-Aye lads The Biggest Man in Ireland, 2 weeks away so I’ve loads of time for prep and that.
-What are you on about, mate?
-Aw it’s The Biggest Man in Ireland, 2 weeks. Wee Jimmy’s goin’ in for it.
-Aye, but sure Jimmy’s only 5ft 2.
-It’s not about size, mate! It’s not all about size.
-Fair enough. What do ye hafta do like?
-Everything, lad. Anything. Some lad from Sligo won it last year there for paintin’ a big boat.
-He was a big man though?
-Aye he was a big fella right enough, but it’s not all about that.
-Right. Fuck. Dead on. What have ye got planned then?
-Loads, mate, loads. They put ye through all different rounds, to see how big ye are. First round is, you have to face an old high school teacher and tell them, in no uncertain terms, exactly what you think of them.
-Fuck.
-Yes, mate, it’s no joke.
-Here, fair play to ye like.
– Ano.

———————————————————————————

‘Have ye anything to say for yourself, son?’
Wee Jimmy raised his glass.
‘I’d just like to thank yese all for bein’ here, for coming together to help celebrate my recent victory. I’m hoping that it’s the first of many, and that we can take this thing as far as it’ll possibly go!’
Jimmy’s friends and relatives jeered and cheered, his mates were up the front jostling him, takin’ the piss.
‘Aw Jimmy, son,’ gushed Jimmy’s ma, ‘I always had faith in ye, always knew that you were destined for great things. I know that ye may have lost your way at times along the years, but nobody can take it away from you now. You are: The Biggest Man in Ireland!’

Wee Sandra Delain, from up round the corner, was sitting over near the bar. Jimmy kept one eye on her as his mother continued.
He’d had his eye on her for years in fact. Her da was half-French and had run away when she was a weein. She’d always stood out to Jimmy, a lovely girl, just that something extra about her.

‘Jimmy, son, there’s a man here wants to have a word with you.’
Jimmy snapped out of it. His da was standin’ with a tall tanned fella smokin’ a thick cigar, lookin’ all impeccable in a pinstripe suit. It was non-smokin’ in here but this guy didn’t seem to give a fuck.
He stretched out a brown wooden palm to Jimmy and Jimmy shook it manfully, throwing his shoulders back a little, the words of the former titlist still fresh in his mind, ‘and remember, son, you’re The Biggest Man in Ireland now. Never forget it….’
The man took Jimmy aside from his father.

‘Listen, Jimmy. My name’s Groyt MacFarland, you may have heard of me?’
Jimmy had indeed heard of Groyt ‘The Grinder’ MacFarland, and he knew not to say fuck all. He nodded respectfully and waited for the man to speak.
‘Son, I run the bottlin’ plant out in Mallusk, and I’ve come to offer you a position in the firm.’
He enunciated the words ‘the firm’ rather strangely, rather firmly, or maybe Jimmy’s mind was playin’ tricks on him.
‘You’ll be startin’ from the bottom, son, but with the kind of initiative you’ve shown lately, well…let’s just say, there’s plenty of room in my organisation for young men like yourself.’

‘Men.’ Jimmy thought. He’s never been called a man before, not by someone like Groyt the fuckin’ Grinder. He’d been a lad, a wee lad, a fella, a good young fella, but never a man…he was speechless. And a job! He’d been on the bru for fuckin’ years now… But, shrewd as he was, make no mistake, Jimmy knew fully what kind of offer was on the table here. This was a big step.

‘What’s the matter, Jimmy, son,’ The Grinder laughed deeply, chewin’ like fuck on his big cigar, ‘Are ye afraid of a hard day’s work?’
‘Not at all, Mr MacFarland,’ answered Jimmy, ‘When do ye want me startin’?’
‘Don’t worry about it, Jimmy. We’ll let you know when it’s time to come down.’
‘But…you don’t have my number, Mr MacF-‘
‘Jimmy.’ The Grinder looked stern. ‘Go and enjoy yourself.’

Jimmy stood up and nodded gratefully. All around him the celebrations were in full flow. They had the place decked out great, banners, balloons, a big fuck-off cake with Jimmy’s face on it, the lot. Big John Mooney was on the decks and he was bangin’ them out. ABBA, Michael Jackson, a bitta old school dance. The dancefloor was packed, the lads givin’ it stacks, the ouler wans doin’ a bitta jivin’ an’ that. Jimmy thought he’d keep his cool though, keep a good eye on what Sandy Delain was up to over in the corner. He watched as she sipped from her fancy cocktail glass, high class stuff indeed. At another time perhaps he wouldn’t have had the balls, but his mind was made up now, he was going to make a go for her: Sandy Delain. He made his way smoothly over to where she was sitting, walking with the assured step of a recently celebrated man, cocking his head from side to side in a manner that suggested, no, confirmed, that he knew that he was the balls.

‘Alright there, Sally? You’re lookin’ well tonight.’
‘Jimmy? This is your do isn’t it? Me and the girls just dropped in for a few drinks.’
‘Aye, wee celebration just. Won that there competition sure, didn’t I?’
‘Aye, I head about that, Jimmy. I always knew you’d do somethin’ with yourself.’
‘Well here, look, I was goin’ to say to ye. Am startin’ a new job next week here, was wonderin’ if ye maybe fancied comin’ out for a few drinks with us?’

Sandy Delain looked away for a moment, it seemed she was fumbling in her handbag. She turned around with her hand outstretched to Jimmy

‘Here’s my number, Jimmy. Just you let me know when. Now, look, why don’t ye go on and enjoy yourself, all your pals are waitin’ for ye.’

Enjoy yourself? What the fuck? Jimmy span round from the table in a daze and and stepped towards the dancefloor. His mates were cajoling and carousin’, saying ‘Come on, Jimmy, ya wee bastard, come on ta fuck and enjoy yourself!’ Jimmy hit the floor. He was going to enjoy himself. Fuck the repercussions, fuck lookin’ cool, this was his night, this was his time. ‘Enjoy yourself, Jimmy, just enjoy yourself.’ That’s all anybody would tell him. Aye, he’d climbed the mountain. Now he was getting’ dizzy due to high altitude. But he didn’t give a fuck. He was the hardest man about, loved and respected. ‘Wee’ Jimmy, maybe, but a man. Fuck it, THEE man. Wee Jimmy.

To try to sit one’s self down to work, sensibly, with drugs ingested is surely an unworthy endeavour. And I guess then, if we take away that word ‘sensible,’ well, what are we left with? I think we are left with a blank page bereft of expectations, rules, or limitations, which is freeing, most freeing, yes; but of course we need some sort of structure upon which to hang our ideas. This scrambling free-for-all can be only that. A brainstorm. Fire around a few ideas. But surely this is better than forcing oneself down to sit sensibly when what would be the opposite inclination of the drug addled mind is this. That, indeed, would be counter intuitive. And so we go crazy, enjoying our phrasing, as we go, playing with our new toys, as we go, trying not to waste all that creative juice. As we go. And be sure that, whatever we do, we take something away. We learn, we build, we work our craft. Ha! To be a writer. Yes it’s all coming together now. A different deal altogether from what you first dreamt up. There is work involved after all, a strange kind of work. Not always unenjoyable. Just get on with it, I guess. Roll with the punches, adjust to the changes – try not to slip. Endure the glare of the unruly bandleader. Enjoy faint praise when you have earned it, and even then, stoop not to celebrate too often.

-What the fuck is this man on about?
-I dunno, mate, but he’s meltin’ my head. Here, let’s take the hand out of him

. There are men out there who are so well-versed, in a range of subjects, and I admire these men, where once perhaps I might’ve been dismissive, or bitter. I now respect the fact that they know more than me, most naturally nowadays I do. They have gone further, they have been in the game for longer, they have paid heavier dues, they have gained more experience. Play the game, don’t play yourself. Don’t be bitter. I mean it’s hopeless at times, we’re all human. But enjoy what’s local, let it spur you on. Now! Now you have purpose! Beyond your own fickle fancies. Now you have pride, you have spine. You have humour, you have wit. You have many deficiencies and failings and you know it. Good boy. Yes, the ego will waggle, and all that will peruse and parade and pathetically peacock.

But at times like this, you know fully what all of this means. This particular part of it anyway. Who knows it all? Nobody, ever. But get on with it, keep to your work. Dream, yes. Temper with humour, mmmn hmmn. Laugh at yourself, heartily. Dance like a fuckin’ eejit, and enjoy! Help others when you can and be a good man. Keep yourself together. You’re doing this for more than just yourself now. But remember your priorities: family first? No longer are we trying to be ‘the best,’ though sometimes that does come in. Healthy competition…wait, fuck. Yes. Rather we are trying to be ‘effective.’ To produce something that others can draw from, lean on, reflect upon, enjoy unabashedly…grow with? But, dear boy! Hold the fuck up! Who do ye think ye are now? Have ye much done? Have ye even written a book yet? No. But you’re on your way, just keep ‘er lit, and all will be well. God bless xo.

-So yeah this girl
-Yeah what about her man, tell me the craic
-Fuck boy wait’ll ye hear, she’s unreal like
-Aye watch the lingo, mate
-Right. The woman.
-Yeup.
-Well she’s known for givin’…
-Givin’ wha?
-Telepathic Blowjobs.
-What the fuck?
-Aye man, swear to God.
-But, like, how does that even work?
-Right, so say you’re sittin’ in the house, lockdown and that, feelin’ a bit lonely or whatever; you drop the money into her account, and she’ll sort ye out within the next half hour.
-Fuck.
-I know, mate, I know.
-Have you had one?
-Have surely, mate, blew the fuckin’ head off me, highly recommend it.
-But here?
-Wha?
-What does she look like?
-Hardly fuckin’ matters like, does it?
-Well ye never know, she could be a pure munter
-Aye but at the end of the day like, she gets the job done
-Yeah, but it could be a fuckin’ man or anything
-It’s not a fuckin’ man, lad, I’m tellin’ ye, this is the real deal
-Fuck I dunno mate, I’d probably start feelin’ a bit uneasy while the whole thing was happenin’
-Why like? Just relax, mate, experience of a lifetime
-Aye, but it’s the not knowin’!
-Tell ye what, the first one’s on me
-What you mean you’re gonna..?
-Naw ye wab, I’ll pay for your first, a wee freebie, just think of me like a degenerate uncle
-Mate, I’m feelin’ uneasy as it is here
-Dude just go with it, best decision you’ll ever make in your life, ask anyone
-Where ye goin’?!
-Am away home! Can’t be fuckin’ sittin’ round here when you’re gettin’ your dick sucked
-Mate, don’t leave me…*DOOR SLAMS*…Mate!

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Fuck off all yo peoples who once before were said to be writing about nahin nor fuck all cause there’s nahin more to say no nahin so say it all let it go it gone go gone go fuck go now flick away ye cunt fuck shite fuck cunt shite fuck cunt shite cunt fuck wank fuck yes. Aye fuck shite wank cunt fuck shite wank fish cunt past n’ sauce and brown sauce and rotten oul crusts of bread that ye wouldn’t feed the birdies. Pic n’ mix that dirty wee bastards have had all their sticky wee stink fingers peckered through stealin’, lickin’, drop, lick, re-drop, pick, bite, set it down ye cunt ye run off without payin’. Four fuckin’ weeins. Four wee weeins sittin’ cute lookin’ or so ye misremembered. Multicultural fuck isn’t that nice. Wee bastards cursin’ from the age a nahin and fukin spoutin shite. One of them has a bigger head that the rest, you can hear it when he speaks. The coloured fella’s got cool Portuguese rhythms in his English and these wee fuckers know fuck all difference between the other anyway regardless of race sexuality creed colour the rest of it. Wee bastards. Don’t know how good they’ve got it. But here it is nice to see right enough like, from a distance like, from a distance.

See here’s ma theory right now wait’ll ye hear. Kay, when the appearance of such a scene greets us, and meets with a hope, fanstasy or whatever the fuck pre-existing within our psyche, see the fuckin scene ye link it up like fuck and then ye think the fantasy’s right bang there, but the fuckin closer you get to that cuntin’ thing, the more ye realise it’s all just cunt, and that your fantasy was nahin. Nahin. So yep, the mind plays tricks on ye, fuckin romance. Not every time like, but more often than not, yours dreams: they get shat on.

Now ye may be questionin’ why my dreams involve the interplay of four urchin minors. Well, I’ll fuckin’ tell ye, I was thinkin’ of equality. Of fuckin’ weeins, that I one day may be havin’ one. Of the beauty of the fuckin’ world and me own childhood. Right. And I’ll go one better, the wee urchin bastards, who swore so offensively and betrayed my fuckin dream the shites. I was much the same as them. Cheeky wee fuckers stealin’ and cursin’ and strangely smilin’ and managin’ to remain cute and hopeful and sweet that whole time. Like somethin’ out of a play.

So aye. Me own offspring will likely enough be of the same ilk, but it was shockin’ to see it, to be reminded of it, it truly was. I have been out of touch a long, long time. The fuckin’ kids.

-You’re writin’ stories, son?
-Aye tryin’, mate, just workin’ away like.
-Ye can write a good story now, ye can write a good story… Tell me this, would ye write us one for the paper?
-Uh, what paper’s that?
-The Southside Advertiser. Tis a good article now, I’m tellin’ ye, a good article.
-Right, would that involve payment of any kind?
-There would be no money involved, but it’s the exposure, y’see.
-Right. Aye, I’ll think about it sure.
-Do think about it, son, make sure an do. And here.
-What?
-Do ye mind me givin’ ye a piece of advice? About your stories?
-Uh, aye, sure, go on ahead.
-Ye want to clean them up a bit, son. People’s talkin’. Ye’ve to take the dirt out of them. ‘She’s shaggin’ this’ and ‘he’s ridin’ thon.’ It’s bad craic.
-Aye, well they’re not exactly for everybody.
-No they’re not, son. No they’re not for everybody. Ye want to clean house a wee bit, in that regard. And another thing. Have ye time now?
-Naw I’m just headin’ off here now, ma bus is only up round the corner here, five minutes fuck
-Hang on now your bus isn’t goin’ nowhere anytime too soon. Listen you to me here now. The violence. The ultraviolence that you’re writin’ into them things is to be taken out. It’s too close to the bone, too close to the real thing, son.
-Look mate I really don’t have time for this shite
-Hear me out, son. Nobody’s goin’ to buy them books for to read to their children. Ye’ll not make a penny off sellin’ books like thon. What you need, and I’m gonna make you an offer here, what you need: is an editor.
-Right. Are you offerin’ your services?
-Put it there, boy and we’ve a deal.
-Have you any actual experience as an editor?
-Experience? You’re lookin’ at a fully qualified professor from the university of life.
-Look mate, ye know what it is. Ye can take your advice, your fuckin southside advertiser, your hat and fuckin gown, and your questionable editin’ skills and get ta fuck! *does a runner*
-Come back! Come back! I’m a big fan of your work!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



‘Oh Jin Jenny was a big round penny was a big round penny indeed
I said old Jin Jenny was a big round penny she was born from a lightning seed’

-That’s not a bad song ye made up there, boss. Not a bad wee song.
-Aye cheers, been rattlin’ them out all day here.
-All off the toppa yer head an all aye, like reminiscin’?
-Aye improvisin’, yeah mate, workin away, off the cuff.
-That’s what a mean though, mate, you’re doin a wee bitta reminiscin.’ Thinkin’ of your memories an’ all then a song comes to mind. Aye did a bit of it myself back in the day.
-Aw right. Aye I suppose, that is what I was doin’ right enough.
-Right. Well here’s a wee trick for ye next time you’re lookin’ for a song, right?
-Right. Aye, go on ahead.
-Right, go ‘Hey diddle diddle got a jinny an a biddle an’ a weedle an’ a doodle an’ a dee.’
-Uh…
-Go on ahead, mate, it’s easy, don’t be afraid.
-Ok wait’ll I see here. ‘Ho Jenni Jones was a forty tonne a bones she got water on her tongue never seen her lookin’ young.’
-Nah mate. Nah. Ye’ve not got it. Ye may take up dancin’.

*totters on down the street singing*

‘oi jiddle bar with a weenie an’ a tar an a homeless man on buds an’ I’m runnin’ through the spuds…’

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!