More detail than is frankly necessary

Pearse Station, 6 minutes, Behan can wait while I go for a piss. I hate these jacks, the bluest lit in all of Dublin, a lasting tribute to the resident junkies of the surrounding area.

 

There’s an aul fella, raincoat and all, at the urinal. Bastard’s standing right in the middle, ignorant. I glance at the floor of the bog, she’s burst her banks. I’ll have to eek out some space by the end of that stainless steel trough after all.

 

Out pops junior, while my co-habitants stream stutters to my left. Part of me wants to make some quip about his age, bad piping or even feel some sort of sympathy. Maybe I could write a lament for the loss, the thievery, of ageing. But I can’t, because the truth is I won’t be able to get going until he stops stammering, gives up and moves on, or forms a decent flow. The nerves of youth. We’re a pathetic sight, the two of us.

 

So there I am, rooted a little further to the right than I’d like, jiggling my empty rattle in the vain hope of making some noise.

 

He looks over. A strange thing to do. Even stranger not to try and hide it. Downright bizarre to just stare like that. He knows I haven’t started, is he trying to psyche me out? Knacker, I’m not backing down. I feel my eyes harden, shoulders spread, I’m gonna piss and I’m not the type to be intimidated.

 

Then what I didn’t expect. His right hand, following his eyeline, reaches down. For a second I was stunned.

 

I bat it away, button up and turn to him. So shocked, my voice has hit a tone untouched since before puberty, and the pace of a gunshot. “Whaddafuckyoua’?”

 

I’m towering over him now, face screwed up, eyes blazing and fists clenched. He lets out a whimper, a scared old man’s whimper. Not the false sniveling apology of a sex pest. But the frightened yelp of a feeble old man, who’s made a genuine mistake, in the filthiest public toilet in Dublin. All malice in me fades to naught.

 

I walk out, I don’t wash my hands, I just want out of there, fast.

 

I go down to the furthest end of the platform, which to be fair, is where I normally go anyway. And with Behan, I’ve already forgotten the old man by the time they fine me for fare evasion. 

 

Which, incidentally, I felt was a much greater intrusion on my rights.

there’s a bed if you want it

He says he can put me up if things get too heavy out in Dun Laoghaire. I appreciate the concern but the two of us under the same roof in what’s already a bit of a mad house, frankly, scares me. I think I need the garuntee of a meal every  night* more than peace, for the time being anyway. Maybe he sees something I don’t, like I saw when I moved back in, then got used to and soon forgot.

He was as dissapointed as I was when I told him what the doctor said. He’s starting up a new five a side league, most of them are tubby barmen, it could’ve been deadly. He even offered to help me start training again, big brothers always have your back…… Even if he’s still convinced you head butted him on New Years……. and nearly got us killed after the Champions League final….. and blames you for a litany of other offences.

I don’t know what I need to do anymore, I used to know. Get out, get the fuck out, run as far and as fast and as hard as you can, don’t stop until you’re drunk with fatigue. Then catch your breadth and it’ll be over by the time you get back. Thats not an option anymore is it?

 

*and evidence to suggest that there is, in fact, a difference between night and day

Lesson Learnt

A few days ago AAF showed up from work with a big bag of legal weed. I resisted temptation up until last night when I had a spliff to get rid of my hangover. Really, I shouldn’t be smoking at all-I’ve already suffered enough at its hands-but I reckoned that one couldn’t hurt. How wrong I was….

First off, I put far more into it than I meant to. Secondly, it was way stronger than I thought it was. Thirdly, I had the worst night ever. It was fucking terrible. My bedroom was full of open coffins, all women and all pleading-some screaming-for help! They were everywhere I looked, it was like we were all floating down the river Styx-black flames exploding up the walls and screams, lots of screams. I couldn’t look any of them in the eye because they all looked so desperate. Then in the corner of the room, set apart from the rest, were three mens decapitated heads rolling around on the floor moaning and groaning. I couldn’t close my eyes either because then my brain had nothing to reference and things got really weird.

It got even worse though. Because I’ve been doing little or no exercise in the last month my conditioning has gone to shit-obviously enough. That’s fine, but the problem is that when my muscle tone drops below a certain level my shoulders start dislocating really easily. Both went at various times last night as I tossed and turned, I think I eventually ended up sleeping on the right with it still hanging out. My back and shoulders feel absolutely terrible today, a mix of dehydration and being completely fucked inside out.

But the worst came this morning. AAF woke up to find me choking in my sleep, he had to turn me over and shit, I don’t even remember it. I was looking in the mirror this morning and have red blood spots all over my neck-I’m a little freaked out to be honest.

This is the cost of one spliff? One fucking spliff, I’m done with this, don’t even like weed that much.

Oh oh oh oh….yeh…yeh..oh..oh yes

Just some of the noises you could hear coming from the 8 people crammed in close in our living room last night. Obviously, we were playing Mortal Kombat!

I hadn’t played Mortal Kombat since I was pre-pubescent and have only the fondest memories of the ridiculous amount of wanton over the top violence that the game encourages(it even encourages excessive use of exageratory adjectives!*). No really, youtube ‘Mortal Kombat Fatalities’-thats my childhood.

You learn a lot about people playing Mortal Kombat. For a start, while us lads can tell you how to steal your oponents soul, freeze him, ride him like a surfboard or(my own personal favourite) perform a ‘Teleknetic Toss’-its the girlies who have the Killer Instinct. Little sister keypad mashing is so effective that I’m now scared to play Banksy2, or even look her in the eye when the playstation is on-bitch is CrAzY! The Coy jumps about, yelps and is exhausted by the end of every game-nobody wants to beat her for fear that she’ll continue the fight back into the real world!

For all our suave special moves and piss-take commentry, I’ve never been so firmly put in my place. AAF and I were playing this morning, the Coy came over, we both ‘got bored and wanted to do something else’ within 30 seconds-its really embarrassing.

*that’d be ’describing words’