It was a complete balls-up. Margaret had left the keys to the parochial hall at home. She stood now at the doors facing a zombied crowd, remonstrating.

‘Margaret?’ called grey-faced Edgar with a manic cackle. ‘Did ye have a few too many sausages with yer dog’s dinner?’  The parishioners were in stitches. Edgar could always be relied upon for a good laugh.

‘Now, if yis’ll just wait, our John’ll be up the road in a minute, and we can all get inside.’

‘He’d needa be quick,’ quipped young Peter Quinney, ‘Ye’d not be long gettin’ frostbit!’ More laughs. Jack Spoon, the rancid oul bastard, was red-faced muttering to anyone that would listen.

‘He says the same thing every night,’ exasperated, ‘The same fuckin’ thing!’

Monday Night Bingo was the foremost attraction in provincial Cookstown for folk of a certain age and disposition. The craic was always good, and with cash prizes on the table, it was a show not to be missed. The price of your books alone bought an evening of soft thrills, a little jump any time you got a sweat on, and a good natter with your neighbour between games. The gossip would pass along the hall from table to table like vital information through a hive of worker bees.

The sounds of a bumbling motor could be heard approaching. Margaret’s John’s busted cortina pulled into view. John stood out from behind the creaking door of the banged-up hatchback, letting it close coolly behind him as he strutted towards the entrance. Margaret’s John liked to think of himself as something of a heartthrob, and few would disagree. There was no disputing his gnarled goodlooks, nor his ability to throw together a natty outfit; but there was a certain smuttiness in John’s manner that some in the community found to be a little distasteful. Still, Margaret was the envy of manys a woman, whether married or widowed, and John was forever known locally as ‘The Boy.’

‘There comes the boy,’ gasped Patsy Morgan, her leathery cheeks pinked with lust, ‘ that’s us sorted now.’

Margaret placated the grumbling masses as ‘the boy’ went to work on the doors, it was only a minute until he had thrown them wide. The parishioners crowded in, whilst ‘the boy’ stood back, one foot against the wall behind him as he smoked a thick, baggy roll-up.
The last of them had went in with Margaret shepherding when she turned and said,

‘John, are ye comin’?’

The Boy looked up slowly from beneath a thick cloud of yellow smoke. ‘Just a minute.’ He stubbed his fat soggy rollie out against the bronze lottery funded entrance plaque with a grimace. ‘Go you ahead, I’ll not be long.’

Margaret tutted and went on inside to get things started. He was irascible the boy, and there was no getting round it. Margaret had long accepted this though, and truth be told, she drew a certain secret satisfaction from the fact. After all, it’s not every girl in the hall gets going home with ‘the boy’ after a long night’s bingo.

Anyway, it wasn’t long until the night’s festivities were in full swing. Margaret called the numbers from the old wooden stage, her trusty bingo machine at work, as lucky customers shouted ‘check!’ and ‘BINGO!’ with victory and celebration. The ever-faithful Catriona was on hand to serve out dirty wads of cash to the winners. Margaret often thought to herself how she’d be lost without the youngster, and was thinking just that when a dull THUD sounded from out the back.

‘What’s that oul thuddin’? demanded the obstreperous Sadie Foster.

‘Ack, it’s only the weather,’ soothed Margaret, ‘Come on now, ready for the next line!’

‘There’s maybe somebody out there,’ dithered Peter Quinney, ‘He’d not be long getting’ frostbit!’

Jack Spoon slammed his fists on the table.

Again, THUD, THUD, THUD. This time more insistent, almost rhythmic.

‘There’s somebody out there lookin’ in is right,’ said Rory Morgan, ‘Our Patsy’s away to the toilets, she’s maybe got lost.’

THUD, THUD, THUD!

‘Now, I’m sure wee Patsy’s alright,’ smiled Margaret, ‘let’s get on with the game and we can all have a wee cuppa tay after.’

THUD!

The THUDS were now increasing in volume and genuine alarm was being raised amongst the parishioners.

‘Yis have nothin’ to worry about,’ Margaret was beginning to lose it a bit, ‘come on now, back to Bingo, back to Bingo!’

Jack Spoon stood up. ‘I’ll fuckin’ tell ye what, we’ll have no more a thon bangin’!’ Spoon strode purposefully to the back of the hall to where the Thuds seemed to be coming from. There were two doors side by side and he was frantically trying to unlock one or the other of them. The others in the hall were craning their necks now, some were egging the old Spooner on. Say what you want about Jack Spoon, when it came down to business, he was a man of action.

‘Jack would ye stay the fuck away from there,’ Margaret was screaming now, ‘We’re trying to play a game of bingo!’

‘Go on, Jack!’ shouted Brian Gowth, who normally wouldn’t have said a word. ‘Get them doors open, ye boy ye, show the whole fuckin’ lotta them.’

VOOM! Finally, the door on the right flew open with Jack recoiling wildly. Onto the floor fell Patsy Morgan, ‘the boy’ atop of her, rutting wildly.

‘Who’s ‘the boy’?!’ Thrust. ‘Who’s ‘the fuckin’ boy’?!’

‘You’re ‘the boy’!’ panted Patsy Morgan, ‘Aw fuck, John, you’re the only boy for me.’

Needless to say things didn’t end well that night. Not for Margaret, not for Patsy Morgan, nor even for the boy. There was a ruckus, but this wasn’t John’s first indiscretion. You see he held a certain role in this community, as did each of its members. Yes, Jack Spoon was a nasty oul bastard, but he was the first man you’d look to in a crisis. Peter Quinney – a fuckin’ eejit, but he’d do anything for anybody, and that’s no lie. And what would life be without grey-faced Edgar? Yes, we all needed a laugh, some relief from the sometimes harsh realities of small town life. They were all useful, in their own ways. And as for ‘the boy’, one could only speculate as to the exact specifications of his role. One thing was for sure, he wasn’t going away anytime soon.

-You’re a big spazz.
-I’m not a spazz!
-You’re definitely a spazz.
-How do you know that I’m a spazz?
-Uh, by the clothes that you’re wearing? Look at you, you’re all spazzy.
-What, you don’t like my purple jumpsuit?

—————————————

Gangster Bob was happy with himself. He stretched his fingers out in front of him a la piano maestro and prepared to eat a greasy fuckin’ burger.

They called him Gangster Bob because it had been rumoured that he’d killed five men out the back of a pub with a hatchet, after they’d knocked the glasses off his face, and insulted his friend ‘Little Jimmy.’

He was forever walking his dirty blonde Labrador, at least three times a day. A few of the neighbours remarked that three times a day was ‘a bit excessive,’ but many felt safe knowing that Bob was out there, patrolling.

To say that Bob was a physically intimidating man would be simply untrue, he had let himself go many years ago, but there was something in the way that he carried himself that belied a certain deadliness. Nobody messed with Gangster Bob.

The ladies at the counter chatted amongst themselves: the banter was good, but Bob didn’t have to listen too close to know this. He was going to busy himself with the task at hand. He was going to enjoy his burger.

He lifted the juicy, dripping hunk of meat towards his gaping mouth, the near-bliss of pre-mastication numbing his fat red head, beads of sweat now forming at his brow when-

‘Come on ta fuck, ya fuckin’ bastards! I’ll have yis all, yis packa bastards! Yis fruits.’

Bob let the meaty sandwich drop from his hands and turned his head to the window swiftly.

’Yis’ll fuckin’ do nahin. I’ll knock the spare helmet off yer da’s dick.’

Collette the chipper, seized with fear, looked across to Bob.

’Bobby! I think there’s trouble startin’ out there!’

A meatwagon had pulled up. It seemed a lad from round the corner had had a few too many and had lost the run of himself.
Bob stood up slowly, almost mechanically, and dusted himself down.

Out on the street three or four rozzers surrounded the man, one apiece grabbed his arms whilst the other two stood by on their walkin-talkies looking concerned, bewildered.
Bob stepped out onto the street and towards the man, the crowd of onlookers parted.

’I’ll take it from here, boys.’ Said Bob. The cops nodded, standing back from the offender, who was by now kicking out lamely with his chin to his chest.

Big Bob grabbed the drunkard by the front of his shirt and pulled him in close.

’I was really,’ he spat on the ground and snorted, ‘really, going to enjoy that burger.’

’Ye were goin’ to enjoy fuck all, ye fat bastard.’

Gangster Bob butted the numpty deftly. The crowd ‘ooh-ed.’ 
‘Fuckin’ do him, Bob!’ Shouted someone from near the back.

The gabshite scrambled like mad, but couldn’t escape Bob’s expert grip.

’Am sorry, mate, am fuckin sorry!’

Bob headbutted the poor fella again, this time opening a gash on his forehead. The blood began to spill down his face.

’Aw, mate. Ma grannies fuckin’ weddin’.! Av ta go ma grannie’s fuckin’ weddin’ nai!’

’There’s only one place you’re goin’, son.’ Bob was having none of it.

He trailed the spazzy fucker behind him, back into the chippy, going straight up to the counter where he whipped up the hatch with one chubby hand.
Bob had never worked a chippy before, but he’d been there as a customer more than enough times to know how things operated. Still gripping the unruly spazz by his collar, he used his free hand to clatter the time-worn frying baskets out of the way exposing the deep baths of boiling hot vegetable oil.
Bob looked down at his latest victim.

’I think that you, son, have been long overdue...a good batterin’.’

Bob thrusted the lad’s head deep into the oily death mixture, again and again, partially submerging his hand in the process.

’Are ye sorry nai?!’

’Ah am, Bob! Ah am! Please let me be...’

Another dunk.

’Are ye sorry nai?!’

’Please, Bob, anything!’

’I don’t think you understand...’

One last plunge. The lad cried out vainly from beneath the surface. Thick bubbles rose and popped.
Bob ripped the craytur out and flung him to the floor, he writhed, squealing and moaning, the skin on his face melted, red, yellow, purple, and the bone from his nose was beginning to show.

GB looked out into the street, placed his fingers in his mouth and issued a piercing whistle in the direction of the boys in blue, that same signature whistle he used to call his dirty bastard Labrador every single night. The coppers nodded in recognition and made their way in to clear out the remnants of a job well done, a job they couldn’t have possibly done without the intervention of Gangster Bob.

Bob went back to his window seat and settled. In a matter of minutes the whole scene had dispersed. He was picking at his nails, about to tuck in when the soft tap of plimsoles caused him to look up, Collette was coming smiling towards him. She removed the old, cold beef burger and replaced it with an ornate oval piece of crockery, laden with greasy treats.

’Here you are, Bob. Your beef burger, an extra-special wee chicken fillet burger, aannnd, a gravy chip.

Bob was lost for words. He could only stare blankly. Collette passed away on soft soles so delicate, then turned at the last-

‘And ,Bob?’

Bob looked down in a daze.

’This one’s on the house.’

Oranje he grumpled and glandular flinched.

‘Did ye ever get the fish oil out from your stockings?’

-Silence-

‘Or say hello to your Uncle Jack? For me? ... Naw, ye did not, because you’re a bastard’s bollocks and nothing less.’

Elsewhere 

Hermund heaved and mumbling wrenched. At night he coughed but there was no emptying his lungs of the gulch.

’Would ye give us a glass of water? I’ve nahin but an ounce of liquid in me and it won’t be long till am dry.’

Downstairs Gertie pottered. The place was a fucking mess.

’The taps are all stiffened.’ She called, accentuating the ‘stiff’ in ‘stiffened,’ the way old codgers do. ‘I can give ye only gruel or grot.’
’Have ye not a drop of whiskey for me?’ Coy he called back Hermund, chancing his bony old arm.
’I’ll check the cupboards.’ Gertie duly returned.

Hermund reached for a book under pale lamplight and turned its scruffy pages.

’Have you ever heard of Henry Cooper?’ His full-voice coarse with the grippe called down. Gertie received the signal with a keen flick of her head, an ear pointed upwards, perhaps hoping to catch a clue from heaven...

’The only man to defeat Cassius Clay.’ She declared with a small smile of triumph.
’Wrong!’ Clanged Helm, delightedly, sitting up now wild-eyed and rabid. ‘He bloodied his nose in the 2nd and that’s the truth of it.’
’I see.’ Said Gertie, distractedly, as she arranged the cups.
’You’d better make that a double.’ He settled himself back down and read further, squinting, flicking at his long nose.

Guzzled all his monies. Tramps would trek him down. Swerved a copcar on the last street and skipped into a new rhythm. Now that he was -in- the others popped out and it was clear as day that things were gettin’ goin.

You could always spot them by their clothes once you were in, and by their own peculiar rhythms that they of course kept a-poppin. It was selfish to wreak self-abasement at a time like this and so he took some time to interact.

Nay more yer gyp.

‘Have ye any good breen for the spread?’ A red-nosed cloth-cap makes his play...
’Aye, I’ve a cloth or two would cover that heada yers.’
’You’re an oul bollocks is what ye are! I wouldn’t tackle ye with a fine tooth comb.’
The city fella looked askance, ‘Well here, sure I’ll see ye temara.’
’Ye will surely, ya donkey’s blurt.’

Oul Rodney dandered on, with his boy by his side, things to attend to.
’Do ye see what am sayin to ye about yer man? A fuckin’ grinder, I’m tellin’ ye.’
’I can tell what ye mean aye, ye wouldn’t give him the back of a gypsy’s hand.’ Chimed in the boy, eager to impress his father with some rustic turn of phrase.
Rodney had stopped dead in his tracks.

’What’s that you say about a gypsy son?’

The young fella looked up, mouth agob.
’I was just sayin’, he wouldn’t exactly be the trustworthy character.’
’Yes and what does that have to do with him being a gypsy?’
’Well, nothing. I mean, I only mentioned the gypsy by-‘
‘You only mentioned your bollocks!’ Rodney lit on him. ‘You prejudiced little bastard.’

The poor son skulked back into the shadows as Rodney stamped around in the dust, head to the ground, mumbling to himself. Seemingly having mustered enough manpower to set the boy straight he turned to point his big red finger right at him.

‘Did you know your Grandfather Carberry?’
’I did.’
’And did you know that he himself was a tinker?’
‘No, I didn’t know that...’
‘And that that would make you one quarter traveller? Ye little bollocks.’
’I didn’t, da, but...’
’No ye didn’t because you’re a prejudiced little bastard who thinks he’s better than everybody else.’
’Da, I have nothing against the gypsies...’
’Shut up!’ 

The spit flew from Rodney’s mouth as he cursed his boy, seeming to fall into the dust in slow motion, curdling as it met the grey grit and settled.
He was a large man Rodney, but he managed now to settle himself down to sit on a stone, the worst of the venom out of him.

’Did you know that at one time I was living in a caravan?’ He looked up wistfully.
‘Yes, and I was courting a lovely traveller girl, beautiful she was, a one-off. And I’m telling you, boy, I never had times like it. And fought men too! Fought a man 8 feet tall, two nights on the bounce! Me sixteen without a hair on my chest. I near beat the fucker too! But he was a wily bastard... No, son, never underestimate the tinker. As fine a breed of men as has ever graced this earth.’

’Dad?’
’Yes, boy?’ Rodney smiled up into the setting sun.
’Don’t you think we’d better be getting along?’
’Yes, boy.’

Ghouls

We are so keen to keep
The company of knaves
Whose dress and pizzazz is appealing

When our own ones’ arms
Reach out to grasp us
Ever and again unfailing

It’s nice to be invited
But remember you’re a guest
In the strange lands that you wander and roam

And be sure there’s a catch
Their fire can’t be matched
By the warm glow that awaits you at home

Met

Solemn practices of the sacred few
Sending all their woes away
The pews sparsely dotted – a pensioner apiece
Silver, black, and grey

The churchman steps, his humble head
Bowed kind, it is his station
At home a husband breaks his bread
With silence smiling meets


A Fine Career

I was working for the wrong man.
All along that must’ve been the mistake I was making.
One man told me that he held the secret to all my dreams.
He told me what my dreams were.

He told me I dreamt of beautiful women,
And a paradise where all my heroes dwelt.
He claimed to know the way there
And I believed him. His promises were so rich.

I worked myself into the ground for that man
I worked until my arms went stiff
Until I was no longer able to work.
It had been said that he was ‘a hard man to work for.’

Not being able to work, and not being able to dream,
I lost my mind. As casually as I mention it,
It’s not been unknown to happen.
It took me some time to recover from that.

Along the way something reached for me

I knelt, I prayed, and I gave thanks
I accepted the help of others and gave my own hand when I was able
I abstained from practices that would further enfeeble me
I was led to a new way of being, though the path was not always easy

After some time I met a second man.
This man told me that my dreams were nothing more than illusion.
That I could be perfectly happy right where I was.
He told me that I could come and work for him,

But first,

I must relax, let the weight come off my shoulders.
My arms loosened, I told him I felt able to work.
He told me that indeed I looked able and shook my hand.
I began to tell him the troubles of my former job, he put a quick finger to his lips.

He said that working for him would involve helping people
He pointed to some of the areas in his compound
And said that each of them went towards the benefit
Of another person. I couldn’t read his face.

He asked me what I was skilled in, I explained
I told him where I would like to work and he smiled
‘Son, you will work with the tomatoes.’
A sense of tranquillity enveloped me…

There are times I think back to that first man
I wonder how he and the people that work for him are faring
I’m tempted even sometimes, and my dreams slip back in his direction
But for the most part

Better sense prevails

Lyin’ back here like Christ on the cross. My crisps all crumpled and cracked. I’d have your bladder snipped if it wasn’t for the burden of carrying this awful…whist!
Who could we have here up ahead…
Quick, in behind this windbush, careful not to set it alight or we’ll be smoked out to fuck.
He’s howlin’ again. Gulderin.

What is it you expect he wants?

Well if it’s one thing I know of bards and hallions, it’s that they’re always after the ride, be it from their own wench or the wife of another.

I don’t expect he’ll have much success carrying on like that.

You’d be surprised, m’boy. Women go in for this kind of thing. Look at the goes of him, he doesn’t give a fuck for no-one nor nobody.

Michael.

Yes, son.

What is it that a bard, a um a hallion does exactly?

Well, m’lad, that’s hard to say. I suppose they turn their hand to all manner of things, woodwork, music, tell a few stories, they’re awful men altogether.

Hmmn, certainly they seem to get quite a bad time of it.

What makes you say that, boy?

Well, that man on the hill, he’s ranting and raving for all he’s worth, and from what I can tell, nobody is paying him any attention. Then you say they play music and tell stories for people, yet you seem to have little if any regard for him at all.

No regard?! Why I’ll tell you something, I’d run the length and breadth of Ireland for a man like that! I bloody would. Would you listen to him?! Idiot boy. You have a lot to learn, my son. A lot to learn.
Now lets us get out of here before the bastard catches us!

Went lookin’ peace, came back with a four day buzz that won’t shift. Collusion, intrusion and all the rest of it. Whimsy won’t fit me, need a taste of something real. Eager to accommodate I raced to the edge and let well-wishes carry me sky-ward. ‘Cept this wasn’t no one man operation, wing-man at the wheel whilst I whirled, onlookers entranced what a show.
Nothing out of the ordinary see, this is just plain old business well-worked. Not the oldest profession in the world by a long shot, but it sure comes close, hey forget it.
Take a breath and ease your mind. Put your feet up. Doesn’t have to be you all of the time.

Ill-defined margins. Well-refined origins. Glaviscole sliptrick. Treats for the ‘trodden. Gypsy children settle on the green wearing one item of pyjama as per dictum. Ice-cream man makes a fortune in fegs. The needy will not go unblackened. Shooting pains in the abdominal region forsooth many pleasures ahead. Coloured cans go clinking along the lace of a tethered girl. High is the prize that awaits yer man who knows the secret to untying a five-fold knot.

Back to reality now we ride slip. Except… is this reality? Did the housepainter from two doors up really just glance my way askance with the suggestion of a smile? Maybe not. I may have to step out under a false pretence and ever-so casually bump his shoulder to see. Radio in the shop played “You’ve got a good heart, da da da da da, you go your own way, blab la ga ga ga, what you wanted will return to you in timeeeee…” as I selected several fine coffees for the drinking. Shop girl’s manner perfunctory, not ill-mannered, neither too overly-familiar: 4/10.

Rather inwards though outwards altogether simultaneously, simians have been known to creep, to yield a fine crop, and to enjoy a good ole fashioned bop (every now and then.) The wild colonial boys will go a-rompin’ and never was the day so fine. Fine lines drawn at the crack of noontide. Cowboys alook alike aleak, romp on home bai!

A Frenchman fellating. A coarse Polack works your back. Five grown Italians biting at the chomp. Work for the weak. Weaklings be ruined. Medieval ye cursed us, begone now ye ghouls! Climbing trees in your own bare knees for a penny and a poncho. Bare-faced boys who onced upon a time played rugger come onboard for the craic. Soccer fellas flaunt bellies so bare their hair blanched. Cricketeers in full regalia held stout to their beliefs and so were accepted. Pugilists rule the roost inn a roundabout way whilst grimers supply the line. Martial artists of every imaginable variety and mix marshall fields and marshes and meadows and “moooo!”

All in all the craic was had. Twenty nuns a-hoovering. Six priests all in a card-game. Gin rummy, I’ll have a cup indeed. The silent gardener ganders, gulps, and gooses. By and by. None were forgotten, a fine day indeed.

Taxi drivers are rarely, if ever, wrong. This is a truism. A candlelit dinner for two is a recipe for romance. This is a reality. Unfinished works will bolster your blast-furnaced belch. Benign.

Come together to gather come hither we’ll grab us some sticks. Sticklings and wood for the burning. Wood wanted. Now collecting various woods. Wood expert required enquire within. Wilt gracefully my darling. Wilt for me, won’t ye?

Morse code is still in use, learn morse to advance your understanding of the Netherite. Blank pages are for spitting on, yellow gob preferable. Glued-up gabshites are greet for grinnin’. Paper plates are shite for spinnin’. Flex your fins sing while you’re winnin’, Robbie’s lobotomy a ganch a-go.

Perfection eludes the entranced cyber state. Of minds that meekly congregate. A piss-poor show they mildly wait. And suck on toes at heaven’s gate.

Crinch comes crawling, belly low. Crush him quick with quivered bow. Yer oul boy there he’s not so slow. Wait your turn, don’t try, you’ll grow.

Blabber on for craic and quips. Wait on wives equipped with whips. Sailing certain feted ships. It’s all in the hips, baby, it’s all in the hips.

Oh what a quandry to find one’s self in. Out now black cow ravaged scorned and rattled. Perverse reverse settle now petal be scene. Be supper be lunch be nimble be quick be queer be straight be gay. Be what you need, and dear boy take heed, there’s potholes along the way.

So it’s a wee step back. A step back from the screen, get a bit of much needed perspective. Come down a few levels or up should I say? Don’t matter too much no any old way. Just be. Heads fried slightly after visitations nightly and now you must walk the long mile. Give too much away and we’ll censor your say, hint hint my dear friend so beguiling.

Misunderstood, by who or whom? Who’s calling all the shots now anyhow? Don’t matter much, just keep in touch and we’ll see this whole thing through.

So saunter on, go play the pawn, there’s craic aplenty up ahead be sure. But don’t cry ‘witch’ when your four day itch leads you straight into a knave’s cruel con.

Up on ye go, I’ve had my turn, go you now, I’ll sit back and watch. Mine’s another part now, just as good, once the bait now is the catch.