Rocks Around And Thinks That He's The Toughest

The most beautiful song I ever heard was the rise and fall of your voices, in laughter and debate, filling smoke-filled pubs with a melody drawn from the factories of the North and the fields of Mayo.

The finest poem I ever read was written on the wing by workers and recited on buses and in bars, on terraces, around television sets and wherever you would meet.

The most striking work of art I ever saw was your skin and the mounts and hollows of yourself,  your light and shadows and the public and private places of you.

The greatest book I ever read was your lives.

Posted by: papmeister at 20:37 | link | comments

The weight of memories almost too much to bear at times, pushing me down with a real physical presence, as if years were made of stone and were being placed upon my shoulders, one by one, each heavier than the last.

"I sat there and waited for mum when he was ill in the first week of his life and she came with me to the hospital and kept secretly making the sign of the cross on his forehead every time she thought no one was looking."

Having to walk across Manchester from Victoria to Piccadilly, years of ghosts passing me in the street every inch of the way. Each ghost looking me in the eye, knowing everything and yet seeing further into my soul for any last secret, any last clue.

Platform 2 where I had held him in my arms; a twelve year old boy with sun-bleached hair and a heart full of love for me. Feeling more completely loved than any time since I was that age myself. 

And now holding him in my arms again and trying my best, my absolute best, not to cry.

"Can we close the door, Dad?"

But outside the door were four prison guards and four prison psychiatric staff never more than five yards from us and we could not close the door. 

In my arms his own weight drifted away to nothing, to the weight of a twelve year old and then back to the weight of a four day old baby wearing only the sign of the cross.

Posted by: papmeister at 09:16 | link | comments (3)

The sound of seagulls; being wrapped up safe in mum's arms; dad and Martyn laughing at cartoons.

Posted by: papmeister at 11:03 | link | comments

Yesterday was the worst day of my life.

I won't be here for a bit, I think.

Posted by: papmeister at 07:55 | link | comments (2)

You hardly recognise the place. How many years is it since you’ve been in here? You try and work it out. It should be obvious if you really think about it. After all, there was a reason for your last visit.

You look around the outside of the club and remember when it had been brand new and your Dad had shown you round. You can even remember him bringing you here when they’d just dug out the footings and marked out where the walls were going to be. A bright sunlit Sunday morning and the future laid out in flags and ropes.

Someone’s sprayed “ZEB LOVES JO” in foot high letters on the outside wall of the club and just below it someone’s added “FUCK OFF” by way of a comment. Your Dad would have hated that people couldn’t walk into the club without seeing that.

You walk up the footway to the main door and let yourself in. No one’s sat at the desk where Seamus would police the comings and goings of the members so you walk straight into the Games Room.

The first thing you notice is that the snooker table has gone and in its place are two pool tables, currently occupied by a gang of sixteen or seventeen-year-olds all dressed in regulation tracksuit bottoms and baseball caps. They’re drinking bottled beer and you realise how far things have come with this place because the chances of getting an underage drink in here in the old days were zero.

You get to the bar and order yourself a pint. You guess that the man serving you is the steward because he looks the type; fat, lazy and surly. He serves you without the slightest acknowledgement and you stand at the bar and start to take in more of your surroundings.

It isn’t the place from your memory at all. You don’t recognise a single face but there’s something else that you can’t pinpoint at first. It has a scruffy unloved air about it now; you look at the drinkers and you know it isn’t their club, not like it was yours and your Dad’s club. Then you realise the difference. The hubbub of voices is all English accents.

“Can I get past you mate?” One of the lads off the pool table.

“Sure.

“Cheers.”

You don’t even know why you do it but you hear yourself asking him, “Are you eighteen?”

“Who the fuck are you, the law?”

“No, I was…” and you stop because you can’t think who you were.

He gets served and walks off back to the table and says something to his mates. They all look over at you. They’ll be lads from the flats that they built here around the same time as the club went up. They were the answer to the housing shortage back then; now they’re an overspill for the underclass to live in. You fire your pint down and think about going but decide to get another. Fuck ‘em.

You’re facing the bar now and scanning the walls at the back for any of the Celtic pictures that used to hang there. They’ve all gone.

You realise that he’s stood behind you before you turn. So you wait.

“Oi.” He wants your attention.

You look in the mirror behind the bar and see that he’s on his own. You can see that his three mates are still over by the tables but all looking your way.

“Oi, cunt.” His voice is skewed by drink, cut with malice.

“What?” And you turn to face him directly. You are several inches bigger than him and much broader.

“Who the fuck are you?” Everyone is watching now. No one shows the slightest inclination to step in and have a word with the lad.

Your left hand grabs his windpipe a fraction of a second before your right fist breaks his nose. He gurgles and you realise that if it weren’t for the fact that you’re holding him up by the throat he’d be on the floor. All his bravado has gone from his eyes and he seems to have sobered up nicely. You drive your fist into his face again, even harder this time because your making him pay for the graffiti on the wall outside and the underage drinking and the dirt on the floor and the smell from the gents and the cap that he’s wearing indoors and the English accents and the lack of respect and the years that have gone since your Dad showed you the footings on a bright Sunday morning.

You let him drop to the floor and kick him once in the face more or less half-heartedly but to show everyone in the bar what will happen if they want to come to his defence. You step over him and walk towards the exit. Everyone watches in silence. You stop and turn and you’re going to say something to them all. For a full five seconds you’re stood there but the words won’t come. You hear the door behind you open.

“What the fuck’s going on here?”

Sean takes in the Games Room; the bloodied lad on the floor, the staring faces, the way you’re stood.

“Come on then, you cunts! All of you!” No one moves.

“Let’s go,” you say.

 

Posted by: papmeister at 20:35 | link | comments (1)