Eoin. “I’m a bit worried about it now. It just won’t wash off like.”
“How do ya mean it won’t wash off?”
“It’s really stuck on there. Like glue.”
“Then get it checked ya clown!”
“I think I might have to do that.”
“You should definitely get it looked at.”
“The discolouration is also worrying. It’s making the whole thing look funny. And don’t get me started on the smell. YUCK.”
“EEEEEWWW! What is it anyways?”
“My cheese.”
“Your what. . .?”
“We all have it, don’t we?.”
“HEY LADS. GET A LOAD OF THIS! EOIN HERE HAS A SMEGGY FLUTE!”
”EOIN HAS WHAT??”
The room shuddered to a violent halt as this mighty declaration travelled far and wide through the floors and walls of the school with the same authoritative force as the main bell itself, and anyone who had been previously doing something was now doing nothing at all. Standing still with mouth agape. And you could see it on his face now – Eoin – the instant dread and defeat as it traipsed over him like a slow shawl of pure shame. THERE WAS SIMPLY NOTHING MORE THAT COULD BE DONE. The lad’s genitalia was riddled with Stilton and now everyone knew it.
“Ah Jesus Cally.” Eoin goes. “I told you that in confidence.”
Cally was laughing hard into Eoin’s pimpled face now. “Well Eoin.” he goes. “I wouldn’t have told me that if I were you. HAHAHA. You dope. What’s wrong with ya?”
At that the Callymeister jumped up onto his rickety desk and roared it out once more for everyone to hear: “HEY LADS GET A LOAD OF THIS, EOIN HERE HAS A SMEGGY FLUTE! HE SHALL NOW BE KNOWN AS THE SMEGGMASTER 9000.” And of course we all split our sides laughing because it was one of the funniest/saddest things we had ever heard, and then in fantastic unison we all sang: “”EOIN IS A DIRT BOY, EOIN IS A SMEGGY BOY, EOIN IS A DIRT BOY, EOIN IS A SMEGGY BOY!”” and my goodness it was terrific. Eoin a’course didn’t partake in the singsong. He was too miserable for it. Too embarrassed. The boy be straight up smeggy ya dig?
“Fuck sake Cally. Why’d you have to say anything at all? I could bloody well die now because of this.”
“Ah come on Eoin for fuck sake. We’re only having a laugh man. Lighten up. It’s Friday for crying out loud. We made it through another week. Aren’t you happy? WAHEY!!”
Cally then offered his hand out peacefully to Eoin and said: “Here, are we still friends lad? I’m sorry if I upset you. Ok? I suppose I was just trying to show off in order to make ME feel better about my own self.”
But Eoin was reluctant. Of course he was. He would take his time here, weighing the situation up for what it was – still traumatised – and we all watched on like starved birds in a nest, sweating like fuckin mad, only because we weren’t too sure about Eoin or the things he was capable of. The lad, in fairness, was a bit of an enigma. He could’ve been a silent assassin for all we knew. And what if he had combat chops? Combat chops that were far superior to anything the rest of us could do. What if, one day, he took a daft notion and decided to kill the lot of us with a fucking stapler or something? I mean, come on. That wouldn’t be ideal now would it? I don’t think so. A poor start to the weekend you might say. Oh yes, a real poor start to the weekend.
“Yeah ok.” he eventually goes. “We are still friends. Go on outa that.”
And so the two lads shook hands like men and there were no hard feelings about any of it and very soon it was all forgotten about. PHEW. But that was normal for us. That was reality. That was every single day. Every single class. Every. Single. Day.
And good they were at it too; the lads. Slick as old boots when it came time to scrap and tough as wrought iron when it got any ways heated – as all practitioners of that kind ought to be; especially now, when the order of the day was to sort out all the big affairs in broad daylight before the so called ‘administration’, whom (let’s face it) were quiet easy to slip by undetected, and ‘Fat Cow Face’ here was no exception, for she had blamed the entirety of our moochings on a small breeze that was trying to negotiate its way in through a small crack in the door and that suited us rightly so it did. We were now as good as invisible in this world and I gotta say there was a lot to be said for such freedom.
ANYWAYS, there I was in my new seat minding my own business when one of the lads, out of nowhere, asks me if I was “comfortable” and “happy”. He said it in this very degrading way as well and to be honest, I didn’t much care for it.
“Are you happy there now, Benny?” he goes. “Yeah? Are you having the best experience of your life up there now in that new seat of yours?”
And I told him straight out that I was, that I was very comfortable, and for no reason at all he prodded me in the back of the neck with one of his pencils and started laughing at me. BASTARD. It hurt like a mother fucker so it did but get this; I didn’t move. Not an inch. I didn’t even blink, or flinch, out of spite; and this made him very wary of me. I became Eoin for a split second and boy how good it felt. He sensed this danger out’a me anyways and fucked off soon afterwards.
“It’s nothing personal John Joe.” I says to him. “I swear to God. It’s just, I have other things on my mind today. You’ll see what I mean in just a minute.”
John Joe ‘The Brave’ stood up then and silenced the room by raising his hand and everyone stopped to listen. “Shush lads” he goes. “I think O’Brien here is going to do something mental.”
“Sure O’Brien is always mental.”
“Yeah.”
“Sit down ya clem!”
“Tell us a joke there John Joe & stop your messin.”
“Yeah go on JJ, let’s get a good slag goin.”
But John Joe shook his hand. Like this. Demanding silence. And with a bit of a quiver in his voice he said: “No lads really. I’m fuckin serious. I think O’Brien here is going to do something unbelievable in a minute. WATCH.”
And just like that – click – all heads turned in my direction.
“You’d be damn right there John Joe boy.” I says to him.
“You are bang on the money and not half as stupid as these pricks here make you out to be.”
And he was like “Whaaaaaaat?”
“You see boys.” I says. “I happen to have a slight qualm with this thing, this beast, this filthy fascist, that’s stood gorging before me, BEFORE US, here this afternoon. For I have good reason to believe boys, that SHE, and only she, is the reason I am without my precious dark chocolate today!”
And that’s all it took. My boys, my dear sweet boys, would go quiet on me upon hearing this news. But, I suppose, what else could they do? Nothing really. Nothing. Except listen. In fairness, this wasn’t an easy piece of information to get. Of course it wasn’t. If anything it was BIG INFORMATION to get and I knew that and now they knew it too.
Truth is, I had not meant to jar them. Not in the slightest. But get this. . .they were jarred, and some had even started to cry. Fuckers. Very much on the “jarry emotional” side they were now and what a fiasco this was becoming. And you could almost see it on their faces – the great change – and hear it in the way their jaws tightened back as this unknown temper, confusion and utter horror completely overrode them.
“The..the Bournsville you mean?” a voice asked.
“Yes Padraig.” I says. “The fucking Bournsville, and you my friend get top marks for guessing it. A round of applause for Padraig everybody. Clap, clap, clap, clap, clap. Very good. Well done. Well done.”
Padraig smiled at me then like a child because he didn’t get my razor sharp sarcasm and just like that – BOOM – the whole place turned sour, real sour, like a sucky sweet, and any jove that had been there initially swiftly drained itself down the gully hole. “GLUG, GLUG, GLUG, GLUG” and that was that.
“Jesus Henry Christ.” someone roared. “What an injustice. You worked hard to get that chocolate, didn’t you?”
“Yes Michael. I worked very hard to get it.”
“And she just took it? Just like that?”
“Just like that!”
“AHHHHH.”
“She’d have taken a lot less.” a voice proclaimed and I don’t know who said it but they were damn right. She WOULD indeed have taken a lot less. She’d have taken my shoes had they been a decent fit and possibly my underpants had she rocked a weapon.”
“WHAT A DISASTER!”
“Indeed.”
Some of the lads got out of their seats then and walked over to me; and like a gang of pissheads at a rural burial they offered up their deepest sympathies, one by one, with the hand out and head down. You know that number? And I thought to myself “Well Jesus Christ. How quintessentially Irish of ye lads. That ‘no eye contact’ thing is a fucking beaut. Never lose it yeah? It’s real old testament stuff. Class altogether. And being the arrogant little runt that I was, I rose up like a proud bastard child from America to meet and welcome them in as Fatso Giles, in all her blindness, ate through the commotion like some giddy, malnourished ferret. NOM NOM NOM NOM NOM NOM NOM. And then Peter Conry said
“Looks like there’ll be no exams returned today lads. Ye can rest and relax.”
She tried to hide it from us too. The eejit. EVERYTHING. But her timing was shocking. I mean, it was the worst display I had seen in a long, long time; swaying and dipping about the shop, going this way and that. .like a new born foal on an incline. Finding her legs. Yeah. And then someone shouted: “How on earth can she find her legs when she can’t even pin point the exact location of her minge due to her immense fatness? This “unstable leg” nonsense seems like a pointless side quest no?”
At this point we all thought she had gone completely fuckin bonkers. This whole charade, or whatever she was attempting to undertake, had become obvious to us now. Blatant as anything it was. Like a baboon’s arse in snow. Or worse. But get this: she thought she had managed to fool us.
“Pathetic.”
This of course was pure unadulterated gold I thought. Pure unadulterated gold. A fine showcasing of blissful ignorance. Possibly the finest. And on it went, over and over again, the chomping and the slurping and the squelching, and then, out of nowhere, she made a funny noise with her gob and started to cough a bit. It was a nasty thing. Thick and dry. Like she had been eating sand the whole time.
“Uh Oh?” a voice said. “What’s happening here?” And we all looked on.
It would appear a bit of grub had gotten lodged in her throat and we all froze on the spot like tight lipped ninjas as she stiffened up with the shear panic of it. Colm Moran, the school’s proudest lickarse, asked Giles then if she was alright and if he could get her some water and of course we all knew he didn’t give a bollox if she was alright or not. Clout is all the cunt was after. Clout and praise. The usual shite. But thank God for Patsy Byrne for he caught onto it quick, and taking young Colm like this – by the collar – he shoved him back down into his seat and said: “You stay there now and stop going on like that like a good lad or you’ll make yourself very sick.” And Colm was like “OKKAAAYY”
Anyways we stood there watching this ordeal, and being the sick pack of bastards that we were, we hoped and we prayed and we begged desperately for some kind of divine intervention – a miracle even – that’d maybe help her along a small bit.
“Come on God please.” we all shouted it.
“Hail Mary full of grapes.”
“Strike her down El Capitano. Strike her down.”
“YES YES!”
“With all your goodness and strength.”
“PREACH BROTHER. STRIKE HER DOWN.”
“So we may go home early.”
“SO WE MAY GO HOME TO FUCK!!”
“YES!”
“LADS LOOK. It’s happening lads. It’s actually happening. LOOK. LOOK!”
“OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD.”
Well, all I can say is. . . .the poor floorboards. We thought they’d surely buckle like paper beneath her massive heft. They didn’t though. Praise the Lord. We couldn’t believe it. Our dear sweet Mary was indeed having a choking fit and a fucking serious one at that. So serious that she twitched and spat and heaved herself about the place like some possessed oversized marionette, and we all watched on, laughing and screaming, jumping about, like a bunch of over stimulated piss flaps. I’d say if we had been a horny gang of chimpanzees we’d be throwing our shite at each other and everything. And enjoying it. After all, this was a celebration, and we were more than keen to make the most of it. Actually no, now that I think of it, that whole chimpanzee caper would never work. Not here anyways. For the simple fact that enough of the lads had already smelt like shite and lets face it, we needed not more of that. In my book you don’t want the ‘thick and smellys’ to be getting any more thick and smelly if you catch my drift. You need to keep that stuff at bay if at all possible. Anyways, there I go again, digressing like a mad yoke. Back to Giles.
All of this mayhem (with the choking and the spluttering) was happening right in front of us and I thought “That’s fuckin it. This bird is surely done for. If it keeps up like this, I literally won’t have to do anything.”
Suddenly an excited voice popped up from somewhere (I think it was Karl Burke. Actually no it was definitely Karl Burke) and said: “LADS. LISTEN. If this goes our way here today. IF THIS GOES OUR FECKIN WAY. I just want you all to know that I love you.”
What a lovely sentiment, and we all said it back to him, in unison: “WE LOVE YOU TO KARL. ALWAYS AND FOREVER BABEZ. MWAH.”
But in the end ladies and gents, of course, like all things good and promising, it didn’t happen for us.
“NOOOOOOOOO.”
“It just didn’t go our way.”
And because of this terribly sad fact, this hiccup, there would be no long drawn out hugs between us.
“Awwwwwwwwwh.”
And if there were to be no long drawn out hugs then there’d certainly be no more awkward, quasi-homosexual confessions of perpetual love. At least not yet anyways. The lads were frustrated now (rightly so) and had resorted to kicking the tables in front of their own in a protesty kind’a way. They figured this would kill the temper or make them happier somehow, but all it did in the end was leave them out of breath and with unmercifully sore shins.
“Ah to hell with this load of bullshit.” they roared. And “FACK MY LIFE. I WANT TO DIE.”
“Really. You want to die?”
“What?”
“Did you just say you wanted to die? Is that what you said?”
“Yes.”
“And do you?”
“Erm well no. I don’t want to die no.
“Then why did you say that?”
“Wha?”
“Why did you say you wanted to die?”
“I’m not really sure. For dramatic affect I suppose. The heat of the moment got to me. I said to myself I better say something a little bit mental here now because of this whole situation with your wan choking and surviving and all of that. You know what bud, actually, never mind. I was only looking for attention. Like a spa.
You see folks, in the end, the tyrant Giles (a.k.a Big Titty Kitty) had somehow managed to clear (whatever IT was) out all by herself. By some miracle she got it out, and it looked easy, and I say fair play to her because things like that don’t just happen at the click of a fat finger. You can’t teach such class unfortunately BUT, being the classy, classy broad that she was, didn’t she turn on a dime – remember this was her instinct now – and hock the little nuisance up onto the blackboard for us all to fucking see. .
“EEEEEEEEEWWWWWW.”
And a’course, she did it with such grace, like it were nothing to her at all, and that’s where the dirty thing would stay apparently – taunting us for the rest of the damn day.
UP UNTIL NOW I had never seen phlegm breath. Or even give off the impression of breathing. Believe me when I say it, there was actual fucking steam coming off of this thing. It made sounds. It was yellow and green, black in spots, and it pulsated like it had a full on heart and nervous system wathin’in’it. I mean, how on earth is that possible? Like HOW? My head would spin with curiosities around this topic. Too many curiosities to count, or even mention in fact. But anyways, look, to hell with it, seeing as it’s Friday, I’ll give you a quick peak into one of the scenarios that stood out to me most. Why not. I was officially obsessed. Here it is: Let’s just say, for example, in a hypothetical world, that we left this THING alone for years – for 18 years to be exact. Now, after such time had passed, I wondered, would we, as people, be forced then to treat it like it were one of us? One of our own?
Make sense?
And what if, during the course of 18 years, this woeful thing had managed to stay healthy and alive, and what if it grew bigger and stronger and more intelligent with each passing day – would it be eligible all of a sudden to a fucking vote in this country? WOULD IT? Would it be allocated this privilege as if it were an actual, real person? I’m telling you, I would spend hours, days almost (if I had them), debating this scenario in my little hypothetical world. I saw myself going through sleepless nights, thinking about this, wondering that. .like a true detective. Asking myself HOW and WHY. WHEN?? Only to finally drum up, out of pure fucking boredom, the perfect little living setup this THING would have if it were a proud voter/person in our national system. Here’s what it would look like. A day in the life for
This Dirty Little Bollix
He’d get up in the morning,
have a stretch,
fart a few times,
roll over,
kiss the wife,
smash the wife (because well, somebody has to),
then he’d go downstairs,
make breakfast,
take a piss,
feed the dogs,
walk the dogs,
drink coffee,
brush his teeth,
wash himself,
pick an outfit,
dress himself,
brush his teeth again,
go outside,
forget keys,
FUCK
go back inside,
retrieve keys,
head back outside,
get in the car,
start the car,
light a cigarette and
drive to the nearest voting centre,
where there’d be no queues whatsoever and a wide range of
delicious refreshments available – baked goods, teas & coffee etc.
I’d think about this phlegmy little man (lets call him JOE) and his made up little life for a long, long time only to come to the following conclusion:
YES.
“DAMN IT ANYWAYS!” said a voice from the back of the class. “SO CLOSE” and we all thought it. The phlegmy regurgitation, or (Joe), was watching us now in real time. But he wasn’t just watching us. Oh no. He was issuing bribes now and taunting us, the fucker, with the odd gang sign. South central Los Angeles sort’a stuff that would inevitably put everyone on edge. But did the boys do anything to quell the threat in that moment? Did they fuck. They would stand there just, the whole lot of them, still as anything, in total awe of the spectacle; and instead of helping they’d simply stare me down blankly as if waiting for my lawful command to rise up and do something. Kill IT perhaps.
“What now boss?” Duffy goes.
“Yeah, what’s the contingency plan, mush? Cunthooks here is still breathing and this yoke on the blackboard is giving me the super gawks. I might pass out in a minute.”
So I told them straight out with no reservations: “We are down on our luck lads.” I says. “She is one of the most resilient dictators I have ever seen, and for us to deal with her correctly, I’d say we have no choice but to bring out the BIG GUNS. Do you all understand?”
After this, I wouldn’t say anything for another minute or two. I’d stand there looking at my team of men with my chin cocked high and my hands on my hips. I had wanted the first part of my speech to well and truly land with them. I needed them to get it. And whenever I felt they had a grasp of it, whatever IT was, I’d top it all off by saying: “In this pursuit my dear lads, there will be scenes of spectacular violence that some of you may find disturbing and offensive. Now, having said that, I also know that a lot of you won’t be affected by the proceedings, at all at all, and that’s fine too. Clearly you have stomachs strong enough to deal with the pressure and that, for me, is absolutely stunning so God bless ye.
“BUT IN THIS PURSUIT.” I says. “No matter what side of the fence you find yourself on. Be it left or right. Good or bad. You are either with me or against me. There is no in between. I repeat, THERE IS NO IN BETWEEN. You can either be part of the solution. Yes? Or you can fill your little booteens being part of the problem. So. . . .what’s it gonna be? . . .Choose wisely.”
In that moment nobody spoke. NOBODY. How strange. And I, like an evil general, couldn’t help but smile at their silence because for me: It Meant Everything. It signified something. A COMMITMENT to the cause.
DISCIPLINE.
RESPECT.
LOVE.
But most of all: LOYALTY. One of the boys down beside the radiator stood up then and said: “My Liege. There will be no drastic movements made against you here today. No ill wills or convoluted motives. No last minute protests or slanderous deterrents. You must remember sir, at the end of the day, we are all friends here. Furthermore we are your friends. In this effort, we are here to serve and not defy and I can promise you that. WE can promise you that. Right boys?”
“SIR YES SIR!”
Honestly reader, I can hardly put it into words just how beautiful this was for me to hear. This near Pledge Of Allegiance. It was majestic and poignant and soft. An all encompassing sentiment. It settled me so it did. And in that moment I thought myself a very lucky boy, almost ungrateful, for I had never once realised the immense fortune I had in having such sound comrades around me. . .UNTIL. . .a single sheepish little voice sprung up from the back of the class and said: “What in the name of fuck is going on here anyways? Why ya’ll talking like twats? Ya’ll know ye ain’t that smart right? Is it drugs or somethin? Also, how can we help?”
“YES.” said a reinforcer. “Can someone please explain to myself and Nigel exactly what’s going on here, lest we kill each other out of boredom.”
“Or frustration.”
“What exactly is it you want us to do?”
QUICK NOTE: The lads asking all the questions here (Nigel & Tim) were musical drama heads by day and closeted crossdressers by night but, lets face it, they weren’t fooling anybody. These boys were, in essence, two left shoes. Odd as fuck they were. Odd as fuck and very. .shall we say “Out There’, BUT GET THIS: They were also very loyal and respectful.
Now, this is important.
For the most part these boys kept to themselves and operated way way beyond the fringes of whatever we were up to. For example: You’d never catch any of them fighting or blaggard’n. Ever. You’d catch them frolicking alright, and kissing, but never swinging for blood. And it’s not because they didn’t want to, or even know how to – they just didn’t have that natural GET UP & GO flavour to them. That AGGRESSION. As I said, they were of a particular sort.
So to hear them speak like that, in the way they did, about something they knew fuck all about, with that level of interest and support (however fucking useless it might be in the end) was a very refreshing thing to behold and a great leap forward for mankind. Their Father’s would be proud I thought to myself. Real proud ya. IYKYK?. . .END OF NOTE.
This was a special moment, as I said. A very special moment. And wiping the tears out of my eyes I told them straight up – my wonderful new crew of misfits – just how happy it made me to hear such unbridled enthusiasm for a leader’s cause, and then I said: “Right so comrades, I don’t care if you’re straight or gay or confused or otherwise, we are gonna do this, this, this, this and this. UNDERSTOOD?”
And they all shouted “AYE, AYE CAPTAIN.”
And when that was all done, when I had finally wiped away the last of my small tears, I thanked each of them dearly for keeping their mouths shut and their unwavering cooperation for it had been a spectacularly useful thing during these past few minutes when everything had gotten notably hectic. I told them, in a private sort’a way, just how much they meant to me and how much I loved and valued them as individuals, and whenever they told me to “fuck off” or “go away” I’d simply take my foot and boot them up the hole or into the bollox a few times until they copped on to themselves.
BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG.
Sounds easy right? Sounds fun. Well, get this – it was easy, and it was fun. Your boy here was NOT FOOLING AROUND. Your boy here NEVER fools around. Hell I’d kick those bitches in the nuts all day long if I had to.
BING. BANG. BOOM & No Cash Required.
Moments later, when all was settled and put to bed, when the lads, my fucking lads, had finally calmed themselves down and I could at last feel
some ease upon my heart: Our Delicious Ceremony Could Begin.
“How we gonna go about this?” a voice asked. “She’s literally right there in front of us.”
“Hey four eyes. We could be five doors down the way, in woodwork, and she would still be in front of us. What do you expect from a house but gables. Christ above. And here’s me thinking you lads with the specs were smart things.”
“We are smart things.”
“Ye are in yer bollix. Relinquish that membership LIVELY, coz I’m telling you now you’re thick as shite.”
“That’s such a horrible thing to say. So horrible I could almost cry.”
Paulie McDermott, God bless his cotton socks, hadn’t the thickest skin in the world. Even now, in his teens, the lad possessed all the fragile tendencies of a toddler. You had to go easy around Paulie, always, or be mindful of what you said in his company. Cushioning (or whatever the fuck its called) was a big part of his life. He needed this emotional ‘cushioning’ for reasons beyond our knowledge. A little younger than myself, Paulie had what we called Super Intellect. Autistic level stuff. Without a doubt. That boy, I swear, knew stuff about things that no-one anywhere could ever know about and I fucking mean that. And while he was this in spades he was also –
“Thick as shite and totally fucking useless in every other aspect of his life.”
“Now. Imagine that happening to ya.”
I don’t mean useless in a derogatory sense here; not at all. It was never like that. In actual fact, the way Paulie went about his uselessness was actually quite endearing to say the least. There was a magic to it. A beauty. An honest charm. And in my head it would be that very unassuming trait that’d save him one day from something truly shocking – touch wood and God forbid and all the rest of it.
BUT.
When he asked me on this day to fight another one of his battles for him, I sort’a lost the plot, and in response all I could do was say: “Paulie. I love you buddy. I really do. But for the love of God above can you please just figure something out yourself for once in your fucking life? PLEASE!”
In defence of his case, Paulie stuck a finger high into the air and opened his mouth to speak, but I was having none of it.
“DON’T YOU DARE TALK.” I says to him. “I am done fucking spoon feeding you, Paulie. In fact, I am sick of it. Look at the job that’s in front of me here now. In front of US. Do you realise what’s at stake? I don’t think you do lad to be honest. I don’t think you do. You really ought to straighten yourself out now and grow a pair a balls. FAST. You’ll need them through every single stage of your life. I’d say you need them now more than ever. Why? Coz things be gettin wild up in here son. Shit gonna go down in a minute. Shit gonna go down to Chinatown. Yeeeee-hawwwww. So if you need to leave the room please do. Be my guest and no hard feelings whatsoever. Otherwise sit down, shut your gob and enjoy the fun that’s about to ensue. Do you understood what I’m saying to you?”
There was an odd pause out of Paulie then. Naturally enough I suppose. The boy had been shocked rightly by the episode just gone. Stunned by the so called “Lecture”. He’d stand back a bit and wouldn’t say anything for a second or two, cogs turning, then (with voice quivering) he said: “Ok, Benny. I do sincerely apologise for my lack of self respect and integrity. Especially in this matter. I’ll try and find my balls sometime or somewhere. Perhaps I dropped them down the side of the couch or left them in the hot press. If it’s ok, I would very much like to erm. . .like to stay with you all here if that’s alright? I eh. .I don’t want to go home right now, for reasons I can’t discuss. I can’t go home right now is the thing. Even if I wanted to. But I promise I’ll buck myself up. Ok? I will. I’ll do that for sure. Alright.”
“It’s for your own sake, lad, ya? It’ll do you the world of good.”
“You think it will change me?”
“I swear it will. On my Mother’s life.”
“Well alright then. I’ll get to work. I’ll make you proud.”
The room was quiet now. Real quiet. Almost eerie in a way. So quiet and eerie you could just about hear the class next door and everything they were doing. It sounded like fun so it did. There was craic and chatter happening and lots of it too. Pricks. By the sounds of it, they had the school television in and were watching some kind of funny programme about farm yard accidents and safety and all of that. “THIS WAS A FREE CLASS” I thought to myself. It had to be. Lucky sods. A free class was the ultimate, ultimate indulgence. For lads like us, in a school as grim and as shit as this, a free class was honestly as good as getting the shift off a half decent bird in a handball alley. It was perhaps even better.
Question was, did I envy them? These boys next door and their rights to freedom? Of course I didn’t. Are you crazy? We had no time for pointless entertainment like that. You see reader, we had much bigger fish to fry in our own room here, and it just so happened that our so called ‘fish’ looked a lot more like our friend Mary Agnes Giles than it did a piece of Hake. The oil was ready. It was fuckin sizzling baby. All we had to do now was drop the bitch into it and wait for her to soak.
“I’ll take the lead from here boys.” I says. “You just sit back, relax and enjoy the ride. Here goes nothing yeah. And also everything I stand for.”
Three. Two. One.
“HEY LARDASS.” I goes to her.
“Huh?”
“Yeah I’m talking to you muthafucka. I’m onto your enterprise ok? And your business. I know exactly what you’ve been doing to me and how it all works. So here’s a bit of advice: Next time, when you’re hungry, why don’t you buy your own fucking Bournsville instead of stealing mine. Comprendé?”
GASP! SOMEWHERE A CAR SCREECHES TO A HALT. CAN YOU HEAR IT?
The statement was, in essence, what sit down is to a dog or an eviction form would mean to a ‘soon to be’ homeless family and in that moment, for a split second, I thought I was a Spanish Matador called Guillermo who had just stupidly called out the biggest and most baddest bull in all of Pamplona.
“Viva el toro, pero por favour maten a este.”
“OLÉ.”
The knees went on her. The left first, BOOM. Then the right, CLANK, which was fierce interesting I thought. Fierce interesting.
“Why was it interesting?” Declan Varden asked.
“I couldn’t tell you, Declan my boy. “For some reason I’ve been a long time curious to see how something like that would go and, that’s how it went. The biologist in me I suppose.”
“Well. I find it rather dull.”
“You’re rather dull. What kind of fuckin last name is Varden anyway? It sounds silly.”
“HEY. MY FATHER WAS A GOOD MAN.”
“Your father was a degenerate gambler who jumped himself in the end, but ok. And that’s not mentioning his brother hai.”
“What about the brother?” asked Noel McArdle. “Tell us hai.”
“The Brother Varden. The Priest. Or Fr. Selfie McSoothy as he is more commonly known. Caught red handed molesting the balls off himself in his own car. Parked up. Roadside. In broad daylight. Can you imagine? Feckin kids knocking around and everything. Ice creams. Sandals. You know the craic.”
“Down by the beach was it?”
“Down there yeah, by Maggie’s Pier.”
“I think I remember that actually. It was in the paper wasn’t it?”
“Whether it was in the paper or not I couldn’t tell you. But you gotta admit, the headlines practically write themselves.”
“I suppose they do.”
“I even came up with a few of my own just now, for the craic. Christ, I could’ve been a fucking millionaire lads. Imagine seeing this in The Sun or Farmer’s Journal.”
“Go for it.”
“PRIEST BASHES BISHOP IN ROLE REVERSAL.”
“And if that doesn’t tickle you, how about. .
“LOCAL PREACHER OBEYS THE BIBLE & LOVES THYSELF.”
“And finally, my personal favourite. . .
“WANKING HABIT”
ANYWAYS, Madame Giles, clearly distressed by the situation, shimmied slowly out from behind her desk. The whole thing obviously an ordeal to her now, clearly, an utter panic, and you could tell that was the case just by looking at the way she moved her fat ass around the place.
It was a terribly, terribly, sad sight to be fair, watching a grown woman grab onto herself like that. It confused me a bit in the end. It really did. Just the way she clutched onto her sagging breasts and held onto her fat folds like they were putty filled stress toys. No shame at all. NO SHAME I SAY. I had to take a step away from it, just for a minute. You see, from a spectator’s point of view, as I looked on, it was as if the entirety of her existence now revolved around the preservation of her ginormous boobs and nothing else.
“How strange.”
“Either that or she had an awful fancy after herself.”
“But Ben, may I ask a question?”
“What is it Marky?”
“Was that not the whole point of today’s exercise though? To eliminate her.”
“It was indeed Marky ya.”
“Well I believe a CONGRATULATIONS is in order. You finally got the beast after all these years. Your Grand Master Plan Can Officially Be Set In Motion.”
And so it was. Thank you, Marky. Indeed we were, as a group, in Official Motion. It felt good I gotta say. Real damn good. And seeing all this new commotion Patrick O’Dwyer laughed out loud and shouting up to her, he said: “Are you scratchin your tits miss? What are ya at?”
“FINALLY!” we all thought. “A bit of sun!”
“Where’s the Mariachi band when you need one eh? Is this not cause for celebration?”
THIRTY SECONDS LATER The Beast Mary fell down onto the floor in front of me. BANG! And she was flailing her legs like a mad thing and whinging like a scorched boar and if I remember correctly she lost a shoe in the process and I recall being very annoyed by that.
Honestly, I’m not sure why it annoyed me so much. I just didn’t care much for the manner in which she buckled, ya know. It wasn’t what I had in mind the other night at the dinner table when I was planning all this out. Ah yes, that lovely night at home with mam and dad, I’ll never forget it; when we had those delicious pork ribs with the onion mash and gravy.
There was just, a lack of commitment to her demise I felt. A shameful un-resolve. In all my life I had never seen a person look so desperate and pathetic doing an activity. It repulsed me to such a degree that all I wanted to do was gag. On the spot. Yet, on the other hand oddly enough, watching her ‘fight back’ was a real treat in a totally fucked up sort’a way. A REAL TREAT. I thought to myself: “Surely to God this can’t be easy for her either, with all the spluttering and coughing she’s doing. Cripes. I’m no mortician now but, by all accounts, dying in this manner is simply not as straight forward as it seems.” I had to address it. For Educational Purposes.
“This clearly isn’t a lights out affair, lads.” I says to them. “She’ll go out slowly today this one. Like a dimmer switch. Until WE say otherwise.”
What bugged me most though was her lack of decision making for the simple fact that THERE WAS NONE. As smart and all as the lady was, she couldn’t seem to fathom the severity of her situation. She almost seemed passive about it. Like she half didn’t care. And this would, in turn, make her look like a right fucking clown which was, in all respects, a cardinal offence coz let’s face it: Who likes clowns? For me personally (and I’ve always thought this), there is nothing more insufferable and unattractive in this world than someone who can’t make their mind up. Like, what are you doing luv, eh? Are you coming or are you going? Are you in or out? Up or down? Tell me. Quick. Please. Is it food you’re after? Is it? Or water? Is it because you’re depressed or something? ARE YOU DEPRESSED? Is that what it is? Depression. Can you still arouse yourself? Also, who won Italia 90? Could you tell me that one? I bet ya you can’t. And what’s the difference between your arse and your elbow? Hello?. .Hello? . .Can you speak at all?. . . .Is there anybody out there?
“MAKE UP YOUR FUCKIN MIND WILL YOU?” I says to her. “FOR CHRIST’S SAKE. COZ WE HAVEN’T GOT ALL DAY. I’VE GOT RERUNS OF KEENAN & KEL TO CATCH UP ON GOD DAMMIT.
This behaviour ladies and gents, as a final note, especially in fools, this kind of indecisiveness (for ME at least), can be eye wateringly frustrating can it not?
SO WHAT DOES ONE DO?
Well, you can take the situation into your own hands, can’t you? That’s what I had to do here with this one, and this is what happened. Brace yourself:
In the end, the practicality of the mission, would you believe, was actually rather easy and would involve me leaving my chair, going to her desk, grabbing her by that big lump she called a head and screaming into her face until she, I dunno, felt something (?)
Of course I would do all this perfectly, with tremendous fluidity and pleasure. And guess what, I even got down on one knee because Mamma didn’t raise no thug; and when I was ready, I leaned in, right into her ear, and I told her straight out, with great ferocity, to make her fucking mind up, FAST, because time was a precious thing and we certainly did not have a lot of it. . . . .I even said please and thank you.
“Like a good boy.”
“AND JUST AS I PREDICTED. . .”
“What?
“She didn’t resist my efforts.”
“No she did not.”
“You wanna know what she did instead?”
“We already know but tell us again.”
“She slumped down onto the ground even more. . .”
“BOOM.”
“Unconscious I think.”
“YES.”
“Lights slowly fading.”
“HALLELUJAH.”
“Like a big sack a shite.”
“Jesus those floorboards. . .”
“Don’t talk to me.”
“They made an awful racket didn’t they? Any time she moved.”
“Brutal. They need changing.”
“They’ll never change. Not after today.”
“Is that it so?” a voice asked. “Is that her gone? Are you away Mary?”
This was a fantastic question in fairness and a very hard thing to call. From that moment on, a lot of the lads would watch the door handle for fear it would turn while others, the real delinquents, didn’t care for any such nonsense. Of course, I was the latter. A moment later, after she had settled, she would make this utterly grim attempt to save herself by grabbing on to the leg of her desk from the flatness of her back. “Tut tut”. It was an impossible manoeuvre, we all knew that. But still, no matter what we did, we couldn’t stop ourselves from laughing. These “flamboyant thoughts” and “hopeful dreams” were like something out of a comedy strip, we all thought it; and I doubt she even heard us but still the question floated around the room: “Will she do it or not?”
“GO ON O’BRIEN.” they all roared. “YOU’RE CLOSEST. DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!”
The noise was getting to me now so it was. In every capacity. Both inside and out. The pressure was REAL and because of this my head had started to spin a bit. All of a sudden, I had found it difficult to wrangle my thoughts together. Impossible almost. No matter what I did, I just couldn’t seem to make sense of them. Or find them even. I wasn’t asking for much I don’t think, in this bout of sensory overload. All I wanted was to have them there in front of me, in a straight and clear line, like soldiers, but what was I getting? Not that let me tell you. Anything but. These things, whatever they were – “my thoughts” – were like flies now, or better yet, unruly children in a fucking shopping centre; illusive, giddy and totally unpredictable. They would break my heart after a while so they would. Break my fucking heart to the point where I didn’t know what I was going to do next.
You see, our time was NOW. Yes. Everything was happening RIGHT NOW. Judgement Day was officially upon us. And with that effort came big responsibilities and monumental efforts. I had to make a decision. I DID. ME. NOBODY ELSE. YOUR BOY HERE. BENNY OF THE O’BRIENS. And guess what. . . .I had to make it FAST.
“Lads, please.” I goes. “Please. Can ye pipe down for just a few seconds? I’ve a bit of thinking to do here and I’m finding it difficult.”
I would look at her again for a while – The Beast – my brain going mad trying to work out the intricacies surrounding her and her situation. My Assessment: Well, as bad and all as she was, the woman still had a significance. Of course she did. Like any other person, she was an important fixture within the workings of the world whether we liked it or not. She was a mother, a wife, a sister, a daughter, a grandmother, an aunt, a friend, a very questionable teacher, and so much more. She didn’t ask to be here in this life. Heck, none of us did. Yet, here we are. All clumped together in this small, smelly classroom in a big, run down secondary school in the middle of fucking nowhere. I, Benny O’Brien, am here today by my own necessity. Get it? So are my boys. We are here because we need to learn, and learn we must, and learn we will. Beastiality Brains on the other hand is here not because she loves it; does she fuck love it, dealing with us pricks everyday. But rather, she chose this path. And this choice of hers is no fickle matter either let me tell you. It’s driven directly by something else. A little thing called – Necessity. Necessity. Necessity.
BUT GUESS WHAT, my dark chocolate, I quickly realised, was My Necessity. Ok? I needed that stuff. For health reasons, and, and, and other stuff. But what did she go and do?
“What did she do, lad? Go on, tell us again.”
“She Fuckin Stole It From Me.”
“Yes she did.”
“She Ate It All Up. BY CHOICE & WITH NO FEAR.”
It suddenly occurred to me that however unmanageable the situation was from her end, the solution to it from ours was very easy and straight forward and involved me just moving her desk out of the way, just a touch, so she couldn’t reach it. “AH YES. OF COURSE. BINGO.”
“Three inches will do the trick.” I thought to myself. “Just think of your lad, Ben. Or smaller than that. Think of your lad at half mast. Do that ok. You won’t need much.”
And of course that’s what I did. Now, deep down in me, reader; I wish I could sit here and tell you about some elaborate story of some brilliant stunt we pulled together in order to achieve this thing. Something that involved months of planning, and faxes, blueprints, resignations, false promises, scandals, politics, affairs, sex, a sophisticated pulley system and high end mathematics but, of course, and as sure as I have a hole in my butt, we didn’t have any of those luxuries at our disposal. Such a complex attack sounds like something that would obliterate us fuckos instead of our intended target and we can’t be having that now can we? No, no, no, no. You see, around here, us boys, we like to honour our simple minds by keeping things utterly simple.
So, what did I do? I did what I said I’d do. I got my trusty little index finger and I reached him forward and I pulled that meagre desk away from HER, across the floor, and into my favour LIKE AN ABSOLUTE BOSSMAN. YOINK. Ta very much. And you know what else I did? Hey, hey, you wanna know what else I did? I counted those inches. Yes ma’am I did. I counted MY INCHES. Just to be sure. Because. I had to be calculated in this operation. In every conceivable direction. In my mind, you see, no other way would work. Simples. And when that was done, when our clearance had officially been secured using the simplest trick possible, I knew then that was it. She Was Perpetual Toast.
“HURRAAAYYYY” we all shouted.
“Well done.” said one of the lads. “If you ever run for President, you’ll have my vote.”
“Thank you.”
I was standing over the woman now like a pasty white Muhammed Ali. Poised and ready for another round of action. Just incase. But sadly, ever so sadly, it wasn’t meant to be. The threat had been totally neutralised and “thank goodness for that.” I thought. “Thank the Lord above, I can finally let my guard down a little.” and that’s just what I did.
From where I was positioned now it looked like The Beast was having an epiphany of sorts in her final moments of life. She was twitching and making funny noises; all of that business. Perhaps this was her life flashing before her eyes moment or something (an eerie phenomenon that happens to those who are about to meet Jesus Christ, or in our case Lucifer).
BUT HERE. I’ll never forget as long as I live what she did to me next. You know what she did. . .SHE LOOKED AT ME. THE DIVIL. She looked me right in the eyes, with no normal gaze I can assure you. This display was like nothing I had seen out of her before. EVER. Her two eyes were bright now all of a sudden, full of zest and sparkle. They were judging me, and for the first time in my life I could actually see that they were a really endearing hue of emerald green; a detail that had gone over my head for many, many years and God forgive me for saying it in this instance but. . .I found them to be kind’a beautiful. Eyes that were passing over into the abyss only moments ago were now full of expression, and vitality and venom and in that moment I felt very uncomfortable and very fucking judged indeed. I became frightened all of a sudden, to my core, and would get this hankering sensation in the pit of my stomach like I needed to shit. But fair play to the girl I say. Fair play. After all this commotion, she somehow managed to take one final swing at me and connect it. An admirable stroke, no question about it. A tidy sleight of hand that’d get me REAL GOOD. I was rattled beyond words now, and all I wanted to do, from that point on, was cry out for help and hug my Mother.
“What’s that Mary a stóir?” I says. “What are you trying to say to me? Blah blah you YOU FOOL. Blah Blah. I FECKIN HATE YOUUUUU.”
Sadly, I couldn’t make out everything she was trying to say to me. In fact, if I’m being honest, I don’t think she was trying to say anything particularly profound to me at all. She wasn’t able. Mumbling nonsense just. Poor pet.
“Nothing fuckin new there. She’s only a spoofer. I’d rather shite into my hands and clap than listen to her.”
“Ok Mary. That’s fine.” I says down to her. “Whatever you say. Whatever you say. We’re all here with you Mary. Ok. We’re all here with you.”
Thirty seconds later, after my ‘scare’ let’s say, we would have the wonderful pleasure of finally watching the two eyes peel back into her big head, and soon after that she just stopped moving altogether. Then, you guessed it – SILENCE.
“Is that her fully gone now?” we all wondered, in quiet. “Is she dead and all the rest of it? Are we free souls once again? Are we? ARE WE?”
Watching her go, I gotta say, was a fascinating spectacle. Now, I’m not saying it was good or bad. To be honest I didn’t really care. It was the image of her really that got to me more than anything else. The image of this big burly woman slumping down onto the floor, onto her back, like a cold child in winter, was a haunting thing to have to witness with all your mates hanging about but according to Jacky Mooney it was: “The best result we could’ve hoped for, so congratulations horsebox. You did it. WOOP.”
Duffy stood up then, and signalling with his head he said: “Hang on a second lads. Wait. What in the name of God is that?”
“What’s what, Duffman?”
“THAT.” he said. “THAAAAATT?” He was crinkling up his face now and pointing up at nothing. “Don’t you get it?”
“Get what ya mad bastard?”
Then it hit – WALLOP.
“OH DEAR GOD!”
I would soon grow envious of those without a nose as this killer waft of piss and shit rose up through the room and whacked us all in the face. Lord God Jesus, it was foul. And we didn’t expect it. Like lunatics, maniacs even, we looked about for the source but got nothing no matter what we did. Zero. Zilch. Then Macken spotted it from his desk – Hawkeye himself – the culprit; and who was it only Mary Giles herself. Of course it fucking was.
“I know where it’s coming from, lads.” he goes, pointing a finger down at the whale. “Get a load of this.”
“Did she just shit her knickers or something? The fuckin smell.”
“It’s worse than that, pal.”
“OH NO.”
Without our knowing, a thick and lifeless froth had started to build up and congeal around the sides of our darling’s mouth. It was as if the bile and shite in her stomach had used this fatal incident as a means to initiate some kind of mass exodus. I’d soon come to realise that THIS was a divine punishment for our actions and we’d just have to accept it.
“The Scour Chronicles Volume 2.” said someone then.
“Poop Fiction.” said another, and we all laughed.
Much like Joe (the phlegmy blob thing), this stuff had a real life of its own and made all kinds of strange and funny noises until it eventually overflowed and ran down the side of her tank like head.
Even if you wanted to, honestly, you couldn’t look away from this scene. Some of the lads were utterly speechless, others totally numb, as this concoction of piss and shit dripped off the edge of her ear into big puddles on the floor and Brendan Staunton, because of it, blew massive chunks into his bag and we all laughed hard and called him a ‘pussaaay’ as reams upon reams of snot and puke fell out of his nose and into his hands.
I told Brendan to clean up his mess QUICK and eventually he did with the sleeve of his jumper. Looking back at the exchange, I guess I shouldn’t have yelled at him the way I did. I said some real unsavoury things to be fair. Real unsavoury things. Nothing overly personal I don’t think but. .ya know. . .I guess I had just gone mad in the heat of the moment and all that. You see, in my mind we still had so many things to get done, and I had wanted the minutes we had left, My Fucking Minutes, to be respected. . . .That’s all it was.
“Thanks Brendan.” I says to him. “You’re one of the good guys. I’m sorry for saying those things.”
The time was 3:35pm and amusing us now were the few involuntary gags she’d let out as her system began to completely shut down; and we didn’t mind that did we lads? Not one bit. Each gag and twitch was merely a pat on the back for a job well done. Better than any medal, plaque or trophy. Or so we thought.
Eager for attention, some of the boys wondered in the moments after if they would be getting their picture taken at any stage by a professional to mark this fine occasion, like farmers do at local shows with their muscle bound bullocks; for it would be a “CRYING SHAME” they all said
“A CRYING FUCKIN SHAME”
if this whole thing here today were to go unnoticed. And of course they mulled it over again and again, and they thought and spoke long and hard of the repercussions and I must say some of them were really excited by the danger of it all, while some other lads (after a while) the scaredy cats, grew totally erratic at this eerie notion of sudden infamy.
3:39pm
THE GRANDE FINALE!
“Fuck me. Is that the time? Ok lads, let’s start wrapping this up.”
AT EXACTLY 3:40pm Boyler ‘The Curious’, seemingly done with the whole affair, roared “FUCK THIS”, ran up from the back of the class, and slammed the big heel of his Dock Marten boot into the side of Giles’s head.
“This was the GREAT BIG FINISHER. . .and Boyler was like a drugged up mule.”
“Indeed he was. Or better yet, a man without his marbles.”
A barrage that was both frightening and relentless to behold. A barrage that would last the guts of 43 seconds or so; without pause I might add. The sweat was pumping out of him too, out of Boyler, as he spat and cursed and kicked and flailed into the woman and the lads who couldn’t take it anymore had to close their eyes and cover their ears.
“SLIME!” he’d roar with each new blow. “DIRTY. FILTHY. MANKY. FUCKIN. SLIME!”
The look of enjoyment on his face was palpable however. It absolutely was. The boy was smiling from ear to ear like it was fuckin Christmas morning and for us, as teenagers, getting to watch over this barbaric onslaught. .we somehow felt very unified for once in our lives. Watching Boyler tear lumps out of this thing was a real kind’a nice I thought. And I know FOR A FACT I wasn’t the only one who felt that way. I even got that nice butterfly feeling in the pit of my stomach – you know the one ya do? Stop, it was like a blanket over me. A real comfy one. It was so nice and blankety in fact. .I didn’t want to leave it. Honestly, I could have stayed in its sedative throes forever. “And isn’t it mad to think.” said Rafferty then. “Mad to think that only a few moments ago you had wanted to shit in your underpants out of fear. Haha. The world sure is a crazy, stoopid place huh?”
“Jesus Christ I’m buggered now.” said Boyler, wiping his forehead. “I am absolutely knackered. WATER. WATER. SOMEONE GIVE ME WATER.”
The lad was due a break in fairness. No question about it. His newly assigned post was not an easy thing to keep but, he was doing his best and God bless him for that. And whenever his guard was down, someone would inevitably throw him a dirty slag from across the room and in response all he’d do was look up, squint his eyes, growl and tell whoever it was to “Fuck Clean Off.”
“Well, what do ye think of that, lads?” he goes. “Didn’t do too bad did I?”
“I think you did pretty good there, Boyler.”
“Thank you, Martineen.”
“Aye pal, you did real good.”
“I have to say, I enjoyed that immensely.”
The tank Giles had suffered rightly under the weight of Boyler’s boot, and in the moments after we all wondered if she could hear us talking now at all. “Maybe.” we thought. “But probably not.” Nonetheless we had to settle this debate for once and for all, before the day was out. We called her name a few times, just to see if she’d flinch “Mary. Mary. Mary. Mary. Mary.” but. .a’course. . .she didn’t. BOOOOO. There wasn’t a peep out’a her actually. So, with that not working, we said we’d try the other method of lashing out a couple of her nicknames. ”Now.” we thought. “This will work. These wicked creations are bound to have an impact.” BUT sadly, like everything else, and much to our disappointment, they proved to be just as futile (if not more so) than our initial attempt. BUGGER. They were all in the mix too. Zingers like –
“Fathole.”
“Butterbelly.”
“House.”
“Lardass.”
“Fatchops” and “Slurry Tits.”
High brow stuff indeed. Duffy and Tommy (aka Laurel & Hardy) decided to take it a step further by throwing a few hardback copybooks at her chest and midriff. Initially, this sounded amazing. Really promising stuff. But the useless pricks missed each and every time they shot. I mean, how pathetic is that? Not once did they connect or even kiss a bit of flesh. NOT ONCE. All they did was destroy the damn floor with books, making it look even more messy, the pricks.
“Stay in your lane lads.” Marty goes to them. “Throwing things like that clearly isn’t yer forte.”
“We’re just practising is all. Relax.”
“Well stop practicing. Ok? Ye are making a holy show of yourselves. And not only that, ye are showing massive disrespect for the dead. Hold onto yer books for crying out loud. Leave the girl be. Ye talentless articles.”
“Sheesh. What the hell is up with him?”
“Mammy issues I think. Complicated. Don’t make a scene.”
“Got it.”
At 3:44pm and clouded in misfortune, we gathered around the departed to pay our respects.
“In the name of the father and of the son and of the holy spirit, Amen. Praise to you Lord Jesus Christ the son of God and the fellowship of the
Holy Spirt be with you all.
And Also With You.”
Sadly, as you may have guessed, the real affair was nothing like that whatsoever. THE REAL THING WAS ABSOLUTE FUCKING CHAOS SO IT WAS. CHAOS. There was no God. Or prayers. No religion. Or respect. Instead, there was an inordinate influx of young fellas pushing and shoving trying to get in. They had wanted to see her with their own eyes in this new and dead state. There were lads climbing shoulders, and spitting, throwing elbows, whinging, calling each other names – PRICK. FAGGOT – crying, vomiting, tripping over books and everything else that goes with it.
“And for what though? WHY is my question? Why the sudden burst of energy out of these gang of rabid hyenas?”
Well, isn’t it obvious? What we had in front of us was nothing short of sublime entertainment. Every single bit of what went down today was something none of us had experienced before. It broke the monotony of our daily lives at school; these brutal days of hearing and doing the exact same thing over and over again. We had been exposed now to a new and exciting life and we wanted more of it. The feeling was utterly relentless and probably the closest anyone could ever get to taking drugs without actually taking them. We had unlocked a supernatural well of emotion, a euphoria, within ourselves, and in that moment all we wanted was another hit.
“I couldn’t cope when the blood clot fell out of the side of her head. Could you?”
“Stop.”
“Fuckin nasty so it was. Yuck.”
We would all recoil in horror upon seeing this. None of us would move any closer or even say anything as this thing – like a foreign infant – grew bigger and stronger and BLACKER and we all pointed and laughed and one of the lads even piped up from the back of the class saying it looked awfully like his late Grandmother’s brooch pearl.
“I’m telling you.” he goes. “It has the exact same tinge of maroon in it and everything. The exact same. How very bizarre.”
“Well, that’s not something you see every day is it?”
“Unfortunately not.” said someone else.
Boyler stood back a few feet when he saw this. Shocked and disgusted, he figured he had been cheated in some way. “Ya must be fuckin joking.” he shouts. “Ya must be fuckin joking.” Eager to make things right, the bold Boyler quickly re positioned himself using one of the tables and, when the perfect moment struck, he dropped that oversized boot of his down once more – on to her face this time – and she, God bless her, crumbled instantly under the force like a cheap meringue and we all winced.
“LORD SAVE US TONIGHT!”
“My shirt. It’s destroyed.”
“You’d swear she was made out of wet cardboard or something.”
“Well. That was easy!”
“It looked easy.”
“That’s her now.” said Boyler proudly and dragging his boot over her blouse. “Come off ya divil. Come off.”
A very clever stroke this, I found, especially for a boy his age, for it’d rid off any unwanted blood and that way “Mammy Boyle” wouldn’t notice a thing. “Look at that.” he goes, pointing to his shoes. “Clean as a whistle now again. Clean as a God damn whistle.” and I have to say he was not wrong. Whatever he did, he had managed to make both his shoes look brand spanking new again, like nothing at all had happened. So immaculate that they could have been easily re-boxed and sold off to a buyer somewhere for face value, or even a small profit.
I would watch him closely during this time: Boyler. In a studious kind of way. And in this I found myself wondering if he would have acknowledged that same level of courtesy had he been a private tenant in the big shed they keep out the back of the home house? “Not a chance.” I thought. “It’d be ate up within the hour so it would, the blood, by all the cow and sheep shite, and any documentation of his antics here today would be swept away under a big mound of dirt or brought off to a factory some place down the country for some other poor bugger to deal with. And that then would be that. And life would carry on untouched for our sweet Boyler and we all know it. He is, after all, a strange breed of human with all his sick luck and fortune. A strange old breed. Honest to God the lad is like a bad priest in the Vatican and effortless it is to him. I was thinking all of this.
“He’s as changeable as the weather though isn’t he?” “He can be yes.” “Major problems up there. In the head like.” “Correct.” “Other than that though a nice lad.” “Salt.” “You’ve heard the latest though I take it?” “Go on?” “That he still sleeps in the bed with herself? The oul lady like.” “Who does?” “Who do you think?” “Boyler?” “Yessir”
“No?”
“Yep. When I heard it first I told them it was hokum.”
“Yeah. And then what?”
“Well then they said it wasn’t hokum and so after that I was sort of inclined to believe them.”
“Jeepers.”
“But look at him now, eh? Proving himself to us all, through the fine and wonderful art of bludgeoning. Now is your chance Boyler son. Now is your feckin chance. GO GO GO GO GO GO GO!!”
With that, a beaming Boyler turned and gave Giles another seventeen good rips into the face just for good measure and because we had asked him to. He really went at her so he did; to a point where we couldn’t fathom her being at all. Moments later, when the barrage had ended, a silence took over everything as we tried to figure out what this lump in front of us resembled most – was it a man, woman or beast? But we couldn’t do it. Not for love nor money. Nobody could. We just knew it was dead and that it was almost time for us to go home.
“Very good.” said Marty Flanagan, zipping up his sister’s pencil case, when all was done.
“That’ll do it.” said another. “Great work.”
The place came alive again, like a pin ball machine, for the next few minutes – “PYOW. PING. POOF. DING” – and when that was over, with nothing else to do, we gathered up our belongings and quietly left the room after helping ourselves to the contents of her handbag, who’s cheap design and gammy finish wasn’t much to be fussed over. Duffy had gotten up. He was first to it.
“Right so.” he goes, ripping the bag open. “What have we got in here then?” as items dropped to the floor about him like candy from a split piñata.
“Jesus Christ, what a mess!” “Nice one!” “Jackpot lads.”
Between the lot of us we pulled, and we swung, and we dragged, and we kicked that bag and each other around as much as we could and shook we did with the excitement of it. The room deteriorated about us fast as we, the savages, feasted on the bag’s entrails like an army of sexually frustrated termites. There were lads calling each other cunts, I could hear them, pushing and slapping, drawing blood; while the quieter lads – the nerds – threw profanities and brave kicks in from the outset, and it was all a bit of craic, but it was God help them too if any of their kicks were to ever find their mark: God fucking help them I say. Nonetheless, I would laugh hard during this period of mayhem. Harder than I’ve ever done before. And anyone that threw a dig at me or said anything about my oul lady I’d throw them a hard dig back as close to the mouth as I could only because they know the score with her and I won’t have her for a second be the butt of anyone’s jokes. EVER. So they’d back off good, real good – whoever they were – and after that, when everything was fine and dandy again, we’d continue on in this vain of thuggery for a little longer than we maybe should have, and I’d say if anyone had thrown the head in the door and saw what we were at they’d have surely compared us to a wild inbred pack of starved hyenas fighting over a shank of dead meat and oh how we would gush.
“Alright lads.” Dylan roared from a table top, bag in hand. “Can everyone just settle down for a second, who wants what??”
“Well what’s in it?”
“There’s a twelve inch dildo – anyone??”
“I’ll take that.”
“Very good, well wear.”
“What else is there?”
“There’s a bunch of keys, family photos. .”
“I’ll take those, thanks”
“Good man, enjoy.”
“Come on give us something good will ya for crying out loud!”
“There’s a box of cigarettes? Spud you wanted fags didn’t you?”
“Oh yes please!”
“Here ya go.”
“Thanks man, class.”
“Hide them from your mother now good lad.”
“I will.”
“What else is there??”
“We’ve got some Tampons??”
The room shuddered.
“Tampons. Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Jeez! I thought she was past that stage of her life.”
“Go on so.” said Slatts. “I’ll give them to my sister, thanks.”
“And a good brother you are Mr. Slattery, I hope she enjoys them.”
“Ah piss off.”
“Bubble gum, anyone?”
“I’ll take the gum.”
“Murray mints? Full pack it seems, untouched.”
“Go on, thanks.”
“Will you half them with Seany, you will?”
“Yeah I will.”
“Excellent.”
“I have to say it’s great to see ye getting along lads.”
“Thanks. Here Seany”
“And finally boys and germs we have, hang on, wait for it – a half eaten bar of dark chocolate??”
And just like that; the elephant was back. It was as if, all of a sudden, a deadly spectre had entered our space and no-one had the balls to say anything about it. Dylan spoke again.
“Any takers?” he goes, looking around, eager to offload it. “No?”
But nobody said a word. It was obvious as anything too. I almost felt sorry for the poor boy. He asked me then straight out if I wanted the bar and I told him I didn’t, that I was fine and thanks. He asked if I was going to be ok and I told him that I would be eventually and then he said “Here’s 20 euro. Go and buy yourself something nice.” and I said “No I couldn’t do that. Will you stop.”
“Honestly.” he said. “Take it.” He was insisting now and shoving the money into my hand with force. “And if anyone asks you where you found it, tell them outside under a stone and if they press you on it bury them quick and fast with a slap.”
“Ok.” I said, and I took the money.
“Fold it up now and put it in your pocket. I owe you that. For today. For everything. You’re a good lad.”
“Thanks. You can go now.” I says to him. “I’ll lock up don’t worry.”
“But, what if they find you?”
“They won’t find me.”
“They might.” he says.
“Fair point. They might just. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see. What time is it now actually?”
Dylan checked his watch.
“3:46pm.”
“Ok, thanks.”
“I’ll go now so and see you Monday maybe?”
“Sounds about right.”
And just like that he was gone. However I wouldn’t be idle for long, for in the corner of my eye I could see the dullard Sparky traipsing his way over to me. Lord he is a fuckin sickener.
“Well?” he goes.
“Howya?” I says back to him.
“Congrats on everything today.”
“Thanks. Is that all you wanted to say to me?
“Yeah I think so.”
“Right. It’s no problem.”
“I eh, I thought Murph spitting on her was a bit much I suppose, no?”
“He was briefed to do just that, he’ll be fine.”
“And what about her?”
“What about her?”
“What’ll we do with her?”
“Nothing!”
“Nothing!?”
“We leave her here and hopefully, if there’s a God at all, she’ll rot away along with these cursed floor boards. Caretaker Martin will only be delighted to have them taken up.”
“Ok then.”
“Just take whatever you can find.” I says. “And leave quickly.”
“Fair enough.” said Sparky, leaning over to grab something.
“But don’t take that.” I says.
“Ok?”
“Or that. Or this thing here. Or that thing over yonder. Or this, yeah? Or that yoke. Ok? I’ll take all them coz I need them.”
There was silence then for a second or two. Sparky scratched his head and threw an odd look at me. “But you told me to take whatever I want? This is all that’s left.” However, when the penny finally dropped he took a step back, shook his head and put both his hands on his hips as if to say “I don’t fucking believe it.”. . . .“Ahhhh. I know what you’re doing.” he goes, half smiling. “You don’t need them. Oh no. You just fuckin want them for yourself. That’s what this is, isn’t it? ISN’T IT??”
“LEAVE NOW SPARKY.” I says. “Ya brave little bollix. Or I’ll open your hole with kicks. Got it? And you’ll be sorry then. They might be cheap Adidas alright, but they’ll do the damn job. Ok? Now scram! Ya taypot. Or you’ll be sorry I said!”
And so he did. He scrammed. And soon after that we all did. “Come on, lads.” I said. “Let’s get our little asses out of here.”
At 3:55pm, like North Koreans, we marched those very same little tushes down the full length of the main corridor, disappearing one by one into the nooks and crannies of the school in what looked like, from my perspective anyways, a regimented dance routine. Sixteen down to six in one fell swoop. Then five. Now three. Only two men left.
“See ya tomorrow.” I says.
“G’luck sham, oh and hey..”
“Yeah?”
“Well done today.”
“Thanks.”
“I wonder what’ll she be like in the summer time?” he goes. “A cooked chicken I would say.
“Not worth thinking about is it?”
“Corn fed and all at a discount price for the homeless.” He was laughing hard now. I didn’t bother.
“Anyways not to worry.” he went on. “She had it coming for a long time. Ok? She did. You can’t be doing things like that around lads like us – lads our age – and expect to get away with it. No way. We had our say in the end and it was final. Anyways, I better go here. The oul lad has a hospital appointment up in Galway this evening. Might see can I get into Smyths for a look before they close. See if they’ve any new games in. Have a good weekend yeah – oh and hey, Happy Birthday, that’s tomorrow isn’t it?”
“Oh my God.” I says back to him. “That is tomorrow!” But he was gone before I knew it and I didn’t even get a chance to thank him. In fact, the boy had vanished in such a haste that I began to question if he was even there at all in the first place. I stood there scratching my head. Had I become delirious all of a sudden from all the standing up for myself and the anarchy? Had I been talking to a wall just now? Or better yet, an extra-terrestrial version of myself? It was hard to know. Then the buck chimed in: “What a day, eh?”
“Yeah.” I says. “What a day. A great one. She got an awful doing. To be fair she did.”
“We knocked the stuffing out of her rightly so we did. Everything fantastically orchestrated by you. Aren’t ya proud?”
“I’m not anything.” I says to him. “I’m not anything really at all.” “You have to be something?” “I’m a bit warm I suppose.” “Then take off your jacket.” “And I suppose I’d eat a bit too.” “Well what are we waiting for? Let’s get out of here.”
Silence then at 3:59pm as I stood alone
in the front hall; watching the sickly descent of dust
and dead skin through a shard of sunlight that poured in
through one of the big bay windows.
Everything it touched would stand up tall,
to proud attention, while the
unkind reflections,
like my own,
the strayed and the loveless,
settled off quietly into
the void,
Away From Everything,
as if to welcome in the coming
of some great and deadly fall.
4pm:
And the mighty bell sounds throughout the whole school
and I was glad it did, for it was
time now to go home.
And with the evening looking the way it did,
I said to myself: “Screw this,
I won’t bother with the bus today.
I think I’ll walk myself back.
And who knows,
if I’m feeling up to it,
I may even go the long way around.
Just for kicks.”
And so I did.
And the following day I turned 18.
Friday 3:18pm:
BANG! Down goes the roll book. An unnecessary cinder block detailing who’s who and what background you came from. It lay sprawled on Giles’ desk and she like a fat old cloud stood over it.
“Mr. O’Brien, is he here?”
“He is Miss” said a voice. “He’s down the back.”
“Benny O’Brien?”
“Yes hello?”
“Up here now”
“Ara balls.”
“WHAT DID YOU SAY??”
“Nothing. Nothing. Life is only brilliant.”
I get up after a moment of hesitation and follow the order like a good boy because, let’s face it, I am that, and all the lads laughed at me as I did.
“BAHAHAHAHAHAHA”
“The smell a shite coming off your bag, O’Brien” says one of the lads. “What is it exactly?”
“It’s exactly that. Shite and yes, it’s shtink.”
“You best get home rapid and wash it lest we all die from the stench.”
I was laughing now.
“There’s a greater waft’a piss coming out of your mouth Maloney.” I says to him. “So let my cute little bag be the least of your worries. Got it?”
That quietened him.
Two seconds later I’d squeeze my hot little ass down into the desk directly in front of hers, and like all things new I thought it would take some getting used to, but get this reader, it didn’t. It didn’t take any getting used to at all. In fact, I actually quite liked it here. In this new position there was no nasty draught niggling at me like there had been in the other place. It was a welcomed change in a lot of ways. Your boy here was now on top, and comfortable. Actually fucking winning for once.
WARNING. WARNING.
CHEAP SHOT INCOMING: Next up, to act as a source of entertainment for us, I said I’d pay her a compliment. “Hey Mrs.” I says to her. “You look absolutely stunning today.”
The comment would derail her. Off she went into a psychological tail spin.
“Erm. . .Excuse me?”
“I said you look stunning today.”
In fairness, all women want to hear that shite though don’t they? Of course they do. Sadly, I don’t think this particular broad had ever seen or heard of a compliment before in her life. BUT, thanks to your boy here, that was all about to change; and when I say that for the next 3 minutes I’d butter her ass up like a some unruly thanksgiving turkey I fuckin well mean it. Like Adonis, I filled that bitch up with some of the most preposterous and fantastical shite talk a woman could ever hope to listen to, and guess what Paddy. . .
“What?”
“She ate it up so she did. Nom Nom Nom Nom Nom. She devoured my beautiful string of lies like it were apple tart and custard and why wouldn’t she, hah, coz the fuckin size’a her.”
“As you said, at the end of the day. . “
“At the end of the fuckin day that’s the only shite they want to hear coming out of our mouths.”
“That’s all they want to fucking hear sham. Isn’t it typical.”
Fintan Brennan put up his hand then. He had a question apparently.
“Yes, Fintan?”
“Just wondering Benny. . .erm. . .what did ye discuss?”
“How do you mean?”
“Like, what did ye speak about while ye were chattin?”
“Oh Jesus lots of things, Fintan. We spoke about a lots and lots of things. The whole gamut was almost covered so it was.”
“Could you elaborate?”
“Well, I had to appeal to her feminine tendencies didn’t I? I had to engage the woman as it were. I had to entice her. This was paramount. We talked fashion and make-up and clothes and earrings and tit size, the education system (and the state of it) and MAKE UP AGAIN and guess what lad, GUESS FUCKIN WHAT. .”
“What?”
“I actually enjoyed myself. Can you believe that?”
“You did?”
“Yes. And thoroughly so.”
“Fair enough. .”
“And not only that. Not only did I enjoy myself. I would go on to realise something else. Something fairly important.”
“What did you realise, Ben?”
“I realised, for the first times in my life Fintan, that every woman – no matter how dreadful she is appearance wise – deserves to feel beautiful every once in a while, you know? Special. Think about it; as young men, what else can we really do? Nothing. Nothing whatsoever save pay them a compliment every now and again – even if they do look like Shrek on fuckin steroids. For me, it’s not about that. Is it ever.”
“Well what’s it about then?”
“It’s about the thought, isn’t it? Dickhead. It’s the thought that counts. Surely. These little messages of love and affection can go a long way in this world. Especially for our women. Our blessed women. And blessed is the man (or men) who can dish out such words so freely. With devotion and without malice. Do you understand? . . . .well, do you?”
FINTAN FROZE.
Do you hear that? I says to him
I don’t. What is it?
That’s what we call a delicious silence.
Oh right.
And guess what else. . .
What else?
It’s about to get a lot worse.
I swear I meant nothin by it.
Much to my chagrin I didn’t get the blazing round of applause I had initially hoped for. Personally I thought my speech was decent to a degree. Water tight in certain measures. Thought provoking. Inspiring. Informative. Arousing. But most of all, I thought the damn thing was somewhat relevant to the cause. To our cause. I mean, why do you think I went on about it for so long? I was trying to make a point. I wanted to make a show of me and an example out of her. Anyways, turns out I achieved none of those things. At all apparently. God dammit. Chagrin central for your boy here. Chagrin central. What a desperate state of affairs. I didn’t inspire anyone, anywhere, in any time zone by the looks of it. Nor had anyone become aroused by his musings. No man, woman or child touched (figuratively speaking). And because of this, my error – because I had failed them spectacularly in my presumptions – I would go on to receive one of the worst, most brutal rinsings of my young adult life so PUT ON YOUR HAZMATS. Lads I had known for years “as friends” were now out, In Force, thirsting after my blood and eager to see my demise. Can you imagine that? Talk about heathens.
The whole experience, if I may say it, was an earth shattering slap back into reality. A slap I probably deserved in a lot of ways and that’s ok. By the time I re-surfaced I had a head on me like a baboon’s arsehole (theoretically speaking). BUT, I stood my ground throughout it all, I think. No I did. Of course I did. I stood my ground Like A Man, not because I wanted to, no way, but because I was fucking well able to do it.
I stood my ground and I let them have their moment of glory in the sun because, like it or not, that kind of stuff is important too. For any young man. Very important. It nurtures growth and treats character. It creates new paths. Paths that go into something else. Something new. I would take the whole thing on the chin like a miniature brute. BANG BANG BANG. Not because I was ignorant to the fact. No, no. But because I was a champion. In this effort, I was a fuckin man.
And So It Begins
“WELL WELL WELL.” said a voice finally. “Get a load of this absolute unadulterated ass kissin shit talk coming out of O’Brien. Do ya hear him lads?”
“Oh we hear him alright. Spineless good for nothing git.” and with that a pencil flew from somewhere catching me nicely on the ear; the pain was fast and sharp but it didn’t hang around for long.
“May the divil fuck you.” I thought to myself (of the perpetrator). “May he fuck down on you sideways and ride you into a hellish re- incarnation.”
“Are you alright, lad? Sorry I was only messin.”
“I’m grand. I’m grand. I’m grand.”
“Here Ben. Tell me this. . .”
“What is it?”
“Are you a homosexual all year around or just part time? Asking for a friend.”
“Ara suck it Brady.”
“Oh you’d like that wouldn’t you ya big batty boy.”
“I’m glad you’re having fun lads.” I says to them. “Keep smiling and enjoy the slag while you can. I’ll take it til the cows come home not because I like it but, believe it or not, I actually enjoy seeing you all so happy.”
“Awwwwwwwwh.“
“HOWEVER. . . .”
And just like that there was a panic among us. The lads had not expected such a tonal shift in my voice. Or for me to turn so serious so quickly. The last few minutes had been full of niceties you see, with them slagging me and all, pulling me this way and that, but now all of a sudden things weren’t as nice as they had been and I know for a fact they sure as hell felt the change. But me, I couldn’t stop laughing. Sometimes that’s all it takes. One simple word to put the shits up them. I half realised then that I had mastered the art or was, at the very least, close to it.
“Oh fuck. “What’s he going to say now to us?”
“However lads.” I says to them. “I fear you are all missing the point of my efforts here today and for that convenience you can thank each of yer individual retardations for they have you ill timed as a people and thoroughly stupid in everything else. Congratulations.”
“Thank you boss.” they all replied. Sheepish gits. “Your approval really means everything to us.”
* * * *
THE BEAST GILES would thank me soon after that, albeit dismissively; her big head buried deep now into one of the rusty drawers behind her desk and we all wondered why that was. Surely to God an arbitrary move. Surely to God above. That old chestnut – you know it – of ‘pretending’ to be doing something when in actual fact you are doing nothing at all. Ya, ya, ya.
“Look at her go.” said Stocky Mac. “What an unmerciful wet wipe she is.”
“Wet and fat.”
“Our very own THROLLUPS MCGINTY.”
One of the guffer lads piped up then and smelling the tips of his fingers he said: “Hmmmmm. She reminds me of something this one hai. Or someone. I just can’t pin point who or what exactly.”
“Would it be a raped ape, MJ?”
“YES.” he replied, jumping around with glee. “A RAPED APE. YES. YES. YES. That’s exactly what she reminds me of. A BIG RAPED APE. Ah thank you Simon. That was really stressing me out there for a minute hai.”
“No bother horse. I was thinking the same myself.”
“She’s a fucking buffoon is what she is.”
“Well, yeah that too.”
“I wonder what she’s looking for in the drawer though.” said Pat O’Dowd. It looks interesting. Would it be snacks I wonder?”
“Hahaha. Would it be snacks.”
“I’m just saying like. . .”
“Of course its fucking snacks ya donkey. What else could it be?”
“I dunno. . .”
“Not lettuce or vegetables.”
“WAIT. HANG ON A SECOND. . .”
“What is it, William?”
“Would it. . .would it be our exams I wonder? Aren’t we due exams back this week or next week or sometime around now? Do you think she got around to correcting them?”
“By God. You’re right. We ARE due exams back this week. That could be exactly what she’s rooting for in there. Well done William sir. Sharp as a tack as always.”
To be fair, it was a very good catch by Willy. Our exams were indeed due back to us. Religion and French. Fantastic. Two piss poor subjects and each one more useless in life than the last. Give it to me Jesus, s’il vous plait, and whoever that Pontius Pilate fella was that had him strung up onto a crucifix like that. I am ready to fail at everything once again. ONE MORE TIME WITH FEELING.
“Wait. Hang on a tick.”
“What is it, Steven?”
“How is French a useless subject?”
“Who speaks French though?”
“The French do.”
“Exactly, and don’t get me started on religion. OK?”
“D’accord.”
“Are you being serious right now bro?”
“Serious about what?”
“That whole French thing.”
“I am being serious yes.”
“Why?”
“Well, I want to learn don’t I.”
“You want to learn something that is practically useless?”
“How is it useless though? That’s what I’m asking.”
“Take a guess. . .”
“You want me to guess?”
“Oui. Yes.”
“I couldn’t venture a guess if I tried lad.”
“Just Christ will you just tell the lad already. I don’t how it’s useless.”
“ITS USELESS BECAUSE EVERYONE SPEAKS FUCKIN ENGLISH YOU GOON. Wake up will ya and smell the begonias.”
“Oh right. . “
“Read a book you miserable git. Watch YouTube. Or porn. Have a wank. Have another one. Wank through the first one into the second. Or throw cold water into your face. I don’t mind. 800 years is all I’ll say to ya lad. 800 fuckin years. You remember that? Probably not. But that’s ok too. Feel the meaning of what I’m trying to say to you. Alright?”
“Right.”
“They starved us of our language since day dot, and you sit here, in 2008, wondering why French, of all things, FRENCH, is a useless thing. You pathetic cretin. Eight generations. EIGHT. Unacceptable goings on. Unacceptable. By the way, how’s your Mother?”
Conor Dolan spoke then.
“Nah mind his mother.” he said. “I wonder will Big Titty Kitty here collar a Monty’s corned beef for herself while she’s rooting around in the press there. She’d be doing well if she does.”
“Can you imagine. . .Extra mustard there please, Michael. Good lad.”
“On the first one or the second one Mary?”
“On both please and say nothin.”
“Shur I’ll be be sacked if I say anything, Mary.”
“I’ll have you sacked if you say anything ya little bollix. We don’t want that now do we?”
“No we don’t want that now, Mary.”
“Coz I’ve never liked the look of you.”
“That’s grand.”
“And when I don’t like the look of people, woeful things can happen.”
“I’d believe it.”
“Good.”
“But Mary dear. . .”
“What is it luv?”
“I need to ask you something else? Would you mind if I did? It’s in relation to your sandwiches.”
“What about my sandwiches?”
“Do you want salad in them or no?”
“DO I FUCK WANT SALAD! WHAT ARE YOU ON ABOUT?”
“But Mary wait, salads are good for you.”
“I DON’T CARE WHAT THEY ARE.”
“They’ll give you loads and loads of energy and maybe – just maybe – as a result, you might hate me less.”
“I DON’T GIVE A SHITE WHAT IT IS OR WHAT THEY’LL DO FOR ME LAD. NO FUCKIN SALAD I SAID.”
“Okay.”
“JESUS GOD CHRIST CHILD WHATEVER YOU DO. PLEASE. HOLD THE GOD DAMN SALAD. I SIMPLY CAN’T REITERATE IT ENOUGH.”
“Holy smokes.” said Murphy. “I’m no scientist or nothin but I’d say this woman must shit rings around herself. Like an army tank.” and of course we all started laughing again.
“I’d say she has an arse like a piper’s lip. And you know what else?”
“What is it?”
“The last thing you’d need or even want out on the battlefield is this big lump’a lard traipsing after you, digging up all the trenches and killing all your good men. Christ, if war itself wasn’t bad enough like.”
Legs Maher stood up then; a lanky string of a fella, and said:
“Blame the commissioner.”
“What’s that legs?”
“BLAME THE COMMISSIONER I SAID. Someone should, you know, sack the bastard or whoever the hell is in charge of this operation, for he is a total ass, a fool, and has got it all wrong.”
“And what about the emergency squad?”
“What about the emergency squad?”
“She’s not to go in there.”
“Oh no.”
“Or into the ambulance unit.”
“Why not?”
There was a pause among us; well, among the smarter boys anyway.
“COME AGAIN MIKEY?”
“Because of erm, because of her immense heft is it?”
“AH FOR FUCK SAKE!”
Poor old Mikey Lee, the boy who had asked the question, hadn’t a lot going on between his ears. In fact, some of us had even questioned if he had a brain in him at all. Doubtful was usually our consensus. You see, he always needed guidance – our Mikey. More guidance than most mainly due to the criminal nature of his fucktard parents along with the endless bouts of neglect he had received as an infant; you know the score. Because of this, he had the focus of a wasp and about as much charm as a spastic dung beetle. Still though, nice enough lad. You know? Very harmless. But in our minds, no matter what way you dressed it up, for Mikey Lee, things were always going to be bleak. And we all thought he would probably die young in some stupid catastrophe like accidentally hanging himself on his mother’s clothesline at home. That’s what people with very small brains do though, isn’t it? They do stupid things that don’t make sense. They end up not only hurting themselves but a lot of other people too. Friends, family, other loved ones.
Deco The Stump was the first up to aid Mikey in this line of business. He wanted badly to explain it to the lad – the situation – so he could fully and finally understand not only what it meant, but where it was all coming from and just why oh why on earth we were giving this atrocious beast of a woman such a fuck of a time behind her back. In Deco’s mind, it was the right thing to do. With the right approach our little dullard Mikey might just tune in to what was fuckin going on around him.
“Mikey me lad.” Deco goes. “It’s not just because of that. Her immense heft. Oh heavens no. It’s because of. . .well. . .ya know.” Mikey was listening hard now, very hard. So hard his eyes had started to squint a bit, like a Chinaman. And for Deco; well, he was determined wasn’t he? Determined to really drive home the message. In this effort, his only instinct was to take little Mikey up by the scruff of the neck and speak directly into his ear like some hardy grown up, using any sort of “big word” his still developing little mind could just about throw together.
“Her staggering heft is surely one thing.” he says to Mikey. “but if she, that fat fuckin sow, were to engage any of the aforementioned in any way, shape or form here today, yes I said aforementioned, do you know what would happen?”
“What would happen, Deco?”
“All of our good men would die, Mikey.”
“They’d all die?”
“Straight away they’d perish.”
“The bad, good and average. GONE. Just like that. Click.”
“From the stench alone.”
“Or just from looking at the bitch.”
“If scour was a woman, Mikey boy. If scour was a woman.”
Johnny Turfbite stood up then and stroking his face he said: “Yeah but, won’t they all die eventually, captain? I mean, isn’t it only the natural way of life as God himself intended?”
“Exactly my point, lad.” I says to him. “It’s real stuff and as natural a thing as me and you having small flutes between our legs. So why not leave them be?”
“I suppose.”
“Trust me, the world will do her bit and eat them all up when she’s ready to. UNDERRRRSTOOOD?”
“SIR YES SIR!”
“Some of them deserve it more than others.”
“YOU DESERVE IT LOFTUS YA RAPIST!”
“BUGGER OFF CORCORAN. I’LL GO AHEAD AND BURST YA, YOU SWINE.”
“DO IT SO!”
“GO ON LOFTUS, GET HIM! HE SAID A BAD THING ABOUT YOUR OUL LADY!”
“What. . .?”
The room stopped dead. Loftus, visibly shook, eventually got up out of his chair and I could see it in him now, as plain as anything, that the harsh quip had gotten to him; like really gotten to him. You see, it was common knowledge that Lofty’s mother – Monica – was never to be mentioned or discussed by anyone, at any time, day or night; and when I say that I fuckin well mean it. Not in any capacity was the woman ever to be objectified or deliberated over and if she was and you were caught well, it was God help you.
“Monica Ellen Patsy Gallagher. . . .That’s her full maiden name.” someone exclaimed.
“That’s right.” said Stump Cleary. “But wasn’t she Dunne from behind one time?”
“She’ll always be Dunne from behind. The slag. Nod, nod, wink, wink. D’ya get me?”
Lunchtime was always good for this sort’a craic. That 45 minute window was our place. The craic was real here. It was meaty and oftentimes dangerous. We would skive off for hours every now and again only because we sort’a could. Lax teachers and what have you.
For this extra curricular boredom, we chose smoking cigarettes and football as our main activities. If you were lucky at all, you might even see a scrap happening some place, and whether or not that scrap was any good all depended on who was involved in it.
The simpletons were good fighters. They were decent like. The Guffers were too. No surprise there. They were bull thick little fuckers, frustratingly stupid, sharp, and naturally built for that kind of abuse: Thus making them proud ambassadors of the stereotype. Lugs Mannion often said they had a massive tolerance for pain, and he was right; THEY HAD. Those boys could (and would) go for ages on end, knocking fucking lumps out of each other and cursing and throwing some of the deadliest right and left hooks you’ve ever seen in your life – with blood and everything. Praise the Lord. This was, of course, from a spectator’s point of view, WHAT YOU FUCKING WANTED. You got all the thrills and the frills, and lorry loads of un-hinged excitement. It was perfection.
Sadly, this was what life looked like on the daily for a Guffer. The poor things never had much fortune in this world. Noble outcasts to some, insufferable pests to others – they sat confused within our society. Outside’a stealing groceries and riding their own sisters; this fighting caper at school, honestly, was just about all they were ever fucking good for; and more than anyone else, they’d always make a point of enjoying it.
BUT THEN AGAIN, who didn’t love a good tear up eh? How could you not? That whole experience of seeing a lad you didn’t like get a serious beat down in broad daylight, in front of people, and girls, and the humiliation of it all, was akin to letting a cow eat grass out of your hand or sticking your willy into the hoover at home. Me? I could watch fellas beat the piss out of each other til the cows came home, and ten more times after that should there be enough light left in the day. But get this: I’m no fighter. At no point was I ever there to partake in violence. I was there only for the sport, and the theatre of it, and a’course. . .the craic. I’d show up just for those things. Not because IT was a violent affair; that was inevitable. Or that I was a violent man, because I was not. It was about the spectacle. The buzz. The fear. Somehow, we had been slyly tantalised into wanting more of this “thing” and everything else that came with. Classic junky behaviour if you ask me but we didn’t mind.
For us, it was never about good grades or praise or accolades or any of that homosexual nonsense. It was about fuckin smoking and football and scoring goals and shlaps and blood and piss and snot and finding ourselves and all that good hearty ‘lad stuff’. This was our God given assignment we felt – our story – and at the end of the day, as boys, we just had to sit our arsheens back, smile, take it by the balls and fuckin go.
However, when boredom struck us down – and believe me she did – instead of retreating back to class we would instead assemble ourselves into the middle of the lunchroom for a chat about Zi Grande Elephante. And that’s where we’d stay. Proud as fuck. For ages and ages. Huddled into groups. Dissecting theories and scratching at our holes, wondering if he (Lofty) had really loved his mammy the way he said he did. Or was it all a hoax? Could it be a hoax? A cover up for something else perhaps? Something a bit more, I don’t know, sinister. Like, what if our boy Lofty was actually sheltering himself and his ‘over aggressive nature’ beneath a veil of thick undiagnosed autism? Ooooooooooooh now that’s interesting. Had the lad in fact been a BLANK at heart all this time? A big dirty fuck off BLANK with gruesome sexual tendencies towards his own fuckin mother? GASP YOU SAY. And if that was true, if he were this type of cretin, how bad was it? Was it ‘bad bad’ or just ‘average bad’? Like, did he ever stick the tongue down her gob or drop the hand? It was hard to tell. We’d spend hours questioning these things. Hours. And sometimes I do wonder why.
I guess, for us looking in, the whole affair just seemed a little unfocused. Or contrived. Or maybe it was just plain wrong. Wrong and downright unnecessary because that’s no way to treat your mother surely. Or is it?
I wouldn’t mind but the same woman was probably the most basic looking yoke goin as well. I mean, if you met her out on the street and you looked at her once, I guarantee you wouldn’t be turning to look at her a second time. Would ya hell. You’d derive more pleasure I’d say out’a watching your oul lad dry his bare balls with a towel that was too small for him. . .Well, I would anyways.
“What did he say about my oul lady, Tommy? Tell me.”
“I couldn’t be sure what was said Lofty.”
“You know bloody well what was said so ya do, ya cunt. I know by the big thick head on ya.”
“I swear to God I don’t.”
“SPIT IT OUT!”
Tensions grew then the second Loftus cocked back his fist and squared up to Tommy. Like Elmer Fudd he was with the big wide eyes and gargantuan red face.
“Lamp the head on Loftus.” someone shouted. “He’s about to bursht.”
“A face like a slapped arse.”
“All he’s missing now is the hat, the gun, the brown coat and the bit’a steam to come out his ears. Haha.”
“Lofty please. Please. I don’t want any trouble.”
It was a panicky bit’a business now this. Real panicky. Loftus was a strong boy ya see. A fuckin brute of a mush for his age. If Daddy ever saw him he’d say he was a bull thick ignorant sort of a cunt, or something to that affect. Or an absolute ape of a child, which he absolutely was. Tommy Conboy on the other hand, the nemesis, was none of these things in any capacity. Poor Tommy. He was but a wisp of a creation. A wisp of a creation with a big mouth and spectacular acne; much known to the rest of us as Pizzaface or Spot The Chancer, because he was that. Despite this, his shortcomings, Tommy still had an arrogance to him. He had a gall. A neck. Actually, someone once said he was neck from the arse up and that he’d go through life almost ignorant to the fact. Do you realise how dangerous that can be if one is not properly equipped to deal with the ramifications of such behaviour? It’s like a death sentence or something very close to it. One of the lads, Joey Morley, once said that “Tommy talks a big game, the biggest, but the same lad wouldn’t fight sleep if he was fuckin paid to do it by the tele.” And you know something, he’s damn right.
“SPIT IT OUT.” Loftus roared. “SPIT IT OUT OR I’LL FUCKIN BREAK YA IN HALF.”
“It’s hearsay.”
Corcoran laughed at Loftus then but Loftus, in his dyer fit of rage, was quick to face him, much to Tommy’s delight.
“Oh thank Christ for that.”
“HEY CORCORAN. DON’T YOU be mentioning my oul lady. You ringpiece.”
“She’s a beautiful woman, that’s all I said, relax will ya!”
“Coz I’ll rip the head clean off your damn shoulders if you do it again, ok?”
“Go for it horsebox. Try and stop me. You should be flattered.”
“A child is all you are. A God damn child. And us here trying to have an intellectual conversation like adults, like. . like men.”
“I’m on a roll baby.”
The place erupted.
“Corcoran don’t start, ok? Don’t make me bring your sister Charlotte into this. Miss implants herself. Let that be enough now yeah? I don’t want this to go any further ok SO DON’T MAKE ME DO IT!”
The place fell down silent again. Corcoran stared at Loftus and said nothing for a while. Because of the remark, big boy Corcoran would bury his big head deep into his arms and cry like a little wimp, like someone who was half his age.
Crying in such a way that, to look at him, you’d swear he was just after committing some woeful, heinous crime against a family member or something, as an accident like. But because the lad was half fuckin stupid – I mean there was a bit of a lag in him – the whole thing was only catching up with now and hitting home and because of that all he could do was cry.
“What was only hitting home now?”
“The severity of his actions, however accidental and the grim trajectory of his fate.”
The comment had got him good and rightly so. It was the ultimate cheap shot from Loftus. Probably the lowest one could go with him. “AHA SEE.” said Loftus, shouting now. “I knew that’d quieten ya. You prick. Go back home now to Dolly why don’t you with her big fake arse. Jolene. Jolene. Jolene. JOLEEENE.”
Joe Morris stepped in then and told Loftus to calm the hell down.
“Hey Loftus. Calm the hell down.”
“He started it didn’t he, bringing my dear and lovely looking mother into it, he should’ve known better.”
“I know he should’ve known better. But leave him be now ya? The damage is done. You’ve gone and hurt him.”
“Oh have I yeah!?”
“Yes. You have!”
“Well screw him, he’s only a batty boy.”
Noel McGuire let a roar out of him then “AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH” and it frightened the bloody piss out of us all.
“What in the Jaysus was that?” he goes. “Did someone throw a a pencil at me?”
“YES. IT WAS ME. WHAT YOU GONNA DO ABOUT IT?”
“Damn you Finnerty. I’mma get you when you least expect it.”
“Eat badger dick.”
And just like that the room was alive again with endless abuse and chartless chatter that bounced and shot around the place like a thing on drugs.
“I just wanted to get your attention is all.”
“That hurt though babez! What’s the problem?”
“You owe me 50 cent is all. I’d like it back please.”
“I’ll give it to you tomorrow.”
“Hey Duffy?”
“But you said that to me yesterday!??”
“What is it man?”
“Will ya go away from around me, I said I’ll give it back to ya and that’s the end of it.”
“Can I get a fag off you later on? Afterwards like?”
“I’ve only two fags left Spud.”
“A drag or two then? Please.”
“Yeah ok. Meet me in the bushes after.”
“I have to say I’m a bit worried about it now.”
“Here, why am I always picked last at football training? I’m always on the B Team?”
“You’re on the B Team because there’s no fuckin C Team. Now shush.”
“It just won’t wash off like.”
“How do ya mean it won’t wash off?”
“It’s really stuck on there. Like glue.”
“Then get it checked ya clown!”
“I think I might have to do that.”
“You should definitely get it looked at.”
“The discolouration is also worrying. It’s making the whole thing look funny. And don’t get me started on the smell. YUCK.”
“EEEEEWWW! What is it anyways?”
“My cheese.”
“Your what. . .?”
“Yep.”
“HEY LADS. GET A LOAD OF THIS! EOIN HERE HAS A SMEGGY SAUSAGE!”
”EOIN HAS WHAT??”
The room shuddered to a violent halt as this mighty declaration travelled far and wide through the floors and walls of the school with the same authoritative force as the main bell itself, and anyone who had been previously doing something was now doing nothing at all. Standing still with mouth agape. And you could see on his face now – Eoin – the instant dread and defeat as it traipsed over him like a slow shawl of pure shame. THERE WAS NOTHING MORE THAT COULD BE DONE. The lad’s genitalia was riddle with cheese and now everyone knew it.
“Ah Jesus Cally.” Eoin goes. “I told you that in confidence.”
Cally was laughing hard into Eoin’s pimpled face now. “Well Eoin.” he goes “I wouldn’t have told me that if I were you. HAHAHA. You dope. What’s wrong with ya?”
At that the Callymeister jumped up onto his rickety desk and roared it out once more for everyone to hear: “HEY LADS GET A LOAD OF THIS, EOIN HERE HAS A SMEGGY FLUTE! HE SHALL NOW BE KNOWN AS THE SMEGGMASTER 9000.” And of course we all split our sides laughing because it was one of the funniest/saddest things we had ever heard, and then in fantastic unison we all sang: “”EOIN IS A DIRT BOY, EOIN IS A SMEGGY BOY, EOIN IS A DIRT BOY, EOIN IS A SMEGGY BOY!”” and my goodness it was terrific. Eoin a’course didn’t partake in the singsong. He was too miserable for it. Too embarrassed. The boy be straight up smeggy ya dig?
“Fuck sake Cally. Why’d you have to say anything at all? I could bloody well die now because of this.”
“Ah come on Eoin for fuck sake. We’re only having a laugh man. Lighten up. It’s Friday for crying out loud. We made it through another week. Aren’t you happy? WAHEY!!”
Cally then offered his hand out peacefully to Eoin and said: “Here, are we still friends lad? I’m sorry if I upset you. I suppose I was just trying to show off in order to make myself feel better about my own self.”
But Eoin was reluctant. He would take his time here, weighing up the situation up for what it was – still traumatised shur – and we all watched on like starved birds in a nest, and we were sweating like fuckin mad, only because we weren’t too sure about Eoin or the things he was capable of. The lad could’ve been some sort of silent assassin. What if he had combat chops that were far superior to anything the rest of us possessed? What if he took a notion and turned around and decided to kill the lot of us with a pencil? It would be a poor start to the weekend.
“Yeah ok.” he eventually goes. PHEEEEEEEEEW. “We are still friends. Go on outa that.”
And so the two lads shook hands like men and there were no hard feelings about any of it and very soon it was all forgotten about. Aaaaaaah. But that was normal for us. That was reality. Every single day. Every single class. Every. Single. Day.
And good they were at it too; the lads. Slick as old boots when it came time to scrap and tough as wrought iron when it got any ways heated – as all practitioners of that kind ought to be; especially now, when the order of the day was to sort out all the big affairs in broad daylight before the so called ‘administration’, whom (let’s face it) were quiet easy to slip by undetected, and ’Fat Cow Face’ here was no exception, for she had blamed the entirety of our moochings on a small breeze that was trying to negotiate its way in through a small crack in the door and that suited us rightly so it did. We were now as good as invisible in this world and I got say there was a lot to be said for such freedom.
Anyways, there I was in my new seat minding my own business when one of the lads asks me if I was “comfortable”. He said it in a very degrading way.
“Are you happy there now, Benny? Yes? Are you having the best experience of your life up there in that new seat?”
And I told him straight out that I was, that I was very comfortable, and for no reason at all he prodded me in the back of the neck with one of his pencils and started laughing at me. It hurt like a mother fucker so it did but get this; I didn’t move. Not an inch. I didn’t even blink, or flinch, and this made him very wary of me. I became Eoin for a split second and boy how good it felt. He sensed this danger anyways and fucked off soon afterwards.
“It’s nothing personal John Joe.” I says to him. “I swear to God. It’s just, I have other things on my mind today. You’ll see what I mean in just a minute.”
John Joe ‘The Brave’ stood up then and silenced the room by raising his hand and everyone stopped to listen. “Shush lads” he goes. “I think O’Brien here is going to do something mental.”
“Sure O’Brien is always mental.”
“Yeah.”
“Sit down ya ape!”
“Tell us a joke there John Joe & stop your messin.”
“Yeah go on JJ, let’s get a good slag goin.”
But John Joe shook his hand. Like this. Demanding silence. And with a bit of a quiver in his voice he said: “No lads really. I’m fuckin serious. I think O’Brien here is going to do something unbelievable in a minute. Watch.”
And just like that – click – all heads turned in my direction.
“You’d be damn right there John Joe boy.” I says to him.
“You are bang on the money and not half as stupid as these cunts here make you out to be.”
And he was like “Whaaaaaaat?”
“You see lads.” I says. “I have a slight qualm with this thing, this beast, this filthy fascist, that’s stood gorging herself before me, before us, here this afternoon. For I have good reason to believe boys, that SHE, and only she, is the reason I am without my precious chocolate today!”
And you wouldn’t believe what happened then ladies and gentlemen. You would not believe what happened then.
My boys, my dear sweet boys; they went quiet on me. But what else could they do? Nothing. Nothing. Except listen. In fairness, it wasn’t an easy piece of information to get. Of course it wasn’t. If anything it was BIG INFORMATION to get and I knew that and now they knew it too.
Truth is I had not meant to jar them. Not at all. But get this. . .they were jarred, and some had even started to cry. Fuckers. Very much on the “jarry emotional” side they were now and what a fiasco it all was. You could almost see it on their faces – the change – and hear it in the way their jaws tightened back as this unknown temper, confusion and horror completely overrode them.
“The..the Bournsville you mean?” a voice asked.
“Yes Padraig.” I says. “The fucking Bournsville, and you my friend get top marks for guessing it. A round of applause for Padraig everybody. Clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap.”
Padraig smiled at me then like a gremlin because he didn’t get my razor sharp sarcasm and like that, click, the whole place turned sour, like a sucky sweet, and any jove that had been there initially swiftly drained itself down the gully hole. “GLUG, GLUG, GLUG, GLUG, GLUG, GLUG”
“Jesus Henry Christ.” someone roared. “What an injustice. You worked hard to get that chocolate, didn’t you?”
“Yes Michael. I worked very hard to get it.”
“And she just took it? Just like that?”
“Just like that!”
“AHHHHH.”
“She’d have taken a lot less.” a voice proclaimed and I don’t know who said it but they were damn right. She WOULD’VE taken a lot less. She’d have taken my shoes had they been a decent fit. . . .and possibly my underpants.
“WHAT A SHAME!”
“Indeed.”
Some of the lads got out of their seats and walked over to me; and like a gang of pissheads at a Mayo burial they offered up their deepest sympathies, one by one, with the hand out and head down. You know that number? And I thought to myself “Well Jesus. How quintessentially Irish of ye lads. The no eye contact thing is a fuckin beaut. Never lose it yeah? It’s real old testament stuff. And being the arrogant little runt that I was, I rose up like a proud bastard child from America to meet and welcome them in as Fatso Giles, in all her blindness, ate through the commotion like some giddy, malnourished ferret.
“Nom. Nom. Nom. Nom.”
She tried to hide it too, the eejit, but her timing was shocking. I mean, it was the worst display I had seen in a long, long time; swaying and dipping about the shop, going this way and that, like a new born foal on an incline. Finding her legs. Yeah. And then someone shouted: “How on earth can she find her legs when she can’t even pin point the exact location of her minge due to the immense fatness? This “unstable leg” issue nonsense seems like a pointless side quest no?”
At this point we all thought she had gone completely fuckin bonkers. This whole charade, or whatever she was attempting to undertake, had become obvious to us now. Blatant as anything it was. Like a baboon’s arse in snow. Or worse. But get this: she thought she had managed to fool us.
“Pathetic.”
This of course was pure unadulterated gold I thought. Pure unadulterated gold. It was a fine display of blissful ignorance. Possibly the finest. And on it went, over and over again, the chomping and the slurping and the squelching, and then she made a funny noise with her mouth and started to cough a bit. It was this thick and dry thing.
“Uh Oh?” a voice said. “What’s happening here?” And we all looked on.
It would appear a bit of grub had gotten lodged in her throat and we all froze on the spot like tight lipped ninjas as she stiffened up with the shear panic of it. Colm Moran, the school’s proudest lickarse, asked Giles then if she was alright and if he could get her some water and shur we all knew he didn’t give a bollox if she was alright or not. Clout is all the cunt was after. Clout and praise. The usual shite. But thank God for Patsy Byrne for he caught onto it quick, and taking young Colm like this – by the collar – he shoved him back down into his seat and said: “You stay there now and stop going on like that like a good lad or you’ll make yourself sick.” And Colm was like “OKKAAAYY”
Anyways we stood there watching this ordeal, and being the sick pack of bastards that we were, we hoped and we prayed and we begged desperately for some kind of divine intervention – a miracle even – that’d maybe help her along a small bit.
“Come on God please.” we all shouted it.
“Hail Mary full of grapes.”
“Strike her down El Capitano. Strike her down.”
“YES YES!”
“With all your good and with all your might.”
“PREACH BROTHER. STRIKE HER DOWN.”
“So we may go home early.”
“SO WE MAY GO HOME TO FUCK!!”
“YES!”
“LADS LOOK. It’s happening lads. It’s actually happening. LOOK. LOOK!”
“OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD.”
Well, all I can say is. . . .the poor floorboards. We thought they’d surely buckle like paper beneath her massive heft. They didn’t though. Praise the Lord, we couldn’t believe it, our dear sweet Mary was indeed having a choking fit and a fucking serious one at that. So serious that she twitched and spat and heaved herself about the place like some possessed oversized marionette, and we all watched on, laughing and screaming, jumping about, like a bunch of over stimulated piss flaps. I’d say if we had been a horny gang of chimpanzees we’d be throwing our shite at each other and everything. And enjoying it. After all, this was a celebration, and we were more than keen to make the most of it. Actually no, now that I think of it, that whole chimpanzee caper would never work. Not here anyways. For the simple fact that enough of the lads had already smelt like shite and lets face it, we needed not more of that. In my book you don’t want the thick and smellys to be getting any more thick and smelly, if you catch my drift. You need to keep that stuff at bay if at all possible. Anyways, there I go again, digressing like a mad yoke. Back to Giles.
All of this mayhem (with the choking and the spluttering) was happening right in front of us and we all thought “That’s fuckin it. This bird is surely done for.”
Suddenly an excited voice popped up from somewhere (I think it was Karl Burke. Actually no it was definitely Karl Burke) and said: “LADS. LISTEN. If this goes our way here today. IF THIS GOES OUR FECKIN WAY. I just want you all to know that I love you.”
What a lovely sentiment, and we all said it back to him, in unison: “WE LOVE YOU TO KARL. ALWAYS AND FOREVER BABE. MWAH.”
But in the end ladies and gentlemen, of course, like all things good and promising, it didn’t happen for us.
“NOOOOOOOOO.”
“It just didn’t go our way.”
And because of this terribly sad fact, this hiccup, there would be no long drawn out hugs between us.
“Awwwwwwwwwh.”
And if there were to be no long drawn out hugs then there’d certainly be no more awkward, quasi-homosexual confessions of perpetual love; at least not yet anyways. The lads were frustrated now and resorted to kicking the tables in front of their own. Somehow they figured this action would alleviate their anger and their suffering but instead all it did was leave them out of breath and with sore shins.
“Ah to hell with this load of bullshit” they roared. And “FAAAAAAACCK MY LIFE.” And “I WANT TO DIEEEEEEEEEE.”
“Really. You want to die?”
“What?”
“Did you just say you wanted to die? Is that what you said?”
“Yes.”
“And do you?”
“Erm well no. I don’t want to die no.
“Then why did you say that?”
“Wha?”
“Why did you say you wanted to die?”
“I’m not sure. For dramatic affect I suppose. The heat of the moment got to me. I said to myself I better say something a little bit mental here now because of this whole situation with your wan choking and surviving and all that. You get me?
“She’s not choking though you fool.”
“She’s not what. . . ?”
“I said she’s not fuckin choking. Are you well? PAY ATTENTION.”
You see folks, in the end, the tyrant Giles (a.k.a Big Titty Kitty) had somehow managed to clear (whatever it was) out all by herself. By some miracle she got it out, and it looked easy, and I say fair play to her because things like that don’t just happen at the click of a finger. You can’t teach such class unfortunately BUT, being the classy, classy broad that she was, didn’t she turn on a dime – remember this was her instinct – and hock the little nuisance up onto the blackboard for us all to fucking see. .
“EEEEEEEEEWWWWWW”
And a’course, she did it with such grace, like it were nothing to her at all, and that’s where the yoke would stay apparently – taunting us – for the rest of the damn day.
Up until now I had never seen phlegm breath. Or even give off the impression of breathing. Believe me when I say there was actual fucking steam coming off of this thing. It even made sounds. And it was yellow and green and it pulsated like it had a full on heart and nervous system wathin’in’it. How on earth is that possible? Like. . . .HOW? My head would spin with curiosities around this topic. Too many curiosities to count, or even mention. But anyways, look, to hell with it, seeing as it’s Friday, I’ll give you a quick preview into one of the scenarios that stood out to me most. Why not. I was officially obsessed. Here it is: Let’s just say, for example, in a hypothetical world, that we left this THING alone for years – for 18 years to be exact. After such time had passed, I’m wondering, would we then be forced to treat it like it were a real person?
Make sense?
And what if, during the course of 18 years, this woeful thing had managed to stay healthy and alive, and what if it grew bigger and stronger and more intelligent with each passing day – would it be eligible all of a sudden to a fucking vote in this country? Would it? Would it be allocated this privilege as if it were an actual, real person? I’m telling you, I would spend hours, days almost, debating this scenario in my little hypothetical world. I’d go through sleepless nights, thinking about this, wondering that. Asking myself HOW and WHY. Only to finally drum up, out of pure boredom, the perfect little living setup this THING would have if it were a proud voter within our national system. Here’s what it would look like. A day in the life for
The Dirty Little Bollix
He’d get up in the morning,
have a stretch,
fart a few times,
roll over,
kiss the wife,
smash the wife (because well, somebody has to),
then he’d go downstairs,
make breakfast,
take a piss,
feed the dogs,
walk the dogs,
drink coffee,
brush his teeth,
wash himself,
pick an outfit,
dress himself,
brush his teeth again,
go outside,
forget keys,
FUCK
go back inside,
retrieve keys,
head back outside,
get in the car,
start the car,
light a cigarette and
drive to the nearest voting centre,
where there’d be no queues whatsoever and a wide range of
delicious refreshments available – baked goods, teas & coffee etc.
I thought about this phlegmy little man and his made up life for a long, long time folks and eventually came to the following conclusion:
YES.
“DAMN IT ANYWAYS!” said a voice from the back of the class. “SO CLOSE” and we all thought it. The phlegmy regurgitation was watching us now in real time. But it wasn’t just watching us. Oh no. It was issuing bribes and taunting us too with the odd gang sign. South central Los Angeles sort’a stuff that would inevitably put everyone on edge. But did the boys do anything to quell the threat in that moment? Did they fuck. They would stand there just, the whole lot of them, still as anything, in total awe of the spectacle; and instead of helping they’d simply stare me down blankly as if waiting for my lawful command to rise up and do something. Kill IT perhaps.
“What now boss?” Duffy goes.
“Yeah, what’s the contingency plan, mush? Cunthooks here is still breathing and this yoke on the blackboard is giving me the super gawks. I might pass out in a minute.”
So I told them straight out with no reservations: “We are down on our luck lads.” I says. “She is one of the most resilient dictators I have ever seen, and for us to deal with her correctly, I’d say we have no choice but to bring out the BIG GUNS. Do you all understand?”
After this, I wouldn’t say anything for another minute or two. I’d stand there looking at my team with my chin cocked high and my hands on my hips. I had wanted the first part of my speech to well and truly land with them. I needed them to get it. And whenever I felt they had a grasp of it, whatever IT was, I’d top it all off by saying: “In this pursuit my dear lads, there will be scenes of spectacular violence that some of you may find disturbing and offensive. Now, having said that, I also know a lot of you won’t be affected by the proceedings, at all at all, and that’s fine too. Clearly you have stomachs strong enough to deal with the pressure and that, for me, is absolutely stunning so God bless ye.
BUT. IN THIS PURSUIT. No matter what side of the fence you find yourself on. Be it left or right. Good or bad. You are either with me or against me. There is no in between. I repeat, THERE IS NO IN BETWEEN. You can either be part of the solution. Yes? Or you can fill your little booteens being part of the problem. So. . . .what’s it gonna be?”
But in that moment nobody spoke. How strange. And I, like an evil general, couldn’t help but smile at their silence. To me, it was everything. It signified something. A COMMITMENT to the cause.
DISCIPLINE.
RESPECT.
LOVE.
But most of all: LOYALTY. One of the boys down beside the radiator stood up then and said: “My Liege. There will be no drastic movements made against you here today. No ill wills or convoluted motives. No last minute protests or slanderous deterrents. You must remember sir, at the end of the day, we are all friends. Furthermore we are your friends. In this, we are here to serve and not defy and I can promise you that. WE can promise you that. Right boys?”
“SIR YES SIR!”
I can hardly put it into words just how beautiful this was for me to hear. This near pledge of allegiance. It was majestic and poignant and soft. An all encompassing sentiment. It settled me so it did. And in that moment I thought myself a very lucky boy, almost ungrateful, for I had never once realised the immense fortune I had in having such sound comrades around me. . .UNTIL. . .a single sheepish little voice sprung up then from the back of the class and said: “What in the name of fuck is going on here anyways? Why ya’ll talking like Shakespearian twats? Are yiz gay boys or somethin?”
“YES.” said a reinforcer. “Can someone please explain to myself and Nigel exactly what’s going on here, lest we kill each other out of boredom.”
“Or frustration.”
“What do you want us to do?”
QUICK NOTE: The lads asking all the questions here were either musical drama students or closeted crossdressers but lets face it (they weren’t fooling anybody). They were an odd lot to say the least. They are odd, but respectful.
Now, this is important.
For the most part they kept to themselves and operated way way beyond the fringes of whatever we were up to. For example: You’d never catch any of them fighting or blaggard’n. Ever. You’d catch them frolicking alright, and kissing, but never swinging for blood. And it’s not because they didn’t want to, or know how to – they just didn’t have that GET UP & GO flavour to them. As I said, they were of a particular sort.
Crafty Butchers
Uphill Gardeners
(etc etc)
So to hear them speak like that, in the way they did, about something they knew fuck all about, with that level of enthusiasm and support (however fucking useless it might be in the end) was a very refreshing thing to behold and a great leap forward for mankind. Their Father’s would be proud I thought to myself (provided they were still alive; probably not though with all this carry on) Ok?. . .END OF NOTE.
This was a special moment, as I said. A very special moment. And wiping the tears out of my eyes I told them straight up – my wonderful new crew of misfits – just how happy it made me to hear such unbridled enthusiasm for a leader’s cause, and then I said: “Right so comrades, I don’t care if you’re straight or gay or confused or otherwise, we are gonna do this, this, this, this and this. UNDERSTOOD?”
And they all shouted “Aye, aye captain.”
And when that was all done, when I had finally wiped away the last of my small tears, I thanked each of them dearly for keeping their mouths shut and their unwavering cooperation for it had been a spectacularly useful thing during these past few hours when everything had gotten notably hectic. I told them, in a private sort’a way, just how much they meant to me and how much I loved and valued them as individuals, and whenever they told me to “fuck off” or “go away” I’d simply take my foot and boot them up the hole a few times until they copped on to themselves.
BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG.
Sounds easy right? Sounds fun. Well, get this – it was easy, and it was fun. Your boy here was NOT FOOLING AROUND. Your boy here NEVER fools around. Hell I’d kick those bitches in the nuts all day long if I had to.
BING. BANG. BOOM & No Cash Required.
Moments later, when all was settled and put to bed, when the lads, my fucking lads, had finally calmed themselves down and I could at last feel some ease upon my heart: Our Glorious Ceremony Could Begin.
“How we gonna go about this?” a voice asked. “She’s literally right there in front of us.”
“Hey four eyes. We could be four doors down the way and the bitch would still be in front of us. What do you expect from a house but gables. Christ above. And here’s me thinking you lads with the glasses were smart things.”
“We are smart things.”
“Well. Relinquish your membership. Coz I’m telling you now you’re thick as shite.”
“That’s such a horrible thing to say. So horrible I could cry.”
Paulie McDermott, God bless his cotton socks, hadn’t the thickest skin in the world. Even now, in his teens, the lad possessed all the fragile tendencies of a toddler. You had to go easy around Paulie, always, or be mindful of what you said in his company. Cushioning (or whatever the fuck its called) was a big part of his life. He needed this emotional ‘cushioning’ for reasons beyond our knowledge. A little younger than myself Paulie had what we called Super Intellect. Autistic level stuff. Without a doubt. That boy, I swear, knew stuff about things that no-one anywhere could ever know about and I fucking mean that. And while he was this in spades he was also –
“Thick as shite and totally fucking useless in every other aspect of his life.”
“Imagine that.”
I don’t mean useless in a derogatory sense here; not at all. It was never like that. In actual fact, the way Paulie went about his uselessness was actually quite endearing to say the least. There was a magic to it. A beauty. An honest charm. And in my head it would be the very unassuming thing that’d save him one day from something truly shocking.
BUT.
When he asked me on this day to fight another one of his fucking battles for him, I sort’a lost the plot, and in response all I could do was say: “Paulie. I love you buddy. I really do. But for the love of God above can you please just figure something out yourself for once in your fucking life? PLEASE!”
In defence of his case, Paulie stuck his finger into the air and opened his mouth, as if to say something, but I was having none of it.
“DON’T YOU DARE SPEAK.” I says to him. “I am done fucking spoon feeding you, Paulie. In fact, I am sick of it. Look at the job that’s in front of me here now. In front of US. Do you realise what’s at stake? I don’t think you do lad, to be honest. I don’t think you do. You really ought to straighten yourself out and grow a pair a balls. FAST. You’ll need them through every single stage of your life. I would say now more than ever. Why? Coz things be gettin wild up in here son. Shit gonna go down in a minute. Shit gonna go down to Chinatown. Yeeeee-hawwwww. So if you need to leave the room please do. Be my guest and no hard feelings whatsoever. Otherwise sit down, shut your mouth and enjoy the fun that’s about to ensue. Do you understood what I’m saying to you?”
“Ok, Benny.” he eventually says, and him quivering. “I do sincerely apologise for my lack of self respect and integrity. Especially in this matter. I’ll try and find my balls sometime or somewhere. Perhaps I dropped them down the side of the couch or left them in the hot press. If it’s ok, I would very much like to erm. . .like to stay with you all here if that’s alright? I eh. .I don’t want to go home right now, for reasons I can’t discuss. Well, I can’t go home right now is the thing. But I promise I’ll buck myself up. Ok? I will do that for sure. Alright.”
“It’s for your own sake, lad, ya? It’ll do you the world of good.”
“You think it will change me?”
“I swear it will. On my Mother’s life.”
“Well alright then. I’ll get to work.”
The room was quiet now. Real quiet. Almost eerie in a way. So quiet and eerie you could just about hear the class next door and everything they were doing. It sounded like fun so it did. There was craic and chatter happening and lots of it too. Pricks. By the sounds of it, they had the school television in and were watching some kind of funny programme about farm yard accidents and safety and all of that. This was a free class I thought to myself. It had to be. Lucky sods. A free class was the ultimate, ultimate indulgence. For lads like us, in a school as grim and as shit as this one, a free class was honestly as good as getting the shift. If not better.
Question was, did I envy them? These boys next door and their rights to freedom? Of course I didn’t. Are you crazy? We had no time for pointless entertainment like that. You see reader, we had much bigger fish to fry in our own room here, and it just so happened that our so called fish looked a lot more like our friend Mary Agnes Giles than it did a piece of Hake. The oil was ready. It was fuckin bubbling baby. All we had to do now was drop the bitch into it. Deep into it.
“I’ll take the lead from here boys.” I says. “You just sit back, relax and enjoy the ride.”
Three. Two. One.
“HEY LARDASS.” I goes to her.
“Huh?”
“Yeah I’m talking to you. I’m onto your enterprise ok? And your business. I know exactly what you’ve been doing and how it all works. So here’s a bit of advice: Next time, why don’t you buy your own fuckin Bournsville instead of stealing mine. Comprendé?”
GASP! SOMEWHERE A CAR SCREECHES TO A HALT. CAN YOU HEAR IT?
The statement was, in essence, what sit down is to a dog or an eviction form would mean to a ‘soon to be’ homeless family, and in that moment, for a split second, I thought I was a Spanish Matador called Guillermo who had just stupidly called out the biggest and most baddest bull in all of Pamplona.
“Viva el toro, pero por favour maten a este.”
“OLÉ.”
The knees went on her. The left first, BOOM. Then the right, CLANK, which was fierce interesting I thought Fierce interesting.
“Why was it interesting?” Declan Varden asked.
“I couldn’t tell you, Declan my boy. For some reason I’ve been a long time curious to see how something like that would go and, that’s how it went. The biologist in me I suppose.”
“Well. I find it rather dull.”
“You’re rather dull. What kind of last name is Varden anyway? It sounds silly.”
“HEY. MY FATHER WAS A GOOD MAN.”
“Your father was a degenerate gambler who killed himself in the end, but ok. And that’s not mentioning his brother hai.”
“What about the brother hai? Tell us.”
“The brother Varden. The priest. Or Fr. Touchy McDiddly. Caught red handed molesting himself in his own car. Parked up. In broad daylight. Can you imagine? Feckin kids knocking around and everything.”
“By the beach wasn’t it?”
“Down there yeah.”
“I think I remember that alright. It was in the paper wasn’t it?”
“Whether it was in the paper or not I couldn’t tell you. But you gotta admit, the headlines practically write themselves.”
“I suppose they do.”
“I even came up with a few of my own. Christ, I could’ve been a millionaire. Try this for size.”
“Go for it.”
“PRIEST BASHES BISHOP IN ROLE REVERSAL.”
“And if that don’t tickle you how about. .
“LOCAL PREACHER OBEYS THE BIBLE & LOVES THYSELF.”
“Better than the first.”
“And finally, my personal favourite. . .
“WANKING HABIT”
* * * *
Madame Giles, clearly distressed by the situation, shimmied slowly out from behind her desk. The whole thing was an ordeal to her, clearly, an utter panic, and you could tell that was the case just by looking at the way she moved her fat arse around the place.
It was a terribly, terribly, sad sight to be fair, watching a grown woman grab onto herself like that. It confused me a bit in the end. It really did. Just the way she clutched onto her breasts and held onto her fat folds like they were putty filled stress toys. No shame at all. NO SHAME. I had to take a step away from it. Just for a minute. From a spectator’s point of view, you see, it was as if the entirety of her existence was now based around the preservation of her boobs and nothing else.
“How strange.”
“But Ben, may I ask a question?”
“What is it Marky?”
“Was that not the whole point of today’s exercise though?”
“It was indeed Marky ya.”
“Well I believe a CONGRATULATIONS is in order. You finally got the bitch after all these years. Your Grand Master Plan Can Officially Be Set In Motion.”
And so it was. We were now, as a group, in official motion. It felt good. Real good. And seeing all this commotion Patrick O’Dwyer laughed out loud and said up to her: “Are you scratchin your tits miss? What are ya at?”
“FINALLY!” we all thought. “A bit of sun!”
“Where’s the Mariachi band when you need one eh? Is this not cause for celebration?”
Thirty seconds later The Beast Mary fell down onto the floor in front of me. BANG! And she was flailing her legs like a mad thing now, and whinging like a boar and if I recall correctly she lost a shoe in the process and I remember being really annoyed by that.
I’m not sure why it annoyed me so much to be honest. I just, I don’t know, I just didn’t care much for the manner in which she buckled. It wasn’t what I had in mind the other night at the dinner table, when I was planning all of this out. That great night, I’ll never forget it, when we had those delicious pork ribs with the onion mash and gravy.
There was a lack of commitment to her demise I felt. A shameful un- resolve. In all my life I had never seen a person look so desperate and pathetic. I was so un-attracted to this thing. I wanted to gag. Honestly. Yet, watching her struggle was a real treat in an odd sort of way. Surely to God it couldn’t have been easy for her either with all the spluttering and coughing she was doing. Cripes. I’m no mortician but, by all accounts, dying in this manner is simply not as straight forward as it seems. I had to address it. For educational purposes.
“This clearly isn’t a lights out affair, lads.” I says. “She’ll go out slowly today. Like a dimmer switch. Until we say otherwise.”
What bugged me most though was her lack of decision making, for the simple fact that there was none. As smart and all as the lady was, she couldn’t seem to fathom the severity of the situation. This would in turn make her look like a right fucking clown which was, in all, a cardinal offence. For me personally (and I’ve always thought this) there is nothing more insufferable and unattractive in this world than a woman who can’t make her mind up. Like, what are you doing luv, eh? Are you coming or are you going? Are you in or out? Up or down? Tell me. Quick. Please. Is it food you’re after? Is it? Or water? Is it because you’re depressed or something? ARE YOU DEPRESSED? Is that what it is? Depression. Can you still arouse yourself? Also, who won Italia 90? Could you tell me that one? I bet ya you can’t. And what’s the difference between your arse from your elbow?
“MAKE UP YOUR FUCKIN MIND WILL YOU?” I says to her. “FOR CHRIST’S SAKE. COZ WE HAVEN’T GOT ALL DAY.”
This behaviour ladies and gentlemen, especially in women, this kind of indecisiveness, for ME at least, can be eye wateringly frustrating.
SO WHAT DOES ONE DO?
Well, you can take the situation into your own hands, can’t you? That’s what I had to do here with this one, and this is what happened. Brace yourself:
In the end, the practicality of the mission, would you believe, was actually rather easy. The whole thing would involve me leaving my chair, going to her desk, grabbing her by the head and screaming into her face until she, I dunno, felt something.
I even got down on one knee to do all this because Mamma didn’t raise no thug; and when I was ready I told the bitch straight out, with great ferocity, to make her fuckin mind up, QUICK, because time was a precious thing and we didn’t have a lot of it. I even said please and thank you.
“Like a good boy.”
“BUT GET THIS. . .”
“What?
“She didn’t resist my efforts.”
“No she did not.”
“You wanna know what she did instead?”
“We already know but tell us again.”
“She slumped down onto the ground. . .”
“BOOM.”
“Unconscious.”
“YES.”
“Lights slowly fading.”
“HALLELUJAH.”
“Like a big sack a shite.”
“Jesus those floorboards. . .”
“Don’t talk to me.”
“They made an awful racket didn’t they? Any time she moved.”
“Brutal. They need changing.”
“They’ll never change. Not after today.”
“Is that it so?” a voice asked. “Is that her gone?”
This was a fantastic question in fairness and a very hard thing to call. From that moment on, a lot of the lads would watch the door handle for fear it would turn while others, the real delinquents, didn’t care for any such nonsense; of course, I was the latter. A moment later, after she had settled, she would make this utterly grim attempt to save herself by grabbing on to the leg of her desk from the flatness of her back. It was an impossible manoeuvre, we all knew that. But still, no matter what we did, we couldn’t stop ourselves from laughing at her. These “flamboyant thoughts” and “hopeful dreams” were like something out of a comedy strip, and I doubt she even heard us but still the question floated around the room if she could do it or not.
“GO ON O’BRIEN.” they all roared. “YOU’RE CLOSEST. DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!”
The noise was getting to me now. In every capacity. Both inside and out. All of a sudden, I had found it very difficult to wrangle my thoughts together. No matter what I did, I just couldn’t seem to make sense of them. I wasn’t asking for much. All I wanted was to have them there in front of me, in a straight and clear line, like soldiers, but what was I getting? Not that let me tell you. Anything but. These things were like flies, or better yet, unruly children in a fucking shopping centre; illusive, giddy and totally unpredictable. They would break my heart after a while so they would.
You see reader, our time was happening NOW. Judgement Day was officially upon us, and with that came big responsibilities and monumental efforts. I had to make a decision, and I had to make it FAST.
“Lads, please.” I goes. “Can ye pipe down for 2 seconds? I’ve a bit of thinking to do here.”
I would look at her again for a while – The Beast – my brain going mad trying to work out the intricacies surrounding her and her situation. My Assessment: Well, as bad and all as she was, the woman still had a significance. Of course she did. Like any other person, she was an important fixture within the workings of the world whether we liked it or not. She was a mother, a wife, a sister, a daughter, a grandmother, an aunt, a friend, a teacher, and so much more. She didn’t ask to be here in this life. Heck, none of us did. Yet, here we are. All clumped together in this small, smelly classroom in a big, run down secondary school. I, Benny O’Brien, am here today by my own necessity. So are my boys. We are here because we need to learn, and learn we must, and learn we will. Beastiality Brains on the other hand is here not because she loves it; does she fuck love it, dealing with us pricks. But rather, she chose this path. Get it? And this choice of hers is no fickle thing either let me tell you. It’s driven directly by something else. A little thing called – Necessity. Necessity. Necessity.
But guess what folks, my dark chocolate was my necessity. Ok. I needed that stuff. For health reasons, and other stuff. But what did she do?
“What did she do, lad? Go on, tell us again.”
“She Fuckin Took It.”
“Yes she did.”
“She Fuckin Ate It All Up. BY CHOICE & WITH NO FEAR.”
It suddenly occurred to me that however unmanageable the situation was from her end, the solution to it from ours was very easy and straight forward and involved me moving her desk out of the way, just a touch, so she couldn’t reach it.
“3 inches will do the trick.” I thought to myself. “Just think of your shlong. Or smaller. Think of your shlong at half mast. Do that.”
And of course that’s what I did. Now, deep down, reader, I wish I could sit here and tell you about some elaborate story about some brilliant stunt we pulled together in order to achieve this thing. Something that involved months of planning and faxes, blueprints, resignations, false promises, scandals, politics, affairs, a sophisticated pulley system and high end mathematics but, of course, and as sure as I have a hole in my butt, we didn’t have any of that. Such a complex approach sounds like something that would obliterate us fuckos instead of the intended target and we can’t be having that now can we? No, no, no, no. You see, around here, us boys, we like to honour our simple thoughts by keeping things utterly simple. So, using my trusty little index finger, I leaned myself forward and pulled the desk out of her reach and into my favour, LIKE AN ABSOLUTE FUCKIN BOSSMAN. And when that was done, when that clearance had officially been secured, I knew then that was it. She was perpetual toast.
“HURRAAAYYYY” we all shouted.
“Well done.” said one of the lads. “If you ever run for President, you can have my vote.”
“Thank you.”
I was standing over the woman now like a white Muhammed Ali. Poised and ready for another round of action. Just incase. But sadly, ever so sadly, it wasn’t meant to be. The threat had been totally neutralised and “thank goodness for that.” I thought. “Thank the Lord above, I can finally let my guard down a little.” and that’s just what I did.
From where I was positioned now it looked like the bitch was having an epiphany of sorts in her final moments of life. She was twitching and making funny noises; all of that business. Perhaps this was her life flashing before her eyes moment or something (an eerie phenomenon that happens to those who are about to meet Jesus Christ, or in our case Lucifer).
I’ll never forget what she did next though. You know what she did? SHE LOOKED AT ME. THE BITCH. She looked me right in the eyes, with no normal gaze I can assure you. This display was like nothing I had seen out of her before. EVER. Her two eyes were bright now and full of zest, judging, and for the first time in my life I could see they were actually a really nice hue of emerald green; a detail that had gone over my head for many, many years, and God forgive me for saying it in this instance but. . .I found them kind’a beautiful. Eyes that were fading away only moments ago were now full of expression, vitality and venom, and in that moment I felt very uncomfortable and very judged indeed. I would become frightened all of a sudden, to my core, and get this hankering sensation in the pit of my stomach like I needed to shit. I was officially scared folks, and all I wanted to do was hug my Mother.
“What’s that Mary?” I says. “What are you trying to say to me? Blah blah you YOU PRICK. Blah Blah. I FUCKIN HATE YOUUUUU.”
Sadly I couldn’t make out everything she was trying to say to me. In fact, if I’m being honest, I don’t think she was trying to say anything at all. She wasn’t able. Mumbling nonsense just. Poor pet.
“Nothing fuckin new there.”
“Ok Mary. That’s fine. Whatever you say. Whatever you say. We’re all here with you Mary. Ok. We are all here with you.”
Thirty seconds later, after the scare, we would have the great pleasure of watching the two eyes peel back into her head, and soon after that she just stopped moving altogether.
“Is that her officially gone now?” we all wondered. “Is she dead and all the rest of it?”
Watching her go was a fascinating spectacle. Now, I’m not saying it was good or bad. To be honest I didn’t really care. It was the image of her that got to me more than anything else. The image of big burly woman slumping down onto the floor, onto her back, like a cold child in winter, was a haunting thing to have to witness with all your friends hanging about, but according to Jacky Mooney it was: “The best result we could’ve fuckin hoped for. So congratulations horsebox. You did it. WOOP.”
Duffy stood up then, and signalling with his head he said: “Hang on a second lads. Wait. What in the name of God is that?”
“What’s what, Duffy?”
“THAT.” he said. “THAAAAATT?” and he was crinkling up his face and pointing his finger at nothing. “Don’t you get it?”
“Get what ya mad bastard?”
Then it hit – WALLOP.
“OH DEAR GOD!”
I would soon grow envious of those without a nose as this killer waft of piss and shit rose up through the room and whacked us all in the face. Lord God Jesus, it was foul. We didn’t expect it. Like lunatics, maniacs even, we looked about for the source but got nothing. Zero. Zilch. Then Macken spotted it from his desk – Hawkeye himself – the culprit; and who was it only Mary Giles. Of course it fucking was.
“I know where it’s coming from, lads.” he goes, pointing a finger down at the whale. “Get a load of this.”
“Did she just shit her knickers or something? The fuckin smell.”
“It’s worse than that, pal.”
“Oh no.”
Without our knowing, a thick and lifeless froth had started to build up and congeal around the sides of our Mary’s mouth. It was as if the bile and shite in her stomach had used this fatal incident as a means to initiate some kind of mass exodus.
“The Scour Chronicles Volume 2.”
“Poop Fiction.”
Much like the phlegmy blob thing, this stuff had a real life of its own and made all kinds of strange and funny noises until it eventually overflowed and ran down the side of her face.
Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t look away from this scene. Some of the lads were speechless, others totally numb, as this concoction of piss and shit dripped off the edge of her ear into big puddles on the floor and Brendan Staunton because of it all, blew massive chunks into his bag and we all laughed hard and called him a pussy as reams upon reams of snot and puke fell out of his nose and into his hands.
I told Brendan to clean up his mess quick and eventually he did so with the sleeve of his jumper. Looking back at the exchange I guess I shouldn’t have yelled at him the way I did. I said some unsavoury things to be fair. Real unsavoury things. Nothing overly personal I don’t think. I guess I had just gone mad in the heat of the moment and all that. You see, in my mind we still had so many things to get done, and I had wanted the minutes we had left, my fucking minutes, to be respected. . . .That’s all it was.
“Thanks Brendan.” I says to him. “You’re one of the good guys.”
The time was 3:35pm and amusing us now were the few involuntary gags she’d let out as her system began to completely shut down; and we didn’t mind that. Not one bit. Each gag and twitch was merely a pat on the back for a job well done. Better than any medal, plaque or trophy. Or so we thought.
Eager for attention, some of the boys wondered in the moments after if they would be getting their picture taken at any stage by a professional to mark this fine occasion, like farmers do at local shows with their muscle bound bullocks; for it would be a crying shame they all said. .
“A CRYING FUCKIN SHAME”
if this whole thing here today were to go unnoticed. And of course they mulled it over again and again and they thought and spoke long and hard of the repercussions and I must say some of them were really excited by the danger of it all while other lads, after a while, grew totally erratic at this eerie notion of sudden infamy.
3:39pm
THE GRANDE FINALE!
“Fuck me. Is that the time? Ok lads, let’s start wrapping this up.”
At exactly 3:40pm we witnessed the arrival of Boyler ‘The Curious’ – for he, having had enough of everything, finally said “FUCK THIS” and running up from the back of the class he tore into the side of Giles’s head with the big heel of his Dock Martin boot.
“He was like a drugged up mule so he was.”
“Or a man without his marbles.”
A barrage that was both frightening and relentless to behold. A barrage that would last the guts of 43 seconds or so; without pause I might add. The sweat was pumping out of him too, out of Boyler, as he spat and cursed and kicked and flailed at the woman and the lads who couldn’t take it anymore had to close their eyes and cover their ears.
“SLIME!” he roared with each blow. “DIRTY. FILTHY. MANKY. FUCKIN. SLIME!”
The look of enjoyment on his face was palpable. Absolutely. He was smiling from ear to ear like it was fuckin Christmas, and as teenagers, getting to watch such a barbaric onslaught, we felt very unified for once in our lives. Watching him tear lumps out of her was kind’a nice I thought, and I know for a fact I wasn’t the only one who felt that way. I even got that nice butterfly feeling in the pit of my stomach. Like a blanket it was. A real comfy one. I didn’t want it to go away. I could’ve stayed in its throws forever. “And it mad to think that only a few minutes ago you had wanted to shit in your drawers out of fear. The world is a crazy place indeed.”
“Jesus Christ I’m buggered now.” Boyler goes. “I am absolutely knackered. WATER. WATER. SOMEONE GIVE ME WATER.”
The lad was due a break in fairness. No question about it. His newly assigned post was not an easy thing to keep but, he was doing his best and God bless him for that, and whenever his guard was down, someone would inevitably throw him a dirty slag from across the room and in response all he’d do is look up, squint his eyes, growl and tell whoever it was to fuck off.
“Well, what do ye think of that, lads?” he goes. “Didn’t do too bad did I?”
“I think you did pretty good there, Boyler.”
“Thank you, Martineen.”
“Aye pal, you did real good.”
“I have to say, I enjoyed that immensely.”
The poor woman, Gilesy McGiles Face, had suffered rightly under the weight of Boyler’s boot and in the moments after we all wondered if she could hear us talking now at all. Maybe, yes, but probably not we thought. Nonetheless we had to settle the debate for once and for all so we called out her name a few times too to see if she’d budge but she didn’t. Heck, we even threw out a few of her nicknames to see if they would work but, like everything else, they proved to be just as futile. Names like –
“Fathole.”
“Butterbelly.”
“Double wide.”
“Lardass.”
“Fatchops” and “Slurry Tits.”
High brow stuff indeed. Duffy and Tommy (aka Laurel & Hardy) decided to take it a step further by throwing a few hardback copybooks at her chest and midriff but the useless pricks missed each time. All they did was litter the floor and make it look messy.
“Stay in your lane lads.” Marty goes. Throwing things like that clearly isn’t yer forte.”
“We just are practising is all. Relax.”
“Well stop practicing. Ok? Ye are making a holy show of yourselves. And not only that, ye are showing massive disrespect for the dead. Hold onto yer books for crying out loud. Leave the girl be.”
“Sheesh. What the hell is up with him?”
“He’s recently gay.”
“Ahh right. Say now more.”
At 3:44pm and clouded in misfortune, we gathered around the body to pay our respects.
In the name of the father and of the son and of the holy spirit, Amen. Praise to you Lord Jesus Christ the son of God and the fellowship of the Holy Spirt be with you all.
And Also With You.
Sadly, the real affair was nothing like that whatsoever. THE REAL THING WAS ABSOLUTE FUCKING CHAOS SO IT WAS. CHAOS. There was no God. Or prayers. No religion. Or respect. Instead, there was an inordinate influx of young fellas pushing and shoving trying to get in. They had wanted to see her with their own eyes in this new and dead state. There were lads climbing shoulders, and spitting, throwing elbows, whinging, calling each other names – PRICK. FAGGOT – crying, vomiting, tripping over books and everything else that goes with it.
“And for what though? Why is my question? Why the sudden burst of energy out of these gang of rabid hyenas?”
Well, isn’t it obvious? What we had in front of us was nothing short of sublime entertainment. Every single bit of what went down today was something none of us had experienced before. It broke the monotony of our daily lives at school; those brutal days of hearing and doing the exact same thing over and over again. We had been exposed to a new and exciting life and we wanted more of it. The feeling was relentless and probably the closest anyone could ever get to taking drugs without actually taking them. We had unlocked a natural well of emotion, a euphoria and in this moment all we wanted was another hit.
“I couldn’t cope when the blood clot fell out of the side of her head. Could you?”
“Stop.”
“Fuckin nasty so it was.”
We would all recoil in horror upon seeing this. None of us would move any closer or even say anything as this thing – like a foreign infant – grew bigger and stronger and BLACKER and we all pointed and laughed and one of the lads even piped up from the back and said it looked awfully like his late Grandmother’s brooch pearl.
“I’m telling you.” he goes. “It’s the exact same tinge of yellow and everything. How bizarre.”
“Well, that’s not something you see every day is it?”
“Unfortunately not.” someone else replied.
Boyler stood back a few feet when he saw this. Shocked and disgusted, he figured he had been cheated in some way. “Ya must be fuckin joking.” he shouts. “Ya must be fuckin joking.” Eager to make things right, the bold Boyler quickly re positioned himself using one of the tables and, when he was ready, he dropped down that oversized boot of his down once more – on to her face this time – and she, God bless her, crumbled instantly under the force like a cheap meringue and we all winced.
“LORD SAVE US TONIGHT!”
“My shirt. It’s destroyed.”
“You’d swear she was made out of wet cardboard or something.”
“Well. That was easy!”
“It looked easy.”
“That’s her now.” said Boyler proudly and dragging his boot over her blouse. “Come off ya divil. Come off.”
A very clever stroke this, I found, especially for a boy his age, for it’d rid off any unwanted blood and that way “Mammy Boyle” wouldn’t notice a thing. “Look at that.” he goes, pointing to his shoes. “Clean as a whistle now again. Clean as a God damn whistle.” and I have to say he was not wrong. Whatever he did, he had managed to make both his shoes look brand spanking new again, like nothing at all had happened. So immaculate that they could have been easily re-boxed and sold off to a buyer somewhere for face value, or even a small profit.
I would watch him closely during this time: Boyler. In a studious kind of way. And in this I found myself wondering if he would have acknowledged that same level of courtesy had he been a private tenant in the big shed they keep out the back of the home house? “Not a chance.” I thought. “It’d be ate up within the hour so it would, the blood, by all the cow and sheep shite, and any documentation of his antics here today would be swept away under a big mound of dirt or brought off to a factory some place for some other poor bugger to deal with, and that then would be that, and life would carry on untouched for our sweet Boyler and we all know it. He is after all a strange breed of human with all his sick luck and fortune. A strange old breed. Honest to God the lad is like a bad priest in the Vatican and effortless it is to him. I was thinking all of this.
“He’s as changeable as the weather though isn’t he?”
“He can be yes.”
“Major problems up there. In the head like.”
“Correct.”
“Other than that though a nice lad.”
“Salt.”
“You’ve heard the latest though I take it?”
“Go on?”
“That he still sleeps in the bed with herself? The oul lady like.”
“Who does?”
“Who’d do you think?”
“Boyler?”
“Yessir”
“No?”
“Yep. When I heard it first I told them it was hokum.”
“Yeah. And then what?”
“Well then they said it wasn’t hokum and so after that I was sort of inclined to believe them.”
“Jeepers.”
“But look at him now, eh? Proving himself to us all, through the fine and wonderful art of bludgeoning. Now is your chance Boyler son. Now is your feckin chance. GO GO GO GO GO GO GO!!”
With that, a beaming Boyler turned and gave Giles another seventeen good rips into the face just for good measure and because we had asked him to. He really went at her so he did; to a point where we couldn’t fathom her being at all. Moments later, when the barrage had ended, a silence took over everything as we tried to figure out what this lump in front of us resembled most – was it a man, woman or beast? But we couldn’t do it. Not or love nor money. Nobody could. We just knew it was dead and that it was almost time for us to go home.
“Very good.” said Marty Flanagan, zipping up his sister’s pencil case, when all was done.
“That’ll do it.” said another. “Great work.”
The place came alive again, like a pin ball machine, for the next few minutes – “PYOW. PING. POOF. DING” – and when that was over, with nothing else to do, we gathered up our belongings and quietly left the room after helping ourselves to the contents of her handbag; who’s cheap design and finish wasn’t much to be fussed over. Duffy had gotten up. He was first to it.
“Right so.” he goes, ripping the bag open. “What have we got in here then?” and items dropped to the floor like candy from a split piñata.
“Jesus Christ, what a mess!”
“Nice one!”
“Jackpot lads.”
Between the lot of us we pulled, and we swung, and we dragged, and we kicked that bag and each other around as much as we could and shook we did with the excitement of it. The room deteriorated about us fast as we, the savages, feasted on the bag’s entrails like an army of sexually frustrated termites. There were lads calling each other cunts, I could hear them, pushing and slapping, drawing blood; while the quieter lads – the nerds – threw profanities and brave kicks in from the outset, and it was all a bit of craic, but it was God help them too if any of their kicks were to ever find their mark: God fucking help them I say. Nonetheless, I would laugh hard during this period of mayhem. Harder than I’ve ever done before. And anyone that threw a dig at me or said anything about my oul lady I’d throw them a hard dig back as close to the mouth as I could only because they know the score with her and I won’t have her for a second be the butt of anyone’s jokes. EVER. So they’d back off good, real good – whoever they were – and after that, when everything was fine and dandy again, we’d continue on in our vain of thuggery for a little longer than we maybe should have, and I’d say if anyone had thrown the head in the door and saw what we were at they’d have surely compared us to a wild inbred pack of starved hyenas fighting over a shank of dead meat and oh how we would gush.
“Alright lads.” Dylan roared from a table top, bag in hand. “Can everyone just settle down for a second, who wants what??”
“Well what’s in it?”
“There’s a twelve inch dildo – anyone??”
“I’ll take that.”
“Very good, well wear.”
“What else is there?”
“There’s bunch of keys, family photos. .”
“I’ll take those, thanks”
“Good man, enjoy.”
“Come on give us something good will ya for crying out loud!”
“There’s a box of cigarettes? Spud you wanted fags didn’t you?”
“Oh yes please!”
“Here ya go.”
“Thanks man, class.”
“Hide them from your mother now good lad.”
“I will.”
“What else is there??”
“We’ve got some Tampons??” The room shuddered.
“Tampons. Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Jeez! I thought she was past that stage of her life.”
“Go on so.” said Slatts. “I’ll give them to my sister, thanks.”
“And a good brother you are Mr. Slattery, I hope she enjoys them.”
“Ah piss off.”
“Bubble gum, anyone?”
“I’ll take the gum.”
“Murray mints? Full pack it seems, untouched.”
“Go on, thanks.”
“Will you half them with Seany, you will?”
“Yeah I will.”
“Excellent.”
“I have to say it’s great to see ye getting along lads.”
“Thanks. Here Seany”
“And finally boys and germs we have, hang on, wait for it – a half eaten bar of dark chocolate??”
Suddenly. The elephant was back. It was as if a deadly spectre had entered our space and no-one had the balls to say anything about it. Dylan spoke again.
“Any takers?” he goes, looking around, eager to offload it. “No?”
But nobody said a word. It was obvious as anything too. I almost felt sorry for the poor boy. He asked me then straight out if I wanted the bar but I told him I didn’t, that I was fine and thanks. He asked if I was going to be ok and I told him that I would be eventually and then he said “Here’s 20 euro. Go and buy yourself something nice.” and I said “No I couldn’t do that. Will you stop.”
“Honestly.” he said. “Take it.” He was insisting now and shoving the money into my hand with force. “And if anyone asks you where you found it, tell them outside under a stone and if they press you on it bury them quick and fast with a slap.”
“Ok.” I said, and I took the money.
“Fold it up now and put it in your pocket. I owe you that. For today. For everything. You’re a good lad.”
“Thanks. You can go now.” I says to him. “I’ll lock up don’t worry.”
“But, what if they find you?”
“They won’t find me.”
“They might.” he says.
“Fair point. They might just. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see. What time is it now actually?”
Dylan checked his watch.
“3:46pm.”
“Ok, thanks.”
“I’ll go now so and see you Monday maybe?”
“Sounds about right.”
And just like that he was gone. However I wouldn’t be idle for long, for in the corner of my eye I could see the dullard Sparky traipsing his way over to me. Lord he is a sickener.
“Well?” he goes.
“Howya?” I says back to him.
“Congrats on everything today.”
“Thanks. Is that all you wanted to say to me?
“Yeah I think so.”
“Right. It’s no problem.”
“I eh, I thought Murph spitting on her was a bit much I suppose, no?”
“He was briefed to do exactly that, he’ll be fine.”
“And what about her?”
“What about her?”
“What’ll we do with her?”
“Nothing!”
“Nothing!?”
“We leave her here and hopefully, if there’s a God at all, she’ll rot away along with these cursed floor boards. Caretaker Martin will only be delighted to have them taken up.”
“Ok then.”
“Just take whatever you can find.” I says. “And leave quickly.”
“Fair enough.” and he went to grab something.
“But don’t take that.” I says, pointing to an item on the floor.
“Ok?”
“Or that. Or this thing here. Or that thing over yonder. Or this, yeah? Or that yoke. Ok? I’ll take them coz I need them.”
There was silence then for a second or two. Sparky scratched his head and looking at me he said: “But you told me to take whatever I want? This is all that’s left.” However, when the penny finally dropped he took a step back, shook his head and put both his hands on his hips as if to say “I don’t believe it.”
“I know what you’re doing.” he goes, and him pointing at me now and half smiling. “You don’t need them. Oh no. You just fuckin want them for yourself. That’s what this is, isn’t it? ISN’T IT??”
“Leave now Sparky.” I says. “Ya brave little cunt. Or I’ll open your hole with kicks. Got it? And you’ll be sorry then. They might be cheap Adidas alright but they’ll do the damn job. Ok? Now scram! Ya taypot. Or you’ll be sorry I said!”
And so he did. He scrammed. And soon after that we all did. . .“Come on, lads.” I said. “Let’s get our little arsheens out of here.”
At 3:55pm, like North Koreans, we marched those very same little tushes down the full length of the main corridor, disappearing one by one into the nooks and crannies of the school in what looked like, from my perspective anyways, a regimented dance routine. Sixteen down to six in one fell swoop. Then five. Now three. Only two men left.
“See ya tomorrow.” I say.
“G’luck sham, oh and hey..”
“Yeah?”
“Well done today.”
“Thanks.”
“I wonder what’ll she be like in the summer time?” he goes. “A cooked chicken I would say.
“Not worth thinking about is it?”
“Corn fed and all at a discount price for the homeless.”
He was laughing hard now. I didn’t bother.
“Anyways not to worry.” he went on. “She had it coming for a long time. Ok? She did. You can’t be doing things like that around lads like us – lads our age – and expect to get away with it. No way. We had our say in the end and it was final. Anyways, I better go here. The oul lad has a hospital appointment up in Galway this evening. Might see can I get into Smyths for a look before they close. See if they’ve any new games in. Have a good weekend yeah – oh and hey, Happy Birthday, that’s tomorrow isn’t it?”
“Oh my God.” I says back to him. “That is tomorrow!” But he was gone before I knew it and I didn’t even get a chance to thank him. In fact, the boy had vanished in such a haste that I began to question if he was even there at all in the first place. I stood there scratching my head. Had I become delirious all of a sudden from all the standing up for myself and the anarchy? Had I been talking to a wall just now? Or even an extra-terrestrial version of myself? It was hard to know. Then the buck chimed in: “What a day, eh?”
“Yeah.” I says. “What a day. A great one. She got an awful doing. To be fair she did.”
“We knocked the stuffing out of her rightly so we did. Everything fantastically orchestrated by you. Aren’t ya proud?”
“I’m not anything.” I says to him. “I’m not anything really at all.”
“You have to be something?”
“I’m a bit warm I suppose.”
“Then take off your jacket.”
“And I suppose I’d eat a bit too.”
“Well what are we waiting for? Let’s get out of here.”
Silence then at 3:59pm as I stood alone
in the front hall; watching the sickly descent of dust
and dead skin through a shard of sunlight that poured in
through one of the big bay windows.
Everything it touched would stand up tall,
to proud attention, while the
unkind reflections,
like my own
the strayed and the loveless
settled off quietly into
the void,
Away From Everything,
as if to welcome in the coming
of some great and deadly fall.
4pm: And the mighty bell sounds throughout the whole school and I was glad it did for it was time now to go home. And with the evening looking the way it did, I said to myself: “Screw this, I won’t bother with the bus today. I think I’ll walk myself back. And who knows, if I’m feeling up to it, I may even go the long way around. Just for kicks.”
And so I did.
And the following day I turned 18.
