Every weekday evening after six, when his da’d been slapped out from the kitchen on the end of his mother’s slipper, he’d lift the wash basin, and stick it up his jumper, the eejit. Strolling past the gated green that working class kids couldn’t enter or exit, save for impaling the groin of either leg, he hit the front street and stood up on his wee soapbox.

‘Nonsense peddlers,’ he called, ‘come all, ye common, the Kip and banal. I’ve got a luverly little story for ya, something all to do with the corrupt wicked head principle, and his second in command, muck-common caretaker, poor Jack Massey. Come now, ye filth ridden peddlers of football stickers and shite. I’ll only hold you a minute, this here coming’s a very important broadcast that whichever way you like it will be seen by all the blacks in Somalia.’

The rickets-stricken children began to gather, hoping to get off a memorable jibe, or even to catch the daft bastard with a stone.

‘Listen. Old Jack Massey, who caught the ill regard of every woman misfortunate enough to suffer the scent of he’s breath as it only turned out was an ex-pug, and an ‘alfway respectable one at that, before the Tb took both his kidneys. He was a club fighter very much renowned for cavorting around, mincing, I should say, in a manner most shame-provokingly. He could well have been the laughing stock of his own division, only for having evened up the odds with a two fisted attack the likes of which any pale-faced European would be befuddled with. A stylist, in the truest sense, with artful grace and nimble mind to match; not to mention the hardest right hand felt since Roberto Duran floored a donkey for kicking in his stall. Not to drivel on but the jockey of course was Sugar Ray Leonard. Hands of Stone walloped the-’

A big pointy jagged fuckin’ bullet of a stone came flying past the sickener’s ear.

Ok, right I will fuck up then. Yeah so long story short, this haggard caretaker, or janitor, if you happen to be a yank, he came in to do substitute teacher one day. And guess what, he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. Not only that, he had an embarrassment of a speech impediment, and if that wasn’t enough to scunder the astute rapscallions who presided over their weedy inferiors, he seemed to be making an effort, a pitiful effort to speak clearly, intelligently, with an imaginative grip on the English language. It was kind of endearing to tell you the truth, and not one of the boys had any real hate in their heart for the poor codger, it was just hard to manage it, the stress.

Anyway, in he comes, a pair of dungarees, like a newly-freed art school student, and, to everybody’s shock and surprise, begins to articulate the most lucid and inspiring ream of codswallop. The lads all clapped and broke for P.e.

While the lads are hiding themselves, huffing lynx, I’ll relate to you shortly the jist of this outlandish bastard’s gentle tirade. Right, so basically he was talking about a common condition which befalls just about every cunt with a heartbeat in a variety of like periods or lengths or whatever. Fuck sake. So yeah, basically, it’s when the victim, starts thinking everything is about them. Like his mate might start telling a story about the caretaker sleggin him like fuck and he’ll take in all the pain and believe in short that there’s a temporary yet fully realised conspiracy against him in which everybody else in the world participates and laughs at him basically. Yeah pile of shite, but this was his theory. One of the more gumptious students birthed the he-thought brilliant idea that it was very unlikely for a mad boxin’ cunt like Massey to be comin’ up with his own unique philosophies. Luckily, Massey spat directly in the urchin’s face before he’d the chance to elucidate his point.

Anyway it was lunch time now, and the three smart-alecs who found some refuge in making jokes went on out to see what this Massey was made of . Him with the long John’s on, shadow boxing, barking orders at Peevis Morton, the wimp in residence, who got walloped extra hard for taking occasion to chance a fruity one liner. Anyway these three likely lads, between them feeing pretty confident in having sussed it, started doin’ handstands, and doin’ aerobics on the crossbar of the rugby things. It was ridiculous like ballet or something and Massey was rippin’. Anyway, he boxes the head off wee Peevis for half an hour, it was a good exhibition to be fair, and the nerdlinger held his own in spots, especially when he landed that uppercut to the balls. Anyway, they were takin’ him away to hospital and next thing over walks the headmaster, Dr Pimplebutt. Says, ‘see you three, go and do cross country till I finish this crossword.’ So they went drinkin’ the stupid talent wastin’ cowardly handsome drunken whatever like. Anyway that was the end of first year.

Summer holidays the mayor closed the town, Jack Massey was fighting for the world title against Heron Wheat. Heron was like a wiley bigger version of Willie Pep’s granda, but he also had the kneecaps belonging to Rocky Macaroni’s butler. So he was a bit of an unknown quantity, but oul Massey didn’t give a fuck. There was a promotional push cause post war austerity meant that they needed more money for the NHS, so in rural areas the myth that Jack himself built each Massey Ferguson tractor was sold as truth, usually by wife-shaggin’ insurance salesmen types. It came off a trick and Churchill was laughing. He stuck a hundred pound note in a trust fund for Tony Blair and all was seeded. Come the day of the fight, who should turn up, but Roberto Duran. Says to Massey, ‘You have my respect, for teaching the peasant children, and working menial jobs like all us Latinos in the new world.’ Anyway, into the ring and Massey was pretty gentlemanly about it to be fair, he let that Pep wannabe go a few rounds then turns round and says, ‘50-0? Fuck you, ye pasta bastard.’ Knocked him clean out. Churchill was lovin’ it. Alfred Hitchcock filmin’ an all. So wouldn’t ye know, stinkin’ Massey gets the ride that night. Fair play.

They sold more tractors that year since the Industrial Revolution, motorway was packed. Massey was laughing, wanted for nothin’, but here, didn’t that fuckin’ wicked headmaster only still have him in a contract? Worked him till his dyin’ day, then he was off for the rest of his life. Happy enough.

————————————————————————————————————

With Bud Powell bashing away at the keys I observed the chunk of quietude with palsied rancour. I realise every now and then that to play jazz ye hafta not try. That is fuckin’ execute the manoeuvre, ye dafty, but don’t sit around dithering or setting your hand to it like some old master, just go limp and pretend you’re a ghost. That’s when you’ll do your best playin’, I mean, having not undergone the required training it’s kind of hit and hope. Let’s write a poem.

Jonah had lunch while the whale wept away
Wee fire in his belly now you’re not here to stay
Lance the oul crawfish with harpoon well sharpened
And ween out a few mermaids for after hours craic

Next thing along comes Noah
In his big fancy boat
Says come you on here we’re having a whale of a time
But Jonah was a weird cunt who didn’t like pandas
Or the fact there was no mermaids
Only Noah and his big knobbly stick

Next thing Moses split the whole lot of them
Firin’ out the tablets like fuck
Noah says where’s John Baptist the mad cunt
Tell him the salt is fuckin’ up our wine
And you’re the next best thing to Jesus

Noah didn’t like him cause he fucked off the whole lot
When they were playing pudgy gum bang bang
An ancient board game
Something like Jumanji
Only you were already there
John Baptiste flew up to the crows nest
And started bawlin’ his eyes out

Next thing Moby Dick harpooned a big carry out
Jonah says fuck this I’m jumping ship
And they all got busted
Mermaids and all

—————————————————————————————————–

Sewerage

Strands of doggerel
Tumble in
Before the committee
Then float out
To join the jetsam
The rinsing scum
That perpetuates
In that concrete bend
Defying the cleanse
Of nature’s live wash
Only there for to
Hint to children
What lies beyond
The factory wall

—————————————————————————————————————-

Fore

Fly agaric
The worms that ye hid
Were boggin’

Far from the
Ritualistic atavistic
God-dream that ye promised

Even after patient
Oven treatment and
Further de-worming

The bucket drowning them
Till I near boked
Persistence

Smoked
Your skin
To no avail

The preparation
Not widely practiced
And only a few of ye

Illuminating golf course
Groves, hiding
Yet more bugs

This timid liberty cap
Will more than suffice
The Druid’s intake