Things were better in the old days. When the car was full of gaseous carcinogens and your head rattled off the dampening window until you’d vomited in your sibling’s lap. An adult would spit on the mess and rub it well in, inducing a mild rash on the pale skin beneath. Your ma would drag ye across the road, clutching your frail hand in the very same grip policemen use to evince submission from aggressive drunks. A teacher couldn’t hit you so they’d to torture you otherwise, in a manner already covered by bitter Rock musicians, whose solutions would reach you just in time to soundtrack a drug-fuelled rebellion.

‘Gaming’ in those days, involved actually physically encouraging an improbably athletic plumber to evade predictably reptilian villains, with an earnest approximation of his next existential leap, through, or over, the familiar obstacles we all rightfully feared. Somebody’s father was usually on hand to relieve you of your duties with an assurance as to the vital importance of the next bit. Skateboards were to be found mostly in coal bunkers, and were forbidding in their construct. The possibility of achieving anything approaching stability seeming unlikely, an uncle would appear in order to demonstrate several antiquated tricks, fucking off promptly, in time for Formula One.

The importance of having a sense of identity was enforced in the classroom, its utility as a kind of cultural ‘Get out of jail free card’ alluded to briefly. Often, a well-meaning schoolmaster would make reference to the wheelchair-bound loudmouth drunk, our only representation across the four channels of television. T.V was an old wooden box whose controls were invariably broken, its simplistic format of quality ‘programming’ preceded the appearance of ‘Sky,’ mostly in the homes of well-to-do neighbours. Becoming ‘rich’ involved being born in a another country, with blonde hair, and privileges. This is mentioned merely as a peripheral flash at the short-sighted pub dweller’s ferment; the plausibility of which is to be ascertained by the individual.

Housewives had two voices in those days; scolding, and telephone. The miraculous transformation that occurred with every cradling of the weighty enamel receiver served to bewilder the lingering child, planting a seed that would see them saving their best manners for emergencies only. The mix of kids ran free then, a shared sense of humour often relieving them of their respective backdrops. A common proclivity for criminality, albeit within different spheres, strangely united them, along with the easy hedonism they ascribed to by rote.

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Everyday ecstasy scaled back in accordance with impermanence looming. An allowance at the chemical dispensary. Holographic approximation of experience inescapable. Infinitely appropriate therapeutic dictum.

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Drag your bag and don’t you lag
Fill your probe and wince
Scold the cold through folds
Of flesh and best your brother

And when your brother sees it clear
Approach the rear and smiling steer
These waves of fear will surely rock
I’m glad it’s your bag, baby

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Smugly lug your waiting hug
Dismiss each kiss upon your mug
Entranced we dance and stitch our pants
Gyrate so at our soul’s expense.

Smiles beguile but you duck neat
No fingers stuck with stranger’s sweets
It’s fine, keep time, we feel your beat
Every time we tread the street

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