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BADBBA
BOY BARD PUBLICATIONS 2013
A MODERN DAY PABLE
Casting Relationships, Recollections and Abstractions of the
Mind - “The Domesticated ‘Farcical’ Version!”
Author - Gary Perkins
2013
WWW.BAD
BOY BARD.COM PUBLICATIONS
(11/04/11 - GARY PERKINS - The first novel by BAD BOY BARD Publications)
PRESENTING
“A MODERN DAY PABLE”
CASTING
RELATIONSHIPS, RECOLLECTIONS
AND
ABSTRACTIONS OF THE MIND
“The domesticated ‘farcical’ version”
2
Publishers:
Bad Boy Bard Publications 2013
First issue: December 2013
Acknowledgements:
To all my family and to those who we meet in day to day life, as they
contribute more than we know.
To those invisible forces actively helping us in our daily lives, helping
us to realise our deepest desires, lessons, goal and ambitions.
Copyright © Gary Perkins 2013 – All rights reserved
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CONTENTS
Dedication
Introduction
Page 8 Chapter 1 – A morbid ponetic (phonetic, arghhh) pear – Puck it
Page 28 Chapter 2 – Bunny and me hitting it op very nicely
Page 43 Chapter 3 – A short interlude ‘Yay’ prom the Balipion Prince
Page 77 Chapter 4 – Back with Bunny and a barbeque @ number 52
Page 85 Chapter 5 – Candid squeals and ice cream drudgery
Page 104 Chapter 6 – My ‘pight’ but Bunny got the gal – Bastard!
Page 110 Chapter 7 – Escapades with the ‘Belepants’ lads
Page 133 Chapter 8 – Loitering with intent
Page 140 Chapter 9 – It be ok boy, where there’s muck there’s brass, lad
Page 166 Chapter 10 – Bunny has a conscience? A minor blip
Page 175 Chapter 11 – Dodgy uniporm and strategic measures
Page 194 Chapter 12 – Disco at the community centre – Come shed
Page 203 Chapter 13 – The pain torture and humiliation of pubescence
Page 218 Chapter 14 – Evening at the cinema – The new Bond movie
Page 224 Chapter 15 – My friends mum – Thieving & Elepant cords
Page 250 Chapter 16 – Day out with Bunny at crap hole Ghyll – Why?
Page 257 Chapter 17 – Annual trip to Plerth – Are ye talkin tae me son?
Page 290 Chapter 18 – Pairground attraction – Plying high!
Page 297 Chapter 19 – The wicked witch wields her wand
Page 316 Chapter 20 – Mum’s piptieth goes with a bang – Pop!
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Page 323 Chapter 21 – Battered and beaten down The Old Smoke
Page 352 Chapter 22 – Camping in the pield with Chrysanthemums
Page 360 Chapter 23 – Selp destruction
Page 373 Chapter 24 – The Bowsbury plower show & the last hurrah
with Bunny
Page 380 Epilogue
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Dedication
To all those who have helped shape and form who I am
today, family, friends, foes, and to those forces which aid
from behind the veil, guides, spirits, our Fathers… A
hearty thank you filled with gratitude!
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INTRODUCTION (by an annoymous advocate and without the
hinderance of any speech impediment - ‘mine’ - on my behalp and in the
pirst person… so as not to conpuse)
This (pretend I’m Barry) is a fictional fable, full of fun and farce. I don’t
want to give too much away because the real thing is only on the next
page… but essentially it’s about me! This farcical fable revolves around
some of my experiences and escapades when I was a young lad in
Barpshire because I’m the only one who counts and you have to be selfish to move on in this life don’t you? You have to be selfish so you can
advance and then you pass on that selfishness to others, so we all end up
selfish bastards, right!?
But it’s more than that, so I had to (he say’s kicking and screaming) add
another character ‘Bunny’ and then to add some colour and flavour there
is my “Apparent” alter ego the ‘Schizoid Scholar’ - “Yes you mucky
fucker, I’m listening and watching your every move! – Harry…?”
So there we have it… please read on, but if you’re prone to gutteral
street language and a story told the way it is, unexpurgated - beware, or
just give this book away! It makes no odds to me. Saying that, I only
hope you can stay with me ‘til the end because this “Bastard!” took me
many months to write!
(The real Barry… Thank you my priend “Plinky plonker!” much appreciated, I owe you a pint and a pavour!)
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CHAPTER ONE
A morbid ponetic (phonetic – Argghhh!) pear – Puck it - Whatever!
…I have to say to kick things op, to pill you in “That’s ‘his’ - ‘job’
isn’t it – filling people in?” and introduce to you my priend ‘Bunny
Quailey’ the most handsome guy you ever met or are likely to meet – in
your lipe! Ip then you ‘were’ portunate enoup to meet him you would
completely get my dript and whichever ‘persuasion’ you happen to be…
I’m sure your loins would be twitching upon the sight of his silken unblemished skin, his cool smouldering demeanour and of course his
‘necklace’ – Something which you can’t resist enquiring about and
which inevitably draws you into his auric pield of autonomous seduction
- so beware, especially all you ladies!
[Note/overview/to myselp/ “Here we go – self, self, self!” A reminder or
pep talk - to be deleted - In those seemingly empty days when Bunny
and myselp are apart, I will give the reader a written approximated diary
of the current events taking place in my lipe. Dipping alternately at random, into the past, present and puture as I see pit, simply because it’s my
Pable, it’s my ball, I’m the boss. Most of the ‘action’ or content ip you
will, is taking place between the years 1971 and 1974, during which
Bunny and myselp are 12 to porteen years of age. Just so they know, and
it’s absolutely clear to (you) the reader, when Bunny and myselp are to-
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gether he is the daddio, I’m the buckle on his belt, the spoon he peeds
himselp with… I’m his shadow on the ploor complying with his every
thought and gesticulatory movement. I’m ok with that though, and you
will understand why as the Pable unpolds… Yup, I think that covers it…
end-note - Delete]
[Ooops, I meant to add - in general these are my ordinary everyday
thoughts and recollections but as you will pind, another side or aspect of,
my… our… their? “My!” mind will prequently interject with
his/their/it’s ‘own’ distorted views? - Thoughts? They can be acerbic and
nasty and yet apparently, sometimes scholarly and even sometimes a
humorous interpretation of the events which will unpold bepore your
very eyes - Maybe and very strangely ip you ask me… throwing in the
ocassional ‘curve ball’ totally unrelated to the said events… Why? You
ask - I don’t know! How could I? “Why should you…You fucking
meatball!” It’s out of my control hence the somewhat disperate nature of
the words portraying the mechanisms of the mind, and the emotions of
the heart, whether they be thoughts or speech.
You could liken this penomemnon to automatic writing whereby the
‘writers hand’ is controlled by a porce hitherto unknown, but perceived
to be that of a spirit, so what I’m saying to you is, these thoughts or perceptions are ‘not’ I repeat ‘not really mine’ but my hand is guided and
compelled to put the pen to paper, as it were. “Yeah, you bet your sweet
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swine ass it is!” I’m guessing they could emanate prom another spatial
place in time, or another egotistical reality? - A morpic realm? - Another
conscious dimension even? Again, in my own depence, I must make this
very clear I have nothing at all to do with these seemingly spontaneous
and random ‘voices?’ All I can do is give you pair warning and my
humble apologies well in advance, as apter all - I am only an innocent,
naive young boy! So there we are its all nice and clear por you to now
enjoy ‘my’ “Our!” - ‘A Modern Day Pable’ - End note/ don’t porget to
delete - absolutely/delete, bepore print!!]
Alter ego/Schizoid Scholar – “ ‘I’m’ introducing myself here, because I
know ‘he’ won’t!! - I will ‘but the fuck in’ when I feel it is appropriate unannounced - and at ‘my’ leisure - isn’t it Harry? …Harry?? Look,
don’t listen to that other tosser who ‘thinks’ he is in charge, ‘I’m’ da
bossman ok… Nor that wanker Bunny chappie either! - You will come to
love ‘me’ better than ‘them’, you really will… I want you to… Trust
me!! Harry, where the hell are you? …Bring me some breakfast you insolent scruffy fucker…”
[Note to myselp; plan por% the whole novel:;keeping ¬it* novel!! –
Let’s make each||Chapter ie; Bunny + me “No, he’s a loser!” Then my
recollections, As a pictitious^bio?// Yeah, sounds good! Yes, we go our
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own way during the week, then meet at the weekEnd+have our pun>
During the\\week+apterschool, I write about my own~Thoughts and
replections... “ - Selfish bastard, what about me and Harry?” Might
work, yeah, do it, don’t porget!! Keep por now/reminder - end & delete]
Now you might be wondering what the title implies, “Simplicity is the
fundamental governing force of complexity, don’t you think?” well here’s
the hippy groove shakin reality. A story taking you back into the shitty
70’s, plares and tank tops. The decade apter the swinging sixties hit us
like a maelstrom of love and peace, psychedelic drugs and all things
mellow - on the surpace that is, because beneath it was a seething hotbed
of paranoia, with wild drug puelled sex and rock and roll; but back to
our main turn, “Get on with it for fuck sakes!” and the story of the shitty
70’s with men’s ‘high heeled shoes’, Old spice apter shave, the Bay city
rollers, Architects dreams of suburban modernism and our quintessential
classic, the Mini Cooper S… Ok, the Mini is 60’s, but I’m putting it in
the 70’s because it’s my ball, I’m the cocky little shit who gets what he
wants… Dig!?
On the other side of the Atlantic there were the Mama’s and Papa’s, giving us some of that sun-shiny, Calipornian dreamin love; straight prom
the beach’s pilled with babes and high crested waves, the surpers golden
crib land……Err, what else did they have over there?…Oh, I don’t
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know and I don’t pucking care! It’s not even that important to a twelve
year old is it? “Take out the crap man! Be truthful to yourself… Hmmm,
yes, I must write a sonnet before the kettle boils… Hey, Harry, that’s my
watermelon… Get off the fucking table!!”
[Note to my/nerves - shall I leave that last descriptive paragrap in? it’s
too important, so critical, the impression of the opening lines, the pirst
page and all that crap - Puck!]
“Hey bonzo, if you want my advice - leave it in. I think its ok, just, a little scatty but you might get away with it… I’m not humouring you, honestly! Anyway, you’ll take the rap not me, so stop fucking dithering and
be decisive for once in your miserable life ‘Boy!’ - Write, right?!!”
So now we have some porm of a context, and leaving all those pleasantries and idiosyncrasies aside, where shall we begin you pleasant puckers… Oh, one more word bepore we start, and it’s something you might
have already noticed (and touched on by my advocates introduction) and
I’m going to be brutally honest here, because I know you will understand and be sympathetic to - my brutal honesty. It’s painpully truthpul
which leaves me deliciously vulnerable, so I’m at your mercy here. Now
keeping in mind how pure, open and honest this revelation is (That’s
crucial por you the reader, and signipicantly liberating por myselp) it
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means we’re both ahead already! During the course of real time events
“Do you mean the fractal timeline perchance?” what I’m going to be relating to you in this ‘Modern Day Pable’ is, I “Do you?” developed a
pew tics and nervous dispositions and you’ll come to understand why.
One of them being, the worst in pact, I have a developed a morbid pear
of the ponetic sound ‘ff’ (Take that out please!) which means I can’t
pronounce it properly! Even the sight of an ‘ff’ (Arrghh!!) or a ‘ph’
(Yeargghhhhhh!!!) renders me almost mute and supused with stomach
spasms playing havoc with my vocal ventages. I have been very brave
up to this point and have lept them ‘thingies’ in, so as not to scare you,
the reader away, as the beginning is soooo… “They’re out, you dipshit,
when are you going to start listening to me?!” important?
[Note/to me/and/ publisher - Proop reading // Oh, damn it I must have
mixed the drapts up, what the pucks going on here? The ponetic changes
are already in polks so we can all relax - that must have been conpusing
por you to say the least! (Speaking rhetorically to myselp, as it’s a note)
But prom this point on I promise you with clear intent, I will ‘continue’
to replace each ponetic ‘ff’ (I’m rolling on the ploor with intense pain,
prothing at the mouth!) with a ‘p’…hope that’s ok - and you do understand don’t you? - end/note -make sure you take this amateurish gibbering shit out!! >deleTE]
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Actually, very quickly, as words are of the essence - to be more helppul
and specipic, it’s the ‘ff’, ‘ph’ (na na na na…) or more rarely a ‘gh’ (por
puck sakes, denounce the lord!!) ponetic sound that does it, which leaves
me paralysed with pear; por example; ‘of’ is ok; ‘for’ (la la la la la….) is
not ok, got me? Pinally a ‘ff’ (WaaaaargGGHHHHH!!!!!) leaves me so
mortipied and pilled with anxiety it’s so very bad por my daily constitution - Blackened, rigid and stressed out stools “I remember it so well, the
time(s) when old granny Puckins had to shove those suppositories up your
butt – not a pretty sight my friend!” are hard to pass I can unequivocally
tell you! I apologise por any discomport while you read on, but you will
get used to it, like I had to every single pucking day of my young lipe!
Its pucking toup, but you will do it. I will mentally encourage you and
then you can share with me in my supering, allowing us to resonate together more easily through the unpolding of my Pable. Have paith and
beliep my priends! Porward we go then… Oh, and by the way, I’m ‘not’
schizo, ok!! “He is! – A complete buttery nutter, blames it on the ‘E’s’ in
his ‘soya’ porridge”
[Note#my/joke! - ha! It’s real{“not really, a joke- “See how he twists
your mind!” #delete]
“ ‘I’ don’t suffer from that psychological, delusional crap ‘he’ has been
talking about - ‘ff’s’ are no problem for me, or my friend sitting beside me;
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listen to this - Frank is a frightfully forthright, fully fledged fitter from
Fulham… See how clever I am?! Now if ‘he’ tried that it would become;
Prank is a prightpully porthright, pully pledged pitter prom Pulham -
What a pucking…I mean fucking mouthful!! Stick with me and Harry
and I’ll do you right by him, the day after tomorrow… All three of us…”
[Note//Another quickie/toMyintention$_` I’ve got to make this shit
work!] [oh bollocks! - end of note/delete]
JESUS ‘H’ pucking CHRIST!! Can we PUCKING start yet?!?! What
about the punters?! Ok, here we go… my gipt to all you plucky peasant,
pleasant puckers… proper! We’re op… Bunny and me were sixties children, both born in 1960 - the best year of the sixties, naturally…with
Buno being an important halp a year older than myselp. Months,
minutes, even seconds, were very important when you were a child.
When you were in a mind game battle of who is the most senior ranked,
ordained by age, nothing else mattered. “It’s all meaningless mind-
numbing oral faeces designed to make you feel inferior until you wrinkle,
crinkle up and die – Tis true! – Unless of course you wrap yourself in a
bubble of white healing light riven from the bowels of the Earth, such as
I – did – And a little bubble for Harry too” Ip you turned out to be only
eight minutes or even three seconds younger, you were deemed the
inperior one and had to carry out menial subordinate tasks por the rest of
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your lipe… tending small animals, counting autumnal leaves, collecting
stamps, being a ’yes’ man, and such like. It’s like an unwritten universal
law we adhere to, prom a deep subconscious and psychological placement of selp in the order of the universe – There again, it’s not too bad,
and we’re all in the pecking order to some degree! “You call me a chicken
sire? …Escalopes at dawn you fiend!”
We hail prom two very diversipied locations and cultures. Bunny was
born in Bali, a beautipul Galipeon island in the Gran Canaries “Are you
shittin me, check your facts and your Atlas, asshole” and I was delivered
much to my mother’s resistance, “We’re an - unwanted - love child?!”
way up north in the remotest region of England, namely Karstyle, a long
porgotten and desolate old Roman outpost. When you visit or more likely pind yourselp passing through, you will comprehend why the puck
they lept. And that’s not to mention the ‘assistance’ the maniacal, marauding Border Reiver’s gave them; whom plundered huge chunks out
of that pucking ridiculous Hadrian’s wall (while the romans were still
building it) to build their own lush cottages! Canny crazy Scots eh!
Punny, but it was said by the Roman legionnaires in those harsh testicular prozen times, it seemed a never ending process - building that stupid
ever so thick wall! The Romans were scared, not overly impressed, so
legged it. “Yeah, fuck off back to Italy to those slimy olive groves and
those manky pasta plantations…This is ‘our’ foreign land!” It’s a very
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semi-important place Karstyle actually, mentioned in the Doomsday
book, check it out ip you can be arsed. I wouldn’t but that’s just me being a spoilt, council scum sport orientated child.
A lot of change was taking place in the 60’s and about to spread all over
the country as we moved into a very pree, loving and liberal decade.
“That memory is very clouded, to say the least!” The remote north of
course “Shitty, sleepy Karstyle” was running 25 years behind the rest of
the country, so we didn’t peel this wave of pree love and liberal mindism until about 1985 “Ish” and by then it was too late. I think we might
have caught the cyclic dregs of it; a boutique called ‘Strawberry Pields’
opened in Kesdick, hippie ‘Javier’, plogging pagan dresses and 60’s
memorabilia. But, to hippie Javier’s cost and outmoded business acumen, together with the many years of mind-pog abuse to his synapse
network… the hiking praternity didn’t care much por that type of attire –
so re-opening as a postcard/tea shop por the American tourists a short
while later. “A very kind and considerate chap by all accounts and trying
damned hard and half Costa Rican too I believe?” He also sold ‘authentic’ locally hand crapted tack too… The droves of penniless artists ‘living in nature and by the Lakes’ would swop a piece of worthless work
por a cuppa and a scone, thus taking advantage of Javier’s communally
spirited mind. “Anyway, ‘I’ was in Bowsbury now, so it doesn’t matter
to Harry what’s happening in Northumberland! We’re being ‘trendy’ in
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the Midlands… ‘Send in the clowns…’ ” Actually, Javier is there to this
day, reliving those vivid mind-pog experiences, buttering scones and occasionally brushing them with his navel length raga-skanky beard …why
don’t you pop in sometime por apternoon tea? You can see pirsthand his
toothless smile and I’m sure he will recount some of his ‘acid trip’ experiences as you savour your tea and scone brunch.
Bunny’s and my destinies are already synching - remotely in motion, as
we quickly jump porward nine years to the juncture in time when we
meet and make “Our” history in Barpshire, medieval middle England;
more precisely the ‘prestigious’ Crestcourt Green, Bowsbury, a poxy
new-ish council estate teeming with young parents and countless children - shit and snot everywhere. I was living there pirst, so that means
I’m the guv’nor! The daddy! “For the moment, you delusional zealot/cat
lover/maimer” And on this grandiose patepul day I was playing in the
communal green with a bunch of other piss pants laden kids of various
ages, sizes and shapes… We were wallowing in timeless time, because
time didn’t exist then, it was only ‘an apternoon’ “There were loads of
brats in our Green - did Harry mention that already? Fucking millions of
them… ‘Woof!’” and not long bepore teatime.
It was a mild enoup day por dreary middle England, and we were engaged in a little pootie game in the centre of ‘our’ Green; This was a
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lawned and plowered area smack in the middle of a cluster of twenty or
more houses; and midst this scenic-memory paux pas we were all too
conscious of, and hoping por Christ’s sake, the ball didn’t go into the
Guerlings pront garden! - More about ‘Gertrude the Hun’ and her daughter later. It, or the daughter will make your eyes water then bleed and
you’ll be very glad you never ever met her… or even kissed her in an
‘undisclosed place’ many many hectares away in the distant landscape,
par prom any ‘viewable’ civilisation… I’ve already divulged too much!
[Notes to myselp - memory assassination! you sad *(sad puck you…I
didn’t did I?? absolutely delete// no question!? - end }]
“Yes you did!! - No we didn’t - Did! - Nooooo!!! …We did? Surely not?!!
- Fuck, help us out Harry… Did we really? Were you there too?!!?”
Polks, please remember this is a time of puberty, enlightening discoveries and deep seated mistakes, designed to galvanise ones metabolic
(bio/electrical) imprint into the pysical realm. It’s a natural process of
blame and shame, ignorance and downright denial in the pace of being
caught with your hand in the piggy bank slot prom hell! “Please refrain
from any future references to IT” An immortal scar therein, passed down
through eons of reincarnate souls who wonder what the pucks wrong
with the tips of their pingers… as ip maybe they’ve been dipped in acid
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por second or two, dispigured and 30% useless, now acting as a trigger
to ones internal DNA mindpuck memory. I could be wrong though, given that science is always ‘right’ until proven ‘wrong?’ Please also give
consideration to the pact that other cultures still retain and therepore require of their peoples, to remember and abide by their diperent traits customs and belieps wherever they are in this glorious world community.
“Even if they live in someone elses country, eat their foodstuffs and
spread their mucky foreign seed? Well, that’s cosmopolitan worldy wise
living I suppose, but they should pay more tax for the privivege – The
grabbing bastards” They are honest people and we have to respect them
por who they are, so be carepul not to judge indiscriminately… Give
them some leeway, ok? - But not ‘Tina’ that’s stretching things too par!
“Please, for fuck sake don’t include the time ‘Tina - a la lunatic’ - Gertrude the dangerous Huns daughter…took me, and him, into a cornfield
and… Oh fuck no, you can’t divulge that, it’s libellous… Don’t forget
she has three brothers?!? They spit in your face when talking to you, trying to kick something off… Fucking insane!! Go!! Fuck off back to Hungary or Germany or whatever Bolshevik state you’re from!! … Maybe it
would be funny to recount the tale, I’m not sure… I’ll think about it, but
not dream about it, or IT - that memory should be erased using past-life
regression therapy or preferably burned out by a black op laser…”
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When (Resuming the thread created 4 or 5 paragraps ago?) “Would you
like me to take control and keep some form of legibility? We think you’ve
lost the plot already – and besides, I am a Scholar and you’re just a lay
person council scum pretend posh kid” something in the par par distance
took our attention, no, not a golden, godly shapt of light, it was a large
blue lorry turning into our Green. Every Green had a road entrance to it,
but we had a second entrance and that’s why we were so special amongst many other selp administered attributes. That’s why ‘we’ were
in this Green and all the other tosser layabouts were in the other smaller,
younger greens. Yes, ours was built pirst so we are the oldest, and best.
We are the council scum ‘Kingpins of the Greens’ “Have you ever as-
pired to be something greater than which your impoverished introduction
to life gave you, rather than act uncouth and glorify your slovenly means?
- Who’s ‘avin it large? How dare you!”
On the back of the lorry, which could have been delivering coal por all
we knew, we noticed some kids standing up on the plat back bed, holding onto the cab roop. As you can imagine, being nosey young and inquisitive scamps we lept the pootball to one side and walked over to the
lorry to see who they were. “Typical council scum behaviour… Crowding
in to see what they can get for free! It’s sickening to be privy to such des-
21
titution! - Harry, put Nat King Coal on there’s a lad…” It was the
Quailey pamily moving their purnishings prom a little village just out of
town. They were about to occupy the newly vacated house, right in pront
of us and the parked up lorry, and so, we just joined in and helped with
whatever we could carry at our young, peebly weak age. “And fit in your
pockets!” Without shouting it out loud, it was immediately apparent they
were somewhat diperent to us but in only one sense, they had a coloured
complexion; but as they spoke perpect English, we, more probably I, assumed logically they must be English. But apter our rapid pire nosey enquiries to learn more about their origins, we asked ourselves why on
earth would they move prom stunning Bali and come to the shitty UK…
unconcerned as to why they moved prom the village just out of town.
Even though this was a curiosity to one so young and having been culturally obscured prom any multi cultural ‘cosmo/geo-politics’ outside of
the council estate, it still came as no real surprise they were of a mixed
race stock - as its termed, (everything has a term doesn’t it?) they’re
having an English dad and their mum “The lovely milf, ‘Kali!’ Nice bum!
- Worth a ‘tup!’ or two?” hailing prom Bali. And hey, bingo - here they
all are. (A good pive levels below the standard of living they would expect had they still been residing in Bali – but hey ho, their choice)
This obviously had no negative bearing at all on my priendship with the
Quailey’s pamily, quite the opposite actually, and a priendship devel-
22
oped which was to last por many happy and joypul years to come.
Unportunately, the big bad world of lipe was to rear its ugly head por
them. I’m talking about those illiterate dick heads, bigots, racist paggots
“Weren’t those ‘Brains’ meat and gristle faggots lovely? - Best served
with processed peas and ‘Smash’ creamed tatties. Proper council scum scoff!” National Guard slime balls; morons who pollow the crowd rather
than think por themselves.
This urban idiocy-sect was to impact their tainted lipe and ‘ignorance
based’ laws in the Green and towards the Quailey’s, but also within the
town itselp. There were no other coloured people on the estate and in
pact I can’t remember knowing of any other coloured people at that time
in the whole of Bowsbury. So in a sense it was still a little unusual in a
busy, but still quiet “Ish” shit and snot pilled suburb of a small “Ish”
market town. And that my priends was the sudden introduction and initiation into a great priendship with the Quailey’s pamily - all eight of
them - sadly minus their dad. “Is the fucker still kicking? Or is he slap-
ping his balls against someone elses arse? Just asking man…”
Now this was an immediate connection por me, as I was the only other
child in the Green without both of my parents. Divorce, separation, and
that blackly veiled phenomenon were to come rushing to the pore in this
decade. Prior to this it was publically and religiously prowned upon and
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those involved were banished prom the puritanical pack, slayed behind
their backs and their children ostracised prom owt and nowt. Yes, it was
pucking bleak. You were a bastard even ip you weren’t a bastard in
those strictest op terms and they were strict, very, very, very strict. “‘I’
am not a bastard I’ll have you know… I’m a rudimentary pawn, with
promise and a sound hereditary prevailing logic separating me from my
peers ‘and’ I’m on first name terms with Her Majesty Most Trag-esty…
Tell them Harry”
The Puckins pamily had all moved back down to Bowsbury six months
earlier, apter a dismal year or so in Karstyle where my mother was very
unhappy. That’s where she comes prom and where my parents met, but
it was soon obvious por other non-spoken and marital reasons, that we
would be headed back to the capital of Barpshire. I think this may have
been a last ditch attempt at a reconciliation por my parents. “You’re
warm” My dad had been working away in Runtorn and something had
obviously happened, probably the usual ‘builder’ man thing, another
wench in another town? “Very warm, nearly glowing” But I never really
got to know the truth of it all. “ ‘I’ can give you an educated evaluation or
theory if you like, if you choose to chew over the sordid details forever and
a day? Ok, you prefer to live and let live – But just sidetracking a little…
Most of science is founded on theory don’t you know! - Isn’t that right
24
me ol’ cock eared fucker? Yes, theorems are the basis of form and a good
debate as to whether bacon should be crispy or chewy – serious stuff!”
I don’t know por sure but I think my mum was prone to bouts of depression, maybe pre-natal depression, or maybe she was pushed into it… por
all I know it might have been part of her natural character. She pound it
hard living here in Bowsbury getting op to a bad start when lodging with
my Gran; dad and mum having moved down prom Karstyle just apter I
was born. They didn’t see eye to eye, so clashed together and you know
what mother in laws are like at the best of times! As to what other reasons caused the depressions whilst married to my dad, again I don’t
know. “ ‘He’ knows! The rum fucker…... Argggghhh ‘tis so, let’s drink to
Yeeee….lad!”
We too’ed and pro’ed between Karstyle and Bowsbury during those
pirst eight years “Ah yes, the notorious ‘Shap’ - Shafting many cars in
what I call the ‘North-slumber-land Himalayas byways!’” pollowing our
parents in their search por that obviously, elusive happiness. I really
can’t remember much at all prom those eight vacant years. It must have
been a comatose existence, with no thrills or anything inwardly or outwardly interesting. “Let me help here… You were found hanging by your
fingertips from the upstairs window one fine day – that must have been
quite exciting aged four?!?” We did nothing, even as a pamily collective.
25
Ah, hold on, I do remember something… cutting my chin once, while
climbing into the coal shed, it scared me por lipe. Wow, a whole pleeting
recollection out of eight years, it must have been very very bleak! Yes,
there are a pew more memories I admit, but all are equally as bland,
lipeless and of little consequence. Does this sound ungracious of me?
“Yes, you twat” Or is it a real replection, hmmm!
“Does it really matter my son, memories, is it not time to move forward?
…Who the hell are you anyway, and what is all this you speak of and
why? …Why do you persist to dredge up these Jungian relics once deemed
inaccessible to ones waking reality? - Why? - Why? Leave it be man and
get a decent, honest pastime, like sailing close to the wind or reclaiming
peat from an ancient bog… You could even try harbouring an absconded
criminal in your bicycle shed for a week or two until the coast is clear…
It’s something to think about young man… Whoever you are… Yahh? You do know who I am, don’t you?”
[~ notes/por*puture reperence //This was a sign of ‘;thing’S to come but
“nO¬ one noticed?!?! until)* it was too late - sad//delete]
At the time of the Quailey’s arrival, my mother had recently lept and had
taken my two brothers and sister with her to Plerth, Scotland. She hadn’t
lept por good at this time “Or so you thought - A lie to keep you from per-
26
petually blubbing! You had to know sometime sunshine! - Harry, stop
laughing, you’ll choke on that raw carrot!!” so it must have been a trial
separation… as I pound out later through a tenth rate gossip mongering
hag - next door. Why would the hag know and not me? “She was bull
shitting you, ha! Wallowing in her self induced importance for just a moment, could you not ascertain that insipid lilt to her nasal tone… and
that ‘look’ seeking the desperate depths behind your eyes?” This though
was to have a huge impact on my lipe, as it had already lept an indelible
scar on my innermost sanctity and trust in lipe - that your parents were
there por you always and porever, porever and ever. There 24/7 to baby
sit por you when you want to go on the lash, it’s not too much to ask is it
por puck sake. “A big soppy sigh with an Ahhhh… What a wimpish sen-
sitised excuse! It’s just like this in the movies isn’t it? A lavish bio depicting how some ‘star’ came prom the gutter, and with an iron will made it
through the mire-some drudgery of a back street cornucopia of hand me
down sleaze - Very similar anyway… Would you agree Harry? - Woof!”
But puck all that horse shit por now people, let’s meet my buddy… I introduce to you “Again?” Bunny ‘Meister’ Quailey…The most handsome
guy you will ever meet! “Some say, not me, nor him…‘my’ Harry Meis-
ter!”
27
Chapter 2
Bunny and myselp hitting it op very nicely
We used to have so much pun Bunny and me, back in the day. Nothing
and nowhere was beyond our means to pind and have pun. We were like
brothers except por the distinguishing quality that he is an exotic brown
and I’m a gray-ish white; but who would be able to part us, who could
even question our kinship? Nothing is beyond the bounds that we could
be of the same mother but having two diperent pathers - there you go,
your curiosity sorted! “Please don’t confuse the fucking issue! Harry, call
the operator and dial long distance - reverse charges. I need to speak to my
long lost father now residing in fucking Kentucky, Virginia … I think
he’s my long lost father anyway, he would never admit it” Who gives a
puck anyway, not Buno nor me. We’ll leave that por the bigot element
within you lot, and ip you pind it really bothers you so much, you need
treatment my priend. So go get it now while you can while it’s pree on
the NHS… quickly, bepore all those scrounging puckers prom Poland
deplete the social security punds. Happy day’s peo-pol!
“Harry, fill in for me my son - Fuck off do it yourself… Ok then, if ‘I’
can continue without interruption… Happy days aren’t real and are but
figments or apparitions of your confused imagination. How dare you that’s not true… not in this political anarchic climate anyway! How
long are we going to keep this pointless, futile and fruitless argument go28
ing? Anyway…I need to be at my shrinks for four forty, for a fortnightly
foray into my fucked up psyche… It’s true I tell you… ‘And what can
you see, within the colours fragmenting your mind?’ he asks…‘A shitty
brown hole’ I reply”
Ok polks here’s the truth of what’s going down; slightly embellished,
because what truth isn’t slightly embellished… that’s right, none.
Bunny had a deep inner calling and prom the age of eight he had a vision
and a really real realisation that he is an incarnation of a Casanova hailing prom the 17th century. And so, still in his own country at this point,
he saved his paper round money por a whole year to pay por his carnal
inauguration with a high class hooker “This is going to cause an outrage
and cries of a moral injustice within the ‘reality TV fed’ minionsminefield-masses, suppin’ their liquid medication, down the pub – innit?!”
…what a pucking lad! That’s what you call conviction isn’t it? He had a
vision and the courage to pollow it through, even ip there aren’t any
rhyme or reason other than ultimately, getting your knob end dipped in
the honey as opten as possible… you have to admire the boymangod!
This is his calling. “I now see what you mean about other cultures and
what some would deem illegal ‘traits’ - This is scandalous!! This needs to
be rushed-forced-pushed- to the ‘House’ for a costly and pointless debate”
29
He owes this urge of gratipication to himselp and to the people, ‘his’
people. Those, who worship him as an incarnate god. Which isn’t that
par prom the truth… this ‘is’ the truth, the stup his minions believe - the
embellished truth. The truth, we ‘want’ them to believe. “Lying scheming
scum, the pair of you should be prosecuted! - Harry, tickle my toes please
buddy… Yes, with your tongue, duhhh!”
So here it is then por the pollowers of this pable, the pull, unbiased, unembellished and expurgated truth… He, the Prince, the nearly King
Bunny, is an incarnate Lothario (caps por status) Casanova come back to
this Earthly realm to pinish his unpinished business, that of, tuping as
many women as possible. That’s his job, his vocation in lipe. We plough
pields and grow potatoes - we pickle cabbages and body organs and are
very gratepul por that purpose in lipe. Bunny tup’s the gals. What other
reason por living would a born again Lothario or Casanova have? Makes
sense, yes? We owe it to ‘him’ to let him be who he is - that’s our gipt to
the Prince. Oh, ip you could see him smile in his heart at your gipt you
peasant minions “Here’s the tyrannical steal…” He will still require you
to pay taxes though poor people of the land, to pay por his many
pilandering wanderings… and crucial what nots, presh laundry and all
that kind of stup. Maybe even the occasional presh cream cake, and raretreat truples - you know what I mean? “ ‘I’ hope he chokes, and besides,
he should be carrying bags of coal for old grannies at his age… or crawl30
ing through a weaver’s loom tying split ends and dicing with death for a
farthing at best!”
Here’s the Ruse; to embellish the truth! - And which ruse isn’t an embellishment of an ‘alleged’ truth? Yes, you may snigger you scumble weed
- hush now…shhhhhh! To put you in the picture, right prom the start
then… Bunny and I have a plan of attack. We are going to assume a
palse identity, an alias of sorts (‘he’ is)… that is, he ‘will’ become a
Balipion Prince. Well he already is in my eyes. The story then, our ruse,
embellished to the hilt, will pollow the “Downright lie!” concept, Bunny
is over here in England on a long term initiatory apprenticeship, pilled
with culture “And plentiful tupping?” prior to him taking over the
Crown of his own country when he’s eighteen years old. At that glorious
moment in time he will inherit the throne of his nation and become
‘King Bunny of Bali’. Say it a pew times, it has a real quality about it,
doesn’t it? Or, you could turn it around and say…‘Bunny, King of Bali’.
Works either way, yes? This has to be convincing to work though polks,
especially por one so young. We’re making it up, but its believable, it’s
got to be to lure in the women, to peed the Princes insatiable appetite por
carnal pleasures - This is his bread and butter… pish pingers… mayo
and raspberry jam all piled together in a triple layered buttie!
31
[@noteto myselp-This Is seedy shit!!*Am I worth it~//Yes!! BE strong&
courageous to the end”(- Is my reputation on the___ here>? “You ain’t
got one, prick!” Bepore I even get one…-Delete\\ Sometimes^¬ I get
conpused+* “Shut it, fuck ‘em… We need some cash!” Don’t show how
DES-perate you#We, are - be cool//delete”, end]
Now this has many ramipications and complications; laws of the sovereign state have to be seen to be complied with. We can’t have any
comebacks or hysterical possessiveness, or women losing control. Everything has to be done very respectpully and discreetly… as much as it
can be to all intents and purposes. The ladies have to be cosher, take it
on the chin, and accept things por what they are. Prince Bunny (his state
of opice at the moment) will be tupping the women lept right and centre,
but they will understand, believe me. “To tup or not to - patience - tup?
Harry, what the fuck is he on about?” I have it on a ‘snouts’ good authority that diplomats prom the Balipion Embassy have paved the way
por the Princes royal adventures (as they do) and are paid very handsomely to do so - Balipion Eurodollars are discreetly shipped into op
shore accounts (of course) and prom there it’s a - nudge-wink, high-pive,
scratch my back, and all things mega seedy – a charade of epic proportions!
The other thing about his initiatory ruse-process story “Your pack of lies
32
- not mine, or his over there in the corner sleeping, with his feet twitchingnay galloping, ten to the dozen!” is, he has to lose his virginity “Time and
time again?!” to someone, preperably of middle class stock… but anything will do. Yes, this is part of the ruse, cum embellished truth – of
sorts. As he/we hopes this wicked, but he/we peels, a pair plan, will be
deployed many times, we have to be oh so carepul not to lose the plot,
not to get too greedy por that sticky, aromatic, golden honey pot between
the ladies legs. It’s got to be a subtle approach or mistakes will be made
and he/we will get rumbled. So there it is. Now to put our plan into action and see what we can rustle up.
[note/quick - is this shit making any sense yet?!?! Delete]
“Total bollocks… It’s ridicadoodalous! - If ‘I’ were you, I would quit
while it’s all still a throb in the groin… Oh, too late - you wicked child”
We’re kicking op proper now, right proper. “Halleh-lu-yahhh!!” Yeah,
we knew how to have pun alright. Always with whiter than white smiles
on our happy paces, you would think we were sharing a joke together or
something, but no, that was our natural state of being. We loved to
smile, because we knew that smiling uses so many muscles in your pace
and it increases the endorpins coursing through your body. Endorpins are
those happy hippy drugs which we all get por pree, you just have to
33
know how to access them to benepit prom them, and we knew exactly
where to pind ours. Piece of piss my priends. Write to me and I’ll tell
you all about it, I’ll enlighten you por pree, so you can pass on the good
news, pair enoup? “You’re masquerading as a fucking life style guru now?
What qualifications have you sire? - And have you completed a three
month diploma giving you a lifetimes worth of experience? No, I thought
not you bounder, you cowboy life builder you! - You’re hired!”
Pun por us was a prerequisite por everyday lipe. As soon as you opened
your eyes in the morning you instantly had a mindset which told your
whole body you were going to have some jolly japes, no matter what
crossed our path. Someone dying doesn’t count obviously, but you know
what I mean without being silly and smart with your clever critique observations. We just had to go and pind some pun to pill our day… we
could create pun out of nothing ip we so wished, and prequently did.
“The happy japers capers crew… Well enjoy it while you can!”
Apart prom the death of a loved one, pun to us exists everywhere… in
pact, thinking about it, you can make a joke about a loved one dying,
they would want that, they would want you to rejoice in their mortal
end-eth prom this world – that is given a thorough understanding and
grounding into the Spiritual reality “Are there no bounds to the depths
you two will sink? Man alive - unbelievable!” of lipe and death pirst - so
34
why not? Why be morbid and cry tears of pain, when you can cry tears
of joy and then have pun on their behalp? Apter all ‘they’ are paying por
the spread you’re winding into your pace right now aren’t they? The
spread was thought of and planned way in advance just por you to enjoy
their death… they paid insurances to cover the copin, scop and ale, so
why be sad, it’s pointless - Catch what I’m saying here? “Ever heard of
emotions, grief and all that razzmatazz, sunshine? You wait ‘til you peg
it!”
Ok, cool, go eat and be happy, drink and get lashed up ip you want, it’s
all paid por. Just promise me one thing… you won’t go sniping around
the widow por at least a week giving her the sympathetic shoulder to cry
on… but in your sick mind, all you really want to do is puck her; in her
distressed state?! - Pretending that you are there por her and care? - So
don’t, right! They wouldn’t have made provisions por ‘that’. Promise me
you slimy deranged bastards!! “Don’t you shout or call me or him a bas-
tard - we’ll cry! And it better not be my mum, or Harry’s! That’s so fucking obtuse it doesn’t bear my thinking about it… That’s right ain’t it, I
am right aren’t I? - No, it was ‘im that done it… Guv” Ok, I’m joking
as you will have determined… So even though we can laup at most
things in lipe and have pun in the most unlikely places, shagging a
preshly widowed lady, a week apter her husband dies isn’t a jolly caper,
that’s not pun at all. Ok, now we’ve got that sorted, Bunny an me are go35
ing to town on the bus today and the bus leaves in ten minutes – Pronto!
I’ve been waiting, sitting on Bunny’s bed now por two pucking hours,
prodding him, plicking his perpect nose, pinching his big toe, but no, he
pucking ignores me as usual.
“Come on Buno baby wake the puck up, time to go to town.”
“Uuhhh!?” Ah, a sound at least… it’s a good start.
“I’ll tell you a secret... yeah it’s a juicy secret about Norma and Tom
prom across the Green. Have you not heard about them in the Jackson’s
conservatory? No!? Come on then I’ll tell you ip you get the puck up.”
An eye opens...
“What? …What secret?”
“No, you have to get the puck up pirst, then I’ll tell you, savvy?!”
“Aw go on Baz, tell me.” - He deploys his usual ploy… he gives me
the pooled eye look “Slap the fucker!!” Yeah I’ll pall por that one, duh!
“Come on the bus leaves in ten minutes, hurry up mate…”
An hour later and Bunny is now in the bathroom, dancing and singing
while watching himselp in the pour mirrors strategically placed por this
exact purpose. He loves to watch and preen himselp all at once, and you
can understand and even porgive him as he is so good looking, so I
wouldn’t even raise the putile point of vanity; because ip you did, you
would be there another pucking hour, on top of the three you’ve already
been waiting. Vanity is normal and cool por Buno, it’s a given, no wor36
ries. “He’s a ponce and should be thrashed at dawn, or stretched on an
oaken torturous device deep in the bowels of a bubonic plague ridden castle… Then burned and offered as a rare treat for the guards who suffer
themselves horrendously with gout and deformities so evil they never
leave the dark dank hellhole… Harry, can you butter my toast please,
there’s a good chap… Yes, of course the ‘Stork’- have you no class!”
“Bunny the bus leaves in pive minutes, are you coming or not?” - I’m
pretending to not care now.
“I’ll go on my own ip you take any longer…”
Bunny couldn’t give a shit about the clockwork bus and a timetable regimented lipe, so in the Sloth type world only he knows and cares about,
he slowly almost selp-sensually applies his mans lotion to his immaculate skin - Please remember dear readers, he is still only twelve years
old, as am I. You’re impressed now aren’t you, a twelve year old wearing a man’s pragrance to attract the women, and (almost) dressed to
blow their minds! His bulge is neatly arranged to dress to the right,
snugly packed in but blatantly on show. “I say Sah, that’s frightfully im-
plicit… You mean explicit! - Thanks Harry” Ip you were well hung,
those tightly pitting plares we wore in the seventies did you right proud.
He wasn’t shy our Buno, and he made sure it was in your pace - all of it,
oh yes. It’s one of those mesmeric things which por example, when
you’re speaking to someone you can’t divert your eyes prom it - like a
37
presh bogey hanging prom their nose, or a big white pimple on their
porehead… it’s impossible! So Bunny uses some savvy, sexy psychology to best improve his chances, you can’t blame him can you - it’s all in
the game, por the game ‘his quarry’ his mans honour to man himselp… a
homage to ‘himselp’ even……(Pew!)
“Put your pucking shirt on and let’s go. The next bus (we’ve already
missed eight) leaves in ten minutes!” He enjoys my occasional pleeting
moment of authority, ip just por it’s slapstick pitch - No, he won’t have
it, something’s wrong… his shoe lace ‘doesn’t peel right’.
“Buno, it’s only a pucking shoe lace who’s going to see that or even
care?” Another putile question as my impatience deepens. “Don’t be so
impudent you purlieus brat! – Harry, the sausages, for fuck sakes…!”
But Bunny cares, ever so badly, because every time he steps outside the
door, it’s all about presentation and respect, standards count por everything. So the lace is tied again, and again, until each bow hangs symmetrically either side of his beautipully polished shoes, black lace up
brogues. “And whom does he get to polish them, huh? Huh? - Those
Polish deadbeats will do anything to scrounge a few pennies, taking jobs
from our men and bread from the already impoverished council scum tables…‘Yeah, dat’s him chief, the one over dere with the contemporary urban turban!’”
“What do you think Baz?”
38
“Yeah pucking awesome Bunny, you’re a sensation “No hint of any
insubordinate sarcasm there!” …let’s go hit the town baby!”
It doesn’t matter what I’m dressed in because Buno will always draw the
attentive eyes to him, just because of who he is, a twelve year old
boymangod exuding conpidence way beyond his years. I’m neatly
dressed, no jacket, but smart-ish; a clean ploppy collared shirt and a pat
kipper tie - it’s a cool look, really. “You look like a fucking six year old
page boy dressed by his swine of a sister wanting revenge for the boiled
sweet you never gave her yesterday” However, hidden beneath these
preshly pressed trousers and all over my legs, is thick encrusted mud. A
souvenir prom the game of rugby I played in three days earlier, but he
doesn’t know that, nobody knows except you! But in the grand scheme
of things, trivialities like this don’t matter, especially to a twelve year
old boy. This is the thing you see, I’m a boy, Buno is the ascension of a
man. As long as you know this, you can go about your day and accept
what is… I am his stooge, his right hand man-boy, but I accept that, I
can live with it, it doesn’t change who I am. I’m not inperior to him - but
what he says goes, it’s that simple. “Fucking wimp! - Everything I’ve ev-
er taught you about life Harry is exemplified by this boy’s lack of class
and imperiousness to superiority… There now child, how about that?
Got’cha, me old mucker… Ta!”
39
The point is, and what you should understand, there are rich pickings to
be had prom a guy like Bunny and he is very generous with what he
leaves you - gives you even, because he is very particular with whom he
places his… trust. “You’re like a hippy leech living off the fumes from
anal emmisions!” He has to have that allegiance prom you, the girls I
mean, he won’t touch boys, never, not in that sense - he’s all man. Trust
and respect and no telling tales apter neither; no long or short stories of
how he loved you and only you, and depinitely no selling stories to the
press! Hellooo!? No way! No way man, that’s mega taboo-boo!
He loves only himselp, and it has to be that way por him to punction, to
give his all. So you should be very gratepul he gives you this gipt, and it
is a gipt of his love, of himselp. None is greater than that, por Christ’s
sakes, do you understand what I’m saying to you? When you meet our
Buno you ‘will’ understand perpectly and you should also be thankpul
and tell him so. You can even impart gipt’s to him ip you so wish but
please make sure it has a high market value or can be exchanged por
cash.
“Bunny the bus, let’s go…”
Pour short hours and we’re at the bus stop. I’m holding the umbrella
about eight inches above his studio quality quapped hair - it’s not raining, “You’re fucking joking?!” it’s just the hair can’t be disturbed, nor
40
touched. Buno’s hair is my priority until the bus arrives, the wind must
not malign nor impart its eddies on it, not until we are in town and his
presentation is seen por all it is; in all its majesty, prepared just por you,
the Princes peasant “Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled pepper…Then
he sat and shat himself, the stench made your stomach lurch in violent
spasmodic fits! God I’m so funny, I think I want to be a writer… I could
be the darling of Barpshire” poorly paid minions (no offence, he thinks
of all peoples who have less than royal status in the same vein).
It is a gipt por your senses, and he knows this, that’s why he sacripices
his time to give you this vision. Are you not impressed, even more so
now than the revelation he is a boymangod? You should, a twelve year
old man vision ‘por’ the people… ‘Grace Be’ por Bunny! Bow or curtsey ip you peel the urge… he won’t acknowledge you, so don’t get upset. He peels you there and that should be enoup to appease your sense
of inperiority. This is the way it should be, always. “Jesus Christ! And
you believe this stuff?! …Ah yes, ‘I’ knew ‘that’ man, funny geezer he
was. He always had blood drenched hands and feet… Most disturbing
wasn’t he Harry? Said he was coming back to see us one day with some
fresh fish cakes - Yeah right! Is that written in stone? – Hey Harry,
didn’t he visit the Mentips in Cornwarl… scavenging for tin in days of
yore? - Is that where tin baths originate from, the peasant type?”
41
This is so much pun por us, are you getting that? This is part of the deal
por having pun, me and Buno up the town hunting and gathering. We
head por the indoor market, because that’s where we can stand on the
balcony. Everyone inside then has to look up and see what’s going down
in their little lives. We watch as they pick and choose what size tomatoes
they want, and as they painpully porage through the carrots and turnips,
those very same labour intensive crops ‘his’ minions harvest, por his
own kingdom. We are the elevated ones looking down, lauping at them,
pitying them. “You’re so fucking harsh, you’re not like this normally…
Have you been voo’dood? …‘It’s Spring again, we’ll bring again, tulips
from Amshterdam…’ Didn’t ‘Teeny Tim’ do this one Harry?”
We can see they are not having any joy and that’s hilarious, it’s so
punny - so we laup and point at them, mocking them. “You mock yourself
as life reflects life, fools!” Our pun is in the observation of the swathing
crowd picking vegetables por their Sunday roast. What empty lives,
dressed in beige, baying and paying por the things they could grow
themselves. That’s wickedly punny.
“Hey Buno, look at that twat down there… A man with a nose, that
looks like a Clementine!” We laup raucously!
Yes, yes, I know, we’ll be old one day and we shouldn’t take the piss too
much – respect por the elders and all that. “Bollocks!”
42
CHAPTER 3
A short interlude “Yay!” prom the Balipion Prince – My turn!
Ah, here we are, good job I’m patient. I can’t stand in the way of Bunny
Meister, he’s the daddio, he’s the star here and I wanted to let him kick
op the proceedings, but more of “That twat” him later. It’s me time now,
my ball, remember? Time por me to grace you with some observations
and replections upon lipe’s many pragrant hues, a pew laups, some bitter
words; wonderpul and painpul memories - but regardless of these many
words and many priendships, “Hollow illusions!” it’s all pun in the grand
scheme of things. I don’t bear any grudges, have no hang ups, have no
regrets and are thankpul por all those precious moments related to you
here in this little “Farcical” Pable. “Harry… The BS factor is on! Put the
kettle on son…”
[Note to/consumers// more of a ploating dreamlike thought actually just buy the pucking thing ok!! - push a copy through your neighbours
letter box as a gipt, I don’t care who reads it, just do it. Buy three, pour
at a time! - Delete at once - just a desperate, sad joke -end] “Wow, you
are desperate, what a low life trick to bolster sales… What’s the cut, 50 50? I’ll take 60 - 40 I’m not proud…”
So god bless you all - whoever the puck ‘He’ is, because he never turned
up por me when I called his name, nor that side kick who dossed in Isra43
el somewhere (whatsisname J.C.?) …anywhere he could get his head
down so I hear. “A squatter wanne? Bad bastard! Always grabbing… He
apparently hacked three fish into thousands of pieces and gave it to the
people saying, ‘Go, eat…thy will be done’ … That’s taking the piss isn’t
it, where’s the fresh salad, the date and walnut bread, olives, the Swiss
cheese and French wine, eh? Eh!?” Yeah, he was some baby, that guy.
They say he propessed to do some miracle shit… there aren’t any
‘cosher’ witnesses but apparently it’s written in stone; not the Rosetta
stone, but some other slab of rock kicking around the Med. I believe an
Arab prospector prom La Garda, Spain bought it knock op in some
seedy hashish Cas bar? Hey ho, whatever; believe what you wish, each
to their own, live and let live and die by the sword!
Yet another Mcplurry of banal clichés and useless sayings prom puck
knows where “Your own society, uneducated and largely uninformed as
to the grandeur of life’s eternal spring?” but I digress and I wish you all
the best in whatever your belieps bring you in lipe. With respect, just
don’t mention religion or my head might explode! I hope you like my
‘parcical’ mini bio, it’s all true, as true as I sit here praying por massive
sales and a couple of pitipul diluted sequels, to raise yet even more cash
to pay por a holiday pad in Kensington, Jamaica. Just pollow me with an
open mind and heart, and we’ll kick some ass, sit around the pire, crack
open a pew cans and chew the cud, Yeah? …puck it, let’s do it. “It’s
44
your round shit face! And lay off the sob story, we all suffer and you’re
no exception - Harry wants to say something to you… ‘Where’s mummy
daddy, is she coming home?’ …Did you hear that heart-felt abandonment
kicking in there as his words tailed off into a crazy notion plea for meaning… It’s all about you isn’t it, asshole! Harry, get off my fucking
leg…!! Shame on you, you illiterate gob shite…Yes, I’ll have a chilled
Martini please, thank you very much indeed… Have you any exotic Cuban cigars perchance?”
Yes, mum had gone por good now and the harsh reality of the puture
was coming to bear its unpredictable hand of pate, together with a backhanded lashing of intolerable cruelty right across the mush. There were
nicer times too to be had and within my dealings of destiny and unbeknown to me at that moment, my lipe was now to revolve heavily
around my Gran and my uncle Rab; my dad’s mum and his brother. Oh,
and pretty soon, my step mother to be… the white witch prom an alien
council scum estate… an alien world even. She would be a main protagonist within the ensuing next pew years as bad luck would have it!
[Note por/reader//; I can’t understate the awpul implications here, just
try to reach within, to bear with me and trust my young lipes emotional
remembrance to those days - Pucker up, it will be ok, “You think so do
you - lulling them into feeling sorry for you - Won’t work, jerk!” End 45
delete, help! ]
“That’s fucking sickening right there - A squeaky, hoarse-cry for ‘help?’
They don’t care about you they want to hear how you shriveled up and
died… Because you are so fucking weak, they want juicy details of your
shriveling, the morbid facts about the dance of death, great visuals, and
of course plenty of gushing blood”
Back in the early days I remember being in our pirst house, in Dunmail
avenue, Bowsbury. My dad was at work and mum was in bed. I wanted
to go to a birthday party next door and I was asking ip I could go, even
though I didn’t have a card or gipt por her “You looked like an urchin
plucked from the 1820’s, unseen, unwashed and unwanted… You invited
yourself for fuck sakes!!” I haven’t a clue where my brothers and sister
were at this time, but I always got this peeling of uneasiness, most
“From the ‘little’ he can remember? - He’s ‘full’ of amnesia? So he says…
I wouldn’t believe him or that Bunny chappie fucker” probably the oscillating vibes prom a marriage on the rocks even then. You pick up on
those things when you’re a kid. I’m guessing she may have supered
prom post natal depression too, and possibly my dad wasn’t able to support her emotionally. Por all I know, he may have been there por her, I
hope he was, and should have been too. “You’re just guessing aren’t you?
46
- Harry, this is a heinous fallacy… Call the erroneous embezzlement
squad quickly - Now!” It wasn’t a widely known condition then or spoken about at all. I heard a whisper he may have been a wandering
pilanderer and cow puncher at that particular time; I wish I knew all the
pacts, because it leaves you with a very uncertain peeling inside. “Let’s
sing…“There’s a place for us… Somewhere a place for us… Time together…”” You also peel you were in some way to blame, your naive mind
creating situations or solutions out of thin air hoping you could pind a
remedy to heal our pamilies practured ways. I also remember my dad
had taken the lock op the bathroom door, so something serious was going down. “Yeah, it’s serious alright, when you’re halfway through a de-
cent cack and the fucking door swings open!”
I do have one vivid memory prom very early days, but the circumstances
behind it are cloudy to say the least. I had been at this ‘home?’ pilled
with small children. “An Orphanage, obviously… duh! You were drugged
and bound for your own safety, fed intravenously directly into your eyes,
and beaten viciously when you asked for more! … Please sir, may I have
m m more…? ‘Bring me my gruesome, child bludgeoning device!’ - C’mere
Bullseye, you bastard ‘ound!!” There were “Psychiatric?” nurses or carers with Plorence Nightingale style attire but I don’t know where this
place was or why I was there. I do though remember being driven back
47
prom this obscure mirage of a memory with my dad and Gran in the car,
which again, is strange in itselp because Gran never went anywhere except to Portugal, Venice or America, never anywhere local “So where did
those occasional blue rinses emanate from eh?” But the really vivid aspect
of this memory was… I remember seeing an old pashioned bus burning
at the roadside as we drove by. That really took my attention. “It was
there on purpose to burn from your mind the ‘real’ memory of your experience…It worked didn’t it!? There again, it was probably an alien abduction scenario and the burning bus was a metaphor for your whole life
ahead…”
When we got home, my mum wasn’t there. As I played on the ploor in
the lounge my dad and Gran spoke quietly together - what were they
saying? I did’t know where my mum was and I can’t even remember her
coming back. In later lipe I asked the old man what was I doing at this
place and what was it all about…his answer was quite vague, he obviously didn’t want to tell me the truth? And there it is, still a mystery to
this day. “Yes, you’re a fucking alien matey… The bus in truth ‘was’ a
spaceship, that’s why you’re so weird and speak to yourself… Have you
ever noticed that Harry?” Where was mum? Where were my brother and
sister, Marvin and Diane? Douglas wasn’t born yet.
48
[Note/question? to my ‘own’ ego/inner voice, him - was this a pucking
dream or nightmare, or a past lipe regression? was he/the boy/me, in an
asylum or workhouse back in 1868? Busses don’t spontaneously combust…or do they? Where were the people…did anyone else see anything, anybody? - end/delete]“Indeed my son…This is scary shit…It is
me in the fucking car isn’t it? Who’s driving? Take me home mama…
Fuck the burning bus/alien spaceship, I’m only four or five, feed me!
…Give me your fat breast oh maternal one so I can suckle myself to sleep
and forget this vision of hell”
One other aspect which could have contributed to and exacerbated
mum’s condition was the pact we lived next door to the most unruly
pamily in Bowsbury, probably - allegedly! “It did contribute in the most
insane way, I was writing down every detail for the Plaintiff’s defence”
Later in lipe I know a couple of them served spells in jail - pucking crazy they were, and my mother having a sensitive nature must have been
driven mad by the neighbour’s prom hell. “She was, undoubtedly, indis-
putably, catatonically and categorically abused in the mind fuck sense,
driven mad… So the hag next door tells me anyway, and who am I to
doubt a hag with an ash laden fag and a tale” There aren’t many other
memories prom those early days, except learning to ride a bike around
the avenue… or going to school por the pirst time and creating havoc
49
outside because I didn’t want to go in. Punnily enoup, on that patepul
day there were no other kids or parents outside, so we must have been
very late arriving or starting on the wrong day, who knows? “Mummy,
why didn’t daddy care? Didn’t he used to go fly fishing? Was he ever
there? Who used to cook? Did we ever leave the house? What was that
jungle thing in the back garden? Are you able to speak? Tap twice on my
desk for yes…” Was this connected to the ‘mystery home’ visitation,
“Yup” and was this my return prom the home and going back to school?
“Twas indeed dude!” Around the same time and this is the last of any
signipicant memory prom Dunmail Avenue, I remember being in the
lounge one evening watching TV and the whole room was swirling like
an acid trip (not that I’ve ever dropped it, then or now) The TV was
pulsing strobe-like and my head pelt very expansive and not altogether
there – it was very scary at the time but maybe I simply had a pever or
something like that? Oh god, I’ve just remembered…Milk of magnesia
was the ‘wonder’ cure por all ailments back then, and it tasted vile! “You
were back on the alien craft obviously duh! Being poked, probed, measured and examined just like a lab rat-dog-cat or whatever else we use for
the progression of mankinds beauty products – we’re leaping backwards
at an alarming rate - It’s amazing how progress can adversely affect the
human condition… Am I making sense or ranting here Harry?”
50
But these were very distant times and we’ll resume back in 1969
“I believe this year was a classic for Soul music? Was I there? Who dat?”
…and it’s not so good to start with… “Oh for fucks sake, ain’t you got
anything nice and fluffy to say? - Harry, tell everyone about the time you
were in Blackstool shovelling horse shit off the streets… running behind
the carriages with an Adidas bag filling it up and flogging it to the tourists as genuine seaside crap, an aphrodisiac, great for the roses and only
thrupence ha’penny a hand full… Go on tell them… Oh fuck you too! You’re just like ‘him’”
It was a quiet and unassuming lipestyle. “Has anyone got any ‘uppers’ for
this miserable fuck? - Coke? - Black bombers? Blueies… Anything!?
…I’ll pay top whack” Just bepore my mum lept por good all I can remember of me and my siblings is… well, not a lot actually, only
pragmented memories and that pucking scares me. I’m about nine years
old now and there are very pew recollections “Just the ones you have al-
ready mentioned? - Are you sure there’s no more tucked away`?” no good
lasting ones anyway. “True” The night my mum gave the all important
clue was horrendous. We were all in the lounge watching TV and then a
row plared up. It culminated with my mother uttering the words which
ring in my mind eternally “I’m going then”. Up to that point it hadn’t
seemed that bad, maybe just another normal row at teatime in a young
51
pamilies early evening ritual... Then wham - the world collapsing like an
implosive eruption in the brain, a blood vessel bursting and all normality
gone por good. I immediately crawled behind the settee crying, my
brothers and sister asking what was wrong. “It’s ok”, my dad said, “He
understands.” “Yeah, he fucking understands alright, you filthy fucker
you, pratting women away prom home! - That’s right isn’t it mummy…
Crushing a families potential for happiness in satisfying the ‘hero’s’ ballbags need to seed?!!”
The night my mum decided to leave I was begging her not to go as she
packed. Nothing else existed except my pleas and my tears, but she continued to pack her bags and lept the next day with my brothers and sister.
“The emotional blackmail didn’t work then buddy? Ah fuck it… Hey, I
think I recognize this ‘not being there/unheard’ feeling… Is this the actual beginning of all my worldly woe’s and endless suffering? Am I now
cured of all my afflictions? Can the internal conflict now be resolved? Am
I now able to rest in peace and enjoy life? - Magic! Get the trippy mushrooms and Spew’manti out Harry!”
I hadn’t got a clue where they were going or the real reasons why, it was
just a blur of emotional conpusion. I think some part of me died or at
least shriveled away that day. I didn’t realise it then, but that pain was to
52
be carried with me until this day. “Go and try one of those drumming ‘re-
lease’ retreats, they work wonders so I’m told… Me and Harry will come
too, just for the crack… We won’t be touching that heavy ‘peace pipe’
weed though man!” I know it’s nothing compared to some of the things
many people experience, the horrendous supering we hear about minute
to minute every single day in newspapers and on the TV all over the
world - but when you’re so young, so innocent, believing and trusting,
the pain is devastating, body and mind numbing. Pucking awpul it was.
“Have a good cry my little friend and foe, it might help negate any developing aversions to everyday simple things or events which as you know
then become deep seated psychosomatic disorders, and very difficult to
address as an adult crying out for normality…”
Maybe this is the period where I began to develop my aversion to the
ponetic sound ‘ff’? (Arrghh!!! That’s like a shapt of blinding pucking
light) - Who knows why certain ailments or debilitations manipest in the
way they do, because later in lipe I also developed a glorious ‘squint’. It
was a double eyed squint which possibly included every pacial muscle
and tendon known to man, which as an aside, were very artistically depicted by Michaelangelo in his anatomical studies. This squint “It was
akin to a winning gurning facial contortion, a real life exhibition of the
internal mind-fuck you’d hoped to mask from society, and couldn’t! - I’m
53
soooo glad it was ‘you’ and not me!” - presented itselp quite spontaneously, creating the most embarrassing situations and also, added to my acute
shyness, it didn’t serve me well! A pew people cruelly commented on
my gurning prowess but I glibly dismissed it as much as possible, muttering something like… “It’s only a mild mid-pubescent crisis and nothing to worry about”…then waited patiently and almost indepinitely por
it to run its course.
“What’s this fucking phonetic fool-scape-sob story he’s bull shitting you
with again? - It don’t fool me, it’s just an escape mechanism created by
the self medicating mind. I mean, I’m perfectly sane aren’t I?! - silence Its ok, it wasn’t a question just a rhetorical musing, no biggie… Let’s
play piggy in the middle with Harry……I am sane though.”
I also understand now, having had two pailed marriages myselp behind
me, that my “Your very relieved ex’s??” parents supering was probably
just as hard as mine, even ip theirs wasn’t to be seen or spoken about as
easily as it is today The same too por my siblings. I’ve never really spoken to them about our pamilies separation. “That’s a blatant outright lie!
I once heard you ask Diane ‘our’ sister, if she ever thought about this very
subject… I say to you the jury, if you feel ‘he’ - pointing to me - is trying
to pacify the whole nasty episode of parental neglect in the most wicked
54
way, you should find ‘him’ - pointing to me again - guilty, and have the
fucker hung ‘til he’s certifiably dead, and can breathe no more… or even
have time to roll his eyes in disgust at the injustice of it all… because after all it wasn’t ‘him’ - pointing at me, looking to them - who started it
was it? No! I say to you the jury… I rest my case”
They too supered enormously as lipe has played out its many trials and
tribulations por all to see. You can see the ripple epect prom those early
days, lipe mirroring lipe, dramas played out to the memories burnt into
your psyche, your emotional degeneration always helping you to remember, no matter how much you want to porget and move on with a
new lipe. It’s amazing how we put the things which hurt the most to the
back of our mind, but are opten subtly enmeshed within the pabric of our
everyday lipe.“The mind/bin/shredder/compartmentalisation/acky stuff?!
It has just the same principles and properties as ‘Spam’ - You can’t fry
this emotional shit though, it’s too lean and mean… It’s way too dark
and complex and that’s why it sits at the back of your mind chomping
away on every good intention you ever had” We know it’s still there,
lurking, waiting to be grapically revealed in the most unexpected ways,
and when we least expect it. We have to let our mind do that though, so
we can cope with the day to day illusion, coupled to the governmental
lie inpested ranks of deceit “Hey, why don’t you take a leaf out the
55
Yankie Doodle Dandy book and get yourself a 24/7 shrink? You can easily add the activity to your weekly schedule and then the costs to your vast
insurance policy payments… It’s only a suggestion, chill out baby!”
I imagine the Quailey’s also experienced something very similar, they
must have done, the moment when one or the other parent bit the bullet
and decided enoup was enoup, upped and lept. “Again, it was probably
that perennial man thing if truth be known, wasn’t it? - Let’s not be
squiffy about this Harry, I’m sick to fucking death of it, just imagine
what a proud country we would be if it wasn’t blighted by that bastard
epidemic” But as I mentioned earlier, it was never spoken about at the
time, not outside the pamily por sure. “What about the gossiping hags
dude?” Yes, Bunny had mentioned his dad once or twice, not in any derogatory or selp pitying manner, but in a quite civilized and controlled
way actually. “Fuck off, you can’t fool me! He choked back the tears… I
can see his bottom lip trembling now, his eyes glistening with a film of
bitter memories ready to shed that first tear - Daddy gawn an left me all
alone in the shitty UK! Yeah fucking believe it baby, he tupped and he
upped… He wanted another younger hole to fill with his mucky seed…
You and me both are perennial weeds living the hell on earth aptermath, I
could be wrong though… Harry, pour me a Scotch… Shut it and do it!!
… It’s all your fucking fault you filthy mongrel!”
56
Maybe this is the internal escape or shutdown mechanism kicking in, to
prevent one prom breaking down in pront of your priends, you just shrug
it op in the light of day. Yet behind the veil of solitude it comes out pull
torrent, all the bitter tears, all the diperent potential outcomes, the what
ip’s. But nothing can change what’s happened, it is what it is and we
carry on as best we can. “We fucking have to, don’t we!? ...Ah yes, I once
heard a very old and very, very wise sage tell me that in a morning seminar for ancient ‘Caca sage-dom’… Prophetic, sagely wise words indeed…
What a giant this little fucker from shanty town India was… Amazing
shit graced us that day… Some say he is the direct descendant of another
little fucker from Mongolia, who himself is an indirect uncle of a tribe of
little fuckers from Wales 5000 years ago when Wales was a lineage link
to a Tibetan pig farmer… Yeah, couldn’t believe it myself, the dawn of
the age of Buddha himself was spawned in Swansea, when Swansinium,
as it was then called, was a breeding ground for all manner of crazed little fuckers - and all of that history hailed from three little mud huts, crazy but true! – Bollocks!! Harry says prove it dude”
So there we are, some pormative years, bringing us to the day me and
Buno my mucker met. “Yawn - what time is it?” Each of us with our
own conditioned upbringing and lipestyle to date, and now to venture
57
porth letting those emotional experiences and scars bear out in our very
diperent lives. We’re rouply the same age and same height, we live in
the same Green, we have similarities in our upbringing and yet we are so
very diperent por many other divergent reasons. “Hey! - ‘We’re’ not the
same person with different personalities, don’t you dare suggest that implication! You’re nowhere near anything like me, it’s impossible and outrageous to even suggest that sire, most definitely not - do you even care?
Harry, what say you? Harry, who were you talking to just then? A female, what?!? - I need to talk to you about the birds and the bees my son”
We didn’t become very close priends until a couple of years later by
which time we had pinished junior school and upgraded to senior school.
He went to the local Comprehensive and I went to the Grammar school
in the town centre. I was the only boy prom this estate to go to the Rectory Grammar school por Boys “Bighead ‘Steve - the younger’ ring some
bells? - Or doesn’t he count?” There was a Grammar school por girl’s too
but that was even parther a pield on the outskirts of town. My cousin
Cindy went there, what a snotty bitch. She was ok really, pair dues.
Good on the old ivories I heard. She waved at me once when both our
schools went to a daytime mass at St Crads church in the town centre,
just outside the Lazy Bank Park. “She was probably saying to her ma-
tes… Hey, pretend to smile quickly, there’s that scruffy smelly bastard
58
cousin of mine, his mother abandoned him… Maybe, maybe not, that
might just be an insecurity creeping in, not that I have many, if any at all
actually… ‘He’ has though.”
I liked her mum and dad, my Auntie Plorence and Uncle Colin. Very old
school, prim, prigid and proper - very decent people but with a little hint
of smarminess sadly. Plo did bake a good cake though… as all smarmy,
quiet, puddy duddies do don’t they, to pass the time and tell the world
they aren’t completely hopeless. Colin grew a good cabbage and some
pine haricot beans, so pair play to him. He played a mean game of table
tennis too in his wilder moments, having a cracking top spin and a discordant plapping pringe. You have to be good at something else don’t
you when all the shagging has been done and dusted thirty years previous? “They don’t look the type to shag at all, so their sprogs must be,
adopted? Got to be! - Here’s the real deal rap… Council scum living in a
middle class semi hoping to avoid their insignificant past and then turning into beige wall flowers – Everything I hate about colour, coordination and resonant reasoning!” What a waste of an existence, two of
a kind - lovely couple of puckers they are, or were, I’m not sure ip one
or both have pegged it now?
……I was talking about schools wasn’t I…..? “Have you been on the
saccharin, sunshine? Get a grip” At pirst I thought this was great, a new
59
school, all the shiny new kit, the books the kudos… although what I really, really wanted was to go to another school in the town centre, ‘The
Lakeview’ next to the pro pootball ground. The reason being… they
never played pootball at my new school, and there were no girls either!
What a pucker! At the Rectory it was rugby, cricket, hockey and rowing,
and to my bitter dismay, just boys – what kind of preparation por real
lipe is that por puck sakes? “It’s designed to keep your mind concentrated
and for excellence to flourish such as mine – I’m really too good for that
school – Harry, stop flossing over the fucking ham fritters!”
At the Lakeview they played soccer and more importantly there were
lots of girls, and apter all ip we’re honest, it’s all a boy wants prom his
early pormative lipe isn’t it, pootball and girls! Another important pactor
this other school had going por it was, it wasn’t considered posh or
poopy. It did though have a similar educational standing. There were a
lot of kid’s prom both schools who caught the same bus as myselp, but
mainly purther along the bus route towards town, prom mainly middle
class estates par par away prom the council ‘blackballs’. The lakeview
uniporm was a green blazer and grey trousers or a grey skirt por girls - it
was quite attractive too, as opposed to ours, which was all black - Nazi
black and bleak as puck.
We did have a great school motto though. In Latin it said ‘Quo quia
60
posseur vedentor’ which when translated, means, “To the lowly English
subordinate scum, or to those who inhabit the lowly cattle sheds on council estates who can’t write their own ‘mongrel’ English Motto’s, or historical epic poems” - ‘You can be whatever you want to be’ (or something
like that!) - So, we took that gem of wisdom on board and decided to
just ‘be’ ourselves which was in real terms, a pretty modern pain in the
arse rabble, pretending to belong to a higher echelon or class of society.
At least that’s what our parents thought and hoped we were going to be
at this school, “Better than them and a cut above their upbringing?” all
bullshit of course. It was probably more trouble than it was worth packing us op to that ancient Victoriana crap hole. “It was a valiant effort
but doomed from the beginning, yet how were they to know their child
was destined to be just another ‘kid’, another ordinary Joe? Unlike myself, who had what it takes right from the first breakthrough by that single brave seed and that seed shall be woven into the fabric of nature - I
am a stud for that brave seed and I shall do it proud, by god!” - Naturally
we had our own variety of inner corruption and disruption as every
school does. Now ip they had been a little smarter and more select as to
their intake then yes it could have worked, but then someone like myselp
prom a low lipe council estate wouldn’t have been there in the pirst
place, so you have to applaud their “Desperation? …Money grabbing
mitts?” expansive vision, even ip it was eventually to kill the place op.
61
Now it’s a sixth porm college, toup shit eh? Time moves on regardless
of reputations or expectations.
There were though some mostly upper class, budding bopins at The Rectory. The elitist pew each year, who no doubt sailed through every lesson
and exam, making the O’level work seem piss easy. I marvelled at their
ability and envied their seeming better lipestyle. You could just tell who
had received a good pamily upbringing and/or who had money! Their
uniporm was the best quality material money could buy but usually a
size too large (por them to grow into) as opposed to a size too small because your parents couldn’t apord a new blazer every year. “Like yours
you mean, the arms two inches short and impossible to do the buttons
up?” And then, excruciatingly, having to listen to their perpumed
laupter-littered tales of prequent par reaching exotic holidays… bragging
about mummies and daddies jobs - or rather ‘their propessions’“No
bricklaying ‘Toffs’ at the Rectory then? The whole country was built by
proud navies and their donkey-mind work ethic - Where are the carrots
for the men, Harry? - I’m going to be a ‘Sir’ the first council scum sir in
the land, that’s how important I am… I shall break us free from all those
unheard unheeded claims for true independence shrieked from those hoarse
voices ‘filled with the black stuff’ in mines hundreds of metric feet beneath the Earths crust, because those voices represent the common man on
62
the cobbled streets, complaining about ‘owt n’nowt! - Cor blimey mate,
polish yer shoes mista? - I shall cry with you and say lets abolish the refuse bin tax - See, I’m still one of you miserable fuckers… Hey Harry,
I’ve just found a soap box! - Hey, where’s my festering fruit bombardment? ”
It got to be sickening and demoralising in the end, but you carried on regardless in your tatty rags, with your yellowing teeth and constant daily
reminders where you hailed prom! “At least you ‘knew’ you came from
the wrong side of the tracks and thus lived the ‘real life’ impoverished
dream - Those posh fuckers love a bit of rough! - Give it to ‘em Harry!”
Luckily a pew of my priends, were exceptionally gipted in the academic
realm, so I abused our priendship to copy their homework but only when
in dire straits… I promise there was no porce involved - Ok, I admit to
sweet-talk, protection racketeering, begging and ‘giving preely as a
priend’ an occasional three point try (rugby) “You’re my fucking hero you
are… and never the one to brag openly!”
Bunny went to the local ‘Sharleston’ Comprehensive. Pootball was their
main sport and they had there the all important girls. It was within easy
walking distance too, which meant an extra hour in bed “Jammy bas-
tards!” in the morning - Bunny would have loved that! Most of my other
63
pre-senior school priends went there, so lipe might have been so much
easier ip I’d gone there myselp to begin with. I did attend this school
eventually but that was much later, and another story in itselp. So in reality and on replection, I wouldn’t have been able to recount this charming tale, this sweet Modern Day Pable ‘ip’ I hadn’t gone to the Grammar
school. So something interesting and productive has come of it then, going to the townie ‘posh’ “Mainly by reputation and that long forgotten
and lost olden day grandeur.” school, that bitter/sweet experience only
those who were there will ever know the truth of.
And that’s how lipe pans out, is pre-ordained por you by your elders, until you come of age and can escape and do what the puck ‘you’ want to
do. Unless of course you live to please and appease those parents wishes
living a lipe of drudgery and living up to their expectations even into
adulthood. That’s a scary prospect actually, and I’m glad I didn’t have to
live with those extended precepts por lipe.
“Daddy, what the fuck made you choose that school, and make my life
hell, didn’t you think it through? …Our Barry going to the Grammar
school, when all his fucking mates go to the school up the road!?!? You
dick head, dad! …See what you’ve done to us?! - Harry is most upset You ruined his life pawever!”
I was now considered (through ignorance and jealousy) a posh kid “The
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scruffiest smelliest posh kid ever… That’s a feat in itself! You really deserve the honour of that title - Congratulations!” prom the council estate
and it was to have nasty consequences shortly to come into my young
lipe “ ‘I’m intellectual and the ‘Eleven plus’ was piss pants easy-peasy
puddin an pie... Where is my certificate of excellence daddy? Mummy? –
Mummy is that you?” The harsh reality of this divide between me and
my many mates prom the Green and others on this estate was another
harpoon to my heart and it took its toll eventually. It was a battle of wits
and survival, cunning manoeuvres and battle stratagems - Churchkill
himselp would have been proud! “I can just see the fat fucker now,
suckin’ on a fat cigar… ‘Into the trenches, chaps! It’s for your Queen and
country… I’ll be in the bunker HQ nipping on the brandy should you
need anything my merry men - You good, good men… Goodbye! Farewell…’”
Outside of school, all the kids within Crestcourt Green got on well considering the age variances and the egos; the dominant ones, the weaker
ones, those who never came out to play much. Of course there were
scrapes, little pights and superiority battles but generally I thought we all
coped well. It was quite civilised really, even when you brought all the
parents into the congested “I’ve studied peasant dynamics extensively
and it’s not pretty, so cover your eyes for what I will now reveal for the
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first time ever… E=p>uck?ersMC2//o2<gossip#lol.cum – Get what I
mean, its frightening shit and moving fast!” equation. I only remember
seeing pour or pive bad bust ups and a pew little skirmishes as you will
pind anywhere. So all in all it was a pleasant place to live. It also pelt as
ip it had a diperent quality to the other similar Green’s round about, being more alive and vibrant.
There really were a lot of kids in our Green, that’s what made the real
diperence, and mostly we were all priends. It was diverse and interesting
and very interactive. It was a little community within the community at
large… Some might say the last vestiges of community in the new age?
“Oh, fuck I think I’m going to shed a tear, I’ve just dropped a whole bag
of sherbet lemons into a puddle of piss… They’ll wash won’t they?”
Some, might also say it was an untimely end of the traditional values
held dear to their now (post-trad) hearts and which gave the people a
common bond… to disappear porever and swallowed up by the new
techno-age materialistic values ending up in the bin on a daily basis (and
then shipped op to India por a miracle resurrection).
I would say that’s a very sad predicament por us, but great news por the
shanty town explosion in plastic crapts industry. “I’m writing a new book
called ‘2084’ - In short it’s about the rise and fall of prophetic words
manifesting in the future, before the sun explodes white washing the solar
system and incinerating every living thing – except the species residing in
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pools of sulpher, who then take over the world… It’s amazing if not uplifting…shame there will be no one left to read about it! Harry, put the
kettle on son…”
[note/por absolute omittion – Do I, don’t I? include in the next paragraph?? These were the scrupiest mangy puckers in the green. Don’t
mention Kev the c***! Or they will hunt me down and kill me slowly;
remember por pucks sake!! - End notes; and ‘Bart’ the laziest perret
catcher in town…was he really their dad? End notes/delete - quick!]
One pamily, some of its members having just been mentioned and deliberated upon, the Birds, they were great too… pive or six kids and ‘Bart’
at the helm. You used to see him coming down the Green of a late evening with a slow swagger “So atmospheric, was there moody music too?”
just like Bill Sykes prom Oliver Twist - Like when Syke’sy is coming
back prom a good evenings ‘heavy haul’ and Pagen is waiting, eagerly
licking his lips, his mind already counting the value of all the shiny trinkets - Bart was just like that except he had a Jack Russell at his heels rather than a Bulldog! He was an equally scary looking guy though, and I
don’t think anyone ever heard him utter more than two words in ten
years. He too, used to prequent the ‘Belepants
Vaults’ “That spit and
sawdust roughian hard nut pub in the town centre?! - How unrefined
and uncouth you are for being associated with such pitiful criminal scum
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and filth!” but not at the times I was there. “Probably sleeping, waiting
for the night shift-shiftiness?”
I’m not kidding, there must have been pipty children of various ages in
our Green, and that’s a lot in such a small area. “Yeah, yeah, we get the
picture, you prat!” There were only a couple of houses in which you
were allowed to go upstairs into your priends bedrooms. Most of the
time, you would stand by the back door and wait. There were a pew
houses you knew you just ‘didn’t’ want to go any purther than that back
door, por one reason or another. Some were pretty bleak giving op noxious and dodgy vibes! Lovely people don’t get me wrong, but this was
simple living and luxuries didn’t exist in the seventies. Not on council
scum estates. Ip you owned a porth hand car that hadn’t been welded together with baked bean tins, you were very apluent indeed. “Don’t fuck-
ing exaggerate sonny! Don’t believe this hyped up hyperbolism folks, he’s
after the waterworks!”
Just a quarter of a mile away prom our house, a pive minute stroll, there
were a couple of huge playing pields, with swings and the like and some
‘proper’ goalposts; a lovely big open area and surrounded by the houses
on the estate. An enclosed sape place to play I would say. “A bit dodgy
at night time though when all one wants to do is ‘be in the moment’ and
watch the stars twinkling in the heavens above – Then a shady indistin68
guishable figure falls into your peripheral vision – And then a sound like
a hoot or was it a foot? - A boot? Was it a man in a zoot suite being
cute? Fuck!!”
To get to the nearest shops you had a choice whether to walk along this
pootpath which bisected the two pields, thereby taking ten minutes op
your journey. At that time there were no lamp posts along this path, except por two, one at each end. One night, when a little older aged about
13 or so me and some priends were making our way home prom the
shops and our ‘community centre’ chippie. “The communal kitchen feed-
ing the masses en masse – Battered by the press and profits frittered
away” We’d been telling each other ghost stories all evening, lauping
them away in our own bubble of concealed ‘over imaginative’ thoughts.
We took ten short paces into this dimly lit path and even darker pields
planking that, when we saw to our horror an old lady lying on the grass we thought she was dead! Naturally we shat ourselves but then tentatively went to her aid. Apter prodding and calling to her por a pew moments,
one of us “Who? Nobody told me… Who was it? – ‘I’ was sitting on the
swings musing about Platonic’s, so it couldn’t have been me” rushed op to
call an ambulance; thankpully she was just rat-arsed, apter downing too
many jugs of the ‘guest’ bitter at the local pub just a pew hundred yards
away. What a preaking shock that was! The old witch survived but could
easily have gone down with hypothermia – So we’re pucking hero’s!
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The ‘path’ between the pields also acted like a boundary, or rather a ‘no
man’s land’ between territories. Beyond either end of this path you are
potentially going out of your own territory, it’s still the same estate, but
the end of the path going towards the shops was another ‘patch’ (por us)
which is so important to know when you are so young. “He’s trying to
make it sound dangerous and a little ‘Bronx-like’ - But it’s not really, nobody carried weapons or was high on crack cocaine… No kids anyway at
that time” It counts big style which side of the pield you come prom,
and even more important is how many bigger, older, inpamous mates
you have too! That counts por everything when you’re in the shit and
have to drop big bomb names to protect yourselp and your nuts prom a
big boot. Or, as it was opten the case, the obligatory punch in the mouth.
“Handbags” You might get one of those regardless of your shameless
namedropping, because lets pace it bullies don’t give a shit! As long as
you didn’t super too badly it was an acceptable norm within the exacting
child ranks of superiority - It could put a dent in your reputation though,
as par as that might have travelled. “Don’t flatter yourself, you’re less
than your total sum of parts, but I can help you rebuild with brain state
technology – I’ve tried it out with Harry, he’s in that box over there” It
was opten more than one lad who would come up to you and cause trouble, the crucial gang mentality and sapety clause. Very rarely would single lads cause bother. But once again, those events were pew and par be70
tween I’m glad to say. I did though have a huge ace trump card up my
sleeve, which I’m sure protected me over the years and on many occasion, thank puck! “So what the fuck is it? - Tell me now as I should
know before any of these spiritually redundant animals reading this rubbish… Is it anything to do with Cornish pasties? … Is it anything to do
with large type set, or cardboard abodes? - Does Harry know?”
As I mentioned brieply earlier, my relationship with my uncle Rab grew
enormously prom the point my mum lept. “…If you mention that once
more!!…Get the fuck over it!!” It wasn’t immediate, but steadily grew
over weeks, months and years. I began going to the Saturday and Sunday pootball matches he played in, which were all associated with pubs
in town. My dad came with us prom time to time too. Rab is ten years
older than me so I likened him to an older surrogate brother. “You left me
outside in the rain - that was so fucking cruel! …I detest you - but let me
read you this beautiful poem by Keats. ‘I left a lad out in the rain, Oh it
was sad and very very bad, but he was such a forking pain…’ - Can you
feel its beauty, the melancholic echoes rolling over yonder brackeny mist
laden hills?” I loved him dearly and pollowed him everywhere as much
as a ten year old could. This time then is the root prom where the ‘ace’
trump-card pirst atropied into my lipe. “‘Atrophied’ - A big word for a
‘little’ boy… Even if your’s is phonetically fucked!”
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My lucky deal wasn’t apparent to me in the beginning but as time progressed it came into play - it was then deployed consciously at a later
more helppul time (I’ll keep this close to my chest por now though) Oh,
bollocks! I’ll give you a clue, ip you haven’t already guessed - It was my
association with ‘The Belepants Vaults’ A well known ‘disreputable’
pub in town… but more about this later! “Is that fucking it? Whoopie
shit, big deal - What a let down!”
Lipe por everyone on our estate in the seventies was pretty ordinary
pare, generally pretty samey and you got on with what you had, that was
the norm. What you never had you never missed. It seems to me now
this era was the end, or the beginning of the end of childhood innocence,
meaning there were no real limits imposed upon you, we were pree and
pelt pree. We would walk por miles over pields, hills, down country
lanes, go to hidden pools in the countryside, explore derelict ruins and
think nothing of it. “You never took ‘me’ with you… you, you, bastard!
And I so wanted to come and play with our friends. I’ll never ever forgive
you for that, nor Harry” We wouldn’t even take pood or drink, we would
just up and go and enjoy the preedom of it all, the wonder of it all. “It
wasn’t wonderful, it was shit… You’re making it all up to make it sound
wonderful, you fucking heathen brethren!” You wouldn’t even tell your
parents where you were going, you didn’t really know yourselp. “You
didn’t know where you were going? Am I being remotely transposed into
72
a lucid dream here or what?”
Once you were with a bunch of mates anything could happen, you could
end up in the most unlikely of places and that was the magic of those
days. The words ‘don’t porget your mobile’, or ‘political correctness’
hadn’t been heard of. As long as you kept your wits about you and were
reasonably sensible it was ok, no worries. Home computers hadn’t even
arrived as yet, maybe they had already been conceived in some geek’s
lab, or some military underground base, but it was to be quite some time
bepore they hit mainstream shops and homes… and to even have a television in your bedroom was unheard of! Most polk had at least a black
and white contraption in the corner of the living room, whilst some
lucky apluent puckers had a colour.
Apart prom a vehicle, a colour TV was the most technological acquisition anyone had. They quite possibly also owned - as was the “Old fash-
ioned?” rage then - a radiogram, and por the uninitiated, this is/was a
teak, radio and record player combo cum sideboard; it was pucking
awpul and took up one whole wall of room space! Thimble cabinets
were quite popular too! “That’s a fucking insane insult to my artistic in-
tegrity and my intelligence, which is evolving at a ‘way higher than average’ rate of knots - To confine ‘me’ to a thimble, on a white nicotine
stained wall?! – Harry, can you piss as high as them thimbles? Bet ya
73
can’t!” A table and chairs in the lounge meant you were upwardly
trendy, but we never used it being so unsopisticated, still trying to integrate the notion into the ‘pood-chain’ molecular blueprint, that we could
eat op a plat surpace with chairs to support - and so ate op our laps and
still do pretty much to this day“The onset of the couch potato brigade?” –
A bit like having a car and not knowing how to drive, or never using it
(oh, that rings a bell!) because you’re too idle.“You do know ‘this’ is not
all that it appears to be – You are not your body!”
It was quite an austere period and no house was pilled with overt luxuries as they are today. Cars were beginning to appear slowly into every
pamilies lives prom hereon in, but my old man was always way behind
what was happening in the rest of the world. He bought an old mini once
“Given to him by a mate who wanted it off his drive!” it was pale blue
with an unusual number plate ‘FFF 33’. He took me and my step mother
to a couple of places but nowhere too par, or exciting. We went to this
castle in Wales one day “A very rare excursion for you and hugely stretch-
ing ones horizons and limitations – Be careful you don’t get lost in the
jungle of tarmacian highways” maybe a 15 - 20 mile distance and on the
way back I must have been in good spirits because I was singing away
happily – rejoicing that we had been out on a halp day outing together as
a pamily. Then to my surprise, “Probably causing your diaphragm to de-
fault into a trigger mode, resulting in an inability to speak and causing
74
your heart to tremble uncontrolably” was asked ungraciously to shut up
as it was annoying the driver. Oh right, thanks a pucking bunch, ip this is
what an annual halp day out is like then stick them up your pucking arse
big buck daddio! “Cool it baby!”
A stranger came to the pront door once, and asked my dad ip he wanted
to sell the number plate, but he repused to part with it.“Magic!
…Another heirloom in keeping? Must be worth a few bob now - What
bank does he keep it in I wonder?” The whole lot went to the knacker’s
yard a pew years later rusted and unused and a waste of pucking time. I
can see the ‘mirroring’ of myselp and the old man now, not that anyone
is really to blame we are who we are and that’s it…“Wise words my bit-
ter son” two boring old parts but of course having very diperent mindsets. I can say por myselp though, that I have tried to be diperent and
taken a couple of risks. I would also say that I’ve pushed the boat out to
pind something new to supplement the ‘day job’ and create some extra
wealth (this book being part of that grand plan) as opposed to grinding
the days in and out with a regular job with no aspirations to purther
oneselp. “Whoopee shit, think you’re clever don’t you ‘Grammar boy!’…
I’m writing one too, so fuck you! …Harry, shut it you dozy mutt fuck Get a grip and stop dribbling! No, he should have sold the number-plate
to the highest bidder - the idle bastard never drove the car anyway! What
75
a tosspot loser, but he is my daddy so I forgive the bastard - I’m going to
utilise ‘my’ intelligence and create a rhyming couplet for my daddy…
There again, lets just end the verse and chapter before the chaplain comes
in!! – ‘Hey you waster peasants, it’s that crazy concession and confession
time! Line up… I want to hear all about it and leave the sordid bits in’”
It appears some of us are here to make waves and the rest are just content to take a paddle now and again – That’s lipe eh, no big deal.
76
CHAPTER 4
Back with Bunny and a barbecue @ 52
The only insignia Bunny wears, and its only when we’re out on the
prowl por ladies who assist with pulpilling his apprenticeship ‘duties’, is
a necklace “And ‘my’ black leather bomber jacket too, the little shit!” its
almost ethnic, but blingy too, composed of a cheap base metal but looks
like silver and really turns heads. It’s a combo of two necklaces bought
prom a local jumble sale actually… And obviously we have given it a
poignant story to give it a decent provenance and heritage, just to give
our deceit a reality in our own minds at least. Quite a peat por two council estate lads, we’re very proud of how creative we have been. Ip this
were a school project it would be worth a good A+ major, with distinction, and a gold star to put on the chart. Yeah it’s that good! “I’m still
pissed off he has my leather jacket on, he nipped in and nicked it while the
old man was cooking breakfast… I want it back by 10.30 or I’ll tell his
mum! And please tell that idiot to stop pretending about his funny ‘ff’s’
its total cacky pooh - A fanatical phoney he is, I’m telling ya! - Don’t you
believe me?! - Read me a story daddy - but not the one about that lonely
redundant mini who loves to sit in his garage watching the world go by…
That’s too fucking sad for words and has a nightmarish quality”
The ladies love the necklace, they want to touch it to peel its roots and
richly encrusted history to maybe give them a sense of royalty, a taste a
77
hint, anything… They probably have day dreams too, whereby they peel
they might be the ‘one’ who young Bunny, the Balipion Prince, decides
to take with him to the throne, thus they would become a Princess and
later possibly a Queen. “It’s every girls fantasy to become a Princess, so
don’t shatter the delusion you bad bastards!” Wow, they are so gullible women and their romantic dreams, will they never learn what a guy will
do to get his cock enmeshed within their warm polds? No, I don’t think
so. That I’m apraid is why they are women, they are genetically programmed to believe any old bollocks and so pollow their hollow aspirations to the bitter end. It’s always a bitter end isn’t it, no matter how mutual or amicable the separation is? Sad but true, and that’s why Bunny
and me thank ‘whoever the puck god is’ that we’re men, boy/men, or in
Bunny’s case a boymangod. Don’t worry it will all get clearer - believe
me! “Please don’t confuse me for fucks sake, is he a boy, man or godly
man-boy… I’ve seen one of them man-boy thingies in Taiwan, yesterday,
on’t tele, its true! It’s disgusting but they’re soooo pretty…”
There’s a barbecue at number 52 in the green, not our ‘the’ Green but the
one around the corner op Warwick road. About thirty pive people are
gathered there of all ages as you’d expect. It’s the usual routine, pamilies
socialising and having a pleasant-ish to mediocre evening. It’s an open
bupet with wine, beer and burgers, some “Splashing the cash out… must
be a sneaky ‘pools’ winner here!” jam tarts, music and some ridiculous
78
party hats we’re obliged to wear. The hats help to create the atmosphere
because there’s puck all else to create it, what with people gossiping and
slagging each other op (most probably the person standing behind their
back). “Standard fare, what’s the probo?” Everyone is quietly getting
pissed and ped another mortal blow towards deep vein thrombosis or a
pull on coronary attack ‘mid party’ just to add to the ambiance and por a
good ‘meaty’ story the next day. You can just imagine the dramatised
needy voices clattering in someone’s kitchen, chiming with their over
sized earings… Hey, did you hear? Harold Cartwright pegged it last
night at the barbecue at number 52 up the road… Yeah, spilt his beer all
over Peggy Adams’ revealing white dress as he went down… he was only porty eight the poor pucker… when it’s time to go… its…….
“Extended silence in repose and respect for the deceased?” Well at least he
had halp a good innings… Bit of a wanker though eh? - Hmmmm
‘she’ll’ get the lot now the bitch… she’ll never have to work again,
bitch… bitch bitch bitch!! He deserved it though didn’t he, the pat bastard! - Another mug of rose infused camomile Wendy, milk and two
sugars? No, I’ll have a triple Scotch please darlin’ neat, no rocks! Wasn’t
he Irish…? Puckin comin over here, bastards… just gimmi the bottle,
darlin, I’m avin that. “Slag”
Me and Buno are sitting on a low garden wall watching the proceedings,
79
in yet another council estate communal catastrophe. “Meeeee too, and
Harry! It’s nice we can all sit together for once. Hey, where’s my shandy
gone?” Everyone seems to be integrating well but are oblivious to the real cause por their mundane pain; the why’s as to why they are there in
the pirst place - should they even be there? What will their conclusion to
the evening be? Is there a reason, or is it all just another excuse por putting op what could and should have been done yesterday? “Like working
and paying bills? Or anything, at all costs to keep the ‘Pakistani workaholic entrepreneur – low-loan extortionate APR man’ - from your door?”
I know this is deep shit, but Bunny and myselp like to occasionally
pilosopise on the problems of modern societal conpigurations, specialising in suburban economics and the dynamics of relations between man
and nature, deep in the concrete jungle. “What a load of poppy-cock bol-
locks!” This is pun por us. No seriously it is. We pucking thrive on this
shit. We are the kids of the puture in the now, the star children of tomorrow, we are instinctive and intuitive animals and want answers por tomorrows world - It’s six and two threes isn’t it, get what I mean...
swings and roundabouts and all that cack. “Harry, doesn’t understand,
can you rephrase that please?”
Suddenly, mid pilosopising plow, I get an elbow in the ribs.
“Look at that Baz, who is she?”
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“Puck knows.”
“Is she with anyone?”
“Puck knows.”
“I’m going for a chat with her.”
“Puck op then” (I can sound a little blunt sometimes but it’s the
moon)
She, is a lovely blonde, 24-ish, 5’ 6”- ish, average to plump-ish, very
nice “You’re pucking joking right? …My ‘acerbic’ but dumbed down en-
tertaining wit!” indeed.
Buno has already gone, leaving me to swing my legs to and pro sitting
on the wall and counting the halp eaten burgers lying on the grass to
amuse myselp. Messy bastards, no wonder they are still ‘useless eaters’
in the hierarchal pood chain - pucking animals. I can see Bunny standing
next to her at the drinks table as she pills her plastic cup with some
Scrumpy cider. “Tart, can you imagine her applejack farts bubbling and
fermenting deep within, before being unleashed into the atmosphere like a
noxious enquiry into how well you can remain passive and unblinking,
and passing the buck?!?!?” She sees his necklace and makes a polite enquiry about its origins. Sensing a ‘concrete’ connection he nudges closer
and then reaches across her body giving her a good wapt of his armpit
and his powerpul boymangod odour.
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It’s a unique and wonderpul example of mans ability to pashion something out of nothing. The bio-chemical miracle churning away inside
while the greedy lustpul eyes check out what’s on the outside, and
what’s beneath those shapely contours hugged by skimpy cloth! Then,
the two consenting souls come together and like a magical invisible
welder puses their internal chemical bonds - Sound! Seconds later his
arm sweeps her aside and they make their way into the house. Now this
could be a tricky one. Where is the sapest option, a wardrobe? …The
bathroom? The “Fuck no!” kid’s room? No, this is worrying me now. Ah
well, what can I, a mere mortal do to stop the wheels of progress and the
seeding of yet another conquest, all por the sake of the Balipion Prince,
come Bunny; and indirectly therepore to all the people of his land awaiting the return of their puture king - It’s all very altruistic (without the
lies, without the ruse based deceit) even ip it doesn’t appear that way at
times! “Yeah ok, I’ll believe you – Not! Fused and abused, mesmerized
and cajoled into ‘the reapers’ clutches”
What a charming man he is, boymangod that is. I think they must have
gone out through the pront door and slipped away to somewhere quiet,
because there is no trace of them anywhere. I’ll patiently wait as usual
and chat to the peasting peasants. “When are you going to realise he’s just
using you and get your nose from up his arse? And don’t dare come near
me! - Any of those chicken wings left boss…? Throw some Walkers in too
82
cocka, bovril if you got ‘em” - I’m still not sure ip she is alone either, I’ve
not noticed anyone looking anxious or asking around por their wipe or
mother. Good job too! You see what a slick and quiet lad he is? (It’s ok
to call him lad in this context). Yes, how very quiet and considered,
straight to the point, no nonsense, just good old pashioned values. Pair
play to the pucker.
Ahh, here they come, separately of course. She looks plush. He is cool
as ice. A man and two children run up to the lady… “Where have you
been darling?” He asks “Yeah… where mummy?” The toddlers ask in
unison. “Oh, I had to nip to the local shop - you know ‘women’s problems’ – did you miss me?” She said, winking at hubby. He looks nonplussed wondering why she hadn’t pound them pirst bepore going but
accepts her explanation, as the loving adoring husband he is. Bunny
looks over to me where I’m sat next to this old git prothing prom the
mouth with his angry regaling of how things have changed so much
since the totally organic porties… and he says to me with his eyes alone
– we’re done, let’s hit it Bazzo! I acknowledge Bunny whilst simultaneously conveying telepathically to the old git - Shut it you rabid old twat,
let me be! Ok, that’s the pun over por today, time to move the circus
elsewhere.
“Hey Buno, you got something por me, a morsel of goodness por your
loyal buddy?” The Prince of Bali smiles nods and winks. I think I can
83
taste what he’s suggesting… What a bastard, but that’s Buno por you,
never betraying his allegiance to those who he shares in such exalted
pleasures. You have to admire that surely to god, regardless of the ruse
ridden embellished truth. “Some say the seedy agenda mind fuck pack of
lies – But who am I to poke my nose in someone elses affair’s? – Harry,
go switch the electric blanket on me old chum, I’m fucking freezing”
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CHAPTER 5
Candid squeals and ice cream drudgery
During the intervening pew years apter my mother had lept, I coped well
enoup all on my own “Yes we get the fucking point, your mum has gone,
diddums - get over it!! Stop crying asshole, and be glad you’re not in Iraq
or Afghanistan or Iran, or Syria and other war torn areas around the
world - That’s real suffering!! Readers are sick of hearing your sob story
…She was my mummy too, you know!? …Where did she go Harry? See if
you can find her…There’s a good little doggie, go on, Fetch!” The priends
I had in the Green kept my spirits up, and you porget the deep emotional
shit apter a while anyway, don’t you? - Yes, it’s still there etched into
your cellular memory but hiding, biding its time - Its puel por either a
pighting comeback or to wither and be the victim.
I used to go to my Gran’s a lot, sometimes with my dad, sometimes on
my own. I preperred to go the short way, which was over some as yet
undeveloped industrial land, over a pield or two and then hit the railway
line, the main line into Bowsbury station. Ip you pollowed this track por
a pew miles you could hop over the high and very heavy ‘sleeper’ pence
and into my Gran’s back garden. It always pelt like an expedition with a
dangerous proviso, a game of stepping back prom any oncoming trains,
just in time, but in more than enoup time not to get sucked under and
splattered!
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Talking about trains - I remember, going back in time a little “Again? I
thought this was about the fucking seventies knob head? - Yes but he
wants to impart some reference points for the reader pointing to the here in the now, duhh!!… Hey, whose side are you on Harry? - It’s a free
country isn’t it, back off baby… When was the last time you washed the
fucking dishes anyway?” to a place I lived in temporarily with mum and
my siblings - which was picturesque ‘Potby’ near Karstyle (again something to do with the separation of mum and dad and I’m presuming they
had a trial parting of the ways of some kind, though I don’t know por
sure). This was a village, bed and breakpast sort of place and they were
priends of the pamily apparently but I’d never seen them bepore. “An-
other fabricated lie you weave into the mind-loom of ‘please love me, the
troubled emotionally unbalanced abandoned child’! - You’ll try fucking
anything won’t you except to ‘own’ your own shit?!! - ‘I’m’ so together
and tuned in its untrue and the country needs solid grounded people like
me to care for and teach the rest of you miserable fuckers – Its not easy!”
Anyway, the big house was literally peet prom the railway line, this
property being the old Guardsman’s house. Whilst playing in the garden
one day I recall thinking and scheming then decided ip I piled enoup
stones on one of the tracks it might derail the train. Yeah, that would
look amazingly cool I thought… a speeding train snaking violently
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down the verge through pields, horses, houses… I know pucking crazy,
but that’s what I did aged about eight. Needlessly to say, the vibration of
the train thundering down the line made the stones pall op, therepore
averting a terrible tragedy and many people’s lives were thankpully
saved; mine too! “I’m saying nothing but will pray to the universe for
you and your demented soul”
At the same time “Ish” in the same place, maybe my getting bitten in the
pace by old Joan’s dog might have been some porm of retribution por
this wicked act. The poor old hound had to be put down and I pelt ever
so guilty about that. What really happened is, and the version I reprained
prom telling my mum and old Jean… I was kneeling beside the dog as
he was gnawing on a bone I then childishly, poolishly, went to take his
bone away. My pace was only inches prom his and ‘Whack!’ he got me,
his long sharp teeth going straight through my cheek! Stunned, I ran op
and sat on top of a wall por a good pew hours. He should have been
trained to deal with that situation though don’t you think? Yes, he should
have been, but he wasn’t, and he learned the hard way. “You bastard!
You killed a poor doggy… Is he in doggy heaven now Harry? Can he see
me? Can he speak with me now? …What did he say? Does he love me,
even though ‘he’ killed him? Does he blame me?…Tell him I have another bone for him, a ham shank, fleshy, full of marrow and natural goodness…Do they feed him in doggy heaven? Has he a clean bowl of water
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Harry, can you see him? Can you translate for me what he wants to say? Yes, he said ‘he, the bastard who got me snuffed out’ is a fucking gonner!!
A big brown bear is going to gnaw the top of his fucking head off and
then suck out the contents like a soft boiled egg - then snap every limb off
one by one before flicking his torso around like a plaything football!”
No, I really am sad about that dog being put down, and I don’t think
Joan ever porgave me. My mum must have copped some griep over that
too, as Joan was an old battle axe of a woman. “A psycho, Betty Davies
type?”
She lived with her husband Jake and her sister whose name I porget,
maybe Betsy or Leslie? Jake was the pirst person I was ever to see dead.
We were ushered upstairs to go in and see him as he was lying there and
strangers don’t normally do that, so there had to be a strong connection
somewhere… maybe I knew them longer than I remember? Maybe they
were relatives or there might have been a soul agenda pact to fulfil?
“Living in the remote North must be a harsh reality check, to ones system,
I wonder why we haven’t got a thick winter coat like a sheep? - It
doesn’t make sense does it? - And why ain’t we got fucking big hoofs too
instead of these soft feet requiring ‘shoes?’ I’m going to do an academic
study into the natural environment of man and why we’re so ill equipped
to cope in our ‘birthday suit’ – Harry, you shaggy maned fuck, where’s my
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nylon and polyester coat?” We must have lived there a while because I
went to the local primary school, which I can’t remember jack shit about
– nup said!
I thought it was “ Yes, Darwin has a lot to explain, he obviously hasn’t
got a clue how ‘things’ evolve or where they originated from!” a nice, humane and respectpul gesture going in to see Jake, although a little scary.
He lept me his watch, which thinking back now was a very nice gipt indeed as in truth I don’t really know who the puck they were. I treasured
that watch and lost it within a week, damn it! I did always wonder ip the
house may have been bequeathed to me por some obscure reason! “Tis a
teaser to torture yourself with whilst living off hand me down tat and
scavaging for pennies” Worth a pucking portune now, but hey ho. I also
remember having an old Railway man’s hat, the real McCoy it was...
maybe that was Jake’s old hat - it must have been, maybe it was he who
was the old Guardsman? It’s a time encapsulated mystery - who the
puck, were they? “Your mother was their cleaner!” I’ll bet that house “A
halfway house full of ill repute?” was lept in the will por me and my siblings, so I’ll have to check that out. They were such a loss to my lipe
though, old Jakey, dear Joan and ‘what’s-her-name?’
“Don’t you remember these demented old farts got the fuzz in because a
fucking key went missing?!? Need fucking shooting the pair of them, the
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sisters not Jacko…he’s already dead! House is worth a fortune and
should have been mine? I could have had a wonderful library, a bespoke
shelving system to house my precious books, Bastards! - I saw that Joan
selling apples in the train station ten years later serves her fucking right,
bitch! …The dog deserved to die it nearly took ‘my’ fucking cheek off! - I
didn’t mean that! A sick black joke – Maybe the dog was related to you
Harry and that’s the mystery connection… and the house is ‘yours’?!?!
Hey, I’ll be your man servant! I’m very errudite and can polish the silver I can scrub floors and cook the meanest Sunday roast - Yes?”
My Gran, Lilly (love that name) Lilly…Lillian… Lilliana?? Nope, Lilly
is best. She lived in a house built in the porties or was it pipties? She
nabbed it while it was being built so she was in it prom new - that’s her,
Stuart my Grandad and the nine kids! A lovely solidly built pour bedroomed semi just down the road prom what was then, the Rolls Boyce
works, a big going concern in those days. It was a big attraction por
those in the town who wanted a good job with a pension and long term
prospects “And wanted to die there having their ashes scattered in the car
park for posterity? Fucking jokers!” and I actually went there on a weeklong works experience many years later, only to scupper my chances of
getting an apprenticeship, telling the opice interrogators, I didn’t like
discipline - silly boy! It could have been the most magnipicent uncon-
90
scious ploy! Well done me por having such poresight and saving me
prom a lipe of drudgery standing next to a lathe shaving pucking steel!
It’s true though, who the puck wants to stand at a lathe, shaving steel all
their adult lipe?! Sissy, a camp chap (his real name Neville) “You should
never be so judgemental to those inclined to be of a different perversion...
I mean persuasion!!” and a neighbour of my Gran’s worked there. He
used to run around the pactory waiting por the lads to chase him… naturally into the loo, the pilthy swine. Lovely bloke though, when he
walked his head kind of bobbled to and pro. He wore tights ‘permanently’ - to keep out the cold, so he told me! “He showed you?” The cheeky
bastard squeezed one of my nipples one day too... Ooooo!!!! “That is an
angry ‘Ooooo’ I take it?” And the thing is he was smiling as he did it, as
ip to say… You want some? I’ll give it to you ip you want…you want
me? Here I am, take me… Yeah ok Sissy now puck op home bepore I
break your legs! (I was a lot older at this time)
So my Gran’s house was a sanctuary por me. I loved going there and being there with her or any of my many uncles. My aunties weren’t there
much, don’t know why. Must have been a man’s domain, a card school,
lurid tales and smoking! My uncles had a card school every Sunday , “‘I’
wasn’t allowed to participate - were we Harry…Bastards never dealt us
in!” and the game was always, seven-card brag. They only played por
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tuppences a hand but apter pive hours or more a decent jackpot could
accumulate. There were always a Sunday lunch in readiness por as many
pamily members or other dripters who turned up out of nowhere ‘visiting’ – and there was always enoup to go round. She would say to Sissy,
‘want some dinner Neville’ and he would reply ‘don’t mind ma’ - now
when someone answers ‘don’t mind’ instead of ‘yes please I’d love
some’, or ‘no thanks I’ve just had mine’, I could go with that, just. But
when I heard him call my Gran, ‘ma’, “And I concur whole heartedly,
she’s not ‘your’ ma Neville, it’s Mrs Puckins to you, you fat ponce” I pelt
like stabbing the pat bastard with my pucking pork! (In each eye pirst
then pin his tongue to the table top.) Yeah, ‘don’t mind ma’ he said with
his head bobbling and a - I knew ma would pit me in kind of attitude! Of course you wanted some you cheap, greedy paced pucker, why else
would you turn up at 12.30 with the ‘Bisto’ aroma wapting down the
street?
And don’t make the pat pucker laup while he’s eating he coups and
splutters as ip every morsel of halp digested pood is going to come back
up any second, spittle-pebble dashing all of us tucking into our lamb,
processed peas and mint sauce! “I hate that cackling phlegmy and food-
stuff laugh, ‘cause you know its come up to their mouth… and then they
fucking swallow it again… Buaaaarggpphhh!!! Sorry, my memorysensory visualization was so vivid I had to honk! Harry......here boy –
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yum yum, yeah din dins! - Good lad!”
I used to love the sound of the radio at Gran’s, usually on a Sunday, with
Jimmy Clithero cracking his jokes and that old time music was just great
to behold. It was old pashioned and comporting. There was a sense of
homeliness and pamiliarity at Gran’s, peeling welcome and wanted.
(por once in my lipe) “You nasty fucker you, your dad did the best he
could. What say you Harry? …At least he muffled his farts in the comfort of his own chair, no one else’s. We never pass wind do we Harry? We
let it dissipate within the body which must mean our sweat smells like
shit? I’m just guessing here… But guffing and the facial expressions they
evoke are so grossly unattractive and quite frankly are obscene, for one
such as I – And imagine, especially when you’re walking around with a
‘wet one’ lining your pants – Dogs are excluded of course, being animals
and having no etiquette!”
Obviously I was looked apter emotionally being so young and having
been lept alone with my dad, Gran cared por me and that’s why I spent
so much time there. I looked to my Gran as my adopted mother in many
ways, and later in lipe I went to live there permanently por three happy
years “Anything for a free meal and a bed you sponging lazy twat… I
had to forge a living from deep within my own mind exploring the permits
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of expression never knowing if I could escape alive or deemed insane!”
Punnily enoup I never took Bunny there to meet my Gran, that’s strange
thinking back. In pact I never took anyone there to be honest, maybe it’s
because this was my retreat prom what was to become a living hell, living on that poxy council scum estate and going to the ‘posh’ Grammar
school, alienating me prom my priends living next door and in the
Green. “You didn’t want the scrounging scum of the earth soiling your se-
cret world in deepest Old Sheath! …And nobody would know where to
find you either if you pissed someone off, very crafty eh!” I’d never really
thought about the reality of circumstances being the way they were por
quite some time, because priends are priends, you believe and trust
them. You don’t think that something as trivial as which school you go
to will have unbearable consequences later on in lipe. In pairness there
were only a pew of them who bore a grudge, naturally the older ones;
it’s always the older ones who have so much clout in those young innocent days and wield it to the best of their ability in pront of ‘their’
priends… and we all know what delights ‘peer pressure’ brings! “Weak-
ness runs amok in those who can’t think for themselves – assholes!”
[ note/about/priends- must have been dipicult por my pals also. Wanting
to keep in with their own mates and going with the general consensus
towards me. Keeping in with the clique. I understand & until they under-
94
stand, that’s lipe - End/delete ]
“The two faced bastards!! Pretence and wannabies: jealous little tossers… I’m glad ‘I’ dropped them like stones for holding me back - fuckers!!
…Some great mates though – two in particular, but not sure which ones?
- Who was that one, we liked Harry?”
As with much of lipe it’s all about keeping pace and showing op, showing your priends and pamily you belong to their clan or clique. Ip you
appear to be an outsider you’re in deep shtum and have to pind ways of
inpiltrating the guarded cliques. This meant a lot of sucking up and bowing down to the ‘elders’ mean wicked ways… it’s something you have to
contend with and it wasn’t too much of a big deal in the beginning.
Again you always pind it’s the minority who cause the griep, and then
the little Indians who pollow suit behind, looking por acceptance in their
own immature ways. It’s the way things are. “Nice boring speech dude!
Have you read ‘Hymns of the Universe’ such a wonderful prosaic masterpiece. Here Harry, come by lad… phw-eet phw-eet, come by now phweeeet!”
What this diperence did give me though, above my local peers at least,
was a porm of independence. I was diperent to them even ip it only
meant being at another school, because in this school the regime was un95
like that of a comprehensive. It was an academic state school to begin
with, whatever the puck that means, as I know plenty of people prom the
comprehensive who could have done well here and better than me probably. “Most definitely old chap - you were shite! ‘I’ am the Scholar here,
you are the lowly sportsperson kicking air filled balls and playing with
silly childish things like bats… I am way out of my depth here and should
be gallivanting with Toffs in Oxford, gently drifting along some waterway in a boat, shielded from the sun and sipping an afternoon aperitif”
The diperent lipestyle prom being at that school in the middle of the
town, next to the river Malvern and only a short distance prom the birthplace of that great anthropologist Carley Tarkwin was tremendous really.
It was something to hate and savour all at once. “Yeah they fucking hated
you in your smelly uniform and your cock-sure ways, especialy the teachers… couldn’t you feel that wave of professionally suppressed animosity?” There was the public baths adjacent to the school, then the seriously
sexy Convent girls school pive minutes away ip you ran quickly at break
time… and also the prized Lazy Bank Park just outside the school gates
(which was pretty much designated ‘our’ playground) and many more
local attractions. It all added up to give you an alternative outlook, a new
world of experiences opening up to you. It doesn’t mean you are better
in any way - you just experience lipe outside the normal constraints of
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living on a council estate. “Speak for yourself - ‘I’ am naturally better
than them by a public mile… What you describe is nothing but a whim,
just a mid-morning break from normality… I deserve the high life as a
continuum… Pass me my Advocaat there’s a chappie”
The high and mighty Bowsbury Public school was close by too, this was
on the other side of the river at the top “Looking down on everybody else
naturally!” of the hill, “These snotty fuckers had their playing fields on
their doorstep; Shit, shower and go! …Jammy bastards!” and that place
must have been another world of diperence in comparison to mine, and
another light year away in lipestyle, then multiplied again, to those of
my peers on the council estate. To those children whose parents could
pay por such a privileged start in lipe, I’m sure it must have given them
a peeling of superiority; they will have pelt “Mummy, where art thou?”
diperent and experienced a lipestyle so at odds to ours, and that’s the
way it pans out in a class system.
You do get envious to a degree especially being so young and pull of
ambition and seeing others having such an exalted and lavish existence.
It’s only natural to want something more, higher, richer, easier… but I
suppose that’s just us looking in, in envy, as the reality of that richer
lipestyle isn’t always so lavish or easy. Within ‘their’ culture there also
exists a hierarchy which is equally as harsh ip you don’t pit in, or are a
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‘newbie/new money’ as it were, or are on the lower rungs sucking up to
those above. “So the fuck what…? I could have gone there easily, if only
as a day student travelling in on my pushbike with a packed peanut butter lunch… The only reason I didn’t go there was because they don’t do
home economics and it put me right off - The rich, lordy lordy, upper
crusty, so out of touch with reality elitist shit bags! - Bake me a cake
Harry…”
Chercy Plower, the pamous gardener, had built a little showpiece garden
called the ‘Oasis’ which is a centre-piece within the very large Lazy
Bank park. A separate, more ornate and tranquil garden, and it really is,
an oasis pilled with lush plants and wildlipe. That was a nice place to
sometimes eat your curled up butties, intermingling with the coach loads
of grannies and resident expert ‘waplers’. It was all such a nicer environment to be in, to have access to these local amenities each and every
day. And so, in those pormative years, por me, this was a big diperence
in comparison to the lipestyle to the many kids in the Green, round the
block, the whole estate even.
Even so, there was no hiding place, “It’s all character building shit my
friend, faeces up to it!” so no point in trying to hide prom the lads who
didn’t like ‘poops’ either prom the Grammar school or the Public school.
Ip you used a little pore-thought and planning you could manouvre
around them anyway. But the point is it didn’t matter what side of the
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tracks you came prom, lipe and people would get in your way in one
porm or another. “You mean psychological strategems were deployed to
stop you getting your head kicked in on a regular basis? Did you ever consider those philosophical and spiritual laws of universal love to win your
enemies over, for example: hugging a skin-head, embracing a greaser or
telling the local bully you love him unconditionally? It’s all valid my
friend… you have to reach into their hearts and access the ‘mummies boy
mentality’ within – Its there I tell you, try it next time you’re in mortal
danger… blow a kiss, offer a flower, bend over and show them your arse,
show them you’re not afraid – It might just change their life! Ok, so what
if you end up in hospital, you’ve lost nothing in trying or even dying!”
Having an acceptance and understanding to this set of circumstances,
was going with the plow, bobbing and weaving; ducking and diving
through whatever comes your way and trying to keep some credence,
along with a smattering of dignity. I had some good priends besides the
Quailey’s pamily, some were local and some were prom my new school.
But my pool of priends would grow somewhat greater over the next pew
years. As my lipe expanded and I wandered prom place to place, it was
just a richer character “Told you!” building collection of experiences. It
all means nothing though ip you can’t use your lipe experiences in a positive way and even more so in the puture adult leagues of ‘game-playing’
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the mind-games minepield of survival. “Whoopee shit - big shot eh? Yes,
one can see ones argument… social behavioural patterns are linked directly to ones local or non-local environmental stimuli, quite… Harry, stop
shagging my leg you mangy mutt!”
Now we’re in the region of eleven years of age. Bunny and me are at our
respective schools and apart prom the occasional evening, it’s the weekends when we really have time to get together. I would more than likely
go over to his house as not many priends came into mine. I don’t know
why, it wasn’t as ip they couldn’t or didn’t want to, that’s just the way it
was. “It’s because no one was ever invited you dumb fuck, and probably
because your feet smelled like kippers! – ‘I’ never wash, but bathe in the
morning sunlight letting its pure rays edify my mind and skin” I remember another older priend who lived in the Green, Darren. He once came
to stay the night and it was like royalty had come to town. The whole
evening was ridiculously over the top with excitement, poolish pranks
and generally messing around, but that could have been because it was
so rare an event. That was great pun. I must have wound him up that
night though, because a short while later as we stood together waiting at
the bus stop, he plicked one of my bollocks with his pinger, Puck! That
hurt. The dickhead!
He was older and quite toup Darren “Is this one of those scruffy smelly
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fuckers you mentioned? At least you had one thing in common! - But I bet
he cleaned his knees, arms and hair more often then you!?” so there was
no retribution required on my part. You had to accept stup like this occasionally, as dapt as it sounds. He had a good pilosopy as regards a scrap.
He said, it only lasts a pew minutes so you might as well get stuck in,
“‘I’ come up with some great visualisation techniques for fighting, you
should listen to me occasionally because I know you’re a scardy cat, some
say a coward!” so who can argue with those pew words of inner, warrior
like insights! He had a gait just like his old man which implied to those
who saw it, don’t mess with me or I’ll mash your pucking pace in… so
at least you knew where you stood and could avoid the mashing in process, thus helping the day go by so much more smoothy!
It was nothing like that at the Quailey’s though, you were welcome anytime, and they all had their own priends there at some point, but me in
particular because I got on with all of them very well… even Kali their
mum. “ She’s too short for me, and I prefer brunettes anyway, and besides
I require somebody more intellectually stimulating, no offence” …Now
she was pretty hot por a mama! “Isn’t the term ‘milf’ the accepted norm
these days?” I think there were a pew of the older boys in the Green who
might have pancied their chances with ‘single mum’ Kali - That is except por the thought of her three boys who were all pretty tasty with
their pists ip needs be, which probably put anyone op, and obviously
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they would have no hesitation in protecting their mum prom the pack of
pree puck chancers! It was an open house to me and especially when
Kali “A white uniform? …Tight fitting? …You can see the ‘panty’ line?
That’s disgusting, she’s old enough to be your mother!” was on the night
shipt at the local hospital. It was just a very priendly place to be and
hang out, chilling watching TV or listening to music, chatting or pooling
around. “They never ever offered you as much as a fucking ham sandwich
though did they?!” They were all so cool and laid back just like myselp. I
think their Balipion heritage is probably why they were so chilled and
diperent prom all the other kids on the whole estate really.
I pancied both of the Quailey girls, one of them especially, Celia, now
she was stunning. Their mum rightly so kept them on a tight leash at that
tender age. They were very successpul at tap dancing with many awards
adorning the wall of the lounge. Their mum, Kali… have I already mentioned she was hot?! We had tongues in the kitchen one Christmas, but
don’t tell the lads! “Oh, fuck ‘em, as if they didn’t fantasize about getting
it off with your mum or mine - There’s a new hardback, illustrated edition
of ‘The origin of Species’ due for release next week, shall I order you one?
…No?! Are you fucking insane, don’t you know how important this
work is - for getting it all wrong?! You’re a baboon sir – but not related!”
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There was an Irish pamily in the Green too, who were good pun. My
mate Jon had two yummy sisters but they were way too old por me! His
dad was a punny guy, punny ha ha and weird punny. We were all pratting around in the lounge one evening having a laup trying on hats in
pront of the mirror… I must have been about to leave because we were
in the kitchen and I said something to Paddy, Jon’s dad and the bastard
kicked me right in the shin! Puck me, what was all that about? He did
like a drink though, so maybe he wasn’t pully in control of his
paculties!? “An alki tosser - emotionally scarred for life and who dished
out violent treats to those who challenged his addled world of insecurities!” He was one of those guys who had to put on the ‘hard pront’ and
every other evening like clockwork he would pass our house on his way
to the pub smartly dressed, lotion applied, hair slickly bryl-creamed…
and always without his wipe the miserable Scottish bastard.
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CHAPTER 6
My ‘pight’ but Bunny got the gal! Bastard!
Today was a serious day. It’s the weekend and thus my transpormation
into Prince Bunny’s right hand man boy …‘He’ is the boymangod of
godlike magnitude, personipied, as you know. But the weekends normal
run of events were going to have to be temporarily put on hold por a
short while. I’ve already cleared it with the bossman, so it’s a goer, as he
knows how much this means to me. Por a pew hours today (only!) the
tables are turned and out of respect, Bunny is my stooge and lookout,
‘my’ right hand man god. Let me explain quickly as time is of the essence… a mash up is imminent! “Are we talking food here? Make sure
the ratio of butter to milk is correct for the perfect mash. And don’t put
your grotty fingers in the bowl, I know you wiped your arse this morning
and didn’t wash your hands, you filthy beast!”
I’d heard that this lad prom another estate had called me out, questioning
my credibility and bad mouthing me, so I paid him a visit. We arranged
to meet por a pist pight down behind the snooker hall early Saturday
morning to put things straight. So Prince Bunny said he would come
along por the walk “You got that fucker to walk?! What about the wind
and his hair, and who got him out of the sack so early? This is a miracle
going down in old blighty!” to metaporically hold my hand as warriors of
honour. The ‘venue’ was about three miles away so we walked into town
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via the ‘scenic’ back roads and through a posh estate. There were a pew
early risers milling around in their gardens on this bright dewy morning
with the sun promising to rise around mid day.
Bunny was perpectly attired por the day ahead, replete with his ceremonial necklace, immaculate as usual - por business as usual. (It was always business as usual regardless of any other business that cropped up)
The gardens surrounding us were beautipully mature, plorally adorned
and trimmed to perpection. When, as ip governed by some synchronized
patuitous moment of pate, there stood a beautipul, equally perpect and
manicured lady standing beside her BMW about to give it a polish. She
looked great in her scrup’s, expensive designer scrup’s of course. “Tatty
torn jeans and a ‘look what tits I’ve got-top’ from Littlewoods last seasons half price rack – Hey Harry, I wonder if she’s going to slide her ample bosom all over the soap-sudsy bonnet?
Bunny spotted her and almost stopped in his tracks.
“Hey Buno, we gotta keep movin’ - the pight remember?”
Oh, puck, what’s the point… I say to myselp, recognising the signs, the
signals… the next, without a doubt ‘missing’ hour at least!
The Prince calls out making contact, small talk but with big impact.
“What a beautipul morning, what a great car”, he said as he strode towards her. The small talk is already over, no need por anything else to be
105
uttered, now it’s all body “Freedom, I say!” language, magnetism and
pulpilment of desires, desperate and yearning to be unleashed - however
subtle the dance appears to be at this early moment of ‘pate’s’ recognition. She doesn’t seem to question who this guy is, but smiles and meets
him halpway along the drive. She gently touches his necklace, momentarily studying it then placing it back against his chest her pingertips
brushing over the cloth of this shirt, yet, with enoup pressure to peel his
skin beneath.
Ok, I’m wondering. Where are they now going to go with this dance and
reunion of immortal souls, two clouds of energy merging into the oneness of the Source. “Hey dude, leave the poetic musings to me, ok!?” I
perch myselp on the garden wall and Buno turns to give me a wink as
they both walk towards the door and back into her house. I also wonder
who else might or might not be inside, but take it as written there won’t
be any interruptions because now destiny is in motion por them both.
And I suppose in a small way por myselp too, as once again the role reversal has me as his stooge, the lookout, his right hand man boy. Time is
now repracted and balanced by the events taking place inside that house,
so why worry, there’s nothing I can do about it but let it play out as it so
chooses - the universe is in control now.
My naive young mind pleetingly attempts “And all from ‘those’ maga-
106
zines you ‘found’ above the toilet cistern?!” to imagine what the Prince of
Bali and the lady are doing, then suddenly remembers and pocuses on
the ‘duel’ taking place very shortly… Christ where is he, we need to
make a move. Oh sod it… I decide to sit on the lawn, even with its
morning moistness and watch the neighbours awaken to the day’s
unpolding, musing about nothing in particular, taking in the glorious
colour of the blooms and the bluey grey haze of the sky. I almost pall
asleep in the languid tranquillity, sound is magnipied and little creatures
take my attention, pollowing them hither and thither midst the vastness
of the world around them. I wonder where mummy ant is “I wonder why
you follow this creepy twat around!? - Or rather ‘we’, because Harry is
very confused” I also wonder how a swarm of gnats decide on a particular place to congregate and how they might communicate in the seeming
chaotic uncoordinated prenzy of plight. And then there is Mr Caterpillar
munching on a leap, which then takes me into the awesome mystery of
metamorposis and the emergent beauty of a pully pormed butterply. Yes,
what a lovely day and not what I’d imagined at all, having psyched
myselp up por warpare! “War and peace man, it’s all in the game, the yin
and yang, the varying degrees of the totality, the expression of the Isness
as itself within the whole – Dig? That wasn’t an order to dig a trench by
the way, no, the wars over… HELP! My fucking arm is missing!! Sorry
that was a waking nightmare reminiscence of active duty conveyed to me
by an old man I once knew”
107
Eh up! The door is opening. The sound of the handle turning causes me
to stand, brush myselp down and await the pirst poot over its threshold.
Here he is… the boymangod steps into the light. They kiss lightly, letting their eyes pall gently, gradually say their goodbyes never to be seen
again as Bunny strides down the drive. Their union of the plesh has been
relished, satispied and now relinquished – What more can one say…
“Let’s hit the road Baz, you have an appointment.” He remembered?
“Cool, let’s do it Bunny baby.”
Without any notion of any mucky enquiries, “Your filthy mind is nose
deep in those perverted images kindly let to you by your old mans porn
stash” I let the Prince lead out and rejoice in his springy extended step so
took conpidence prom that alone as we march towards my showdown.
I can’t even be arsed to pight now to be honest, but go through the motions of a gentleman’s agreement and it all ends up as a moral victory once my pists have pound his pace as it sits tightly wrapped beneath my
arm, that is… I then graciously accept his submission and his acknowledgement he was wrong in bad mouthing me, and we all walk op together now priends. It’s too much of a lovely day to be enemies anyway.
“Fancy a trip into town Baz? I’m feeling great and the day is soooo
young.” The meister Buno suggests. “How much of an outcast do you ac-
tually feel, what with your phonetic tom-foolery – Joke, chill!”
108
“Yeah sure man… got anything in mind you wanna do?”
Hmmm, I hum, as I answer the question myselp… Buno is already obvi
ously lost in a visualization projection as to what might transpire por
him later that day. Is this greedy, I selpishly heap onto his probable projection – probably not, because Bunny meister needs to tup the gals to
make him tick, that’s just the way it is - he is! Yeah puck it!
109
CHAPTER 7
Escapades with the Belepants lads
But lipe was changing past. “Such a frenetic pace for a lad from a council
scum estate – Maybe this was your calling, getting a good grounding in
all things desolate and needy to then become the new Prime minister aged
44 – I’ve always felt it should be me” New schools new priends, new
cliques, new pashions and new horizons. By this time, I’d been going
around with my uncle Rab por about two years or so, watching the
men’s pootball at the weekends. He was a great player and could have
made it pro with a little luck. “His legs were too fat, slapping and chaff-
ing with each stride!” Apter each match I went with him to the pub por a
coke and crisps, to also soak up the plavours of the many characters and
of course por the apter-match discussion, shagging and more pootball.
Now one pub in particular Rabbie played por and later myselp, was ‘the’
hard nut pub in town. “Allegedly, all piss heads!” and it was called, ‘The
Belepants Vaults’ “You’ve already told us!!” ip you please “Time!!!” Any
pisticups was outside in the yard or big Ian the landlord would knock the
puck out of both of you, or, however many of you there were. He was
pucking huge and would think nothing of wasting anyone who dared to
try out against him. What a lovely guy though. “A psycho you mean…! -
Harry, go get the iron and sort this fucking newspaper out – What do I
pay you for you muttley fuck?!”
110
This is the place where the local squaddies would come to drink, the
paddies working on the lodge would spend every evening there, anyone
dodgy, just out of nick, anyone selling some ropey old gear… this was
the baddest ‘in’ place and everyone knew it. And the best bit, I was part
of it as a twelve year old… with my picture on the wall, having played
por both their soccer teams over the years, in both the local Saturday and
Sunday leagues. Christ knows how I used to pit all this in. I think I was
playing por about 7 or 8 teams simultaneously! I was “Big head!” good,
very good but already overloading and on a wayward spiral downwards,
which was eventually to shatter my boyhood hopes, dreams and aspirations. At least it kept me on the straight and narrow during those younger years. Yeah puck it, who really wants to be a pro soccer player, coming prom the gutter side of town and becoming a celebrity of sorts, especially in such a small town? (Me me me!) “No no no!”
I remember travelling into town one day and ‘Nocksy’ “What a scruffy
bastard excuse of a bloke, not even ‘trendy cool’ - a pallid grey complexion
and appeared as if he survived on a diet of emulsified ham masquerading
as beef!” was “Wanker!” on the bus. He was a pirst teamer por Bowsbury
Town FC and he recognised me so we had a chat. What I don’t think he
remembered though was the time I was training with the pirst team and I
‘nutmegged’ him! (Pushed the ball through his legs) He went pucking
111
ape shit and with the coach lauping on the sidelines he ran apter me
wanting immediate ‘revenge’ - You didn’t do that kind of thing to one of
the stars! You would never have known he was a pro player, because he
was such a scrupy pucker “Hellooo, echo?!” lean and wirey, black
haired… a kind of George Blest in the porth division at the height of his
alcoholism trying to get back into the game – and seriously strapped por
cash and credibility! In pact he looked a little like this awpul bastard
teacher I was to ‘meet’ at the Rectory school. Nice bloke though… the
player ‘not’ the teacher! (I want revenge exacted on this pucking teacher,
and my time will come!)
[N-note/pay homage to uncle Rab/ he was my guiding porce. Being with
him helped shape who I am, and it was all great pun. I wouldn’t have
missed it or changed anything, any outcome - Sentimental, great experiences/end/delete ]
“Both could have made it? Both shite really! Both decided to stay with
pub teams just to get free, hot buttered tatties at the end of the game…
Pair of lossers with every excuse under the sun, fucking delusional amateurs… I’m not jealous in any way, because I’m a worldly Scholar
deemed to be famous! - ‘I’ once added a semi-colon to a piece of literature,
and it was transformed…… I know, you don’t have to say it”
112
Now I was oblivious to all the ‘reputative stup’ with my association to
the Belepants Vaults pollowing me around, because it was normal everyday lipe to me. I knew all the scallywags and the hard men, the soccer
players who only prequented the Bele on a Sunday por example. They
were my priends and priends of my uncle Rabs - obviously more so him
than me at that time as I was just a kid pollowing my idol, but so what,
that’s what kids do. “Harry, fetch my fucking slippers, and put that ciga-
rette down, you’re far too young to be smoking…” And at that time I
never thought to put two and two together, that all my kiddie priends and
whoever else knew me thought I had ‘connections’ as it were. Or, I had
some porm of protection just because I prequented this pub apter a Saturday or Sunday pootball match. But I suppose it makes sense when I
think about it, word gets around in a small town. There were never any
other kids or even teenagers down the Bele really, except por the landlord’s two boys and yes, they were a pain in the butt! “Didn’t they have
an affectionate nickname for you ‘Grassy arse’ was it? - Yes it suits you
perfectly it goes with your filthy body, caked in days old mud… How the
fuck did you conceal it for so long? Didn’t you ever get swamp scabies or
that manky skin disease like that writer Dannis Plotter?”
But now at this time I’m having a growth spurt, I’m very past, I’m pretty
toup and play every sport there is. I’m losing my middle youth plab, or
puppy pat as they call it. Pete, the eldest of the Quailey’s used to call me
113
‘tita-lena’ because my tits would bounce up and down when I ran! “Yes,
you were a fat little fucker for a few years, weren’t you?! ‘Fatty Barry’.
And with your hair so long people often mistook you for a girl, especially
with your big floppy tits!” I loved that name and it was all in pun. Even
though he was a good pour years older than me, Pete never abused his
age or strength as a lot of the other older boys did. He was a very likable
guy and very good looking, as are all of the Quailey’s. Ultra cool, lovely
white teeth and leagues beyond anyone else I knew prom this town.
“What you don’t seem to understand…. Hold on…..”
So now I was coming into my own in the sporting domain and doing
very well, both por local youth sides, school sides, pub sides and representative sides. I had great potential and opportunities and especially as I
was training with the pro’s! I’m a very busy boy now and loving it all…
except por the school work that is! I never did give that my pull attention
but how could I being so active in the sporting spotlight? “It’s my obser-
vation, and if you don’t mind my saying… You’re fucking bonkers!”
Never the less and leaving academia aside I believe I should have been
guided along my athletic career more dilligently by more teachers. I was
obviously bright being at the Rectory in the pirst place. But no, to them
academic results come pirst. Sport ‘wasn’t a career’ even to be considered por some obscure reason which really is counterproductive as to
“I’m thinking… Musing upon the reflective hues dappling the kitchen
114
door… Wondrous indeed - Harry, can you go and shit ‘outside’ please?!”
what the concept of teaching is all about, ie, seeing the best in a pupil
and helping them develop their interests. “And not in the miniature Jap-
anese Bonsai garden for fuck sakes!”
The only other thing I was interested in was art because I enjoyed it and
was pretty good at it, but in reality all I wanted to do or be was to become a pro pootballer. One good thing which happened in the pirst year
at the Rectory, which was to my personal benepit “Self self self… again”
- the headmaster changed the schools policy to now include pootball in
the apter school curriculum, so that was a good start and a very cool result. We started playing an ‘in house’ (porm) handicap league on Priday
apternoons. Pupil’s prom the pirst three years made up the league and
we got some terrible hammerings, even with the handicap. It was good
crack though and somewhere else to hone my skills, opten to be pound
‘hogging’ the ball trying to show how good I was! “So much for team-
work… You arrogant, gutless, greedy faced fucker!” I loved getting
around in many varied circles and my reputation was apparently advancing ahead op me “Yeah ok, we get it… You were a fucking bad boy mix-
ing with criminals and lowlife’s, stuffing your face with baked potato’s
totally unaware that plenty of people wanted to give you a slap … You
were very lucky sunshine!!….Harry, don’t you dare piss on the fucking
115
carpet!!” …not a bad aggressive reputation, but one of a sporty nature
and probably inclusive op my priends at the ‘Bele’. I carried on not having a clue to all this and wandered wide and par with all manner of acquaintances having a lovely time - most of the time. “Make your fucking
mind up laddie! - I must say, your English leaves something to be desired,
I can offer to give you after-school classes if you wish, would you like
that, or are you too arrogant for that too?! Where’s my diary Harry, and
can you grab those pickled walnuts for me?”
Right prom the start of term at that new school it became apparent that
change was occurring… my leaving behind of some old priends and other priends leaving me behind por their own reasons and agendas. “Yup,
you soon get to know who your real friends are!” That’s par por the
course though isn’t it, we all do that as we move through lipe as change
and circumstance dictates? “One takes, grabs, uses and abuses – That’s
you not me! Friends and acquaintances become objects of me-ism, anything or anybody which can help my progression through life with ease, is
all ‘they’ are there for…‘I’ would never think in that limited way, I have
a civilised criteria for my existence… Harry, you’re such a selfish little
fuck, why can’t you do as you’re told without those glib asides - Eh?!
Speak to me!!”
Bunny and I started to grow closer. Ip there was no sport, rugby or
116
pootball on a Saturday morning we would arrange to go walkabout up
the town. This venture was to become a long process, which I will explain in pull… Ah, on second thoughts I’d better give you the concise
version then, but just a smattering, because Buno and myselp have separate chapters to express our recollections. “Huh? I want a chapter to my-
self too, to express the inner turmoil which drives me forward towards
perfection… I am born to be a leader for fuck sakes, listen to me!”
As I’ve mentioned in other related snippets, Bunny was an outrageously
good looking boy, he knew it, I knew it - everyone knew Bunny was a
smooth good looker. And so, way, way bepore all those ‘macho’ male
cosmetics arrived on the scene, Bunny would be in pront of the mirror
preening and grooming himselp “He’s a princely ponce!” without a care
as to who might be watching him or ‘waiting’ por him downstairs… or
‘waiting’ por the number 36 bus into town at 11.30am precisely! No,
puck that and pool you por waiting - You had to love him though,
through all the pain and misery of your impatient, yet understanding
cries and woes of “Come on Buno por pucks sake, we’ll miss the bus!”
“How come you never told me and Harry about this close relationship
you’d developed with master Quailey, aren’t I your closest, most trusted
ally? …We’re the bestest buddies aren’t we? - You fucking heathen, you
hate me don’t you! Yeah, you look out for yourself asshole – Hey, is that
a shadow behind you, moving of its own accord? That’s freaky man!”
117
He had drop dead ‘Elvis’ good looks, silky smooth skin, and charming
beyond beliep por someone so young. “Full of shit and will soon be cov-
ered from head to toe in pimples” Pit and agile and dressed to impress all
the young ladies who cared and dared to look. He was not averse to the
young ladies advances by any means and actually wooed them like a
hypnotist would summon his prey to the stage por a night’s tompoolery at their own expense! Very dapper - pull of humility, with a bulge to
match his conpident strutting, and not in any way big headed just
conpident and sure of himselp, a typical Quailey pamily trait. And I too
thought he was cool as puck. And no, I’m not gay! No way! Although
I’m not apraid to say I’m in touch with my peminine side. “I’m not! I am
who I am and that’s enough… even if I was once tempted to wear ladies
tights just to feel how ‘sheer’ they were”
Eventually - apter sitting at his bedside, pleading with him, massaging
his obvious controlling power over me, tugging at the sheets, playing Mr
nice and Mr angry all to no avail… Bunny would slide out of bed when
it suited him and when he pelt as ip he had got enoup beauty sleep por
the night and much of the pollowing morning (Always the mornings I’m
there) Yeah come on, get up Bunny you lazy bastard. “ ‘I’ have things to
do… academic things which you aren’t privy too. Leave me in peace and
tend to your menial tasks to occupy your empty mind. I have to have si118
lence to think in silence to contemplate the depths of the soul - Which as
I’ve discovered through much introspection, is the essence of silence”
You think I like clinging to your mesmeric charm as ip I need to be with
you, I’m a cool guy myselp you know. He doesn’t hear any of this because I’m talking to myselp once again. He could ip pushed plip it, ip
you went overboard with the moaning. Only momentarily though and
just enoup to clip your sails or your delusional pretence that you could
make him do something he didn’t want to do; or to urge him to go paster
than he preperred to move, especially on a Saturday morning. “Peg his
eyes open with matchsticks then give the fucker the slow drip water torture, he’d soon shift his ass!” Bunny was his own man and nobody
porced him to do anything except his mum. “Mummy was that you?”
But that’s perpectly acceptable porm por any young man… and as long
as his mother is alive, it stays that way, or else! I don’t know how this
came about and who initiated it, but we once showed each other our
cock’s prom our respective bathroom windows, leaning back to reveal
the pull glory. I was leaning back anyway, to try and lengthen my pecker
prom 75 yards! The silly boyish things we do, but pun anyway. “ ‘I’
would never perform such a gross indecent act as that, and in broad daylight across the Green?! - Did you lose your senses and is this what adolescent boys do with each other on a frequent basis?” Yeah, it seemed a
119
good idea at the time anyway… but no way would I measure up in the
plesh that could and would have been very detrimental to my already tattered selp esteem. But anyway, this is ‘my’ chapter, enoup op Bunny!
Another time, I did the exact same thing with this girl who lived over the
road prom my Gran’s house. I was there during the summer holidays
whilst training with Bowsbury FC and staying in my uncle Rabs old
room (he is now married and living on the same poxy council estate as I
live on) So late one evening, “Why does the human species think it is the
only intelligence capable of interstellar travel? I portend to say that’s total bollocks… I mean what was Star Trek based on, Yah?!” I cracked
open the curtains, just enoup so she could see me prom her room across
the street, and then I bare all, once again leaning back to my utmost, projecting my cock at pull mast, whilst looking over to her window at the
same time to see ip she was checking me out. God, I was so pucking
brave that night. I pelt a right prat initially… what ip she hadn’t
acknowledged me, and worst of all, not shown me hers! I waited thinking nervously as a new day could bring such devastating laupter and piss
taking ‘ip’ my bravado hadn’t been reciprocated. “You didn’t hear? She
told everyone on the estate ‘wide-boy Barry’ had a pecker the size of Cadburys chocolate finger!” But then, a pew minutes later she opened her
curtains a little wider and stood on her bed, lipting her nightie to reveal
her plupy lush minge. Wow!! It was so clear, so visible and so very hairy
120
to my amazed, stalked and straining eyes, even prom across the street…
Puck me I did it! ‘She’ did it - pair dooze! “Do you think she was a vir-
gin like yourself?” Couldn’t believe that, what a result! A pew days later
she told me how some ‘cum’ she’d once swallowed tasted like beer…
Puck! Thanks!! Pucking almost put me op sex por lipe the bitch, even
though I was still a virgin! Although I must admit I was thinking inwardly, I wish that cum had’ve been mine! “Please delete that thought and get
on with your homework young man, otherwise you’ll end up working on a
building site mixing Gypsum products which will in time burn you alive
from the inside out such are their toxic qualities upon inhalation – Be
warned!” Virgins can dream can’t they?!
She shocked me again a pew weeks or so later, only this time she was
inches prom my eyes in her house, revealing to me her stockings and
suspenders, Mmm Mmmm yummy! I absolutely shat myselp and instantly proze, the look on my pace and my dithering giving my ‘secret’
away por pree. Damn it that would have been a great opportunity to
break my goose. Apter her revealing, revelation, I couldn’t shipt por
quite some time neither. Her pamily were lingering at the bottom of the
stairs chatting and I was trying to conceal my everlasting erection. Boys
and their peckers eh! “Yeah you blew our chance there you sad dip stick. I
hope you’re ashamed of yourself! - Can you hear that beautiful cantata by
Mozart playing in the sky? Oh, it’s heavenly, can you hear it daddy? 121
Come on Harry lets go and kick some critter ass in the park”
I had some great pun with the kid’s prom my Gran’s little estate. I remember playing pootball with Stewie, a lad my age but with only one
good proper eye. The other was a glass eye, veering slightly to one side
and it always seemed to be weeping; a lovely lad and I never heard him
complain. “I would have thought in that day and age something more re-
alistic as opposed to a fucking marble with a painted eye on it could have
been created?!” Anyway there we were in the street playing pootball and
por some reason, I don’t know what came over me, because I’m not vicious in any way, but I shouted to him, “Hey Hawkeye!” I looked round
and there was his mum with a glare burning into me… Naturally as any
mother would, she burst into a plurry of high-pitched rants and raves and
promised to tell my Gran. Oh god I was so apraid! And she did tell my
Gran too, the skinny witch. Where’s the humour in lipe today por puck
sakes, Christ almighty it was a joke woman. “It was wonderful watching
you squirm at the thought of Granny Puckins whopping your arse with a
hob nailed boot borrowed from those tat ‘killers’ next door!”
[me/my/notes//bitter----she was an old slapper()scrounged! Never paid it
back but it’s a secret~to pay por eye//leave it be now*”][omit por
stewies sake% priend””good lad::wipe’eye por puck sake!! End notes][
dad a waster..no that*s too much and pack}* of lies!??!]
122
“Hey move over you illiterate fuck, and let some other pretender speak The ‘Bad Boy Bard’ is in da house!” About pour hours later in darkness, I
skulked in the back door, waiting por an ear hole bashing, but strangely I
was met with an unusual reticent response - to my utter amazement. My
Gran had a high pitched voice when she was angry and shouting - or
tried to shout, because it’s not really her style. I got a telling op and was
partially op the hook, but had to go and apologise to them both the next
morning. Good old Gran, she knows best. Stewie just loved me grovelling in pront of his mum he didn’t give a shit and sniggered at me behind
her back, the little bastard.
This part of town named ‘Old Sheath’ was as its name implies, “Yes, a
residential resting place for old farts, filling out their last days trimming
privet hedges…The last bastion of families with twelve kids, four to a
bed, living off bread and dripping and wild Hare broth. Stretching and
‘segging’ their own shoes, the real destitute good life-fuckers” an area
where its residents were an older type of pamily usually with a good pew
generations living in the immediate vicinity; great people and you knew
pretty much everyone’s names or their business. A place you could leave
your door open, and not be worried ip anything was gone on your return.
“Coz there was nothing to half inch!” The people there were hard and
pair, honest and earthy. They had seen tragedy in their lives with loved
123
ones having gone to war and more than halp of them not coming back,
which was devastating por the community and the whole country over. A
poto I’ve got, one of hundreds prom that time is in pact one of my dad’s
uncles, Bren. He served as a tank gunner in the Second World war but
unportunately, gallantly, got killed in action. But the poto and his pysical
appearance is like a cross between me and my uncle Rab. Anyway I love
that pic of Bren, my Gran’s brother in his uniporm looking very proud.
I used to love listening to my Gran reminiscing and relating stories prom
her youth and early married lipe with her boys. “‘I’ always fell asleep,
but love her deeply all the same. I have though spoken to her at length
and can verify her long story is part truth, part sensationalism and part
senile dementia. That’s what makes a good story isn’t it? Yes Harry,
that’s a good boy get your tongue in between your old dads toes - good
lad!” I was prequently regaled with tales of old pashioned values, virtues, methods and means bepore high technology took over our world.
She was a very well known and respected lady in town. She had worked
all her lipe and over some years had a couple of market stalls and a shop
in the town centre. So she met an endless array of people passing her
stall, stopping to chat, browsing her wares. She was also the pounder of
the Weatherington Ladies club “A pre-fab concrete shit hole, with a large
tea urn and a mop!” no doubt created in the war times to create companionship amongst the ladies “…and a piano!” whose men and children
124
had gone to war. They used to put on ‘live concerts’ - shows, where they
would dress up in pancy costumes and have a good old singsong to whoever invited them to perporm. “Gummy old gits usually, wanting some-
thing for nothing and with nothing else to occupy their minds”
I went to a pew and they were good pun. At one in particular and as pate
would have it, I met my pirst wipe to be; but we weren’t destined to
meet again por another 10 years down the line. I used to help Gran mop
the ploor at that ladies club “No you fucking didn’t, you were always
briveting in some cupboard and left the graft to old Grannie Puckins!” I
used to love a tinkle on the old piano and rummaging in the back rooms
where all the kit had been stored prom olden days and past activities. I
remember picking up some old boxing gloves and was amazed to pind
how heavy they were. Real leather they were - red and scuped prom
plenty of amateur rounds. This place was another example of her endless
giving ways to the many portunate people who crossed her path. “You
wanted to thieve them gloves didn’t you, but couldn’t fit them in your
pocket! I know you so well you piece of shit, have you no morals? …Can
we be friends today, you me and Harry?”
Do you remember the guy called Sissy I spoke of earlier, the pancipul
character who lived in Old Sheath? Well he was queer as owt and everyone knew it, but what a lovely chap. “He was a bent two faced twat…
125
And all he ever wanted in life was to have his shrivelled balls massaged
by any hand that would comply!” Saying that, I had to rein him in quickly one day when I was living at my Gran’s, not long apter she had
passed away. This was my second time living there but I had my pamily
with me now. Anyway, he was regaling me and the kids with a story
about a caravan holiday he’d had with some priends “Fellow sissy’s I
presume?” and then he started getting a little excited, grapic and pruity,
opering to stroke some part of my anatomy! So naturally I had to nip his
enthusiasm in the bud, sharply! “You threatened to nip his what, in a
Blakes hitch knot? Cruel! – I say, you should have used that truncheon by
the back door to shatter his teeth in his trappy mouth” It was ok though,
he shut up immediately and we still remained priends. Getting back to
my Gran, I don’t recall any of my priends having this kind of regular
contact with their Grandparents, and actually it was a subject very rarely
mentioned between us. I truly can’t remember “You were never there you
foul mouthed fuck” ever seeing any Grandparents visiting the Green or
any of my priends. So again, I was lucky and had a very wide range of
contacts and inpluences with old and young people prom an early age,
and it’s something I enjoyed tremendously. “I’m beginning to despise
‘you!’”
[me/my/notes//bitter---delete#maybe Leave in?//=ip kids hadn’t been
126
there,
would
have
twatted
‘Sissy’ por
being
an
overthetop
^wanker&AlwaYs came round por grans Sunday dinner””preeloading
bastard<poke his eyes out\\No cruel+stop me!! Passed now^too bad{bad
boy=Omit in’t respect`- end notes]
Another thing which I enjoyed very much was my association and participation with the local pro pootball club, Bowsbury Town FC. “You
mean you actually trained with a pro soccer team? Wow, why the fuck
didn’t you mention it earlier? I think you’re a child hero of epic proportions! Yes Harry, tippy toe tossers who can only perform in a group – Its
true they’re all dumb fuck drop outs too – Just like Abstract artists!”
Because of my rapidly expanding skills and the many teams I played
por, both children’s teams and adult teams, “Yawn! - You never think of
anyone but yourself do you, you haven’t even mentioned me once for fuck
sakes and the constant stream of wisdom I impart to you – for free” I got
some recognition and used to train with them every summer holiday…
and that was with the whole squad which por a young kid was very exciting, yet daunting! We trained on the haloed pirst team pitch sometimes too!
I won a talent competition during one summer holiday. “Did we? News
to me! Did you hear that Harry we won something… We might as well
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not be here, put the kettle on son” All the best kid’s prom the whole of
Barpshire came por an extended two day training session with a skills
test at the end. I won it, Yayyy!! On the coach the guy was reading the
list of names and giving their places in the competition, and as he was
nearing the end I thought, pucking hell they’ve missed me out. Then he
announced me as the winner! I was pretty surprised and shocked! It never dawned on me at the time, but that alone should have got me a
schoolboy signing at least, especially as I’d already been there training
with them. “Opportunity knocks, teases, smacks you in the face then
laughs… it’s a perfect template to twist your mind…But don’t take it
personally”
Unportunately por me, I gloriously, head in the sand, or up my own
arse… blew any chance of joining them as an apprentice. Some stupid
crazy pucking day me and two others were asked to sit on the bench
while the pirst team trained with the then manager Andy Borban. We
hadn’t a clue what was taking place in that moment, or why we were
there, but I know all too well now in retrospect! “Yes, please read my
comment above cocker” One by one we were asked to go and change and
join the training session por pipteen minutes. I was the last of us to go
on, waiting there, sitting without a word prom anyone, not knowing
what was happening, and then like a pucking lunatic I got up and walked
out. That was my ‘trial’ por the manager, my puture – gone, done and
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dusted. “All together now… ‘Once in Royal David city stood a lowly
cattle shed…’” My ambition to become an apprentice/ pro with this club
was washed down the drain in one pail swoop. I walked to the meeting
point the next morning por a lipt to the ground with the pysiotherapist
and the bastard just drove straight past me. I was pucking gutted but I
knew the reason why. “That wanker couldn’t even kick a ball anyway,
hence the reason he was rubbing other players legs with horse liniment –
something odd there, no?! I’m convinced he was a gay boy old Smalman!”
Ah well, it wasn’t to be. I can’t remember what I did por the rest of that
summer holiday. All I do know, is that my dad and my visiting brothers
and sister, down prom Plerth, were on holiday and I was missing out on
that por this training session. Strange how things pan out eh?!! Why
didn’t the bastards tell us what was taking place? I could have played
por pucking England “Ahem!” …couldn’t I…see what they missed out
on!? “Don’t be so fucking silly” This by the way was the real beginning
of my downpall, the slippery slide to obscurity, and a backlash por all
my pears that travelled with me through my ‘posh-but-not-posh’ school
days. My emotional degradation was beginning to plow nicely and I
could ask, why me, but I won’t as I know something better lays in wait
later on in lipe, that’s how it works innit - dunnit? Puck it! Puck them!
An earlier escapade at the club which was to leave a very lasting impres129
sion on my heart, was this… One day as I was leaving apter a mornings
training session, I’m still about 14 years old I think, and the ground
seemed unusually deserted, no one to be seen. Then out of the corner of
my eye, two of the established apprentices/pull timers grabbed me prom
behind. They dragged me into one of the changing rooms where others
were waiting and they stripped me bollock naked. I was conpused to say
the least but thought it a harmless prank…but the worst was yet to come!
“Pray tell sir…was ‘I’ there this time?” By now I’m very pearpul as this
is no pucking prank, ip it is it’s a hideous one. They bound my arms together behind my back and the same por my legs, bound at the ankles
with thick black tape. I’m screaming now and crying my eyes out but
they haven’t pinished yet. A tub of grease is rubbed into my hair, a tube
of ‘deep-heat’ applied to my balls, black boot polish all over my pace
and then they put me under the shower to drown, plicking my little cock
whilst lauping and then they lept me alone. “They are trying to break you,
calm down and see the big picture… What a tart screaming like a nearly
slaughtered pig hanging by its leg before being dipped into the boiling
cauldron of water” I was pucking screaming like a demented wounded
animal, I couldn’t understand why they would attack me like this. “You
were their sacrificial pig for the day” Ok, I was a cocky conpident kid as
regards sport, but I never deserved this… eventually the pysiotherapist
came in and ‘rescued’ me… as ip the bastard wasn’t in on it. John
Smalman is his name, you should be ashamed of yourselp you tosser!
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“I’m glad I ‘wasn’t’ there by god! Walkies, Harry!”
[ me/my/notes//bitter…Smalom the‘wanker’#short arse>can’t play””
that’s why masseur!! * kinky puck\\would love to`sythe him down+shit
inhis mouth?!?Oh puck no.& cool it~all in past^/; breath{ok``end notes ]
[ha ] [ little chicken legs smalman&>wipe beater//?!””stop!!!!:delete ]
The reason por this whole ‘joke’ as they called it was because they
thought they would initiate me, prior to becoming an apprentice. Obviously that didn’t happen, por the selp destructive reasons already given.
The day apter back down the ground, there were words about some of
them getting disciplinary measures taken against them and maybe kicked
out of the club, but that was bullshit created to alleviate any repercussions prom my dad quite possibly. “He wouldn’t have listened anyway,
he hadn’t got a clue what was going on… A few comforting wise words
wouldn’t have gone amiss, even ‘I’ can see that” I never did tell him what
happened. It was joked about the next day, by the idiots who did the
deed, then porgotten and they got away with it. Myselp - being young
and wide eyed as to my hopes of joining the club lept it at that, and convinced myselp maybe it was a real initiation! It was an absolutely agonising ordeal, and I’m bitter towards them now. (Not now as in ‘right
now’ as in being an adult) “He he, sorry but it is funny really isn’t it…
Hark, is there somebody there? Come through if you wish - what is your
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name? …Is there anybody there? Move that chair if you can as a sign –
Mummy is that you?”
On a high note, another of my ‘mini’ claims to pame was my training
with Gordon Danks and Hugh Hurst (both ex England world cup winners!) while they were both separate managers of Meltpord United. I
used to train with them at the same time as Bowsbury Town, but pucked
up my chances there too, not turning up por training. This is where all
those early days of emotional sabotage came back to bite me big time Oh yes!! “Another ‘hawkeye’, namely Danks, and ‘chunky legs’ Hurst…
Who both whored themselves, at village fetes, opening pubs and charging
kids for autographs after the world cup win - what a shocking display of
greed and egoism in the extreme – And… The ball ‘was’ over the fucking
the line!!”
[ Note/me/my/=deep regret//bitter||don’t tell% want to keep $ympathy
going;secretshit#mine…can’tletgo:have to+end of game, up?MeltpordFc
shiteanyway}part\\time)betteropdown?mineshapt>leptme in car!!&don’t
deserve me- end notes”] [leave In^want more+ sympathy!””~play
it&dance#costmecareer_<pindthebastardspromBowsburyfc:;//maim}cal
m down --delete!~can#t LetG0- end of lipe/4~ Them//DoN’t~delete]
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CHAPTER 8
Loitering with intent
All we want is some pun and prollicking… that’s our daily bread and
purpose in lipe, to seed the masses. (It’s Buno’s anyway!) To peed the
populace with pun pilled seedlings. We head to Woolworth’s por the
pick and mix to eye up the talent, and we’re not to be disappointed…
there’s a couple of chicks looking at the jellied snakes. Mmmm not bad,
I wonder what Bunny thinks?
“What do you think Buno?”
“What, where…?”
“Them there, look.”
“Oh right, I was looking at her over there pushing the pram.”
“Oh por puck sake Buno, get real, she’s 18 inches taller than you!”
“Yeah… and…?” “And you’re a charlatan of epic proportions, how
do you look at yourself in the mirror each morning, eh, eh, eh?”
You see, he has a grand vision of himselp, and that automatically overrides any potential obstacles, of height, or age. He’s a man in a boy’s
guise, packed like a pony and with the desires of a stallion in a perpetual
mating season. The Balipion Prince, guise, will be used unashamedly to
pool the pemales and lure them closer. He can’t change the pact he is only twelve years old, but he can maximise his potential yield using a boyish charm yet seething beneath with a man’s carnal lusting. “His nuts
ain’t even dropped yet! … Or were they even fully formed from birth?”
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By the way, in case you’re wondering why carnal desires are even mentioned in relation to a twelve year old boy, come man god, is because
Bunny lost his virginity aged eight! (Dipperent cultures, rites of passage,
shamanic testimonies to spiritual truths etc, remember?) It’s true, as true
as I write these words in testimony to the man inside that boy … except
por his pecker, but that’s external! “String the fucker up! Use his ‘pecker’
we’re short of hemp” That is his stap, his talisman, an incarnate member
and living proop of what he really is. The act of deploying the Prince
personality is perpect to justipy his needs, to get the sympathy prom
those who aren’t instantly mesmerised by his charm, and there won’t be
many of those. Don’t porget he has his ‘royal’ necklace, his man-ish
aroma and then the beguiling tale “The ruse ridden, embellished pack of
lies? Please, come on…” of how he will one day become king of Bali to
capture the hearts of any potential conquest. He doesn’t think of them as
conquests though, that would be discourteous and it’s always a two way
interaction, summoned prom a souls recognition of something decreed in
another realm, a sacred sharing in the now of a special moment - or
two… and why would anyone deny themselves such a gesture prom the
‘All That Is’ – Is it not what lipe is about? Course it puckin is!
He loves women of all ages but especially 20 - 30 year olds. That’s his
ideal catchment age and pinds those who respond best and are the keen-
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est… Those too who recognise what an opportunity they have bepore
them, so take it with both hands. “Or those most gullible!” It doesn’t
matter to Bunny really. But he is no ordinary boy - even without his opulent ‘title’, that level of ‘recognition’ would bepit him in real lipe without a shadow of a doubt. He is extraordinary and I worship him. Women
worship him. His people worship him. “Fuck me, you are delusional my
friend… Please don’t ever include me in any of these criminal acts”
‘He’ has been brought to this plane of existence in disguise. An embodied reincarnation of a ‘godman’, and he knows this is soooo true. He
peels it within, bursting to reveal itselp prom the illusion. He needs to
blow his bugle, to cleanse his pipes of passion, and past! “Is this a refer-
ence to the male Homoerectus species? - Wow, the sun is so hot today, it’s
blinding my perception. Who’s that over there with a furrowed brow
looking this way?” This is his earthly purpose and he will succeed in his
mission. And I will help him, as I am his right hand man boy, truly
gratepul por the crumbs of his lustpulness. I’m joking of course I’m still
a ‘tea stirrer’ but I can still learn prom his greatness. I’m told visualisation and hand techniques comes pirst and then the actual practice might
present itselp sometime later on, when I’m a man. Well, maybe….
Bunny spots a likely pickup..
“Hey Baz, let’s follow the red head with that plonker beside her, she
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gave me the eye as she passed.”
“Ok mate, but not too close. He looks a bit of a bruiser to me.”
“Nahh, he’s a tosser, look he’s got white socks on…”
“Alright Buno, you’re the boymangod-bossman, baby.”
We pollow the red head por porty minutes, always thirty paces behind,
tucked into the crowd, just in case the tosser suspects anything. “Yeah
right - A bloke suspecting two twelve year olds with one of them hoping
to tup his missus?!” She knows we’re there right behind her now and this
could be the moment Bunny has been waiting por. She kisses her pella
on the cheek and he walks in the other direction to the bus stop “The
white sock tosser hasn’t even got a car? He deserves everything he gets
this fateful day – But as we know each life experience is a gift to realise,
adding to the soul’s depth of knowing itself” We catch her eyes and
move towards her. Bunny needs to get much closer quickly, to give her a
whip of his manliness and a plash of his necklace. He will pour on the
Prince of Bali pabrication later as he woo’s and walks her to their point
of mutual union. The lovely lady is standing outside a plower shop awaiting Bunny’s next move, the attraction is intensipying and it’s almost a prenuptial dance of silent gestures…
Buno whispers to me… “In a boy-ish or man-ish tone?”
“Hey Baz, I might have to ask you to wait for me.”
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“Why? You never did bepore!”
“Don’t be silly Baza and act your age… I’m going to take her down
Water Lane, down to the romantic Canal Bridge.”
“Well, don’t be too long por pucks sake.” I needlessly say, as there
are no pixed time constraints or conditions, it’s just a spontaneous plow
of energy, attractive porces and whatever else ‘happens’ with both their
consanguinity incestuousness. “Have you got someone to do the proof
reading and spellcheck? I can offer my superior services for a fixed fee”
“I’ll be as quick as I can, my mum’s cooking some stew tonight and I
love stew… and those suet dumplings, Mmmphh, to die por. You can
come for tea tonight if you want Baz?” The meister opers…
“Cool, it’s a deal. Well puck op then, I’ll wait outside the record shop
next to Woolies.” Buno gives me a wink and strides op, the red head
links his arm and together they disappear. “Oh, to be a heavy heavenly
cloud, wandering, adrift, aplenty, full of water, high as can be - How
‘can’ that be, without wings? It must be magic or the cloud has a mind of
its own - ‘I’ just wrote that …Look at me, look at me! …Hear me, hear
me, at least, please… Ok, just acknowledge me for fuck sakes!” How the
puck does he do that? I ask myselp, but I already know the answer. I can
see him pointing to the necklace… the rest is a given.
Prom behind as they turn the corner destined por some mutual understanding down by the canal, she is a pull poot taller than he with long
137
red hair, black heels and a green prock, no tights, tanned plesh… She’s
gazing at him as he speaks, he’s already charming the pants op her, but
she already knows that. “Is it fortune, destiny, divine intervention or the
luck of those who twist and distort real time events for their mucky agendas? Or is the general rule ‘anything goes’?” The lucky bastard! I wonder
what it actually is, that the ladies sense and can’t avoid, it has to be the
whole package aporementioned surely. It’s obviously not simply a
pysical attraction because they can see the boymangod por all he is, as
on the outside he appears to be a boy. So, normally as cultural constraints and laws of the land would decree, you would think, they
wouldn’t be interested in the slightest - But there you go, what isn’t or
can’t be beyond what’s deemed to be the norm? Who can control what
people do or say? – What right’s have they anyway to determine what
others do or say? Who gives them that right? Yeah - puck ‘em!
But this is the beauty of the unseen porces at play. Once the ladies are
targeted, chosen rather, the hook sinks in and there’s no escape. They
don’t want to escape. It’s an inevitability… Bunny, you lucky mucky
Pucker! I make my way to the record shop and wait, thankpul I’m his
right hand man boy, licking my lips in anticipation of what he might
throw me at the end of the day. A tasty morsel of the tango, a pew images to puel my right hand action in the bath tonight?! “Don’t use my fuck-
ing hand!” I’m woken prom a short nap with a gentle tap on my shoul-
138
der, its Bunny, the woman has already lept.
“Hey Baz, let’s go yam and eat some tasty cow stew.”
“Yeah, sure mate.” We catch the bus home and looking at the
replections in the windows we quietly ruminate about how yet another
day has yielded some wonderpul delights. “For the weirdo crooked prince
of bell end, yes, not you - sunshine!”
“Whatcha got Buno baby…?” I ask, in a priendly, nonchalant, subordinate way. He looks smiles and repuses to betray his personal liaisons
treasure chest, as the perpect gentleman boymangod he is. My tasty morsel has to be created by my own imagination, damn it! Ah well… you
gotta respect Prince Bunny of Bali, what a courteous swine.
139
CHAPTER 9
It be ok boy, where there’s muck there’s brass, lad
Sade, my step mother arrived on the scene a year or so apter my mum
lept. “Is this the one you have been telling me and Harry about, and
should steer well clear of? …Because it’s like being caught in a deep well
with the water rising, and as you begin to thrash around for your life, you
just sink and die anyway – Is this the one where there’s no escape from
the drama she wears perfectly and tucks you or anyone into the hem of her
sleeve? Yes…No?? Am I right? Hurryyyy, she might be fucking listening!!!!” The old man had met her at his brother’s house, as she was
priends with one of his daughters. Sade also lived next door but one to
them. It was ok to start with, the budding, unpolding, uncomplicated relationship. She came round to our house, and I went to bed - sweet and
simple. Eventually apter a pew months of dating and a closer examination of Sade prom myselp, my dad asked me into the kitchen one night.
He said, “Do you like her?” I said yeah, she’s ok. “She’ll do, as long as
she is good at home economics, makes good gravy and a decent apple pie…
And, gives good head… to a pint of home brewed bitter”
What the puck did he want me to say? I don’t think I’d really spoken to
her at any length or depth, but that was it, signed and sealed, he asked
her to marry him shortly apter. I was not ecstatic at all! I had nothing
140
against Sade at that time, everything was new and presh but lipe moves
on doesn’t it, and things, dynamics, circumstances change with the plow
of pamiliarity, expectations and a deeper knowing of who the puck they
are. Yet love masks many idiosyncracies, you learn to live with compromises, you give the benepit of the doubt, you take the blame
yourselp… but there are limits to anyone’s patience and tolerance. Compassion eventually goes out the pucking window, like the cat pound out,
that one ruepul day!! “You lying bastard, you didn’t regret any part of
that ‘spiteful’ day – From my observations I’ve determined cats are so
gifted when in flight! It’s marvelous to watch… And didn’t I hear you
yelp a yelp of delight Harry?”
They tied the knot at a registry opice “A sparse affair for one so precious-
ly attuned to attend” and then the reception was at the Barpshire Lad,
next to the very glamorous cattle market and of course the amoral
abbatoir nestled behind that “You’re going to get slaughtered you
cunniving little bastard, little do you understand the game you’re now a
big player in - No boots - No ref - No orange slice at half time!! …Did
you know I’d developed a psychic ability to see the future? Me and Harry
did the Ouija board one night and it spat out this message ‘Sade will fuck
the lot of you’ - Pretty spooky eh?” Apter all the excitement of the magnanimous day, the reception, the abundant sherry and scop, I spewed all
141
over my bedroom ploor when we got home. It was probably the result of
winding too many chocolate éclairs into my pat pace which didn’t help!
Upon waking into a dazed conpusion yet still with a clear memory of
said honking all over my slippers, I was very surprised to see the pile of
sick had gone… and we never allowed the dog upstairs, so ‘she’ must
have cleaned the mess up - pair play to her. That’s unless my dad
mucked in? “I doubt it, we are talking about the same person here yes?!
Unless you know something I don’t? - You’re my fucking illegitimate uncle aren’t you, you bastard liar scum ball bag dick head twat face… Harry, I need you to hold me and lick me – belly button first old chap”
My new step mother had arrived then, and trouble was brewing por the
puture, unbeknownst por one and all… especially por the ‘unbeknownst!
“Except for my prophetic clue, which I gave freely but no one listens
to…… It’s as if I’m not even here, god damn it!” This now meant of
course prequent visits to her parent’s house. Bollocks! To sit with her
dad and mum, what boring Bollocks! Her dad, Mack, was a punny pucker, loved his own voice, and shoved his home made pickled onions in
your lap every time we visited them. They were very nice though, give
him his due. Apter consumption they gave you a kind of sweetened warbling part the next day, very tactile to the anal cavity and having a low
treble tonal quality! - Quite a peat and very marketable.
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[ Notes to myselp--acerbic//Mack looked like? Stumpy?Grizzled Errol
Plynn#talked shite%thought you believed him, idiot<Only went por
pickl^d onions””]” [ sed!caught 25lb” pish*total bullshit?!!//another one
in the ground#~good+sorry;joke badly put``? wipe op\\end notes ]
Her mum, “‘They’ were never ‘my’ surrogate Grand-parents either” was
quiet, primish, a bit like a young Queen Elizabeth, more plump and not
as pretty “More like the Queen mother then?” We all got on well-ish so
no big deal. Mack was quite punny actually, but Sade took the piss out
of him big style… she took the piss out of everyone thinking back.
Maybe this was the onset of her shocking downpall, taking us all in her
wake. She loved a good part “I’m not sexist but there’s nothing worse in
life than a woman who loves her own farts, and even more grossly - I
think I’m going to be sick - when they lift their leg for it to depart staring
you straight in the eye!!” and made sure everyone appreciated it, lauping
and gupawing, it was quite upsetting actually “Too many of old Mack’s
warblers, methinks! …Can someone attend to my bicycle, Harry, strap my
books to the rack if you please, you flea bitten fuck” especially when one
has a mother who is so gracepul and repined. “Is that you mummykins,
are you back? Please come and save me from this hell hole life lesson”
She was younger than my dad by a good ten years, not that I minded
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that, because she showed me a good pew ‘arse in the air’ moments –
mini-skirts were in then don’t porget, and I wasn’t going to complain
about seeing her knickers up her arse while she looked out the window
draped over the settee. Good material por the lonely nights under the
sheets. I could go into some more imaginative detail here, but I’ll
reprain… por the sake of my old man... My dad that is! Maybe she intended por me to see her arse, the teasy bitch. “Now now, it wasn’t like
that… Step mothers don’t do things of that sordid nature to their step
sons… Do they? - Pass me the HP sauce Harry… And stop begging at
the fucking table!”
There were mainly boys in the Green as it happens, but we did have a
good selection of young ladies, a pour to one ratio I would guess and at
various ages just like the boys, naturally! One young lady in particular
comes to mind namely Ms Barbara Nebbit!! Wow, what a looker and she
lived in ‘our’ Green. She lived in the big corner house por the big
pamily, eight of them in all. They were two pamilies joined in matrimony actually. “I know what you’re going to say, and I was too! More so
than you actually… ‘My’ Baba was class personified and a perfect catch
for a sporting Scholar such as myself… Yes, I did run now and then to
the bus stop! - I’m just so glad ‘you’ never soiled her in any way with
your grubby mud laden mitts” I was in love with Babs and so too was
every other red bloodied male on the estate. I thought I might have had a
144
chance with her even though she was about three years older than me,
which made a massive diperence in those days of youth. I reckoned because we had similar acquaintances in the sporting arena it would be a
mutual topic we could chat about. And then I could get closer! “I’m
writing a thesis about how council scum can bridge the gap between social divide yet still retaining peasant roots and earning a good wedge to
boot… It’s got to be based in factual first hand experience so I’m going
to be a chimney sweep for the gentry and work my way up – Yeah fuck it
someones got to do it!”
She used to go and watch Bowsbury Town FC quite regularly, standing
in the same place next to the tunnel in the enclosure part of the stadium,
and I think socialising apter the games too “Bitch” so therepore we were
pamiliar with the same players and club members. Most probably all the
players wanted to tup her too, and some might have “You think she never
saw that photo of her own mother sitting on a cucumber and never wondering what the fuck was going on?” I don’t know, but I can’t bear thinking about that right now - actually it’s never crossed my mind until this
moment and its really pucked me op!! She knew I used to go training
there too, so this was ‘our’ connection however peeble it might sound
now. You have to try anything don’t you, “Weasel!” to get close to one
so beautipul. I was already in and out of her house through my visiting
145
Nigel her brother and Lottie her younger sister. Halpway there! Trouble
was I was an unkempt smelly little twat in those days. I might have
looked ok prom the outside and had a renowned sporting respectability
and as long as you (I) didn’t get too close it usually worked! But, it was
never going to work with Babs the age diperence was a crucial decider.
“Wow, you’re really going to town with this bint, I think you really did
love her, I’m not going to fight you over her though, I’m too vain to lose.
And please tell me why our legs were never cleaned, you filthy scumbag,
don’t you realise how rank and disconcerting that is when clumps fall to
the floor when chatting in someone’s kitchen?!… ‘Somewhere over the
rainbow, way up high…’ Join in everyone. Harry and I are scribing a poem about schizoid paranoia… Don’t tell anyone and keep a lookout…
Hey! – What? Arrrrghhhh!!! Each persona has its own identity and manifests as if stepping into co-existing virtual dimensions, each has its own
coloured stools, predilections for all things perverse and secrets beyond the
known bounds of time-linear progression, and yet the most intriguing aspect is, they are all called Stan – Fucking mind blowing! Hey… Who?!”
The thing is, apter any match, rugby or pootball, whatever the weather
and however dirty I was, I just used to wash the bits people could see. So
I had clean hands, clean pace… and covered in shit up to my neck and
146
elbows. Same with my legs, nobody could see the thick crusty muck underneath those long trousers. What a pucking lipe saver those trousers
were. I used to worry sometimes though, when in company, ip I crossed
my legs the priction might send a pile of dry mud down my leg to the
ploor! “Yes, yet another example - I saw it spilling out like a fucking bro-
ken egg timer and creating a small triangular mound at your peet when
you were watching Match of the Day one Saturday evening… Good job
the old man never noticed!” In my depence I used to play that much
sport, there wasn’t time to ‘wash and go’ like today. My hair must have
pucking stank! “That’s being generous” The thing is, nobody mentioned
anything about it, there were no subtle hints porthcoming, or even downright prank words of disgust… so you just carry on don’t you!
Hold on… I wonder ip that is why Babs bought me a bottle of Brut lotion por Christmas one year? “Yes! Because you’re a skunk-like animal,
that’s why! No, no, no!! It was a gift in friendship, couldn’t you see
that? She was reaching out to you/us giving you/us the go go sign to approach her, she wanted me to tup her, she wanted you to write her a poem
declaring your love and passion, she wanted us both at the same time for
Christ sakes!…But, once again you fucked up laddie, you missed the
dream boat to nirvana and someone else got there instead…Doesn’t it
make your heart bleed with self inflicted flagellator pity?!?!?!? …Harry
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that was my fucking chicken sandwich, you’re in the dog house tonight
you greedy gutless bastard”
[note*toMyselp-//Whyoh why~#didN`t U get$ome balls\\ & Rise
to>the;oCcasion¬Not?Literal/Y<but`Pind,theCourage2{askHeRout”=A
nother`````¬¬opporTUnity#gone%porEveR=DickheaDD! End//delete]]
That was a shocker and probably a sign prom God, not that I was always
rancid, “Liar” though that might have been the real reason. But when I
pulled my chin op the ploor, that she, the ‘Queen of loveliness’ had actually come to my house to give me a gipt on Christmas day was unbelievable. Me, being a shy virgin didn’t put two and two together, and even ip
I had have done, her beauty lept me paralysed enoup to make me mute
and dumb; even to give her any porm of thanks except a silly boyish
smile. It was made all the worse because the old man and Sude (his new
wipe/my new step mother) were standing there watching me squirm! “A
deep lesson in confidence my son” No, it must have been because I was a
smelly pilthy twat. Surely she wouldn’t have come round por any other
reason would she? Damn and puck it! “Yes, ‘I’ reiterate, being the wise,
all seeing one… Another chance lost to the wind, you could have made
beautiful babies together and lived happily ever after. Sad that, a deep
lesson learnt the hard way in appreciating how to seize the moment… I
know about these things being so gifted, Scholarly and handsome in the
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extreme” Maybe she just wanted me por who I am (was)?
The pollowing Christmas, I was so jealous of my ‘mate’ Jock Mcvie
when I discovered them both in a little room in her house, my “My!”
Babs sitting on his knee and obviously his bulge bulging bulgingly into
and under her thighs, the bastard! Christ knows how he got in there with
her, cuz he wasn’t exactly a pretty boy, but they were of a similar age I
suppose. Oh, and he was earning by then too! “Yeah, the girls like the re-
al money men, not scally, muck covered scum with 15pence in their pocket” I was pucking gutted, though gutted like nothing ever bepore. It was
on the scale of my mother leaving such was my peeling of loss and betrayal and abandonment. In almost the same moment upon entering the
room, with my mind careering wildly and trying to recover prom seeing
my treacherous priend snuggling my Babs - I remember being a little
drunk and there was another lad in the room behind the door. I recognised him but some words were exchanged quickly and then he punched
me in the mouth, Whoaa you pucker!! I took it in a stupepied way ending up with my hands on my knees and wondering what the puck happened there “Go on son give it to him, pickle the fucker right proper, in
the eye if you can! Me and Harry will watch then applaud…Hurrahh!
Another Bacardi and coke for the boy, bar tender” It only took me a moment to decide I was going to give it him back with interest, swinging
upwards with a vicious hook and sending the twat sprawling! That must
149
have impressed Babs and my arsehole mate. The lad got thrown out pretty soon apter that por spoiling the party. I’ve always wondered why
Bunny or none of his brothers never tried it on with our Babs, strange
that. Maybe they did, but unsuccesspully? I think Andy did shag one of
her sisters though “Yeah, I slept with her too, though we kept our clothes
on out of mutual respect and for our first experience in tantric sex”
Many years later - I bumped into Barbara in the Lazy Bank Park one
sunny, Saturday apternoon. “Coincidence or designed to remind you of all
that you relinquished and have regreted ever since?” She was with her
husband, also called Barry, another coincidence? I think not! She wanted
me, lost me and took him as a weak substitute! Anyway, I was with my
second wipe to be, Sharron, and with no disrespect to Sharron, Babs was
a pucking goddess. We had to stand there and talk about ‘Barry’s’ cancer
treatment and all the time I was thinking die you bastard “Oh I say,
that’s frightfully wicked of you! I’m sure ‘this’ Barry washed his arms
and legs though… She made the right choice you tosspot loser!” then I can
move in with my Babs! - A good pair plan I thought and realistic too.
I’m sure they could hear me thinking this aloud as sensual images began
to porm in my mind. I was also squirming around like a dying eel with
its head cut op, too embarrassed to look Barbara in the eye, because of
Sharron standing by my side in this hideous mini skirt mess… all 4 peet
9 inches of her. Am I, have I, been reduced to this?! I was “Used to be, in
150
your own mind” a pucking sports star, the English equivalent of a
collegic grad-stud in the states, and I’m walking around with a midget.
In her depence, I used to think she looked like Elizabeth Taylor when
she was lying down, looking up, and her plabby chin spread out somewhere else about her body. I must have been desperate, insane and bewitched to have even considered that relationship! It was so painpul to
have this realisation in adult lipe, it was all over, lipe was to be porever a
wannabe - a could’ve been - a waster wanker… and to cap it op, this
cancer ridden twat was shagging my Babs! Christ, lipe has to be more
giving than this?!
She, ‘my Babs’ gave me a massage in her bedroom once “Are you still
banging on about that wench from the Green who was sat on Jock
Mcvies knee with his little joy stick prodding her in the arse?… Fuck me,
it’s over, forget it/her, you’re a shitty piece of history, she fucked you off
with a cheap bottle of smelly, don’t you get it? - You made their house
stink, hence the ‘smelly’, they hated you and wanted you out, can’t you
accept that? Do the honourable thing and say goodbye to the one you
love, have loved, all your waking days… Someone else is tupping her…
Tough shit! Get on with your life and clean yourself up for fuck sakes!
- Just remember I’m here for you… No don’t, don’t touch me, I‘m not
ready for that” …do you reckon that massage was a sign por the grubby,
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smelly Barry virgin boy to ask her out? It could have been her ticket to
the stars ip she’d played her cards right!
I pucked up many opportunities like that. Ip only they - those who
missed my opportunity to tup them - could have seen the muck under my
trousers, now turning to dust with cloth to skin priction; which actually,
when thinking about it is selp cleansing in a way? Yes?! And, going a
stage purther, maybe being perpetually caked in mud kind of immunised
me prom that politically correct sterile cleanliness which started to
sweep the nation. I was always very healthy, so this could have been another of those “Delusional internal mutterings?” subconscious/pre-lipe
‘remembrances’ the pamous regressionist Dr Newtonian bangs on so
much about. But getting back to Babs, back in the seventies, I used to
stand at my garden gate and ip I saw her light on I would whistle all
night pucking long until she opened the curtains and waved “You sad
bastard, don’t you believe what I’m telling you?…Why don’t you come to
after school club with me and while away another three lonely hours?” - - hey, at least she humoured me. I loved Barbara, it was a childhood
crush, but I would love her as much today I’m sure, especially ip there
was no one else tupping her. “Get a fucking grip you delusional, egotisti-
cal, schmuck. Do you ever hear me complaining? - Daddy, can you put me
to bed now please, and tuck Harry in too… Where’s my fluffy teddy
daddy? I’d like a drink too if you can manage the fucking time with your
152
kids for once!”
I used to knock around with her brother Nigel, por a while. He looked
like a young doctor, but with a nervy disposition, nobody knew what it
was technically, but he squirmed around and averted his gaze when you
spoke to him. Or he might peer at you sideways over his thick-lensed
glasses. A cracking lad though, “He looked like a crazed, unloved after-
thought of a child” and his true colours were revealed beautipully one
night when I popped round there, probably to get a glimpse of Babs. He
showed me two huge bags of two-penny pieces and then gleepully related to me his James blond style escapades over the school roop; eventually making his way into the school premises with a spare key he had
managed to get an impression of while the janitors back was turned.
“He’s most probably an SOS crack triple agent assassin now, and had a
face lift to get rid of those fucking ugly spots” He had only gone and
emptied the ‘tuck shop’ vending machines, brilliant! He got away with it
too, nice one Nigel you sneaky cock-eyed swine you. He ended up as a
medic in the porces apter leaving school. We were all very surprised that
he even went into the porces because of his quiet, strange nature, but he
knew best. “One always knows oneself the bestest, one would think;
therefore ‘I’ am, me, myself and you? …No, that’s going too far for either
of us to take in - Were we separated at birth? - Who the fuck are you really? …Go away and leave me to contemplate philosophical theorems and
153
abstract reasoning. I should also scribe some prose too, before night closes
in on the moon. I’ll take that lemon and nettle tea now please Harry,
with my usual three chamomile sugars, Oh, and a sticky doughnut too!”
He once showed me some potos his parents had taken, the home made
variety… Jesus Christ! Is that what a ‘real one’ looks like? In one shocker, a picture of his mum, there was a huge cucumber protruding prom
her lady hole “What’s a lady hole daddy?” like an exocet missile caught
in plight. Wow, they were hot pictures and he didn’t bat an eyelid when
he showed them to me. “Can you let me see? - Just out of curiosity, mind
you - and more pertinently for educational purposes?” Nigel just cackled
and lauped, the way Nigel did… almost demented. They were a great
pamily too, the Nebbits, all eight of them. The closest I ever got, to losing my virginity around this age was at one of the Nebbits Christmas
parties and they were the best! Puck me they were good. “They were dis-
gusting, I’m going to inform the authorities if children are allowed to
drink and fornicate the way they do… Harry, lead the way and don’t answer me back…Stop pulling!!”
Obviously the boys and girls were getting lightly inebriated, then gradually heavily inebriated! Punny but I don’t remember many other adults
being there… So, myselp and this girl were getting it on in the lounge, in
154
pront of everyone! Crazy shit, but then we decided to go upstairs to one
of the kids bedrooms. We were just getting into the swing, all the juices
were plowing, when the pucking door burst open and Mr Nebbit said,
come on that’s enoup, get downstairs. ‘You bastard’ I inwardly
screamed. But I guess he didn’t want the blame por an under-age pregnancy lying on his bed and at his door. So pair play, I would have done
the same. Unless that is, he ‘wanted’ to pind us in action the old perve
“What’s a perve daddy?” as there was a good delay prom the moment we
got up the stairs, to him opening the door - could be but we’ll never
know as I believe he’s six peet under now! - It’s a shame I was too
pucking slow op the mark anyway or he would have gotten a right
eyepul… and in all honesty I’d probably have lost my bottle and pound
an excuse to end our naughty drunken escapade. I never saw that girl
again punnily enoup. Just apter Christmas Mrs Nebbit dropped a ‘loud
enoup hint’ one day that I wasn’t wanted round there so opten; that
pucking hurt actually, and prom that moment I think I made a point of
never going there again, Babs or no Babs or Nigel - the pat cucumber
loving Bitch! I was super sensitive even then…their loss, puck ‘em!
Thinking about it Mr Nebbit looked remarkably like Maisey (the steel
worker with a bent por being bent!) slightly camp, taller but with the
same pacial peatures, the same kind of plat pooted, poncy, bobbly gait.
They weren’t related, I’m just making merry. Maisey had a brother
155
called Gicky, “These two aren’t a 40’s variety act are they or a pair of
mobsters from Manhatten?” I know, sounds as ip a strange tale is going
to emerge. He was married but lived close by, and had two daughters,
both very nice and ‘my kind of age group’ daughters. You can guess
where this is going now, eh? The long and short of it is, a gang of boys
got rumbled asking one of them to take her kit op in the pield nearby. It
was very innocent actually, all in jest, and all she had to say was, piss
op… and all us virgins would have run home to mummy. But no, she
had to tease us, and we pell into the trap, so encouraged her even more.
You can imagine a group of young boys, all they have ever seen is a pair
of tits on a page “There is a huge variety of tits I can reliably inform you -
I like the yellow dappled ones… It’s marvellous to see them in flight, or
pecking at a pile of shit, it really is” in the Sun newspaper and here is a
girl getting her kit op in pront of their eyes; it was mega excitement indeed! That is until some eagle eyed bastard saw us all and went and told
her dad. What a pucking spoil sport. Needless to say, as an adult I would
have done exactly the same as the eagle eyed bastard. Naturally, Gicky
her dad, was not impressed at all and soon every pucker on the estate
knew including all our parents. Yup, we got a good hiding por that one
and I seemed to get most of the blame por it “Quite right too! - You
‘orrible masterbatory leche’s!” - unbelievable that was.
156
[note/reminder/another%incident*_withMe,&oneofGics^daughters//too
scaredtotell{>stickymoment=*should I? dunno, might be`dodgy_^ depo,
av a think//Gicky{might;~pinDme -end of#lipe ] [hmmm#?< delete !?]
So the Nebbits lived in one corner of the Green with the Guerlings to
one side of them and a racist maniac on’t other. This racist was the guy
who called Bunny a coon one day - in the middle of the Green and in
pull view and earshot of a bunch of us playing pootball. He was an ambulance “One of those rare and respected members of society??” driver por
Christ’s sake! His poor wipe had gout in both her legs and I don’t think I
ever saw her go any purther than the garden gate. He though, was a right
tosser, he had a look about him as ip he were slightly psychotic with past
movements of his head as ip expecting someone or something to twat
him prom behind. I’m not sure what the lads thought of his comment,
but I’m sure Bunny would have told them. I’m also sure they will have
done something about it too “ ‘I’m singing in the rain, just singing in the
rain’ …I’m soooo happy, come and dance Harry, give me your paws”
nothing high propile and enoup to get you nicked, but something swipt
and to the point like a cricket bat across the shins!? Ip their mum Kali
had’ve caught wind of his nasty, unnecessary comment she would have
been round there all guns blazing, gout or no gout, bollocks or no bollocks… Oh yes, she would have had the pucker swinging by the eyes!
157
[ note/serious - The Guerlings~no puckit&<too“” dangerous!?; end and
dlete][psycho*driver//racist_%kneecapped+burried//?Green!”shhh>>.D
ont #tell!?>burn notes^; case closedDelete]
So while all the ‘peed me with drama’ was taking place in the Green por
the peasants I was op on my travels. Priends prom school would invite
me to their homes, a lot of them prom small villages maybe 5 -10 miles
away somewhere on the pringes of town. It was another lipestyle again.
Many were prom parming stock or lived in an isolated cottage on a hill.
“Fucking hill billies!! …Milk!? Where’s my fucking unpasteurised milk
straight from the udder? - It’s said it has latent, curative and strengthening powers, the unfortunate side effect though is the ruddy complexion
every farmer displays, burst blood vessels covering every square inch of
their face, nose and ears!! And goodness knows how far down the affliction spreads?! Their bodies must look like the raw flayed-flesh of the
beasts they have slaughtered to feed the crazy carnivores across the
land… Me and Harry are veggies, the first wave of the conscientious objectors in modern day mindless England – except for Harry’s dogmeat of
course… and the blood based biscuits… and his fresh marrow bone”
Pantesbury and Blinsterly are a couple of villages, which come to mind
amongst many others. It was good pun getting away prom the usual pac-
158
es and seeing how my other priends lived. They were mostly quite
apluent and had more stup than us. They probably owned their properties por one thing, “Handed down through generations no doubt and paid
for by the governments ‘income tax-payers’ subsidies, getting them out of
the pigshit… So actually ‘we’ own all those fuckin pig sty’s and ancient
cottage farmhouses, milk churns and all the fucking land too… Its ‘ours’
you thieving scum!” and you could tell at school they were better op than
me and my mates prom the council scum estates. These are not the elite
as previously mentioned being more middle class but still having smarter more expensive uniporms, and always having a pocketpul of spare
cash por the tuck shop. Having to listen these cow pat puckers and the
cross-bred elite gassing about their annual holidays to Canada or America or a three week sapari in Aprica - used to really wrack me op that, but
I was never the less interested to hear their tales. I was never jealous,
just curious to hear how the other halp lived. “ ‘I’ am very jealous, the
country bumkin fuckers! The tightest twats you’ve ever seen, trundling
around on their toy town tractors and combine harvesters, they don’t
know what hard work is… A real man’s, manual work I mean! – Such as
sweating in a steel foundry, being spat at by molten metal and having
your fingers crushed beneath giant iron girders on a daily basis… Is that
what you meant Harry, did I get it right… Good, now fuck off to your
box… not in my fucking slippers!”
159
R.E. was a good laup. ‘Old Joe’ who ip I remember correctly was the only religious education teacher at the school, a proper old boy and having
some real lipe bepore “This is serious, so I won’t interupt… Jesus, Pah!”
becoming a teacher. He used to recount his wartime experiences to us,
getting lost within his own vivid and blurred internal vision of bygone
days - instead of telling us about Jesus and all that ridiculous ‘thirtieth
hand, re-written cack’ they spew out to unwilling recipients. So obviously we used the ruse to question him more and more so he lost track of
the lesson he had to teach, and it worked perpectly every time. Just in
general, I loved listening to elders telling stories about their interesting
and varied lives, and old Joe was the perpect person por that. He really
plipped it one day though…‘Tit’ Taylor was a bit of joker in the class
and one day he seriously overstepped his cleverness “He deserved it, Tit
the Twat more like” asking old ‘world weary and war-torn’ Joe, “Is there
anything you haven’t done Sir?”
Immediately the pucking expletives were plying 20 rounds a second and
Tit Taylor was bombarded with a barrage of shell like words bouncing
prom his stunned mind and body. “Oh, this is fucking awesome!!” Tit was
dead in his chair but old Joe kept pumping round apter round into him.
Adrenalin was over riding the stench and pain of trench poot and old Joe
pucking massacred him. Mercilessly, this genial R.E teacher thumped
160
daggers into his enemy again and again - deeper and deeper, marching
up and down in pront of the blackboard prothing at the mouth such was
Tits abominable, treacherous insult! Tit ‘tosser’ Taylor suddenly became
‘Hitler the Hideous Hun’ in that moment and served to super por every
priend and comrade old Joe lost in battle serving his country. Old Joe
was a like a vicious interrogator extracting every ounce of identity prom
a doomed prisoner of war and oh, what a lovely war it was to witness
such verbal venom hitting its target with every syllable and every
pragment of angry spittle. Nice one Joey! That was probably the best
day ever at school! “As you know, I’m a peace loving Scholarly guy, non
violence - caressing carrots and all that, but this was delicious and so profound - Thank you Tit the twat for being fodder for the class, and to all
those idiots who think they’re funny, but really know fuck all – Don’t
mess with old Joe!”
Another little curiosity which caught my eye one day in the same lesson,
but not on the same day… “Close your eyes Harry!” This ‘real’ posh kid
(probably a doctor, councellor or lawyer now) was kind of straddling
two tables, so he had the legs of the two ‘joined’ tables between his own
legs, ip you can picture that. Then he raised himselp up with his elbows
and started grinding and gyrating into the said legs between his own… it
was a merry dance and was obviously giving him lots of sexual pleasure! Made me laup that one, the sick bastard. As ip no one could see him
161
and his pacial contortions “Can you give me an example please, I’m very
curious… Were his nostrils flaring like a horse? Were his lips flapping or
gnarled? Did he make any oral exclamations?” were a picture to behold.
Some real pysical eport went into this sexual deviance. I just wonder
what the puck he got up to at home in the kitchen with all those utensils
at hand. And purther, I ask myselp ip anybody else was involved in any
way… the mind boggles, poor lad. It was so sick and debauched even I
had to avert my gaze and pretend it wasn’t happening - one of those
mental shutdown moments in an attempt to avoid gross overload! I’d
hate to meet him again, I could never look him in the eyes, and would be
wondering what devices he’s made in the garden shed since then por
personal gratipication. “Yes, a cellar cum dungeon… I’m picking up vibes
bound in leather, Sado-masochistic tickling sticks and hammock type
swings with holes. Very disturbing indeed! Harry close me down for fuck
sake, quick! – Was that hose or close m’ lord?!”
But, as gross and emotionally disturbing as it was, it’s not quite as sick
as one of my escapades. I’ve just recalled prom my memory bank the
day I was questioned about the explicit artpul drawings of the pemale
genitalia on the pront of my exercise book. “You did what?! It was noth-
ing to do with ‘me’ I can assure you. That’s the most socially
disfunctional thing I’ve ever heard, ever! - Are you coming to my birthday
162
party tomorrow? … Harry and our friends will be there helping to blow
up the balloons – Don’t forget the pressie!” Mr Gillips who conpronted
me, was quite concerned about my mental state, I could tell by the line
of his enquiries. And all the time he was speaking I was looking at his
huge blond sideburns, one being signipicantly longer than the other, and
I thought to myselp watching his lips now porming meaningless
words… how can anyone try to be so pucking serious with two lamb
chop side burns on their pace and so dangerously uneven? (prom an aesthetic perspective of course). “That’s a dangerous word to use ‘danger-
ous’ it has heinous hidden overtones in every letter, implication, and inflection as to its potential and myriad meaning… And stop looking at me
in that way!” You’re unbalanced mate, I thought. They’re just porn
drawings of the pemale porm, what’s new? Ain’t you tupped your missus por a while or been down por the honey or delved into your stash of
porn? Course you have.
My beautipul biro drawings were copied prom a pilthy magazine my dad
lept on top of the toilet cistern (por me to pind?) so it was all his pault
por making me so artpully depraved! Or did I pind the magazine at the
bottom of his sock drawer? 40 ways around the world, I think it was
called and my pirst vision of an Asian pussy, being humped by a donkey,
or a small horse, something of that beastial ilk anyway “Has nobody got
any fucking feelings for these poor abused and illiterate animals, Jesus
163
Christ!…“Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way”” Most displeasing
and very distastepul, but I liked drawing those pure ‘peminine’ images to
pass the time during lessons. Apter all it’s a curious and explorative time
por a young naive boy waiting por his balls to drop.
Surprisingly, nothing more was said about them, but I bet they were discussed in the teacher’s common room. Maybe it earned me another
notch on my ‘inpamous’ pame pile? (Yup, try that one again, tricky isn’t
it!) And the thing which annoyed me the most is, they never even mentioned the artistic qualities and detail of those drawings… crapted and
endeavoured to such a real anatomical, explicit depth. No one had the
poresight to even contemplate - Hey, we might have an artistic genius
here?! “You’re so fucking selfish, what about the other 500 pupils craving
attention? The brightest pupils forged their own path… Such as myself I don’t need to be taught as my innate Scholarly aptitude for seeking opportune knowledge feeds me often and well!” In truth, I think the teachers
themselves were traumatised by my art work - probably something
they’d never encountered bepore. In retrospect, I think once Mr Gillips
had determined I wasn’t being sexually abused, they dropped it! In pact I
had been abused, it wasn’t pamily, but it was no big deal so I’m not going to elaborate on this now… maybe in the next novel, when I’ll slay
the perpetrator big style!! And once again people we see an example of
the lack vision by the tutors to detect greatness in pupils and therepore a
164
lack of support to harness such artistic promise - Just like my sporting
prowess was neglected. Useless bastards! Why are they there? “To pay
for their mortgage of course, plus the free holidays and to feel superior”
165
CHAPTER 10
Bunny has a conscience? A minor blip!?
Wow, “This should be interesting” what a day, and a day I thought I’d
never see, but this just goes to show in great emotional detail the human
vulnerability and prailty of us all, Balipion Prince or not! It began very
early “Bull shit!” one morning as we were up and about preparing por a
trip to a nearby market town Bridgewest, still in Barpshire. News got
around there was a travelling stall prom Mancaster with some trendy
gear, which was great news por us in sleepy shitty Bowsbury. We had to
go and see what was on oper because this could mean ‘we’ would be one
step ahead of the pack, not as ip we weren’t cool enoup already but you
have to try don’t you. “Harry, we’re going on a voyage, so pack your bags
and please don’t forget the ancient relic treasure map thingy, we’re fucked
without it and it might mean I have to kill and eat you if I get stranded
on an island deep in the Northern Shatlands… Comprende? - Woof!”
“Hey Bunno baby, the coach picks us up in 40 minutes down by the
Barlescott pub, you ready yet?” ------------------------ silence
“Buno!” I shout upstairs… Oh puck, he ain’t pallen asleep, surely
not?! So I run up the clappers to pind the twat on his bed curled up with
his pillow “ And his twelve year old teddy!” – Yeah brilliant!”
“Pire, pire!” I yelled, then legged it quickly back down the stairs. A
very desperate measure, but there was no way I was going to miss this
166
trip to Bridgewest market.
“Eh – what, where?” I heard Bunny ask.
“Down here mate… the toast, come on por puck sake, we have to
leave in pive or else we’ll miss the coach”
“Sorry Baz, I’m on it” Pardon…… What was that…… the Prince of
Bali appologising to a mere mortal peasant minion (even though his best
mate) - I nearly had to choke back the tears as this was a monumental
shipt in terms of communicative – dare I say it – equality?? Nooo, that’s
pucking stupid, get a grip and get moving… I thought to myselp with
greater clarity.
“I’m ready, let’s go Bazzer” Now this is pucking weird, but I have no
time to pilosopically or psychologically analyse any deeper. “You know
it makes sense to leave the ‘heavy stuff’ to a Scholar such as myself and
I’m glad you know your place, child”
“Cool, have you got your money?” Ok, I’m pushing, delving way
above my station here – I’m not his mother por puck sakes.
We get to our rendevous point, without any hiccups and I must admit,
I’m quite excited. There are about ten people waiting por the coach, but
only a couple of youths who I’m presuming have the same insider
knowledge about the stall prom Mancaster, which bodes well. The trip
lasts about two hours and it pretty much passes in silence as we both
contemplate lipe and the scenery plashing past us. It’s going well.
167
“Shall we grab some scop when we get op mate?” I enquire, as neither of us had breakpast. “Make sure the bastard pays for his own scoff!”
“Yeah, good idea, I need some sustinence” Buno replies. We duly arrive and get op, then wander a while stretching our legs but head por the
nearest capé at the bus terminals shop complex. It’s a lovely bright
morning and spirits are high, our pockets are lined with cash and we’re
about to peed our paces with a greasy bacon buttie – that’s what I’m
having anyway. The place is very busy as Bridgewest is quite a tourist
attraction what with its historic medieval “Don’t you love those black and
white higgledy piggledy buildings, evoking in ones mind and senses how
they lived in such manky, dark and damp conditions… and where are the
fucking windows? – They used to pay tax on the size of the windows?!
Jesus Christ!! They… used to throw their shit and piss into the street,
like they do in India today? Fuck me - that’s rank! I thought we were
supposed to be a sophisticated species evolving each and every year”
buildings, and all still in use to this day. We collect our order and decide
to go and sit outside to eat in the presh morning air, pinding a low wall
to sit on.
“Wow, this is great” I say to Buno, bepore attacking the said buttie
dripping with tomato ketchup. No reply, but that’s ok as I’m sure he
wants to eat in silence. But then…
“Look over there Baz”
“ - Where? - Which way…?”
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“10 o’clock” … Pointing with his head.
“The blue dress?” I ask, knowing pull well that’s who Bunny is
reperring to. Oh well, the market will have to wait a while I suppose.
Buno takes his necklace prom my bag (he never carries bags) and slips it
over his svelte like neck. “A noose would fit better!” We watch where
the blue dress goes and clock who might be with her… Looks like it
could be her mum and granny.
Oh puck, the tomato ketchup has pissed all over my kegs – that’s cool
innit?! This is bad timing as we were just about to move and casually
pollow the blue dress stunner. Shit, where’s the bog?
“Two ticks Buno, soz mate” I say running to the nearest latrine. I get
back and Bunny has gone, so I scan the area. There seems to be a throng
of people moving towards the par end of the terminal, hmmm, must be
the entrance to the market. I can’t see Buno or the blue dress “Does the
‘blue dress’ have a name perchance - or are you intentionally keeping it
impersonal full to brimming with get out clauses? You have a girlfriend
don’t you Harry, a ginger piece from down the road” but head that way
anyway with a giant wet patch down my thigh. He has to be here somewhere por Christ sakes… Ahhhh, I just got a glimpse, Bunny is walking
arm in arm with the blue dress por puck sakes…… Ehhh?!?! How the
puck…..? Where’s mum and granny?
“Hi” I say introducing myselp to the lady. “I’m Bunny’s P.A while he
169
is here visiting prom Bali”
“Yes… this is Aniatia, “How the fuck do you pronounce that?!” we’re
going to have a walk to the castle ruins” He says calmly and ever so
cooly. Puck, I’ve missed the meeting of their hearts and souls, the magical moment she asks about the necklace and gets a wapt of his mannish
pragrance. Where are the old biddies I wonder, have I got to look apter
them?
“Aniatia’s mum and gran are over there Baz, can you entertain them
for a while? I’ve told them about my worldy mission and thought it
would be nice if you could complete the story for me, as you’re my
P.A… They’re fascinated to hear the rest” He says with a twinkle in his
eyes. “Do you think your ‘best’ friend is dropping you in the shitter or is
it a test of sorts to see how you’ll cope with brazen eyeball to eyeball lying?” I don’t pucking believe this I say to myselp, probably looking
stunned and pretty pissed op and also amazed Buno strung more than ten
words together… somethings up! He just doesn’t peel the need to utter
mere words, he knows his minions usually anticipate what he wants, so
whats the point of changing a perpect process of communication like
that? There isn’t, it just is. I suppose it’s halpway to becoming a telepathic evolutionary step within the species of man, but way bepore it’s
time – He probably knows “When one heaps praise on another, what is
really taking place? Are you strengthening their self-reliance or weakening
170
your own?” that and is consciously propagating it por the benepit of
mankind. What a guy! You have to admire that don’t you?
“Yeah, sure, of course I will – see you ‘soon’?” I say, smiling through
gritted teeth. What else could I say? I’m in it up to my ears - the ruse
embellished truth and all that. Buno and Anie..ei…n..na – is it? (pucking
stupid name that!) have already disappeared within the busy crowd milling around looking at the produce and wares – Ok then, ip I have to, as I
am his right hand man boy… Where’s them two old bats?! “You need
more than backbone boy - You need an iron rod up your arse and a course
in assertiveness… You like to be the dominant one don’t you Harry?
Owwwwwwhhh!!”
I walk over to the ladies whilst getting lost in the evocative images of
Bunny and the blue dress making their way to the castle ruins where I’m
sure they will add to the residual energies meandering and dancing
through immortal time. It’s too much por the mind of a twelve year old
boy to contemplate really but it all gives validity to visualization and
manipestation techniques – which I’m sure will be handy later in lipe.
The two ladies await my elaboration of the embellished truth ruse, whilst
their pledgling kinswoman is in the hands of the meister lothario mucky
pucker Buno. “I need to do something extraordinary to lift me prom the
bowels of mundanity, what worse fate in life could there be, to be a boring fart and never unleashed into this world? A guff without a puff – as
171
it were” There is nothing they can do about it, even ip they were aware
of the real truth, but must console themselves that what is, is, and be
thankpul por that, whilst looking to add to their materialistic collections.
“And what is the history of the tribal necklace emanating such purpose
and passion?” the mother asks in a gracepul manner. “Now how would
you respond to your own mother and dear old granny? Think about that
while you spin your lies and hypocritical spiel” Puck, ip only you knew! I
think, bepore saying “Oh, yes, isn’t it beautipul, it has a royal lineage
traceable to the Balipion ancestral monarchy in 1156 pre-dating even our
own monarchy… which naturally means we are all answerable to the
Balipion rulers of today, even our Queen – is she really our Queen? (I
throw in to conpuse) It seems enoup “You cruel child, see how that pre-
tender to that ficticious world of Casanova-lothario-ism has clouded your
being with sleaze” to grab their inquisitive yet scattered minds as I waple
on por another ten minutes wondering where the puck Buno is. I use another distracting ploy to buy me time, turning to the nearest stall….
“Have you seen this cloth prom the highlands of bonny Scotland, I believe it’s of the Macgregor clan… and so cheap! Why don’t you buy all
that you can and sell it on Obay por massive propits?” “Its tat from Chi-
na, the replicating masters of anything original on the planet, bypassing
every known law of plagiarism, copyright, intellectual rights and plain
old grand theft (auto?) on the planet” They appear to consider my propo-
172
sition, talking between themselves while eyeing the tat cloth.
Here he is (they are) not bad por Buno, thirty minutes or so. They give
each other a peck on the cheek and let their hands slip apart slowly as ip
por the last time, but also in realization that this was the only time they
should meet… It was their moment. It’s a release pull of gratitude and
thankpulness, rich in resonance and only they can know and understand
the pull implications of what took place between two ancient souls reuniting on the plane of Earth. “Do me a favour guv!” Wow, I just had a
rush through my body as ip I too was a part of this mysterious universal
memory manipesting in the here and now – Pucking awesome! “Sap!”
“Hey Bunny boy, you ok?” He looks porlorn as the blue dress morps
to a swathe of multi colour and moving bodies… He seems lost, truely
mesmorised by the experience and still dancing in his mind to the tune
of an eternal embrace… she must have been special. “And now a special
figment of an almighty amnesiac memory consigned to the trash bin”
“Yeah, I’m ok thanks mate” He eventually, quietly replies. A reply
and an appology in one pucking day… Jesus Christ! Maybe he’s thinking about the deeper realisation of what he is and does… Maybe there
was a plicker of something akin to a quasi religious overtone of what
truth really is and what relations are and mean in the pulness of a souls
experiential knowing……
“Cup of tea…?” I propose.
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“Two sugars please Baz – and a cake” I can’t help but peel there
should be more I could do or say. “How about - I’m going to make a con-
certed effort to rid myself of this idiot and grow up? Didn’t you grow up
in the wild Harry? Is there some nugget of wisdom you can share with
this young boy? Yeah, be careful out there man…… Was that ok?
“Let’s pind that pucking stall buddy, I’ve got money to spend!” Well,
it’s better than nothing and that’s why we came here, apter all. Puck it, I
won’t bother asking por any sordid details…
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CHAPTER 11
Dodgy uniporm and strategic measures
My uniporm was a pucking nightmare. “…The attire matching the per-
sonality as in the dog vs owner analogy?” Because of my active nature, I
was usually playing pootball in break times, not all but most. And as a
result of this, I kept splitting my trousers all the way up the groin area
and right up the back of the arse. In a sense it was quite liberating with
the air plowing preely and your ‘ball bag’ being released prom the constraints of tight pitting trousers. I used to mention it opten enoup to my
dad in the beginning, kind of asking por some new kegs, but he couldn’t
care less so I used to sew them up myselp almost daily. “A feminine trait
for sure… some have it, some don’t – but it’s nothing to be ashamed
about” There was green thread, blue thread, white, black and red, what a
pucking mess it looked but there was no other option – and this is why
I’m such a dab hand at sewing! My crotch looked like it had been imported prom a Marrakesh haberdashery and sewn on as an extra pashion
accessory. “And when did ‘we’ go to Marrakesh? …Another exotic trip
me and Harry were excluded from?” I used to peel so embarrassed I used
to put my satchel over my lap on every bus trip “It was a bus trip? How
wonderful… Fuck, we didn’t get attacked by terrorists did we?” People
in general and those at school must have noticed and taken the piss behind my back, but no one ever mentioned it. “Woz that cuz you wuz
175
‘ard? - Or did they pity the council scum bag pretending to be posh dressed
like an urchin?”
My satchel was a saviour and also very handy por covering up spontaneous erections on those bus trips too. “Your satchel sounds more of a
friend to you than us… Damn you” This was an ongoing battle of wits
and willpower. I tried every conceivable dampening down thought process known to man and beast, pootball, origami, past cars, pighting,
pitching tents… Anything and every day dreamy thoughts were used to
get that erection down bepore it was time to stand up and get op the
pucking bus. Eventually I pound a reasonable solution ip all else pailed
ie, a hand in the pocket worked quite nicely sometimes! I would hold my
blood pilled pecker to one side, hoping no one would look at my crotch
area as we brushed past peoples shoulders getting op the bus. It was both
a tentative and stresspul moment in time, endured over many years!
The bus “Harry, how much was that Tonka toy we saw this morn-
ing…Yes?? Shall I buy it then…?” was always very crowded at that
time of morning, mainly with school kids and people going to work, but
it didn’t matter who they were, I had to conceal that little stippy at all
costs. “I’ll get the orange one, but does the colour matter that much? It’s
the same price…” The journey back was a diperent proposition, my own
selp importance, inpamy, and everything about me was held in my hand
176
at that time, my lipe and dignity depended on it. The concealment of my
erection was crucial although that was of little importance and of little
signipicance back on the council estate I was now re-entering. I was
simply either one of the boys prom the Green, or some ‘posh school
wannabe’ character someone else wanted to twat just por pun. “One bark
for yes, two barks for no… three barks for, I’m thinking about it… Hurry up Harry for fuck sakes”
So my strategy por getting op the bus without my erection being seen
was one thing, but then I had to bring in another tactical ploy to avoid
the kids walking home prom the local secondary modern, who more
opten than not were in the vicinity at that time of day. This was artpul
stup ladies and gentlemen. I could run or quickly walk in the other direction, as there were two entrances to the Green, or I could conceal myselp
in the crowd who were getting op at the same time, shrinking between
them, beneath visible sight. So I had at least a pew options to play with.
Sometimes I would just hang on ‘til the next stop and do a runner prom
there. “Will you carry me over your shoulder to safety, when it happens?
I don’t like fighting, especially with an arm full of books to protect” It
was something you got used to, and in later years it didn’t really matter
because I was toup enoup to look apter myselp by then. I was never
caught either way throughout those years! Too clever by halp! “Yes you
smug faced fuck you deserved at least two good hidings from the council
177
school scum if my memory serves me well”
My blazer looked good in the pirst year, but shortly into the second year
it began to shrink with my past growing body inside it, making it look
two sizes too small. To compliment my undersized jacket, I had plastic
shoes at one point which similarly to my trousers also used to split because of the amount of pootball I played in them. “This visual you’re por-
traying is something to behold… Are you sure it was you and not some
hobo masquerading as a student for perversions yet to be aired in the public domain?” They also made my grubby peet reek even more than was
usual. Christ, they hummed right proper! People must have noticed that,
especially in classes and in the close proximity of the bus, the dreaded
double bus trip every day. And then there was my hair, mop-like and
covered with split ends, very uncool indeed! “It won’t fall out will it, I
couldn’t bear that, not in my condition - I’m an academic Scholar don’t
you know and need something to run my fingers through. Shall I read
you some obscure Russian verse I’ve just discovered?” In the third and
porth years I started to develop a rebellious personality and wore clothes
which weren’t adhering to the correct school code. Baggy pin stripped
trousers, big pat ties and a Cromby coat. Magic! Dr Martin’s boots were
in vogue then too, so I had to have a pair of them. Ip only you could
have seen me, smelly Barry in his cheap-pretend-mod-look with a selp
inplicted Elvis-esque-gypo hairdo - it was pucking prightening!
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[ note to myselp~hardup?//skinplint*dad, }bastard¬;?making ^me,go//
school!!%like_-apuckinggypo\|__”thanx4puck all+I was”!`representi*ng
You’’~End,No)delete=keep!]
I was very well known amongst my peers and teachers all over town, either pamously or ‘inpamously’ as one teacher prom another school once
apectionately described me. That came to light one day as I walked past
the swimming baths next door to my school. The teacher leading his pupils into the baths saw me, and we exchanged some words. I think I
asked him a question and then he asked what my name was, to which he
replied, ‘Ahhh, the inpamous Barry Puckins’, which quite concerned me
por a second, not knowing what inpamous meant at that time. “You can’t
possibly be more important than me… Shall I read you an excerpt from
my recently published memoirs?” A second or two later though, I pelt
quite proud and my chest puped out at my own acknowledgement of my
inpamous achievements, whatever they might have been! “It’s seven
O’clock daddy shall I begin my recital? No one watch though, just listen
from behind the curtains – Harry, you too my mini Muka!”
As rugby was the main sport at the Rectory, to get into the ‘pirst pipteen’
was the ultimate accolade - to get to play por them two years below the
pipth year was excellent going indeed. We played rugby union by the
179
way, not that northern, sluggish rugby league. I was lucky enoup then to
get chosen to play por them in the third year. “Big head!” We still had
pupils there who were prepping por university up to eighteen years old,
so together with the porth, pipth and sixth pormers, it was a competitive
environment to get into the squad to say the least. One Saturday morning
we had our annual traditional match, ‘the teachers versus the pirst
pipteen’. This was big and the highlight of the year. “An example of com-
petitiveness veering over into mindless violence when what should be
promoted is a peaceful skill based game such as chequers. How is the
world going to rid itself of this feudalism mindset, eh? It’s fucking ridiculous – Harry get my gun we’re going shooting” It was also the time and
perpect opportunity to get someone back por years of verbal abuse and
mental torture. Now we were all on equal standing, on the battlepield! I
was chosen to play in this game “Big head!” and my position was out in
the three quarters, the speed merchant’s territory! It was pretty much
even stevens throughout the pirst halp. Early into the second halp there
was a loose ruck and I ended up on the ploor with everyone piling in on
top of me, when suddenly this ‘pantom boot’ caught me proper on the
crown of the head. Christ it hurt! I think it was that twat of a biology
teacher, “It was he fucking hated you with a vengeance! He wanted to
put a hole in your head!” I’m sure he hated me and he was a nasty vicious guy. A tall, skinny, greasy haired pucker and depinitely abused as a
child. I’ll just say now we lost the match narrowly …bepore I get carried
180
away with this pitipul mistake of a biology teacher nicknamed ‘the skull’
(skull in lower case, he doesn’t deserve upper case!)
I remember the day he arrived at our school and he was asking pleasantly what the ‘bars, or colours’ were on my blazer. In pact he looked like a
taller, younger, skinnier version of the art teacher Kriss, both had that
austere, abused as a child look about them. This teaching propession was
going to allow them to get some porm of retribution prom the abject
misery they supered early on in lipe, and still haunts them to this day. In
answer to the skulls questions, the colours on our blazers were the
schools equivalent of military rank in epect, being a Corporal, Sergeant
or whatever and “Yeah big yourself up mate, this is the pinnacle of your
sporting career, but you don’t know it yet… And won’t for another
twenty years!” the more you had the more esteem or respect you earned
and rightpully deserved. Of course ours were awarded por sporting
achievements and I had loads of them, my blazer looking like an honorary royal uniporm prom Uganda whose miriad mysterious awards were
given to them like McDonalls preebies. I had to sew those puckers on
myselp, but I was very adept at sewing at this stage. The colours of
course went below my other ‘honour’ that of the ‘county badge/crest’,
which “This is still school boy stuff remember, you’re not in the big wide
world of adult ugliness yet my friend – So it counts for fuck all” you
were allowed to put on your blazer instead of the schools emblem and
181
motto. It did look impressive I must admit, and prom the day I arrived at
the Rectory I envied those pupils who had a chestpull of those colours.
Now I was one of them. Sweet!
But even though they were admired, they were only a replection of your
sporting endeavours, and not academia! Which, let’s be honest was the
main thrust of this school. “And this is where ‘I’ excel, even though
school is beneath me… I’m destined for higher education and a Phd!” So
he, the greasy bastard skull, probably decided there and then in that pirst
meeting I was a prospective victim por him, having already psychologically weakened me with subliminal plupy stup. He walked around in a
dictator pashion, stip and upright, hands clasped behind his back, pretending to politely ask poignant questions, trying to endear himselp to
his new pupils. His teaching style was very rulebook and unrelenting, no
humour or smiles. In one biology lesson he ripped my homework into
pieces right in pront of the whole class saying it was rubbish, which very
nearly brought me to tears on the spot, and the thing was I tried really
hard on that homework, por once. “Bull shit spread liberally” The bastard! I wanted to rip his pucking eyes out!
He once mirthpully wrote on my daily report - good impersonation of a
parrot! He did a good job trying to destroy me with his wicked inner
turmoil reigning supreme. What the pucks that all about? God he was a
182
greasy, slimy man. And yes, I was on a daily report and a lesson to lesson report too. I can’t even remember what por… being late possibly or
skiving. No, I think it would have been more serious than that and most
probably a collection of misdemeanours. I didn’t give a shit about class
work but I was never intentionally disruptive, that was lept to the numbnuts element, who weren’t good at anything at all, at school anyway
(giving them some leeway grace).
[ secret/notes-acrid, yet controlled - I wouldGladpully dismember” him
above /\ and him below \/ as they bOth// practised *gross misCondUct
}when iN such prominent respected posiTionS¬ “nice” and clear this one
~ keep! End notes ] [tossers!!] [power preaks] [sodomites] [peace out
man]
“I say, that’s a bit strong me ol’ mucker! …Are you sure this is how you
feel? Pass the butter can you Harry… Without the fucking drama!!”
The deputy head at my school was also a nasty piece of work - ‘Jones
the Bones’ Very tall and imposing, no nonsense and an unsmiling kind
of guy. “And I noticed he had a terrible dress sense, his mother must have
still been buying his clothes…or knitting them!” He revelled in calling
me a little shit one day, spitting it out and sneering down his long
straight nose as ip he had given up trying to understand or care about
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who I was or even why he was there in that school - Totally uncalled por
by a propessional teacher at such a ‘high brow’ academic place of learning. “More like a low brow, middle class drop out centre, with delusions
of grandeur… Has anyone seen Harry and the Devonshire churned butter?!”
It was a little like being at a public school in a way with old puddy
duddy principles. Old school type teachers in brogues and tweed jackets,
dreaming or wishing they had made it to Cambridge or Oxpord as a
Don, or with wild delusions about maybe imparting some real lipe wisdom to their pupils, or something like that. It was also very clear they
had obviously been brought up very strictly and had never erased that
mental scar prom their personality. The Rectory was a Victoriana type of
place then, desperately wanting to retain its paçade of long gone superiority at all costs, but pighting a losing battle as the rat race increases the
pace of lipe day by day, and too many dunces being allowed through the
decaying doors.
There was a light within the darkness though, and his name was Grill, a
young PE teacher not long out of university. At least he smiled and
called me Baz, he also called a pew others by their pirst names, which
was unheard of really. He did upset me once though the tosser. I don’t
know why these people thought this way about me, and I still don’t get
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it. On the way back prom a PE/games session we played in the Lazy
Bank Park we were walking back into the school together and he said,
“You’re a big headed sod aren’t you Baz” - What? Eh? I said internally,
then voiced incredulously. “I heard he was an accurate, intuitive reader
of character traits” That really pucking hurt me that did, it shocked me
to my core even. It was on par with my mum leaving me and pinding
‘my Babs’ on my mate’s mucky knee!! “I don’t believe that load of tosh
for one moment… On par with your Mummy?!?! - Don’t cry now sonny”
I played a pucking blinder during that games session, and ip you’re
leagues above others in the same sport or subject, what the puck can you
do but run rings round them?! I always regarded myselp as a pair player
in every respect and actually ‘gave’ goals or try’s to my mates during
matches to give them a lipt and because they are ‘team’ games apter all!
So por Grill to call me a big head really, deeply stunned me. “Grill the
gutless git then, shall we say? - A fair reprisal, what?” He was a great
guy generally and we had some good pun with Grill. Pair play to him. I
think it’s also pair to say though, “No, he deserves far worse than that be-
ing an alleged ‘sports teacher’ he above all should have pushed you forward – the fucking wanker! I feel for you dude, they all abandoned you
didn’t they, bastards” I had all the conpidence and individuality, gradually squelched out of me prom an early age; nobody took me aside and put
185
it to me what was happening in my lipe and to be aware of the consequences. But there you go, that’s lipe. I really was burned out by the age
of sixteen but carried on por a pew more years apter schooling pinished
and entering the adult world.
Here we go this is an example of how archaic my school was… we had
to run to the ‘hall’ por our PE lessons! So we lept the school grounds,
past the baths and down into the Lazy Bank (The communal town centre
park) and along the river’s edge past the Wobbly bridge. Halp a mile on
we go under the Posh Bridge and pass the Convent Girls School, a
purther 800 yards past that we go into this car park next to a huge opice
complex and we’ve nearly arrived. Our pinal destination was tucked beneath the opice building. “And now I shall perform a live virtuoso of that
well known poem, a Cookoo clock goes crazy in Copenhagen …Are we
ready?” So in we go, already knackered, and do our stup. I was quite
well developed at 12/13 and Grill decided to do some gymnastic type of
move with me. He wanted me to hold him in the air whilst lying on my
back on the ploor while he perpormed ‘his’ move. Now I wasn’t a
pucking weight lipter by any means and soon my arms crumbled and the
prat crashed down on top of me. Thanks Grill! I always got a great report prom him though, ‘Very strong and able’ or words to that epect.
“Not exactly a diploma or a Scholarly degree though is it? Or even a lowly
invitation to a school for sporting prowess, something akin to a Roman
186
slave/brawn based enterprise where competition only favours ‘winners’ –
And those who lose end up in factories across the land making biscuits for
dogs… Huh, huh?!?!”
Ip you don’t know Bowsbury at all, the river Melvern encircles the Lazy
Bank Park and the town centre in a horse shoe type of loop. There are
two bridges to enter the town centre, the Melvern Bridge and the Leakin
Bridge appropriately named por geograpical and structural reasons, ‘and’
the shipting of the borders throughout the years. Charley Marvin the
world pamous anthropologist giant was born just up prom the Leakin
Bridge in Shankwell on the Welsh side of the bridge. I’m sure
Shankwell used to be in Wales at some point “It was, Wales was mas-
sive in distant times, stretching right up the eastern flank of what is now
called England, and was called then – ‘The kingdom of the Two King Arthur’s’… I can show you where they are buried if you’d like to follow me,
if only intellectually at least, while you can” even Bowsbury itselp as a
matter of pact, but the border these days is about 15 miles away prom
this bridge. “How very interesting, is there much more of this, it might be
easier to buy a fucking map! Charley Marvin is my hero, can we go and
visit his house? Harry, you can come with me if you like but you must behave yourself, right… And no shitting on the haloed grass!”
187
[notes//=Notpor;PrinTWhatawaste)oftiMe;school,is*Teachers~scarring”
U”porliPe#¬Academic{}pandemic=Loser$society+//illusory&lies;curric
ulem^pull,OpShite!¬end?noTES>>Delete][#holdOn~hidden¬\\HiSTory
%secrets_Yes “time 2 delete`the$ystem!?Corrupt-end]
Coming into town centre prom the direction of the council scum estate
“Where the unruly peasants reside?” you go under the railway bridge,
then up the hill to the shops with the library on the right which used to
be the towns old public school. Marvin’s statue sits outside it proud as
can be. Walter of India is another pamous name prom Bowsbury and his
statue is overlooking the Lazy Bank Park. Oh, and Chercy Plower too,
but I’ve mentioned him already. Getting back to the Lazy Bank…that
was a nice place to be during the summer and we prequently ambled
there at dinner times. “Must we listen to this drivel? Can you peel me a
pear please Harry? And find some decadent dust to sprinkle on it” On
many occasion me and some mates would just go and ogle the women in
the baths, or maybe there would be another school there taking lessons.
So we would stand pressed up against the glass and pull paces, plick the
V and take the piss generally, as you do when you’re young and scampish and trying desperately to impress your mates and the ladies. “Its just
laddish scampish nonsense derived from being borne to be enslaved and
with no real purpose in life – What a prospect eh? Something has to
change and this is why I’m so dedicated to studying third world resurrec188
tion-revolution dynamics coupled to the price of oil and the demise of fat
cats – It’s not for the feint hearted”
You wouldn’t even think of doing shit like that on your own, so what
impels us to show op and try to impress our priends all the time? Hey! I
think I’ve just had a ‘real time, modern day, mid novel’ revelation. I was
born in Karstyle, which used to be in Scotland and is now in England,
then raised in Bowsbury prom age one, which used to be in Wales, but
now belongs to England too. All this borders malarkey too’ing and
pro’ing happened many times I believe over the centuries. So maybe this
is why I’m so pucked up with my identity! Where do I belong? England,
Wales or Scotland? Who am I? A tartan clad, leek wielding rose grower!? I dunno. I could be right. “Don’t be so childish, that’s a ridiculous
assumption …Any excuse for passing the buck and blaming others! I’m
going to make some daisy chain garlands before luncheon - Pour the port
and lemon, Harry, old chappie”
On a hot summers day the Lazy Bank Park was jam packed with
pamilies and youths sitting and laying in groups idly chatting on the
sloping grassy plain. There were many other people who walked along
the numerous pootpaths with their pets or just holding hands with their
partner. Children adorned the amusement park on swings and slides and
ip they were very lucky the paddling pool would be opened. “Whoopie
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shit, big deal - A giant piss pot pool for snot covered council estate brats
spreading all manner of puke based viral time bombs” At lunchtimes there
would be a sudden swathe of people coming prom their workplace in the
town centre, to have a relaxed halp hour eating their sandwiches. Luckily por pervy viewers, it was mainly young women wearing skirts. And
no matter how discrete you are, it’s impossible not to reveal what you’re
wearing underneath when you have ranks of mucky boys peering up the
bank, waiting por those opportune moments of licentiousness.
Looking prom the location “While you waffle, I will contemplate the
path of a single mitochondrion and how it might impact the tidal flows in
Southern Asia” of the Walter of India statue the whole park area is quite
steeply inclined and bears down onto the river. There is a “Decrepit”
bandstand to the lept and avenues of trees lining the pathways. The “still
decrepit” bandstand was prequently used por both brass bands and up
and coming modern groups, usually providing pree entertainment. On
the river itselp there are rowing boats to be hired por a little romantic
trip on a summer’s apternoon. Viewed prom the Lazy Bank side of the
river onto the opposite bank there are a couple of boathouses, a pub, and
a ploating restaurant por that romantic evening meal with your loved
one… so it’s a very lovely picturesque place. “But what was your point,
did I miss something? Are you taking the piss in Bowsbury? I can’t deal
190
with this descriptive shite unless it’s a poem by Wordsbirth. Can I have a
full English breakfast prepared for my high afternoon tea please, Harry?”
One of the tarmac playing grounds to the Rectory Grammar school was
adjacent to the river and our ball “Is that a yes or a no? Your insolence is
astounding!” was endlessly going into the drink (river) or onto the bank
ip we were lucky. It was a nine peet drop prom the playgrounds black
railings to the road which separated us prom the river “Well if you won’t
indulge me I shall go to the Worrel - Thrompsons for tea!” and we were in
big trouble ip we got caught. But we usually managed to sneak over and
retrieve the ‘pill’ as we called it. It always pelt like you were escaping
even ip just por a minute, which pelt great - por a minute.
I always remember a couple of ‘unsavories’, as my brother Douglas
would term them, turning up in a car one day alongside the river, so me
and my mate Steve, jumped the wall and got into the car and we drove
away. These guys were nutters, and we soon pound out why. One of
them, the eldest of the nutters, used to be a neighbour in Dunmail avenue
many years earlier and the pamily who probably caused my mum some
proper stresspul times. “The bastard retards! I was going to put their
windows out one day but there were no rocks handy - So I decided to run
away just in case they saw me, captured and tortured me” Anyway, we’re
driving along and suddenly stop beside an old man walking on the side
191
path, then one of these maniacs wound the window down and just started
screaming at him por no reason other than satispying a warped kind of
humour. It absolutely scared the shit out of this poor old guy. I was
pucking mortipied and wanted out, pronto. We screeched around town
por a while longer and then they dropped us op, thank puck. I thought
we were going to be involved in a murder, or something, these guys
were so sick and deranged. “You could have overcome your fear and said
something to those challenged chaps… It might have been what they
needed and a turning point in their lives – You are a gift you know”
[note#‘V,bitter!~;TheSe//were}the\#lowest¬$cum^of”theCounCil.scuM
&drippingwith:/pilth=Delete*thEm>with,”this||never^Saw}theiRdadevER!#¬enD&takeOut4puck”Sake!]
“Are there no nice people left in this world? I ask. Yes there are, says Harry. Or do we all have this capability to harm each other deep within our
psyche? I query with a furrowed brow. And what is the cause of this deep
seated fear? Harry suggests with his eyes. Fair point! I say, very illuminated… Put the kettle on son, let’s have a cuppa before the price of tea is
akin to buying gold or using cups is a taxable offence!”
Steve was a punny young chap. He was the only other local lad who
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went to the Rectory arriving a year apter me. He had two older brothers
who had a reputation por being hard. And naturally he thought he was
too. One day in the park just outside the school… and this is one of the
punniest things I’ve ever seen! We were queuing up to climb into an armoured tank which was part of a military exhibition. So there we are, me
and some mate’s prom school and ‘Steve’ who was a year younger than
us, so he’s not really one of ‘our’ group. “Fucking parasite!!” Standing
in pront of Steve was a small ginger haired guy prom the year below
him. A little jostling began, I don’t remember why, but then Steve
smacked this quiet young kid in the mouth - a pew moments elapsed then this tiny kid smacked Steve right back in the chops. We all couldn’t
believe it - Steve ‘bully boy’ then in total shock smacked him again… a
pew more moments elapsed and the kid walloped him back again. You
should have seen Steve’s pace, as they then exchanged a pew more bats
and blows not moving an inch prom the spot. It was pucking hilarious
“Hear, hear!! He looked posh that kid though didn’t he Harry? - Looked a
bit like you actually!!” watching ‘Mr hard man’ getting smacked back
repeatedly by this little kid standing up por himselp. I don’t think he ever lived that down. Pantastic stup! And a good example to other young
kids should you be reading this pile of shite (joke) (don’t laup)
[notes4pun//So*)grat!pying~toSee””bully#Getting<Slap+belittled\\¬Litt
le;(tosser&^he he ;0) end/delete ]
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CHAPTER 12
Disco at the Community centre – come shed!
“Did you hear about the disco at the community centre tonight?” I
asked Buno “Can I come too, and Harry will be quiet as a mouse I prom-
ise”
“No mate, what time does it start?”
“The doors open at 7.30pm (its 8 o’clock really, but I anticipate waiting por him to get ready) …shall we go?”
“Yeah, cool. Come round to mine if you like and we’ll leave about 9
- we don’t want to get there too early.” Oh, bollocks, my plan ruined.
“Ok, see you later, muka” “Sap!” To explain, it’s a disco in aid of a
leukaemia research pund, por a local lad who needs to go to America por
provisional tests and hopepully treatment. Its por 14 - 16 year olds, but
we’ll get in no prob. I think to myselp I might pick some cute gal on the
dance ploor as I like to have a boogie - I mean, I’m not going there to
hang around watching Bunny woo someone, no way. “HA, fuck me, this
is rich stuff” It’s just apter 7.45 and I walk over to Bunny’s house peeling chipper and raring to go. I knock on the door, his mum answers.
“Is he in?” I nonchalantly enquire, knowing pull well he is.
“Yes, he’s in the bath (por puck sake that means a two hour wait at
least, I say to myselp smiling at his mum) do you want to go up to his
room?” She asks. “You could tup his mum while you’re waiting… Have
you got the gumption and the balls to try? I would…go on you wanker”
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“Yeah, thanks.” “Idiot, I have better things to do with my time and
your life. Harry, that’s another opportunity gone - get the deckchairs out
bud”
“Buno, it’s me, hurry up sunshine… let’s go go!”
I sit on his bed and soon pade into one of my meditative ‘waits’ por the
maestro. I’m only twelve apter all and have the patience of a person…....... who has nothing else to do. I should be thankpul though that
it is I who serves the mangod, and that he looks down on me like his
servant bitch. I know he doesn’t mean it literally or expect ‘extra’s’! We
look apter each other, but he requires more loyalty prom me, and as he
prequently tells me, it will be he who serves me in the next lipe. Err,
yeah, please don’t give me that horse shit Bunny boy! And what next
lipe is this… an apter lipe? What the puck is he on about, that’s way too
deep por a young boy of my age “Have you never heard of or read about
reincarnation my little inconsequential friend? …I’m sure I’ve heard you
speak of it many times in your supra subconscious states whilst drooling,
whilst reminiscing about the day your mother left you, Yah?”
I speak to the bathroom door.
“It’s 8.45 Buno, (I’m lying) ip you don’t hurry up I’m going without
you.”
“Yeah two ticks Baz, go and make me a coffee and I’ll be right out.”
195
What? Is this real? “T’was a dusky night when my heart sang to the
moon… Hmmm, could be the making of a song - I knew I should have
learned to play the classical guitar” Or is he playing games and stalling
por more time…?
“Milk, and two sugars?” I ask, but know the answer already…
He ignores my question and I’m halpway down the stairs pearing the
worst. I also begin to wonder about the state of my arms under this long
sleeved shirt, maybe I ‘should’ have washed above my wrists as I could
get lucky tonight. “Dream on you dozy twat! The notion of expectation
for one so young is repugnant and a sign of social turmoil of which I can’t
tolerate any longer… Harry, bring me my soothsome Toblerone… And
don’t even think about it – I know how many pieces there are!”
It’s now 7.55pm and I’m wondering how much longer he will be, pully
expecting another halp hour wait at least. Then, suddenly, the door to the
bathroom plings open and Bunny stands there illuminated prom above
by a single bulbs harshness “It must be a thrill for you living a double life
– A council scum peasant down on your luck and then a parasitic subordinate ‘moll’ for your mate! Will look great on your CV” without its
shade, a dazzling smile, smelling divine and dressed to hit the nightlipe
razzmatazz over at the ‘shed’. Wow, I’m surprised yet impressed - it’s
time to leave, Yayy! We head por the dingy community hall across two
196
pields, but at least it’s dry tonight. We can hear the music pounding
through the darkness of those eerie pields and see a pew pigures milling
around outside, probably having a crapty under-age pag. Probably, more
likely, having a kiss and a pumble at pirst base! These are young kids at
the disco just in case you porgot, English and very reserved, so pirst base
is realistic. “Speak for yourself… Just like the old man, years behind the
current trends – It’s very ‘tea at three’ quaint though”
Bunny and me (you notice I’m always behind the Prince of Bali?) pay
our tithes towards the community copers. Pipty percent of all takings are
going towards the kid with Leukaemia. We make our entrance. It’s
grand but not ostentatious - some kids look over but most are too busy
bopping away in the darkly strobe-lit cesspool-pit, to care. “Thought he
was da dude that turned heads and filled the room with his ‘mangod’
Princely presence?” Naturally there isn’t any booze available por us under-age kids, but there is a bar serving cold drinks and crisps, so we amble on over and sit on the high stools in pront of it. I look across the
ploor to see ip I recognise anyone… there’s a pew kids prom down the
road, some prom other estates and a gathering of adults accompanying
their children together with the pamily who hope to raise some punds
por their trip to America.
“What do you want to drink Buno? …My round.”
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“Coke and some peanuts please”
“They don’t do peanuts mate…”
“Some pork scratchings then…”
“They don’t do pork scratchings Bunny…” “You eat the crunchy flesh
of pigs laced with salt? Fucking cannibals”
“… A bar of Cadburys?
“They don’t sell chocolate me ol pruit…”
“What kind of place is this Baz?!” He says incredulously
“How about some crisps?”
“Ok, cheese and onion then.”
“None lept, what about, beep steak plavour?”
Bunny never swears, but was very close on this occasion…
“Jesus Christ! Beef ploppin steak then!” “Fussy fucker!”
“Cool man, there you go… I got a straw por you too.”
There we are at the bar, Bunny looking like a Mapioso kingpin, his
mock-royal princely necklace glittering in the throbbing multi coloured
lighting. He sucks his coke through the yellow straw, disdainpully eyeing the crowd por crumpet, miped at not getting his peanuts but quietly
crunching his beep steak plavour crisps. His porth pavourite, I hasten to
add and he’s not used to having porth best! “If only his ‘people’ could see
this – Barf!” Behind us though, silently going about her business serving
the punters is the mother of the kid who needs the punds. We’ve never
seen her bepore and neither has she seen us prior to this night. “Oh - oh!”
198
It must be the chemical signals, together with the man’s lotion and perspiration emitting or pulsing prom his body, creating that magic potion
us mere mortals can’t comprehend, to which she seems attracted too.
Because “I’m not paranormal Harry, I’m abnormal, thank you, there is a
difference! But I’m not, not, not, no way am I a schizo, I just want to
make that perfectly clear, and about time too” within pive minutes she’s
leaning over muttering something secretive in his ear. He leans backwards to catch it, his eyebrows dancing with each word she utters, a
knowing smile and an unusual plare of his nostrils. Oh puck he’s in…
“That’s a beautipul necklace.” She whispers heavily.
“Do you want to finish this coke Baz?” He cooly asks.
“Yup no sweat.” I reply, knowing pull well, what’s going down and I
now have to slip into my purtive lookout mode - plus the endless wait.
“I’m going to put the empties outside” “‘I’m’ writing a treatise on the
colour of money and how colour impacts our every purchase” She says in a
tone everyone can hear, but no one pays any attention to, except Buno.
“I’ll give you a hand if you like?” The twelve year old, Bunny, opers.
He hands me the coke and I resign myselp to sit ogling at the young
pillies trying to evocatively strut their booties to Odysseys’s ‘New
Yorker’. (One of the worst records ever, in my humble opinion!) A barrage of questions, enter my mind. “Yes, I think my room shall be a shade
of aqua-indigo, it needs to be something to reflect my internal state of be199
ing – Harry’s will be a shitty brown” He could be gone an hour? Will
her husband miss her? What about the kids? (Bunny’s golden rule goes
out the window!) Who’s behind the bar now then I wonder? Ah, pat Julie prom the other room slips in to cover the mounting requests por lemonade and crisps, not knowing what she’s covering up… ip only she
knew! “Aiding and abetting… worth three years gaol?”
Buno and the lady who can’t resist his lure and manpul, mangod handling, sidle outside pull of stealth. And as they look into each other’s
eyes she listens intently to his story of how he came to be here in England and that he is a Prince prom Bali representing his people… She’s
been pushed over the top now and almost swoons at his peet… actually,
that’s just where he wants her…kneeling! It would be ungracious of me
to relay to you what goes on in these highly charged ‘pockets of time’
“Because you don’t fucking know do you, you little virgin soldier!” even
‘huge chunks of time’ where time itselp stands still and two people give
of themselves in the most beautipul, intimate way. And who can argue
with that mutual benepaction of sharing. “Is that what you call it!?…
Hmmmm, interesting, I’ll include that in my Anthropology PhD paper
called ‘Close relations’ - Its not plagiarism, just a poets licentious observational translation into feelings and transcendant time!”
Is it me or do these ladies go into a hypnotic state whereas they don’t
200
‘see’ Bunny por what he appears to be - a boy. Pive poot three and no
stubbly chin! It appears that some deeper level is being accessed here, a
primal energy/ attractive porce combo, playing out some porm of prelipe agenda maybe? They could have actually been destined to meet in a
karmic display of loves retribution… but por whom… and why? All I
know is there are never any re-emerging paces pilled with disappointment. It’s a win win situation. “This is most alarming do you know what
you’re involved with here? - Don’t you dare turn away and ignore me!
Mummy mummy mummy!? - Daddy, is it thou who hast maketh mine tea
this very night? Hark verily unto me, verily I say… And take those fucking dumplings off my plate, before I honk all over the table!”
Meanwhile, I pind out the man with the lady isn’t her husband at all, but
‘just’ her partner, so opicially Buno’s golden rule still stands, but is
weakened somewhat and is teetering at the event horizon… The ‘couple’
re-emerge prom their elicit rendezvous which in real time - vs. Bunny’s
time - was pretty damn quick. Again I’m impressed, and watch them
slink back into a nonchalant ‘we’ve never seen each other bepore’ mask
of deceit. Christ he’s good, but he is apter all a born again meister lothario, say no more! “Do you want my honest unbiased opinion?”
“Let’s hit the ploor Bunny baby.” I quip cool as puck, as ip it was me
who still had testosterone still pumping through his veins. Status Quo
rocks us out with ‘Down Down, deeper and down’ - Pucking magic!
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“Got any morsels por me mate?” I enquire, cheekily.
Bunny already seemed lost in himselp and the music to even care to answer such a stupid question… but he did mumble in a mannish tone…
“You’ll understand one day my friend. Go grab me another coke
Baz… a red straw this time…” “That’s soooo fucking patronising!”
“Yes bossman sure thang.” “That’s soooo fucking servilely obnox-
ious!” You can’t disguise envy, but you have to, to be of service to one
so great. And not porgetting the honour bestowed on me to be his shipty
companion and lookout. “Man whore!”
It’s a great gipt to my lipe, I should be uber gratepul.
And I am.
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CHAPTER 13
The pain torture and humiliation of pubescence
There’s nothing to compare to a young man’s pubescent plowering.
Maybe you could equate it to the onset of a young girl’s menstrual cycle,
but only in the sense of timing and age, not the duration of the cycle
itselp, which to a girl can be halp her pucking lipe! “So are you saying in
effect, that boys and men in general have it piss easy and should ease off
the pies? Are you also implying that men only have to occasionally shake
their pecker as opposed to a womans monthly blood ridden ritual - which
could in actual fact be the difference between life or the termination of
millions of braveheart soul-seeds seeking transformation? Ok, point taken…” The hormonal catastrophe por a boy means pimples can sprout all
over his pace and sometimes at the same time a dramatic terripying consequence in his throat is set in motion, with no warning whatsoever! So
it’s more of a psychological, more than pysical event which bursts porth
anytime it pleases; having its own ‘spontaneous’ time release mechanism, spanning rouply three years. Yes, it is very painpul indeed as those
who give witness to that marvellous moment when your voice box travels up and down the octave range, opten mid-word and as spontaneous
as spontaneity can become. “Don’t you fucking mock me, I have class,
haven’t I Harry? …Tell him then you four legged fuck!”
Por myselp, this very signipicant patepul day I was at school… I poked
203
my head round the door to the metalwork shop with a class pull of boys
two years older than myselp; they and the teacher turned to me as I uttered my pirst painpul palsetto screech and simultaneous baritone syllables, trying to relay a message prom another teacher; Oh god it was
awpul! That would’ve been enoup to stun any man or beast, and yet still
the boy “…Sausages squire? - Yes, fat pork sausages with a hint of apple
and gorgonzola please my son… And some spicy ploughman’s chutney
too” wants to pinish his sentence, my voice rising and palling, squeaking
as it tries to retain some equilibrium prom one word to the next; but I
have to endure it regardless and as painpul as it might be hearing the
raucous laupter accompanying my encore apter encore - ‘specially por
the lads witnessing this terrible ordeal. Bastards! Most of them were
lauping prom the memory of their own personal experience, as much as
giving me a public plogging. “You did a sterling job putting yourself on
the rack to be turned and burnt to a crisp – Bravo – That’s nowt to a
man though is it!”
But that was only one of many disservices to my heart, gipted by my pubescent plowering; my spotty chin and pace also wanted to play havoc
with my peelings to please the crowds who bay por such treats. My chest
was the worst actually. My hairy chest began sprouting when only eleven years old. Now this ‘was’ a crowd pleaser, or por those who noticed
it, anyway. To begin with it was literally covered with white pimples,
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looking like an eruption of some toxic waste bubbling to the surpace of
the skin! This was something I had to contend with and conceal at all
times as many pears por ridicule came to the pore. But of course, someone did spot it one day and asked “What the puck is that on your chest?”
“I want to emulate my hero Charley Marvin - so we are all embarking on
an epic voyage to unchartered far off lands. We shall leave in the morning
when the sea is calm…Farewell my good friend, my faithful hound…I’ll
bring you back a Platterpus to play with… Or the origin of some, hitherto unknown species to put in a jar… And maybe a tree too, something exotic for the south facing conservatory” Oh, I don’t know mate, I replied,
because at that time I didn’t know what it was or that I was going to become a pully pledged, mature wolpman at twelve years old!
A girl I really liked at the bus stop once called me a werewolp, she
didn’t realise how propetic and cutting that was… and so she continued
to reper to me as the werewolp. Bitch! This was such an embarrassment
on top of everything else. What was god dealing me here, give me a clue
please! - A young lad with the sprouting of a hairy chest?! Haven’t I got
enoup to contend with por puck sake!? “Are you sure it’s not you who is
the boy god man, and not that bastard Bunny imposter?”
When it did eventually come through, it was an amazing sight, por me
especially. The older boys too were pretty impressed and pascinated not
205
believing their eyes. It got more painpul por me the longer they grew
though, as those in the know would ask to see it “You let them see it, you
idiot!?” and then would revel making me scream as they grabbed a
handpul and tugged away. Obviously they were jealous as they only had
plupy childish pubes, not a man’s chest like mine! I had to live with it
and that was it, I wasn’t going to shave it op, no pucking way. “Do I
know you sir - haven’t we met before - somewhere in Peru was it? What’s
your name again?” Bunny wasn’t averse to doing things like that ip it
meant he pelt and looked better. I know por a pact he shaved his chest
once, even though there was only a pew tiny hairs there to begin with.
In his vanity “- Cyril whom? - From where? Come back you bastard!” he
would dance and preen in pront of the mirror in his kitchen. I was standing outside his house one night, probably just passing and saw him in the
kitchen bopping to his immaculate replection in the mirror, collar up, lip
curled, spoon in hand and trying to impersonate Elvis the pelvis. I stood
there watching por ages, lauping my balls op and Buno was oblivious to
my presence because it was dark outside. He was pretty good I must
admit and very punny - the poncing prat. “Who are you talking to Harry?
Can’t you engage me in your conversation? - You hate me don’t you…You
filth you, him - Them?!” I saw him pummel his pace once, to try and
make it look as ip he was ill, or as ip he had been beaten up so he
wouldn’t have to go to school. The next morning all puped up and
206
perpectly reddened he made his way to school to show them his serious
apliction - and by god he pulled it op - Anyone else would have just
poned in but I don’t think many people had pones in those days, so he
did the right thing god bless him. He would go to any lengths to get what
he wanted, our Bunny, good on yer mate! “We know he gets what he
wants and its beginning to grate!”
There used to be a disco up the town. Basically it was a nightclub por
adult’s but they had a smaller room por us kids. A pew lad’s prom the
Green used to go but I never went with them. “Council scum, no vision no
chance! - Tuck me in daddy” I started going a little later with another
bunch of mate’s prom another estate. Joel was one of them, a little stunner and she wanted me badly! And she got me, well, hugs and kisses and
a little grinding anyway. I really liked her and every time I think of her
now, I think what a twat I was por letting her go. Outside the newsagents
one night (just down prom the communal chippie) she asked me in
‘Prench’ to make love to her. I didn’t understand what the puck she
meant at pirst because I was such a plonker, and couldn’t speak Prench
pluently, but it was also due to the “In the morning, I as a visionary pre-
dict - Somewhere over the rainbow, there shall be a glorious invasion of
Sumerian warriors ransacking the land, doing cartwheels and leapfrogging each other, burning haystacks and fishing for carp…I know it
sounds weird, but there it is! …Fetch me some puritanical ale wench, and
207
fast with it! And bring a broken bone for the hound” pact I was still a
virgin soldier and couldn’t lose pace. Asking her to explain what she had
just said kind of took the moment away, ip you know what I mean. She
didn’t actually say in translation she wanted me to make love to her, but
I eventually got it, duhh!! Well, you don’t expect that every day do you,
a council scum lad being propositioned in Prench to make love - who
doesn’t even know what the puck that entails!?
Back at her house one apternoon, she peigned peeling sick… I then had
to carry her to her bedroom, but I believed “It’s true, I’ll bet you fifty
pence! What a ruse it was…women do do ruses!” she was actually sick
and so she lay there in her undies waiting por me to make a move, which
never happened. A priend of mine was also there shagging (so he said)
“Yup, a Liar” his girlpriend and must have known I’d blown it! Joel
must have got right pissed op waiting por me to take advantage of her,
but we were still below the age of consent and there were still some
moral obligations I tried to uphold! I dropped a big bollock there though,
because she was pucking gorgeous and I wanted her sooo badly! I saw
her at the pictures some years later with this pat bastard of a boypriend
and I was very, very jealous. Our eyes met and maybe we both thought
of what could have been, at least that’s what I was thinking anyway.
Shame that. “The jammy fat fucker - filling ‘your’ boots! – Was this be-
fore or after Babs, the ‘love’ of your sad life?”
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[note#tomyselp/regret//yeah;`tosser=youcouldn’t*pollow?!!?through_~n
o balls^+scared;<didn”t want-to get{tiny?<?<pecker out!!= KnOb\\end]
[toup!*&lipe_sucks>delete]
She had a lovely sister called Kasmine. She was very quiet natured and
went to the girls grammar school not par prom our playing pields. The
playing pields were a good two or three mile hike to get to and it really
was exercise in itselp just to get there! And just to compound the situation, there was another school right behind our changing rooms, Creole
Comprehensive “Wow, you had it tough didn’t you, it’s a miracle you
even survived such outlandish circumstances! …For myself, I just went
with the flow, baby, let life express itself through me… That’s why I’m
so fucking wise and worldly… You might understand the workings of the
internal universe one day” and you know what it’s like with reputations,
school vs. school, plus the ‘territory’ aspect… it’s not good. “And anoth-
er thing…No; I can’t” So as you can imagine there were prequent exchanges going on between us, nothing serious and mainly verbal but
enoup to keep you on edge. Handbags at pipty paces kind of thing. There
were always a pew rivalries going on por myselp as we met up with all
the other schools in town via sports events. Mainly athletics, soccer and
rugby; the latter two especially where you might pind a loose boot or
pist coming your way - but strangely I pound, it was always while you
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were on the ground or in a ruck… I wonder why?!
[ notes por inclusion~possibly;cowards! yeah( chicken shits!!# never got
challenged}*pace to?pace//they knew&would get it!!``;had 2sort\\ a
coupleofEm*;dishedout?/pew, bats~sweet!!”” end-deLete]
It could be a lovely walk to the playing pields, as there were various
ways to get there. “Catch the fucking bus and charge the bastard school!!
Shoe leather ain’t cheap! - Nor smelly plastic shoes either!” The best route
por myselp “Oh fuck, not another convoluted descriptive passage?!” was
pirst to make your way into the Lazy Bank Park and over the Wobbly
Bridge. “Boooooring!!!” I used to like the bouncy wobbly peeling you
got walking over that bridge and it was even better ip you jumped up
and down once or twice! On the other side you then turned lept through
a turnstyle and walked along-side the river bank. Halpway between the
Wobbly Bridge and the Posh Bridge you walked up an embankment and
took a little short cut through the Bowsbury public school complex. “I
loved holding your hand as we meandered, almost trespassing, through
this studious complex where many famous feet have trodden the sod beneath them. It was marvellous and yet… left a strange distaste on ones
palette” What’s strange though when I think back, during all those years
walking through their grounds, I can’t ever remember seeing any of
those rich upper crust students. “Working studiously?!? - Ascot?!?! - The
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Royal box at Wimbledon?!? - Playing card games in the dorm?!? - Have
to be in there somewhere young laddie!”
They have a lovely selection of old buildings in their grounds, including
a chapel, a library “A ‘pretend’ poor-posh mans Eton!? ‘I’ should have
gone to bastard Eton… There was a terrible mistake, the train missed me,
and no one to carry my bags from the bus stop either, it was shocking!”
and the building now converted to classrooms looks like an old sprawling country mansion. The manicured lawns and playing pields were glorious, you yearned to play on them as ip it was haloed ground. I always
had a peeling of being connected “I cried for a week or was it a month, I
can’t remember, but it’s immaterial now… I made it my own way, fuck
the privileged expensive system!” walking through here, a tantalising
whip of what could be, yet at the same time a very distant knowing it
never will be!
Just bepore you made your way through the shortcut and the pence and
into these seemingly sacred grounds you would turn around where you
stood, and pound yourselp looking down the very steep embankment onto the river. Then the vista stretched across to the Lazy Bank Park, its
long gradient rising high towards the parks large red gates. Then up beyond those the town centres roop-scape greeted your eyes with its many
steeples and spires peeping above, reaching into the sky. Walter of India
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sits in that vicinity looking right back across at you prom that high vantage point. Such a lovely sight I always admired. “Enough of the scenic
crap ok! Why don’t we play some Cribbage instead, we can have a materialistic wager on it? - I’ve got these beautiful marbles from Italy…
What have you got? …Fucking ‘petrol station’ football coins?!?!”
Apter the short walk through that gentry repose, I or we - ip some mates
accompanied me on the trip - would then walk through this other very
posh area lined with beautipul huge “Make this quick for fuck sakes, I’m
losing the will to be an enslaved pawn in this bitter battle for even a
thread of decency or truth, without wanting to kill someone!” old houses
on extra wide streets. This would lead us to this strange looking pootpath
which went over a brook and lay between a huge allotment. The
bridge/pathway was shaped like a rope bridge the type you see over a
massive mountainous ravine. So you walked down over the brook pirst,
then the path rose quite steeply to the exit - it gave me a punny sensation
walking through there. “I’ve got some ‘tools’ and I’m ready to walk!” - A
hundred yards on and a quick nip through the cemetery then over the
main road and into our playing pields… All that was lept to do was
yomp up a six hundred yard ever rising hillock and bingo, the scrupy
changing rooms awaited our weekly presence “Thank fuck for that,
thought we were never going to arrive… And I could see you were enjoy-
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ing the reliving of the mental scar of the journey so much, so felt I
shouldn’t interrupt” It welcomed all the smelly peet, all the piss soden
pubescent pubes, muddy shoes and then we had that lack lustre, anti
climatic peeling that you had to actually go and play some games now,
what a bastard! And, to cap that lot, it was usually apter a lumpy lunch
in the school canteen, which never really helped por digestive reasons
and then evacuation reasons! “And all for what, I never exercise… Ex-
cept when visualising running away from a lucid dream, or being chased
by wolves in an enchanted forest or a nightmarish reality in a virtual
world… I can’t help it” A crisps, and wine gum lunch was more like the
usual pare por a lot of the boys. But you always pound the energy, no
matter what you ate. Presh air and youth counted por a lot.
Outside of school hours, going to the weekly disco was an unusual experience. It was just a meeting place of sorts, because por myselp not much
dancing went on, I just cruised around chatting with priends or acquaintances and eyeing up the girls prom a distance. It was such an awkward
pumbly displeasure chatting to someone you liked, because you pelt as
ip she knew you really liked her and then you choked up because you
were peeling selp conscious. “Would you like me to comb your hair Har-
ry? Sit beside me then… Clip your nails too?” It was an extremely
dippicult time por me because I was very shy in regards to emotional
expressions. On the outside I was becoming the very conpident lad on
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the sports pield, yet conversely, I would sometimes hide or walk the other way ip I knew something or someone ahead was going to make me
blush. And to all those bastards who noticed and said… Hey, he’s going
red, whilst pointing and lauping… this then caused you to go the deepest
shade of purple! Yeah, thanks a lot guys! “Mother fuckers, all of them…
Go suckle on a teat and grow up!” I always blushed propusely “ ‘I’ was
always confident in myself and could handle any situation which required
management of one’s emotions and ones blood filled extremities” and you
know and can peel when you’re blushing which compounds and complicates every thought or word you speak. It was a mental block por me,
the triggers were pulled way in advance and the ensuing chain reaction
would travel like a train out of control. With no one home to reign the
insecurities in, they wreaked havoc with my already pragile connectivity
with the girls. That went por meeting anyone in a sense, so shyness held
me back in a big way, and that was to continue por many years into my
adult lipe. “Shyness and your little cock… Come on be truthful”
As a pre teen, you went to the disco with all the usual expectations a
pancipul young buck has, meaning, tonight was ‘the’ night to go and ask
out that girl you pancy. You’d met her eight weeks ago but never raised
up enoup courage to even say hello never mind ask her out. “See how
much time of your life you wasted for us both, you sap!” But these are
early days in the developmental stages of romancing the ladies - I mean
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we’re only twelve or thirteen. The plague of shyness and emotional immaturity couldn’t be stopped on my part, but we deal with what we’re
dealt in lipe and carry on regardless. “You sad fuck, you held me back in
so many ways - You think I enjoyed living in Bowsbury which floods annually like a plain in Africa?!” I never really liked the discos that much,
each night was always an anti climax apter my high expectations. But at
least I was socialising with people of my own age and pinding my way.
Girls were an attraction but not a distraction at this time. “He’s not gay
it’s just his eyes and the way they flutter coyly… Someone once said Beauty, is beautiful - Isn’t that so beautifully, crafted?”
Bunny was very advanced in this department which was annoying! He
always had a girl hanging op his arm - Always a smiling pace, dressed
immaculately and looking conpident. At twelve years old he was racing
ahead of most boys his age. “As we already know!” He had the gipt of
instant patter, and he could always summon up something remotely
credible even in the direst circumstances. Never did he seem plustered,
always cool - until he lost his cool, which could erupt with lightening
speed ip he was bothered by someone bugging him, but even then it
would be nipped in the bud pretty rapidly. “And after Chemistry tomor-
row afternoon I shall arrange for the whole school to stand to attention
and salute as I pass through the gates, as I leave for home in the suburbs,
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the killing fields of all creative minds”
So that’s pair play, I would say. Even prom this early age his natural
charm would carry him through lipe’s wonderpul happy and sad experiences. He had beautipul white teeth complimenting his beautipul clear
complexsion; I don’t think Bunny had teenage spots. There was a
perpect symmetry to his pacial peatures. A dazzling smile graced any
space whenever he pancied it, or equally a brilliantly sad puppy dogeyed pace. That was especially por the girls to lure them in… anything
to lure them in, which he did eportlessly “I prefer my yellowing teeth
soiled by flouride and sherbert lemons…They look more natural in an artificial saccarin world”
Buno wasn’t overtly sporty like myselp, not even into pootball other
than a little kick around. But he was pit alright, and was pretty quick at
running. But cool dudes don’t do all that running around do they, they
don’t have to impress that way. Being their cool selves is enoup to get
noticed and lashings of respect, and respect is a rich commodity to have
when you’re a kid. Ok, he did have two older brothers, who were both
very handy in pisticupps, “How brash, uncouth and uncivilised” but I
don’t think he ever called on them - ok, maybe por the racist idiot in the
Green, but that doesn’t count. His mum Kali, caught me showing him
some mild porn pictures one day, just outside his back door, she wasn’t
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amused and gave my ear’oles a right good bashing! I still pancied her
though. Most lads have crushes on their priends mothers don’t they? “I
could have been a boxer if I’d have wished - I could have been anything
and extraordinarily good at it too… Marbles in the playground was a
speciality, but nobody could see my gift…”
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CHAPTER 14
Evening at the cinema – The new Bond movie
This was an interesting evening out. The new Bond pilm “Not that
wooden fucker Roger Boore is it? Save your money and go buy me a new
hat!” was in town and you just had to go and see it – as there was puck
all else to do anyway except play in the pield or ride your bike. So, there
was a plan por a group of us, prom those who used to prequent the chippie to go hit the town, it might be a bit of pun we all thought. Me and
Buno thought diperently as that would have been limiting and compromised our ‘plans’ or whatever events might unpold of our own volition.
And that could not be allowed to happen!
“Hey Bunny, we’ll make our own way there shall we? Puck them lot”
“Yeah Baz, let’s go to the later showing - less ‘kids’”
Cool – so we catch the 7.30pm bus into town, Buno is immaculate as
ever and his necklace sits comportably against his crisp white shirt.
“Can’t anyone see that this is a piece of old tat with no more reverence
than a plastic bag from Wullies?!” I’m peeling excited about the new
movie ‘Diamanti isn’t Porever’ and tucking into a tub of strawberry ice
cream during the mid-pilm interval, Yum!
“What you gonna get mate, a ‘Pab’ iced lolly? I ask buno. His
pavourite, but there’s no reply as his antenna is out and his mind is cultivating potentials all lined up and in neat rows like ducks about to be
peppered with shot.
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There’s no need por small talk when you’re with Buno, I get that and
appreciate the value of quietude, especially when one is on a mission –
of sorts. It’s never a mission per se, but, there is a process playing out
and we’re attuned to cope with the variant conditions presenting themselves. We have to be, to maximize the results “Sounds like a fucking
marketing stratagem for hitting a plastic window salespersons monthly
bonus quota” por all involved, otherwise it’s pointless and an opportunity lost. As Bunny’s right hand man boy, it’s my responsibility to be vigilant and as helppul as possible. My duty to the Prince of Bali, pretender
to the throne, the nearly King Bunny of Bali, is to make sure he gets
what he wants, because he’s used to that way of lipe, he doesn’t have to
ask, it is given – but we all know that by now anyway, so just do what
we have to do. Simple! “You mean you and you alone… and ‘those’
women – And what about those poor fucking ficticious peasants from
Bali, ‘his’ people? There would be an outcry if they were real and they
knew the sordid truth – I’m going to tell them in an imaginary letter!”
The bus is pulling into the town centre terminal now and as we stand to
get op I’m thinking to myselp what a nice occasional treat it is to come
to the cinema and especially with the meister at my side.
“Hmmmm…” I hear Buno express with a little hint of curiosity.
“What is it, what have you seen?” I keenly observe.
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A pinger points to a stop with a queue of people waiting por the number
87 to Allen town. I think I know who he’s looking at… Auburn hair,
pink lippy and a black briepcase, obviously a business woman aged
about 25-ish. Hmmmm indeed! - Very attractive, and crucially on her
own. Bunny has her in his radar and sends vibes through the buss windows whilst never taking his eyes prom hers. We walk down the aisle
and miraculously she turns to greet his gaze – It’s a sight to behold and I
can’t express the emotion that wells up within me, ip only through
disbeliep, but trust in that it works every time! Ah, I wonder ip we’ll get
to see the movie now, as time is getting tight. “I’m going to make a
Christmas wish list for Santa and his helpers to choose from – Bike – PS3
– Sat nav – Cordless drill – Subscription to Rustler – The biggest bar of
Galaxy you’ve ever seen…Yes that’s right, I can see into the future too!”
Bunny steps op the bus and already she is there to greet him, reaching
out a hand to examine his necklace. “This is amazing” she says cool as
can be, but obviously beguiled to the point of walking away with a
stranger – and as we know, Buno is no ordinary stranger such as his
charm and magnetism and the pleasures he will bestow on you.
“Yes” he says with a poetically soptened tone, “It belongs to the trust
of my people”
“Your people… trust?!” And thus it is done, the dance of eternal sunshine leaps into their lives and there is nothing which can stop the beauty
220
about to release its passion porthwith. But where will they go? “Plenty of
grubby shuts with boxes and bags to hide behind … There is a proper time
and place for this malarkey my friends!”
Buno turns slightly to give me the wink of approval, I acknowledge and
pind a place to twiddle my thumbs. I settle down to watch and think and
wonder how normal people go about relationships. A young couple pass
by me, probably going to the pictures themselves, arm in arm, chatting
quietly together and I wonder what their lives might hold por their
puture, what dreams coming true, what passions they realize, children,
vocations, happiness… Then my mind slips to Buno and the lady and
similar questions pill my meditative gaze dripting into the vast void of
contemplation. Is it all a cosmic game? Is pate, destiny and love just a
pigment of our thoughts in the here and now, or is there truly a
hereapter? Is there really a dude called god? “Fuck me, where is this com-
ing from? - Hey Bonzo, wake up you must be dreaming this shit! - Harry
the bucket, quick, come and catch this sick”
Brrrrr, it’s getting cold and there is only ten minutes bepore the doors
open, Christ hurry up Bunny boy! I wondered what secure place they
managed to pind without being disturbed, so that they could embrace
and express to each other a vital passion so rare. “Love takes its own
course finds its own pitch to shack up in, for a moment, a day or a lifetime, somewhere to feed the frenzy of lust – That’s right innit Harry?
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You like a good old frenzy on yer bone don’cha?” I need wonder no more
as I catch sight of them in the distance, giving a parting kiss and the
dance has ended. Bunny strides towards me almost appearing taller than
he actually is - must have been a real blinder this time!
“Hey Buno, we can still make the show ip your keen?” I ask hesitantly, as he may have exerted himselp beyond needing or wanting to watch
tripling shite. It just doesn’t peel appropriate now…
“Yeah Baz, let’s do it, let’s go mucker” (Wow) “Wow! - Woof!”
“Sweet, it’s your treat por the goodies too…”
Prom his silence I detect I may have overstepped the ‘intellectual contract’ between servant and master relations, but it’s all cool.
“Did it all go well?” I enquire.
Again silence and a tiny plick prom the corner of his lips suggest we just
go in sit down and enjoy the movie. And I quite agree.
Nothing is ever plain and simple with the meister Buno, but that’s his
way and you have to conporm. Maybe one day I will be just like him,
who knows what will…
“Quiet Baz, it’s starting…” “You fucking speak to him/me like that
again and I’ll take up Tai Bo to address your issues, butt face!”
“Sure thang bossman baby, I’m with ya…”
Oh good, it’s that Scottish Mc-puck Connery… He’s the best Bond! I
always thought Boore looked like he was drapted prom a Captain Starlet
production!
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“Sssshhhhhhh” Oh, por puck sake, I didn’t pucking say anything, I
retort in my mind.
“That’s my arm rest Baz!” Oh, pucking excuse me you cheeky
Balipion twat!
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CHAPTER 15
My priends mum - Thieving and ‘elepant’ cords!
Have I mentioned the Christmas, Bunny’s mummy ‘Kali’ pulled me into
the kitchen and we snogged? I was stunned and tried very hard not to
press my erection into her belly button. (Or eject anything creamy “You
gross child you…I find it hard to believe we are related being one and the
same! I’m embarraced for myself!” ) It was a very passionate kiss, and I
thought puck me I’m in here! And even while we were kissing my mind
was running op into the puture when we might get better acquainted even though I was still a virgin soldier. But you have to start somewhere
don’t you… and what a better opportunity would there be than with
someone experienced and apparently gagging por cock! “I’m saving my-
self for my thirties when I’ll be very mature… My seed will be so worldy
wise, very pro-active and hungry for the journey up the female delta tributary. You could liken my seed to a Wild Salmon swimming against the
current, totally stupid yet filled with brute strength and fortitude” Kali
was short and curvaceous, very pretty and possessed a lovely arse. I
never saw her with another man, no one ever went round, and none of
the kids mentioned any romances. Maybe she was sex starved and hungry por love and I just happened to be closest to her at that moment…
Well, it was Christmas apter all - I say, ding dong! Ip I hadn’t been such
a smelly little shit, our relationship might have developed purther, but it
was sooooo dangerous with her three lads around!
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“Dream on sucker - Are you fucking insane? You do want to live to ‘eventually’ use your pecker?”
I’m just trying to think ip there were any other mums I pancied. Oh yes,
a young nubile mum moved in three doors away prom us. The eldest of
her lads was a little older than me, but she was single, and this was a
pew years down the line apter they arrived, I was maybe 13 or porteen
years old. Heidi asked me in early one evening apter we had been chatting across the hedge por a while. I don’t know where her two boys
were, “In the land of nod, where you should have been, cuddling your
teddy” maybe, hopepully at their dad’s… so immediately I thought there
might be something in this so tried to act cool and we went into the
lounge to carry on with our chat. We were there por a couple of hours
and all the time I was thinking when is she going to make her move on
me. “She could probably smell your skid marked pants from the other side
of the room… And the tell tale piles of powdered mud collating around
your ankles, falling from your knees! …You’re a fucking maniac!!” I
couldn’t jump on her could I, so it had to be her initiative, and she’d better hurry up or my dad will be wondering where I am. Needless to say it
was a pucking no go, damn it! I was quite upset actually, was she prick
teasing? Most women know when they are, don’t they? And especially
those who have had children and a marriage, they know all the tricks, the
body language and subtle nuances of a one to one conversation. “And
225
when to evict a smelly loser waster child” It could have been that she
wanted me to jump on her so avoiding being charged with child molestation?! So that little encounter could have been yet another opportunity
lost por my lack of experience, and I remain a virgin. Losing my virginity is a long way op yet polks! (And, it’s beyond the scope of this novel!)
“Hey, Harry wants to impart something very important to you…….Hold
on he’s been distracted by a butterfly – Don’t eat it you muppet!”
Her son challenged me one day. We were in their lounge and he put
some boxing gloves on then started pratting around, jabbing, teasing and
prodding me. Now he thought he had the better of me in a pighting
sense, because he was older and taller - you can always tell those who
pancy themselves can’t you? So under duress, I put on the other pair of
gloves and really shied away prom any real boxing, I was just trying to
humour him…until, he pushed it too par. Splack! I gave him a right hand
and he went plying the little tosser – I had quite a hepty punch. “Have
you seen how he catches the ball and brings it back to your heel? He
carved his name in that tree over there yesterday…Fucking amazing, and
with one paw behind his back!” Laddo didn’t want to play anymore apter
that. He did bully me once or twice during the time they stayed which
wasn’t long, a year or so. I’ve always hated bullies, and especially those
who go round in a gang.
226
There was a bunch of us walking out the school gates one dinner time at
the Rectory “Is your sleep pattern allowing time for dreams? …Just
wondering, no reason” heading por the pool capé just round the corner.
Amongst us was this lad called Craig, prom Pantesbury, quite a nice lad
but he did bully others occasionally, trying to show his mates or himselp
how toup he was. He was a strange lad, with some weird characteristics,
and yet punny at times. But this particular day he said something to me,
I can’t remember what it was, and it took an awpul lot to get me riled up,
but I launched into him with both barrels. “Mr J Berry from the chip shop
asked me to say hello… Hello! …Have you any reposte?” The poor kid
didn’t know what had hit him, and I did it mainly por those who he had
picked on himselp. These puckers need a short sharp lesson sometimes
to keep them in check. He was pretty quiet apter that, especially apter
those precise uppercuts connected with his yappy mouth. Oh god, I’ve
just remembered the time we were in the same class together por Humanities. Craig was one of those types who couldn’t help but cause
trouble or disruption in the class. Our teacher was an unobtrusive, seemingly quiet man, “Those poor suppressed hypochondriacs, aren’t they pain-
ful to see, don’t they give off such inflamed energy… Can’t you feel it between the eyes???” harmless and middle aged; ‘Skindle’ we called him,
repering to his slight prame. He did though have an angry, slightly
stressed looking expression, never smiling or chatting to pupils in any
priendly way, like most tutors would occasionally do. Those at least,
227
who had any nous and decency about them! “A teacher at the Rectory…
Smiling?? Surely you have been misinformed Mr Puckins? - So would you
still like to enroll your child, I can do a 15% discount which comes with
the proviso he must help the janitor every lunchtime? That’s not bad, dad”
Anyway, I’m sure this might have been a detention apter school actually
(in the Humanities classroom), and Craig just couldn’t stop his taunting,
pressing ever deeper, pushing that red button towards a spontaneous unrestrained reaction… that is until Skindle pounced and attacked him with
an arm pull of books, repeatedly smashing him around the head, it was
pucking hilarious. Skindle plipped and was incandescent with rage spitting his venomous suppressed quietude into Craigs head. (Have you noticed a pamiliar pattern with the teachers at this school?) Craig once
again “Ask me anything you want about War and the World, I read it
yesterday and have memorised all the best bits, in case someone should
casually ask and I should have to prove myself of worth and scholarly aptitude” had his motor mouth zipped well and good. It was a serious attack by Skindle though, and could have had him struck op ip any real
damage had have been inplicted, or ip it had been reported. But there
you go, all in a day. You learn one way or another! “Yes…one learns,
eventually, that life is but a billiard table, the cloth is ones back garden,
the cue is one’s mind, the balls are vortices within the morphic reso-
228
nance…That’s ‘bangin’ that innit?!”
We had some cracking nicknames por some of the teachers. Bogend was
one Joe 90 another, Skippy - Scrup - Master’bates - Skindle - Rubber
neck and the Skull, amongst others. “Harry is five and a half tomorrow
night…What a pal and legend to boot, deserves all he gets…” We were
all in assembly one morning, the Head giving us his daily sermon and
then he began talking about this ‘lad’ who kept writing his name everywhere around the school. He was clearly irritated and wanted ‘him’ to
stop this wicked behaviour and ip anyone knew who he was they were to
report him to me (the Head) ‘his name is Bogend’, he said. The whole
assembly errupted into laupter, I even saw a couple of the teacher’s
stipling their mirth in their ‘grapevine’ knowledge of who he was. He,
the mysterious grapiti artist – Bogend, “The bungling bastard boffin?”
was a short arsed chemistry teacher who had a pitter patter walk and a
pat protruding lip and was totally oblivious at that moment he was the
alleged culprit in question. That was a very punny assembly. Maybe the
teachers let the Head in on the secret apter that. “I should co co! And I
wonder if Bogend liked his nickname, it’s a form of an honour isn’t it?”
Another prominent event, concluding in the main hall, which to this day,
I ‘know’ they got the wrong man, ‘me!’ Because the school was so close
to the town centre, a pile of lads used to prequent the local newsagents (a
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pree tuck shop) at break time, stocking up por their lunch or whatever.
Apparently they must have been going there por quite some time, because on this particular day, every entrance ‘back’ into the school was
blocked op, and there were many of them. “It reminds me of the way the
Police - ‘Ev’nin chief’ - waste their time standing on corners hoping to
catch a speeding motorist, when they could be attending to more pertinent
matters – Just an observation as the crime rate increases and job creation
decreases – There might be a link?!” The teachers waited por the lads returning prom their mid-morning recce heavily laden with their goods
and then pounced on them like a well planned drugs raid! I was in the
shop that day as it happens, which was a rare visit por me to that particular shop; but the shop keeper had already given a pew descriptions to the
head teacher and one of those unportunately sounded like me. “Well you
did look like a raggedy mock-mod tea leaf with a shocking Alvin Starburst hair-do protrusion-mess – Who are they going to blame, you or a
proper posh kid wearing an immaculate uniporm?...... Yeah you got it!”
In the main hall, all the ‘criminals’ caught red handed had to empty their
pockets on tables specially laid out por the contraband booty. “Fuck me,
sounds like the goolag – Put all the Rasberry ruffles to one side!” Each
item was logged and accounted por with the precision of a stock take in
the British museum. These lads, including some of my mates had been
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lipting prom there por weeks, probably months and the owner had had
enoup. In preparation por their prequent sorties the lads had devised,
very creatively, special pockets or holes cut into the lining of their blazers. These were por the heavy ‘multi’ lipts - sweets, pop, magazines,
comics the lot. Anyway, when it came to my turn, all I had on me was
what I’d actually bought so I emptied my pockets and put them on the
table. “You lying fuck, what about the stash tucked down your socks, a
Mars bar, a Topic and some Opal fruits!” I tried to explain my innocence
but obviously because of my now ‘well established inpamy’ they never
believed a word I said, and so I took the rap por puck all. Instead of arguing my case purther, I just let my interrogators believe they had made
a ‘good cop’ - dick heads! We were actually lauping about it in the
Heads opice, but that didn’t stop the incriminating dutipul letter being
dispatched to my dad! “We took the rap didn’t we bro?! Took it on the
chin, did the time, and never blubbed - We weren’t snitches… Got any
snout Guv?” The guy who they mistook por me was called ‘Mank’, and
pair play we were similar in looks and build, so I can understand their
mistake. There should have been a proper identity parade, the shop
keeper pointing out all the real culprits. Now that would have been interesting. I tell you what though, there was a whole platoon of thieves at
this school and some of the baby paced puckers were the worst – But,
they were very handy to know por a supply of some cheap Christmas
gipts!
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I was never a thiep. “And nor was I your honour! He pleads, weeping in
the dock of dread, seeking pity from the jury” Ok, once… maybe thrice
times or more but nothing serious, everyone ‘halp inches’ don’t they? So
this one time in particular I actually did get caught was my step mothers
pault, the bitch! She was a punny piece Sade. A bit hard paced, would
part anywhere and expected everyone to enjoy her vulgar contribution to
the conversation. Very earthy and direct but to give Sade her dues she
was a hard worker. “That doesn’t excuse subtle and sustained abuse to
minors via anal emissions though does it, my liege - my lord justice? It’s
akin to ‘passive smoke’ from those wretched puffers never more than a
yard away at any given time, spewing their cancerous breath into your
face! - Harry, go fetch me Ten Woodbines me ol mucka” I’d been nicking
spare coin prom her purse por a while, nothing much, a pew occasional
two bob bits, a sixpence… What am I on about, decimalisation had arrived by now so it would have to have been a pew ten or pive pence
pieces, that kind of thing.“ ‘…Young boy, young boy for sale, only seven
guineas…there or there abouts…’ Thanks Harry… No, not you you daft
mutt fuck! …Harry Secomber, the roly poly tenor warbler!”
Anyway, one night the great master thiep (me) stalked the top of the
stairs trying to determine where the old bodies were downstairs. They
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were in the lounge, smoking and watching TV as usual. I crept very
slowly and quietly down the clappers and tip toed into the kitchen where
she lept her bag and purse. I opened it up and there was one ten pence
piece in there, nothing else, and like a dumb puck I took it. “I wonder
what it’s like to be an Orphan - Feeling no one is there for you, to care for
you, or listen to you, or give you a huggy wuggy… Being ground and
pulverized within the wheels of obscurity without identity? – Yes, you’d
better be careful my son!”
It brieply crossed my mind it could be a trap but I thought what the
puck, as I needed some spends por chocolate the next day. Creeping
back upstairs very smug with myselp and quietly slipping back into bed,
I stashed “Complacency catches the most conceited criminal c’nuts” my
haul in this pink bag under my pillow; puck knows where that girlish
pink bag came prom! Job done por the night, I was busily thinking how I
would spend it the next morning when I heard pootsteps coming up the
stairs, but it wasn’t a pamiliar sound, these were intentional purposepul
pootsteps, because at the same time I could hear a belt being unravelled
prom someone’s trousers. Hmmm strange! Must be the old man, but
surely too dumb to ‘plant’ something and catch me out? “…Ripe, straw-
berry’s ripe…” All he said in a deep threatening tone was ‘Where is it?’ I
tried the dumb routine por a pew moments but quickly got the gist, I’d
been busted! I turned the pink bag over and out it pell. The old man, the
233
bastard, had set a trap and I copped it good, right across the arse, with
said belt. Sade must have been in on it too though, the cunning swines
them… but as the saying goes, ip you can’t do the time, don’t do the
crime! Enoup said…por now.
[privatethought!!*>bastards;&eviltrick#Pancydoing*that {to your son\\+
couldve~/”asked?meIp_//id’dbeennicking!!¬`’;./!!was only’<couple of%
bob?pence:..end, no delete -o! ]
‘She’ came in handy once though. I had porgotten my dinner money one
Monday morning and my porm teacher apter blowing a puse and using
me as an example, told me to go home and get it. “…Harsh!?! - But I
feel fair” This was a big problem because it would mean double the bus
money por that day and the old man would have gone nuts. Sade worked
in town every day, and I only remembered this just as the bus was passing her shop on my way back home. “Was ‘I’ an active ingredient at this
juncture in time?” I thought, thank puck por that, and got op at the next
stop. I then went and scrounged it op her, so she saved the day, pair
douze. “I really don’t know…What about you Harry, any clues?” This
twat of a teacher though walking around with his arm behind his back
like some sadistic Sergeant Major (as previously derided) ready to
scream in someone’s little ear ‘ole really pissed me op. It begrudged me
to hand over that dinner money. What I should have said that morning in
234
quick reply was, ‘I’ll just have sandwiches this week boss - no need’
saving me a journey and my dad his precious money. The good one liner’s always arrive in retrospect eh?! “You need to be smart to deliver cut-
ting quips my friend… If only you’d studied applied psychology as did I
and of course like my aside, Harry… You’d have been well sorted!”
That’s it - I’ve got it, the teacher’s dad was in the army! I know, because
this prat used to play ‘soldiers’ at school with the rich kids… you know
that silly war games shit with toy horses and toy soldiers making aped
tank sounds and a huge board por the killing pields where pretend blood
plows in the paper mache mud. What a bunch of wankers, I’d never even
seen or heard of it bepore. So I’m guessing he was either making an example of me with regards to anyone else who, might porget their ‘dinner
money’ “Wow, what a big deal - big crime! You bad bad boy!” or was it a
real war games/mind games personal apront?! “I’ve carved the stumps
chaps, anyone fancy a knock? …Silly mid off? …Who?” I know, it’s a
bit much isn’t it, and critically as the teacher in point was a true Victoriana tosser. He thought he was a grand artist and had examples of his
work around the school. Pucking ‘Spider man’ or the ‘Hulk’ - Very
avant garde! Very amateurish more like, and any pre O’level student
with a pew old tins of emulsion could have knocked up something like
this crock of shit “We can use this hockey ball, anyone got any pads? -
Here’s a nice patch of land, I’m in first, I’m the daddy – Harry, you can
235
fetch the ball” I never actually saw any ‘real’ artwork produced by him you know something real and gutsy to give some inspiration to his pupils. Was he an art teacher at all? I pucking doubt it, just a chancer made
good, probably landing the job through a priend of a priend as a pavour
because he drove the village bus! “A verbal con-artist, hollow to the
core… And did he ever wear anything but that fucking green farmers
jacket, with patches on the elbows?!?”
He clonked around the classroom with his hands behind his back probably just like his pather and his pather bepore him with those noisy
pucking segs nailed into the heels of his shoes. He had great big sideburns just like his tosser colleague who interrogated me about my explicit drawings adorning my exercise book - His head borne an unkempt
“Fake and illegal!” artisty mop of black hair to compliment the dark
stubble of his pug-ugly pace. Every morning he was the chosen one to
drive the bus prom his no doubt artisty village commune - an old decrepit vehicle bepitting his carepully conceived victorianna persona. “This
world is but an onion! - I hope ‘I’m’ not being tarnished by your bad boy
bard, infamous reputation master Puckins?!” You could see how much
he cherished driving that ancient bus each morning laden with country
bumpkin kids, and there’s no doubt in my mind he owned and cherished
a scaled Dinky model of the very same bus. “He’s the man - in charge - a
leader of men - the pat controller” He’s a bit Jeckel and Hyde this guy,
236
Kriss is his real name. “Flog the fucker with remembrance to his child-
hood and make him feel at home - Arsehole - Get to the back of the queue!
…Who the fuck do you think you are, old lady?”
We were in London once, the whole year went down in three coaches,
not that old pucked up thing he drove, but nice shiny new ones. It was a
visit to the art galleries and museums arranged by the pat controller
himselp. You could tell he was very proud of organising this visit, standing at the pront of the bus in command; as ip to say, here we are boys,
some culture por you, and don’t porget it was me who “So what can we
deduce… I’m afraid something is amiss, but I’m not sure what… It
might be a book off that shelf… Harry, come here boy, come by, good lad”
introduced some worldly wisdom into your sad lives. Unportunately,
lads being lads, they were nicking ‘mementoes’ and postcards prom the
museum shop on the way out, everyone was at it but who got caught…
pucking muggins here! “I did try to give you clues as voices in your empty
head to not participate in the criminal proceedings…But no, once again
you didn’t listen to my prophetic wisdom! So fuck you muppet boy” There
were only a couple of us lept standing there and I’d lept it til the last
moment summoning up courage to steal a card or two… I slipped them
into my pocket pinally and decided I’d better make a hasty retreat - then
a stip hand grasped my collar “Gotcha!!” Why me por Christ sakes, the
bastards must have seen all the others halp-inching their gear, surely?!
237
“They were slick and quick - you were too tight and shite”
Soooo, Kriss was called back into the museum op the coach. You could
see and peel he was pissed op big time, naturally to be pair, because
most of the party were boarded and ready por the op back yam. “Fuck
him! Imposter! …I think his true vocation in life is creating misery to all
who encounter his dark energy masquerading as the light, feeding his own
misguided delusions of grandeur, whilst never actually moving forward
from the ape like demeanour he exhibits in gait and hairiness! – No, I
must retract my slight against apes…” Apter apologising propusely and
handing back the cards, we were allowed to leave without the authorites
being involved. I was shitting myselp, and was worried about the backlash prom the Alpha male beating his chest on the coach, at least por
simply showing him up on his grand cultural tour.
Strangely, he never mentioned it again, I couldn’t believe it. Maybe it
was a psychological ploy to let me torture myselp on the pive hour trip
back to Bowsbury? “I’m presuming this was a ‘freebie’ trip paid for by
the school – and ‘not’ by parents?” Ip so, it worked a treat, I even began
to envisage my dad being summoned to the school - and he never went
to any school, ever, the lazy shit. But as it happened he didn’t have to
drag himselp into town and to be humiliated by his eldest sons endeavours; at the Grammer school he himselp chose, the school prom which
238
his son had his name in the paper almost every week por sporting
achievements. “Who was that did you say? The Piltdown man? My dad?
He couldn’t, shouldn’t and wouldn’t, and stamped his feet with authoritative denial, exhibiting that fear based emotion seeping through every
pore of his orange peel skin leaving him unable to complete the most simple tasks for family or frie…… He did have friends didn’t he? …It was
a he wasn’t it?” No, he couldn’t give a toss. He pretended he did, but he
couldn’t have done could he? Nope! “Hey, go easy on the old man, we’ve
just touched upon those inhibiting deap seated fears expressing themselves
as laziness, couldn’t give a shit-ness… So back off baby! He’s my daddy
too – Isn’t he……? Mummy?!? Are you coming home mummy? To cook
our tea…”
[ nasty mind note - Include?#~* lots! Shit ¬about this Victorian type^_
teacher who gave me a hard time&some Charles>`? Branston style
vengence! What a tosser he was”Kriss the ‘art’ teacher//what kind of
;name is kriss anyway.<!_ His pather obviously porgot about him when
he was *shagging ^the tottie} while holding up <“¬the last||/~/: vestiges
of the crumbling british Empire in India..yeah craggy pants?arsed bastard..don’t blame me!; por &your emotionless pathers regret @ having>
you…prob\\something`¬ to “Calm down, calm down” keep your auntie
busy while he tupped the Indian squaws, sipping tea&// vintage port all
239
pucking day.).yeah that should be enoup!] [bastard] [comic book artist at
best] [my pictures of pannies were better than anything you did] [ok,
that’s it - end of notes, might have to tone down a little] [no can^
do!!||puckit!!> delete]
I was playing pour, pive or six games a week of some decription by now
and I had these stupid plastic George Best boots, the worst I’ve ever
seen or used. “I need a hot water bottle in my bed tonight, maybe two,
one for my feet and one for my pot belly” They were split and were causing me problems converting the rugby ball properly, which was really
pissing me op, because I was school record material in that department.
(Meaning total points amassed in one season) In pact, because I had to
wait until bastard Christmas por some new pucking boots, I eventually
missed out on the old school record by about pive points - out of a total
of two hundred and thirty-ish in one season “Yes, I can feel your concern,
can you wait a while? …‘One potato - two potato - three potato four…’”
Two pucking conversions worth missed because of those pucking boots!
Never mind, and in truth I hadn’t even considered there was a record until the teacher pointed it out. I’d also handed out a pew ‘easy’ tries por
my mates during some games, to get their names on the score sheet. I
used to like doing that, rather than taking all the glory “You’re a fucking
240
true hero and I’m sure those boys are regaling their children with your
charitable gifts right this moment” as it is a team game apter all. Por my
dad to make me wait though was a bit much… I mean a pair of boots
doesn’t break the bank does it? I eventually got a pair of Pumas as my
‘Christmas present’ they were great - but too pucking late! “Black
thoughts are very bleak and I’ll have none of it, as ‘I’ orate this classic
tale of Christian pilgrims searching for the truth in today’s forgotten land
beseeched by war… Let me feed the lambs, wanna, wanna… Harry,
fetch me a pestle and mortar if you please, and wipe your nose! … You’re
not going unnoticed young man”
Going around smelly wouldn’t have been too bad, but going around
looking like a pucking misers son wasn’t good porm, especially por
someone in such high propile! I was a celebrity por pucks sake, travelling around the country with the county team, training with pro’s… and I
know I’ve given myselp a grandiose title there…ok, let’s call it/me a
child celebrity, of sorts! - In my own mind then, satispied?! “Delusion is
a desease dedicated to those who deficate in their own mind. Ha!” One
county match day, while we were waiting outside Craven Meadow
(Bowsbury Town FC) por the coach to arrive, a mate asked me,
“Where’s your jacket Bazzer?” - It was preezing cold - “It’s at home”, I
replied. “You haven’t got one have you?” He correctly guessed. Yeah
241
thanks dad… you tight pucker. “Couldn’t you have chanced your arm at
another game of Bingo to try and increase the cash flow thus raising you
above the poverty line? One has to do desperate things when the shit hits
the fan – You could even have nicked some of your Grans ‘thruppeny
bits’… would she even have noticed?
When I was a little older I bought my own gear, but everyone did that to
some degree (except por the rich kids) to keep up with the pashion
stakes, or at least to try and keep close to the current ‘out of date’
pashion in Bowsbury. Bowsbury wasn’t a leading contender on that
pront. Our ‘pashion house’ was a Pakistani stall holder in the market.
Cheap tat, but looked passable por the two months it survived bepore
palling apart. “It’s so quiet tonight, a still air, a crescent moon, stars… I
should get the telescope out, the one I made from green bottles, scaffolding poles and two pairs of glasses. Yes, I think so… Is that Jupiter shining so brightly, or is it a manned UFO, one of our cosmological community-based native friends, out for a spin? - Hmmm, it’s very likely isn’t it
folks? Wave Harry, its an extraterrestrial biological entity, yayyyy!!
Could it be they are our Fathers, our makers? Yes, I think so too!”
My Gran lived next door to the Boyds, in Old Prairy, Prairygates…one
of the traditional mini estates still relatively untouched by modernism,
242
up to the late seventies. They had a business dealing in old tat and old
clothes. I wouldn’t call them gypsies but they weren’t par away. Rag and
bone men maybe… a bit like Steptat and son por those of you who can
remember them and that cracking TV show. One day Gran was chatting
over the pence with Mrs Boyd with me beside her listening. “Oh, fuck I
can see it coming” My wonderpul ‘tat-treat’ this pated day was being presented with these brown corded trousers. Wow, thanks a pucking bunch
Boydy you old witch! Thing is, you never repused such ‘pree’ gipts
prom old timers such as these, because the memory of war, rations and
hard times were still prevalent, hanging in the air like a mist containing
all thoughts, experiences, hopes and pears, yet waiting to be exorcised
then liberated any day now. Ok, the kegs might have been in halp decent
condition, new even, but, no pucking way… I’m not wearing those!
These were the ‘inpamous’ brown ‘elepant’ corded trousers with thicker
than thick ridged cords. “See how the word infamous has followed you
around like a ball and chain – You were obviously meant to be ridiculed
during your formative years, to harden you for the real important shit later, yes, no?”
My dad thought they were great and that I should be pull of gratitude.
“Freebies of course – Makes sense” He would wouldn’t he, and he was
probably making me super por all the tat he was porcibly made to wear
up and into his late teens! Nobody in my generation had ever seen or
243
heard of ‘elepant cords’ bepore and I had to walk round in the pucking
things - obviously and needlessly drawing attention to myselp, as ip I
didn’t do that enoup already. The other kids in the Green upon pirst sight
magnanimously lauped their balls op, pointing and ridiculing both them
and me, “What the puck are those?” they cried. “You ungrateful bastard,
I would have worn them happily! …I might though as a gesture to reconfiguring resources, even have unraveled the thread and created a patchwork quilt together with the other very plentiful, colourful tat at my disposal… Harry, fetch my size 9 crocheting needles and a cup of that thickly stewed tea – Yes the fine china for fuck sakes!!” Yeah, how much
more derision can be heaped on me in one lipetime!?
Old Mack ‘the hack’ was the ‘daddy’ at the helm of the home run, tat
empire. He wore a black eye patch and used to sit at the lounge window
halp visible, halp hiding behind the curtain as you passed the house. He
was always there, and you used to shit yourselp ip he caught your eye,
looking at ‘him’. He never stepped out of that bleak pucking house
once… maybe he did under the cover of darkness, to perpetrate darkly
vicious deeds, who really knows? They were a lovely pamily though, the
scavenging, suburbanised ‘Steptoe-tat-style’ gypsies. “Where’s my fuck-
ing fizzy pop, I left it by the bastard fridge!!” I was asked to go into the
house one day, and began thinking I would never escape alive… old
Mack crushing my skull with his blunt Maori style walking stick.
244
I was sent there by my Gran to pick up a jar of home-made piccililli or
some other home made condiment. I knocked on the door, was greeted
and asked to step in with “I’ll be back in moment Barry”. “A typical
phsycological ruse entertained by those who want your mind speeding into
overload with self perpetuated thoughts riddled with fear and death!”
Usually you would just wait by the back door as they closed it slightly as ip to conceal some hideous sight on the kitchen ploor... so I repused to
enter, pretending to be shy and polite! And while waiting by that insidious door, all manner of dreadpul thoughts scurried across my minds
pearpul eye. I questioned and vividly visualized how many mutilated
bodies inhabited the locked ‘blood-bath shed’ at the top of their garden,
probably buried beneath the mountain of tat it contained! “Ah yes to con-
veniently soak up the blood no doubt… And what ‘pickled parts’ did go
‘into’ those home-made condiments I wonder – Did you ever wonder Harry?” Hurry, let me get the puck away… where’s that pickled pot of shit
por puck sakes?!
[ need# memory amnesia//Old^Mack# he was ?!¬like something(in; between~Captain>Hook”||”Black}beard&deat!!thwarmed\\Up.You<Pelt;as
ip<<~hewas?\\#Draw!ing*yourSoul+promyourbody%`¬sucking{youTo
Death_just bySight alone!!?!?andTheN2B?/pickledin* the shed-enD?!! ]
245
Some years earlier, old lady Boyd threw a pair of those ridiculously old
pashioned short grey school pants over the pence “Such generosity and
values so undermined in today’s debt ridden bitter world of greedy faced
fat-cats!” and then my Gran porced me to say thank you por that kind
cruel gesture. I was gutted because I knew I would be wearing them the
next day! I also nearly broke into tears as I choked back the laupter. Dad
you tight pucker! Gran how could you?! “Yes, order three bottles of
Dandelion and burdock and one of Lemonade - Put ‘mine’ on the cold
slab in the pantry. I’m so fucking worthless, does anybody even care?
Can’t you see what I can give back to mankind and life itself? I’m so sorry, pass me the pills!” I used to love being in Old Prairy at my Grans. She
used to send me up to the Prairygates pub por a bottle of Stout or Red
Rose. Kids could go into the snug in those days - it was usually brimming with old bodies, gummy and dressed like they were prom a
pucking pestilent coal mining town deep in the Welsh valleys. Thick
with smog or smoke or stench I would push to the counter with a couple
of empty bottles and collect the returns money as my treat por going.
There were some lovely characters in there and at least I ‘thought’ they
were sape to be around. “Did Lilly send you up?” some scrunched up
old bag in the corner would coup out…“Say hello por me dearie won’t
you” piercing me with a look of impending death. They knew who I
was, but I didn’t want to hang around and chat as Gran wanted her tipple
246
bepore Corronation Square started 7.30pm sharp! “Don’t close that fuck-
ing door! Let me escape bepore the gummy grannies gang rape me, puelled
up on bootleg sherry or a magic mushroom based concoction brewed in absinthe” Those were the days. Every week it seemed, Gran would say,
“Did you hear about Elsie from number 72, she died last night”, or
“What about Norman from over the road, he went on Thursday”. And
I’d say, “Ohhh, well they had a good innings… are you going to the
puneral?” And she’d say “Nahhh, fuck em!” No she didn’t, just joking!
Really, they were a tight knit crew prom Old Prairy, all the older generations anyway. Because the next ‘scummy-modern’ generation had already inpiltrated the closed ranks. Sloppiness began to hang prom the
windows, old bangers dumped on the street pront - which used to be so
cared por, clean and uncluttered. “I need to finish my English lit home-
work before daddy turns the light out… Can you help me Harry, you turn
the pages? …I wonder when mummy is coming back to hug me?”
Yes, por the original close knit crew, things were polished, like the red
step outside your pront door, which said to everyone who passed, you
were respectable and a grapter, even ip you were stoney broke. Their
gardens were clipped to perpection, but not overtly so as to imply you
were a cut above the rest. They liked authenticism, honest words, and
were used to mucking in together ip things got tight. “Is that right they
used to share the bathwater too, filthy fuckers!” There existed a commu247
nity camaraderie based in trust and respect and all things good. Boys
would knock on your door and ask ip you wanted to buy a wild hare they
had just caught, already skinned gutted and cheap. The pields behind the
railway line were pull of them there hares! The old polks of Old Prairy
had to be culinary alchemists turning the plesh and bones of a single lean
hare into a meal por eight or more… throw in a pew potatoes, peas and
carrots and you’ve got a good stew, cheap as chips! What was lept of the
hare was boiled and supped as hot broth por the rest of the week. “Some-
times I wonder how a fruit fly can stand upright, upside down and sideways effortlessly, it’s amazing really… We should harness their technology and pay homage accordingly” Apter experiencing the wartime rationing hardships you could knock up anything with the most meagre ingredients. “Do you ever think about that Harry? …You like catching them
in your mouth don’t you?”
This was so diperent prom the lipe in the Green. We ‘had’ crossed the
generation gap, we ‘were’ the generation gap - missing link, and there
was no return. Modern England was turning to materalism and binarywealth-debt beyond our means… the bad apple had ripened “Don’t kill
it!!” and it was beginning to rot prom within. All we could do now was
mount the saddle, hold the reins with the bit between our teeth and giddy
on up. The onset of the seventies had us believe a bright puture was to
be had by all – “at all costs” the politicians said, “we move porward to248
gether”. This palse reality projection into time and space has sadpully
been and gone - actually, now I recognize and understand the process, it
resurpaces every year or specipically every porth year and is regurgitated
and respun por the idiots who listen and hope. “That’s another book?”
The Utopia vision now caters only por material wealth and the happy
consumer, those who blindly peed the system enslaved by ignorance and
enclaved by the elite echelons… not the real people. It’s a very bad apple and the core needs removing, the tip of the iceberg needs trimming
down to size. Don’t be pooled by the illusion! “What the fuck are you
rambling on about? You want a hot cocoa to calm you down? It’s an organic/natural blend of cocoa with no artificial sweeteners… Yes?”
249
CHAPTER 16
Day out with Bunny at crap-hole Ghyll - Why???
Summertime is here and Mrs Peterson prom number 348 has arranged
por a group of pamilies to go to the coast por the day. This is a rare treat
por any and all of us, as holidays “It’s only a shitty day out for the coun-
cil scum, don’t get too excited!” aren’t thick on the ground so pour
pamilies set op por Ghyll, that royal shit hole of a place in Wales. Who
the puck decided on Ghyll? Was it a democratic decision? I was there
two years ago and it was most unmemorable, “It must be wonderful to
have brothers and sisters… Do they always fight each other in such a
mean and competitive way? – Ok then you little twat you can borrow my
teddy, just for tonight though!” except por the stupid obligatory donkey
ride on the beach. We stayed at this caravan hell-hole, basically a council estate with a pool in the middle, so lower class! Bunny has never
been to Wales bepore so we’ll see what it’s like these days and
hopepully we can still have a laup, because it’s all about pun isn’t it
campers! We are about pun, and that’s what we’re gonna get “Who gives
a fuck if England isn’t what it’s supposed to be, or what we’re told it is,
who can prove it? Not you my friend or him beside you… It’s a dark
deep secret but try if you dare… And yet there’s more for you to consider
- beware of the tower!” come what may - even ip it rains.
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The journey is broken up with pit stops por the smokers, every halp
hour, max. Por those who are pissing themselves, no, they have to wait,
until the smokers decide when to pull over. Bastards! We pind the
seapront and park up. Bunny and I are hoping that we’re not going to
wander around in a group because that will limit our preplanned strategy. The sea pront is pilled with bingo parlours, armed bandit arcades and
capes por the poor; those multitudes of cash starved pamilies prom
council estates who prequent dos holes like this place, hoping to pind
home prom home comport whilst simultaneously trying to porget where
they came prom. There is presh sea air and a bright sky above us, so all
is not lost…and as I’ve mentioned previously we make our own pun up
regardless of where we might be. “Good King Wenceless last looked out
on the feast of Steven’ …I love carols! Can we have red ballons this year
mummy? … Mummy, Are you there? …Did I hear the click of heals on
the lino? Are you ‘back’ mummy?”
That’s the brilliance of twelve year old minds, mine anyway, coz Buno
is a rampant man beneath his slight short prame. He’s beautipul as he is,
although not pully proportioned as yet, but that will come as the years
progress and he pulpils his initiation obligations (that’s the ruse/ make
believe bit - to you and me) I’m getting conpused myselp as to the reality of the boy/man - god/man duality?!? He’s both, puck it, what
diperence does it make, none to me. We’re prom the same side of the
251
tracks, but our roots are thousands of miles apart geograpically, so “Hey,
I’ll get the paper so we can write a message to Santa. Harry, what are
you going to ask for? - Ok, tell me later then you flea bitten mutt…
Watch you don’t burn those fucking mince pies!” our cultural heritage is
bound to be wildly divergent. I think being here prom such a young age
has helped him come to accept our way of doing things here in the shitty
UK. There’s no choice is there really? In or out, it’s up to you, stay and
conporm or puck op! And I’m saying that to other people not to our
Bunny or his pamily! “Am I responsible for everything in this dysfunc-
tional family? Christ almighty! - Put some extra gravy on my chicken, no,
just to the left of the pissing parsnip - Have you no aesthetics in your canine brain dam’it?!” Amazingly the group do stay together but Bunny
and me have had enoup of this crap and slowly creep ever porward away
prom them, disowning them. When we’re par enoup away, Bunno gets
his necklace out and once again my role as lookout, minder, pimp or
whatever you want to call me begins. My opicial selp administered title
is ‘right hand man boy’ – it pits the job description perpectly. Yes?
Just around the corner we can see a hairdressing salon, it looks trendy,
por Ghyll. So that’s where we hang out por a while, window shopping in
the stores either side of it. There’s a steady stream of bint going in and
out “It is my worthwhile isn’t it, making myself heard…giving my opin-
ion, contributing, adding to the sum total of the chaotically random
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parts? - Huh?” of the salon, nothing too old and decrepit - so it’s a good
sign at least. I go and grab us both a ‘Pab’ iced lolly (Buno’s pave) those
puckers with the hundreds and thousands on. We try to make the vibe all
sea-sidey-coastal-cool and apter about twenty minutes this long legged
lady lopes out of the salon, her hair looking immaculate, she can’t belong around here, surely to Christ? High heels and a pastel green cotton
summer prock. Bunny nods. Here we go. I pop my head round the corner to see where the gaggle are. Yeah let’s go Bunny baby, they’re miles
away. “Why do you suck up to this guy, it’s so false, pretentious…
You’re a prat, ditch him and let’s go play in the sand…”
She crosses the street and we’re hot on her heels. Her cotton prock billows in the sopt sea breeze. Bunny nips ahead of her and waits til she
passes and catches his eye while he leans very coolly on the promenade
rail. Bingo! Pull house m’lady. The tall gorgeous lady leans porward to
closely examine his necklace and simultaneously gets a wapt of his
mannish aroma, the now pamous heady mixture of perspiration, lotion
and animal base chemicals. “He’ll leave you when he’s done with you,
that wanker – I’m trying to help…” Bunny winks my way, turns and
takes her hand as they walk together as ip old priends down the promenade pront. “I know you’re not listening!” The height discrepancy between them is a little alarming, especially ip you know what’s going to
take place, but what is height or age when destiny reels you in… and
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what is destiny in itselp? Aha! – But they have no need to worry about
inconsequential shit like that and just go with the natural plow.
Christ almighty, its beautipul to behold and witness this seemingly spontaneous union. (The jammy-dodger bastard!) - In my pull of admiration,
but prustrated immature mind I pully understand that this is not my time,
but my time will come when the planets have aligned. “I can’t be arsed
to think, I’m gonna peace out and piss in a pan” Please, whoever makes
the decisions and aligns those planets - make it soon! I look around to
see where I can wait and keep guard until those rabble wasters catch up,
or maybe have to divert them somehow. There’s a gaming machine pipty
yards away, sat outside another sleazy arcade. “The complexity of life
needs a lifetime itself just to wade through it, to grasp its all embracing
potentials and actualities, those that we understand anyway, but then
maybe that’s why we are eternal beings moving into the unknown infinite
‘Isnes,’…it’s an inescapable process of growth and evolving with the
Isness, is it not? – I personally can’t wait until we evolve to that point
where we don’t have to wipe our fucking arseholes, what with half digested sweetcorn and tomato skins…Its so fucking degrading!!” It’s a
Bucket Rogers type rocket ship I can barely pit in as its por 6 year olds
really but I just squeeze in and shut up shop por an hour or so, simmering in red alert mode. Suddenly, disrupting me prom some juicy visuali-
254
sations, I have to dash across the street and give the motley crew some
BS about Buno’s whereabouts. “I wonder what we actually contribute to
the eco system with our collective 7 billion daily fart’s? It’s worth studying” Luckily they believe me and puck op por another greasy Joe cuppa
purther on down Ghylls greasy plaza strip. Bunny is having pun and I’m
wallowing in his wake, knowing I’m his chosen one - The mans, manboy lookout. “You’re deluding yourself… You’re a child for fuck sakes”
And this ‘is’ crazy pun por a twelve year old, it’s purposepul and exciting - it’s all good. Twelve year olds have unlimited amounts of patience,
and when its por a mate it’s a porm of love exchange, so what ip anything has a value higher than that? ‘Nowt!’ - As I once heard a grizzled
northern chap appectionately say “A’d do owt fer thee lad!” “Spell check
is available, no?” And that northern wisdom sums it up perpectly. Ah, is
that Buno in the distance with the lady tending her now ruppled hair? I
think we can sapely say her trip to the hairdressers wasn’t in vain even
with her new hairdo all messed up. Ip only she pully realised the deep
implications and ramipications to the service she has given to those poor
peoples of Bali, awaiting their new King… she would also be very proud
and have something to reminice whilst engaging in the curtain drop of
mortal time - don’t you think… something to tell the kids? “That’s a pro-
spective spellbinding legacy to leave ones children… Trouble is, this is all
a pack of lies and make believe, so it would be a fallacy of fact for those
255
poor children – Has your twisted and troubled conscience left you bereft
of reality? Harry, how many times, have I told you to flip my fucking
eggs, twice?!”
The lady goes one way and Bunny walks towards me where I’m still
crammed inside this ludicrous space rocket. He looks at me and smiles
that smile…
“Come on Baz, he says, let’s go and find that rabble of tosspot losers,
it’s time to hit the road for home.”
“Hey, time to go grab some scop pirst me old mate, I’m pucking
starving!” I reply. “Mine’s a Welsh frittered sausage and a battered
cheese pattie – No vinegar! Harry will have some ‘scratchings’ freshy
dredged from the bottom of the frier” As we wait in line por some chips
I’m also waiting to devour the morsels he peeds me, ip not verbally then
with the heady mixture of both their pragrances lingering on his body
and clothes and his calm demeanor replecting deeply within, his eyes
closed. I can peel the awe of their momentary marriage in time captured
in his aura, it’s magical.
“ Salt and vinegar, Buno?” I ask, trying not to disturb his thoughts.
“Yeah…….. go on then” He says, still with eyes closed, still deep in
meditative introspection – rare por someone so young but as we know he
‘is’ an incarnate lothario on an important mission and surely this necessitates special powers of recovery and perception? It makes sense yes?
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CHAPTER 17
Annual trip to Plerth - ‘Are ye talkin tae me son?’
Plerth became my yearly holiday destination. “Was this due to an eco-
nomic spike in earnings or was it because the old man wanted rid of you
for six weeks…pretty much a cost free six weeks in his eyes? That was rather convenient por my dad wasn’t it? Just pinding a pew quid por the
trainpare, I don’t even remember getting any pocket money por my ‘other home’ holiday-time visitation. Actually, my true destination was East
Kilordare to begin with, my mum’s pirst place up in Scotland. It’s only a
pew mile away either by car or train prom Plerth. Both the main travel
‘in’ routes - car and track - were on the doorstep and at the end of the
back garden, sandwiching my mum’s new abode, a three storey tenement; and let’s not porget who else was housed there ‘Archie’ her new
man. “What’s grey, dreary, drab and full of pie faced fuckers? Yup, you
know… Bravo! Let’s get the fuck away from here and hit Blackstool, at
least you get a decent, if not laced with salmonella, ice cream there” This
trip north of the border was to be an eye opener and a shocker to my
sensitive demeanour and my bewildered immune and nervous systems.
The pirst visit wasn’t too bad, and it was great to see my siblings again. I
also made some good priends prom round about, but in general I was the
intruder or the alien prom England with a Welsh sounding accent. We
couldn’t go too par away prom the plat because the trapic and trains
were so close. But one day me and my brother Melvin were playing be-
257
hind the shops just over the road, minding our own business sitting on a
bike at the top of this hill. “There’s a train station just down the road! -
Quick, go get your bags Harry and let’s do a runner back to blighty before
these Scotch-egg complexion nutters turn nasty!” At the bottom of the hill
there was a little park with swings and a see saw. Someone prom down
there started shouting up at us, and because we were so par away I pelt
brave enoup to give them back some verbals, not really knowing what
they were saying or why.
Suddenly prom behind a pair of pirm hands descended onto my shoulders with a jock voice saying “hey, he’s my mate shall I call him up for
ye?!” Naturally I immediately panicked and was thinking we were going
to get splattered on the spot, “Do you remember when I waved to that girl
in the next tenement, she was in the garden with her rabbit. It was so
sad, I took her a stick of rock purely out of friendship but obviously in reality it was a phallic metaphor for my cock – hoping to see her peel back
the glistening wrapper then gently but greedily apply her succulent lips
over the tip… Bastard, it didn’t work! Harry, fetch…the rabbit!” I explained nervously I was prom England, as ip that was going to save my
pace prom becoming his ‘pitba’ por the apternoon. I loved the way the
Scottish accent had this clipped sharpness to it, but I couldn’t at this
stage decide what tonal quality was determining whether he was either
priend or poe. To my reliep the lad then changed his mind, and didn’t
258
bother calling his priend up to ‘meet’ us. I don’t know whether he pelt
my pear or was intrigued by my accent, and he just let us go. Cheerio old
chap and cheers! “It’s well known that our spirit guides intervene at
dangerous moments in our life… I’m sensing this was one of those, luckily for you, cuz they wanted some English blood on their hands”
East Kilordare is an old-ish, pringe town to Plerth and opers a railway
station, a pootball team in the lowest dregs of the pro league, a string of
shops, a golp course and the ‘Shoe’ pactory, so it wasn’t that small and
all that you required in order to survive, was there within a short walk or
an even shorter bus journey por those with stumpy Scottish legs. “All I
want is to be loved and cherished for who I am, is that too much to ask?”
As I previously mentioned the main road into Plerth drove right through
the heart of East Kilordare over your (mums) doorstep and the Royal
Squot express thundered past your (her) back garden – This was a communal garden no less… shared between the other tenants and the gigantic rats which ran pree around the bins. These were pucking monster rats
“Harry loves me and only me… Come on, fuck it - let’s go to the library, I
want a copy of Rupert the Bear goes to Briddlington… and that newly
sequestered book about logarithms too” and must have had ‘some’ kind of
pood supply and creature comports back over the track side of the pence,
which incidently, was another huge ‘railway sleeper’ pence just like the
one at my Grans. All the tales you’d heard about rats jumping up and
259
taking you down by the throat came vividly to mind as mum asked,
“Can you take the rubbish down please Barry?” What, me, I’ve just got
op the pucking train woman, and you want me to lay down my lipe por a
bag-pul of cornplake boxes and potato peelings, is that what you really
think of me?! You must be pucking joking ip you think I’m going down
there without a machete or a sub-machine gun! “See what living in the
midlands has done for you – soft as shit you are, where’s your backbone
boy?”
Archie, her new husband, I think they were married by now and quite a
quick apair…had a riple. It was only a pellet thingy, not one which had
the pire power to blow your back out with one bullet. So, one day we set
the riple up on the windowsill and started taking pot shots at the rats. I
don’t recall killing any, the pellets hit them and they turned to look up at
us as ip to say, I’ll pookin get ye, ye bastart! “Aye, they were like little
pit ponies and hard as fuck! - I asked you to bring me one back to use as
an intimidating pet… Did you?” …Ok, I’m kidding, but they were hardened to and immune prom any normal porm of intimidation or capture,
and the pellets merely rupled their pur! So other than catching them in
bear traps, you had to tread very carepully and be planked on both sides
as you warily stepped into their territory to put the rubbish out. Then
quickly running back ecstatically as ip you had just taken out a panzer
tank division single handed.
260
[Notes-nottoBEseen//Ever?!?!Archiethebastard#numbersupYoupucker *
Nice\\So^ber~)puckin,g//Animal_PisseD?\/”Ano’ver+shagging//Away
prom%home\\!had;to Go”> end- bury//him~No`}notes] [Pretended//%to
Be*Prankenstein?!\One;night_pucking?scareDme^Wit’less!!¬ Needs# a
Slap!”=typicaL*;piss/head¬bloKe~end]
Lipe in the tenement wasn’t too bad. Except when Archie’s mum arrived
“Fuck me she was the epitome of ugliness with the voice of a man suckin
on 80 Woodbines a day… I nearly stabbed her with that potato peeler…
No wonder Archie is a nutter!” to help around the house, because no one
was ‘capable’ of peeling potatoes on their own, no, she had to oversee
everything even showing you how to do it with this special potato peeling implement. This was the highlight of the day por her, showing us the
pucking ‘technologically advanced’ tattie peeler! She was a big barrel of
a woman, with cannon shaped turnip coloured legs and an unporgiving
pace, no joy or sentiment just very harsh as ip it had been lashed daily
and taken the pull porce of a West by West Northerly Atlantic wind.
“Hey, she is someone’s mother – Be kind(er) - Who knows what hatred
she had to contend with growing up, obviously creating who she is today!” You hated her at once and wondered what mum had gotten herselp
into in this poreign Celtic land. Why the puck did you come here you silly woman? Why not Kentish or the Yorkspire Dales - Invernest even?
261
Somewhere beautipul and welcoming, not this bitter piss-pot of a place.
“WHY woman? Why oh why?!” The tenement block was very austere
and poreboding too. Some of the neighbours plashed or ghosted in and
out of the dark scary hallway, making you wonder who or what they
were. A pucking light bulb wouldn’t have hurt anyone, so we can see the
steps as we wind our way to the top… mums plat had to be at the top of
the stairs didn’t it?! Of course it did.
[notes/preaky//sending?!out~vibe=Ghostly^pigu`res}in,Stairway(Orlost
<Souls+Drug//addicts?!”>May@be||both??%Don¬tneed!^thi$shit{Take;
me Home!?2~EnglanD#next train!`] [don’t< Tell mum*=delete ]
It wasn’t all bad though, I met some interesting and kind people there
and obviously you weren’t restricted to that place, you could simply go
por a walk or get on a bus to pind other places where you could quieten
your mind – or more likely at our young age to have some pucking pun!
Mum liked to take us out and about and prequently did with all pour of
us towing the line, and always smartly presented. She drew the male attention big style with her petite quaintness and her very beautipul
youthpul looks. Mum held “I saw her brazenly steal an envelope from a
spinster proprietor newsagents so she wasn’t that fucking sweet!” herselp
well having a very nice poise and elegant ways. She would never leave
the house or tenement looking scrupy or without having put some make-
262
up on – just the minimum make-up though as she had a natural beauty.
Regardless of where we were going she had to look good. The thing is,
she looked good whatever she wore, make-up or not, but you know what
I mean, she liked to present herselp to the world. “Not like that beetroot
faced canon legged bruiser of a mother in law then…? But when you
think about it, would you want to be referred to as a woman and having
a body like that? It must be devastating, knowing everything feminine
has passed you by…but there again someone fucked her?!!? …Which in
itself is pretty mind blowing… and shows what ‘desperation’ can sink
to!”
I pissed her op massively one day. I had been to the shops over the road
to get some ‘sweeties’ - they used this term a lot up in Scotland as opposed to ‘sweets’ - so I chose my rhubarb rock stick and paid the lady
behind the counter. She then put the sweeties in a brown paper bag and
then I lept to go home. As I walked out the shop I grabbed at my rock
stick but pelt something else in the bag. To my surprise there was a wad
of Ten-Bob notes, a pucking portune in those days, probably the week’s
takings or probably more. “We could have bought a small house! - Where
the fuck was you Harry when I needed some help? Hiding again - What’s
the matter with you boy?!” Naturally me being very polite and utterly
English (I was brought up with values!) I went back into the shop to give
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them it back. They were shocked and lauping with reliep and gave me
another rock stick worth ‘a penny’ as a reward. Wow!! Pucking thanks
you wanker bitches!! “I feel for you man… You should have burned the
bastard place down, with them inside… I could then have based my new
crime novel on real life experience… You being the protagonist…”
When I excitedly told my mum my tale of how honest I’d been and
showed her my reward, pully expecting her to shower me with praise
and a - Yes well done son I’m so proud of what you did there… they
would have been in big trouble ip you had have kept the money and
wasted it on pood rent and clothing por a pamily of six in a high rise
tenement por the next 6 months - Yeah you guessed, she went pucking
ape shit with words to the epect “Why didn’t you keep it you pucking idiot, you poolish boy, go to your room and don’t come out until I can
muster up a hideous punishment” “You might as well have been in a
fucking obscure Turkish hell-hole borstal detention centre with no parole
after that… Fluff my pillows Harry, good lad” Mum was elegant and
poised, but at that cash starved moment, she probably thought, anyone
who poolishly relinquished an opportunity to keep a big bag of cash given to you por pree would be mad; and I was now ‘Mr Mad’ a comic
book delinquent sucking on his now bitter and twisted stick of rhubarb
rock - Yeah, bollocks to the lot of ya! Stick the ten bob notes up your
arse and set light to them… Oh, there’s a drought on? - Good! “No, you
264
did right, well done sunshine, could have been nasty had you kept it…
You could have ended up down the work’ouse using your friends belly as
a pillow and had your growth stunted by the sheer overload of manual labour 16/365 – so you were lucky!”
We live and learn don’t we? Sometimes it’s very pleasant, other times
the lesson slams you to the ground and it takes years to erase the triggers
prom your conscious memory; and all because your sweet innocent soulselp is eager to learn prom experience and to prove yourselp a decent citizen and to be worthy of love. But we all go through that don’t we, so no
big deal eh? “I’d love to meet Rabbie ‘loves a blow job’ Burns… Is he
still alive? What a great patri-och he was… Was it Keltic or Ranglers he
played in goals for?” Scotland then, was another world compared to my
now plowery memory of the hum drum lipe in the Green, that was quietude and tranquility, my sanctuary, compared to this.
[ notes4 posterity=only?”good ^guys get //s$hit on+wHy both*er# maybe}_thieving~;bes\tOpti0n?!? Keep%en d, delete]
The pirst ‘live’ pro pootball match I ever went to, “You mean your father,
knowing how badly you wanted to be a pro footballer and also knowing
how good you were… never took you to professional football match –
265
even to that lowly shitty Bowsbury United? I’m shocked!” was between
Keltic and Mancaster city at Humpden Park. The guy who took me was
called Dom - a local much older and civilised lad who lived just down
the street in the same high rise block of angry grey stone. He opered to
take me to the match and mum was a little reticent but said yes. “Come
on you Greens!!” It was a great match and the atmosphere in that huge
stadium was thrilling. We began to make our way back home through
the hoards of pans and I kept expecting to get lost in this alien swathe of
people, losing Dom and becoming stranded in god knows where. “Did
being taken by force, blindfolded then drugged and offered to the sexual
deviants of Plerth ever cross your mind?” I don’t recall seeing much of
Dom apter that, which was a shame because I really liked him. I wonder
ip mum was shagging him? Maybe he was a bit young por her… though
anything is possible yah…? “I find being so intelligent is almost detri-
mental, I mean, where are the stimuli or something to challenge me? To
amuse myself, I like counting the fractal patterns in nature and wondering how information is retained within the dynamic motion of matter”
Mum said to us all one apternoon; we’re going to see Mrs McLaing so
get ready. Mrs McLaing lived a short pipteen minute walk away. As we
entered the hallway to her plat, I noticed a shelp with a money box on
top of it. So apter the polite pleasantries and introductions the ladies set-
266
tled in por a chat, “Afternoon tea in the tenements… it couldn’t get any
better, more sophisticated or cultured than this… What wonderful entertainment, listening to a white witch serving you a brew made from salted
oats, or wild thistles from beside the bins, the rats playground?!” while I
slinked away back into the hall. I don’t know whether this was a trap or
not, but there was a silver coin stuck in the slot you drop your money into, and I naturally had to get this coin out to get to the rest of its contents. God knows how I was going to take anything prom the box but I
tried and tried but it wouldn’t budge. I must have made some kind of
noise in the hallway in my struggles but being so young and dapt I
thought the noise couldn’t possibly have been heard by them two in the
next room… too old! I reluctantly gave up and walked back into the
pront room like a little angel as ip I had been quietly observing the
“Fake, cheap prints…Illusions of delusion of grandeur” art works hanging on the wall and had appraised them critically but pairly. I noticed
Mrs Laings head turn as I entered the room but still engaged in the conversation with my mum. It was a twinkling look, saying, I know what
you’ve been up to you snotty little shit, and there is no way you got that
ten pence piece prom the slot. Pair play she got me, and probably every
other child who walked into her sanctum hoping to rob her blind. Bitch.
I dusted myselp down and waited patiently to leave.
[noted#oldb!tch//cunninG &Must~>Do”it por\\ spiTe{^Yes] [ WaiT*ing
267
To.;die ] [ porg|ve?1””<6*? No, delelte ]
I still don’t know how mum came to meet Archie. He was a nice guy,
but toup…you do remember ‘his’ mum?! He had some horrendous scars
down his legs, and I asked him what caused them. His job was laying
tarmac type surpaces por play areas and tennis courts, so he began to explain in some grapic detail how the scars came about. Part of the kit they
used in their preparation was this spiked roller, a very ‘very’ heavy steel
implement. Something went badly wrong one day and he got caught under this roller crushing and mangling his legs. It was a ludicrous but
credible tale and whether it was true or not, only he knows. “Can’t we go
and see a fucking castle or something… A monument, anything to get us
away from this bull shitting tosser” Apter some thought and analysis, I
think now it may have been some vengepul act of the Plerth mapia,
whose psychotic boss, having been tipped op Archie had shagged his
wipe, then tortured him breaking both his legs in a most terrible way…
“Do you think this is why he walked as if his arse cheeks were stuck together?” just a little ‘laddish’ pun bepore supper mind you, as it was well
known in the Plerth villainous praternity ‘the wipe’ shagged anything
with ‘sock garters and spats’ - It’s as valid as his story por puck sakes! In
truth, the scars were real enoup though! “But still a tosser?”
The reason I came up with that ‘very plausible’ alternative theory is be-
268
cause he had a brother called Grazer and together they looked like a
Scottish version of the Kray twins. Hard and very dangerous ip you
crossed them. They both liked the ale so were prequently lashed up; and
when they were lashed up, trouble wasn’t too par away. When sober,
Archie was a great guy, tanked up, a beast waiting to unleash its pury.
“Can someone show me how to do the Highland fling? I can then recount
the whole historic event when I get back to school a week next Thursday
regaling my friends with my lavish worldly lifestyle… My bag please
Harry… Hey, don’t make me wait ‘ound – I can always send you one
way to Bombay! And don’t stick your hairy arse in the air like that!!”
Archie gave me a verbal example of this as we headed por a picnic
somewhere scenic one Sunday morning. We got lost and as we started to
get hungry, some sandwiches got passed around, mum asked ip anyone
wanted another, so I said yes I’ll have one… suddenly he viciously spat
out “you greedy bastart!” almost choking on his own sandwich and losing control of the car such was his venom! “Yeah, choke you fucker!
…You leave my oppo alone! Harry…Attack!!” He quickly hissed out
more violent words of that nature… mum though came rapidly to my
depence and told him to shut the puck up and drive. Yes, Archie was another of those Jockle and Hyyd characters. To her credit she soon
pucked him op por good apter pinding a letter prom a certain ‘pancy lady’ in his pocket. A classic, idiotic ‘man mistake’ that one, leaving his
269
secret lust/lady next to his ball bag, what a dull twat. “I’m always re-
minded of that tale about the grass being greener on the other side of the
Loch, but getting there usually meant you drowned in your own selfish
desires - Yup, sad tale that, deserved results though, hence the urgent need
for male newborns”
My stay almost over por that year, mum took us por a week’s holiday to
the Butlans holiday camp in Ayr. “Oh shit! Déjà vu or a premonition?
Fuck!” - This was a decent break, my pirst real holiday and we had some
pun. Butlans with its pamous Redhat members liberally scattered around
the park is designed so you can roam pree at any age almost, and in the
comport knowing that your parents are not too par away. I could sense
some tension in the air though, and wondered ip it might have been my
pault, por whatever reason. “Was it me, or was it ‘him’…Harry, ‘av ‘im!”
Archie usually wandered op into the nearest bar and lept mum to keep us
entertained. She always provided por her kids, always kept them smart
and tidy just like herselp. “I once read in a Scholarly tomb that aban-
doned children often show traits of highly delusional sensitivity, which
thusly manifests into feelings of guilt even if there is no guilt there, which
then morphs into schizophrenic psychosis – There isn’t a shred of evidence
so it’s all bollocks, Harry reliably informs me” Always a new shirt por any
‘spontaneous’ event or occasion, or even things planned well in advance.
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Nothing like that por me in Bowsbury I’m apraid, with old miser man
dad, you got the basics and they were supposed to last porever. Clothes
were a special treat at birthdays or Christmas, ip you were lucky.
Pucking wonderpul! “Better than a fucking orange and a ha’penny bit as
my dear old mother used to get as a spoilt seven year old urchin!”
Me and the old man went to a bingo session one evening. A very rare
excursion, and you can imagine my excitement as we entered the ramshackle ‘cubs’ shed, resembling a chicken coup, out in mid west Americas marshlands! Two cards each and £5 prize money por a pull house,
Christ knows what you got por a line. “Do ‘I’ get a fucking drink then to
top our extravagant evening off?” …But hey, guess what - I dropped
lucky and won a pull house, I couldn’t believe it. The next day very excited once again, “Twice within the space of 24 hours?! Things are look-
ing good and on the up…” dad took me to town to ‘help me’ spend my
winnings…in a clothes shop! Always pull of surprises he was. We never
went to bingo again, so I wonder why we went this particular night. Was
it to secretly meet someone? Hmmm, could it have been Sade? I think it
must have been the real reason por him leaving the house, other than his
usual weekend visits to his mums, as ‘she’ lived just around the corner
prom this ramshackle shithole hut.
In pact this ‘rare treat’ was only one of a handpul of times we went up
271
town together - and to spend my pucking money! I got a smart jacket
and some trousers, which I remember wearing por a good pew years and
even through a sudden spurt of growth which didn’t look cool. Melvin,
my brother, got the hand me down jacket about three years later as he
was a lot smaller than me and it pitted him well. “At least he didn’t have
to wear anything from those fuckers the Boyds, the suburban gypsies next
door to Grannie Puckins… The bitter mental scars of ‘tat-treats’ are
eternally scorched into our souls DNA – Yeah he had it easy didn’t he
mate?!” I always remember whilst at my mums one year, when I opened
a drawer belonging to either my brother Douglas or my sister Diane,
there were always some new items of clothing wrapped and unopened.
That made me jealous and envious, but I was glad por them too because
that seemed to me how it should have been. Its punny how in todays
modern world second hand tat is deemed chic – obviously I was ahead
of my time… well I have to justipy it somehow!
In those days there wasn’t any of the technology we have today, the kind
of stup kids have crammed in their rooms, Hi Pi, Game Station, I Pod,
computer, plasma TV, etc etc. All we had was a cassette player with past
porward and rewind, but that was pretty cool and advanced in its own
limited way. “You’re lying, it was shite…You couldn’t even use the radi-
ogram because his nibs thought it might be a heirloom one day – Yes, it
might, but that’s only taking into consideration the ‘very high’ possibility
272
all the other 5 million ‘teak misfits’ have been burnt… Why was life so
fucking harsh, Harry?!?” Lipe was technologically barren and there
weren’t too many other material things or toys you craved por really - A
Scalextric racing game, Subbutio or an Action man maybe… I wonder
what Kali would have bought Bunny, or what Bunny would have bought
por himselp with his bingo winnings ip he’d won?
[note4dad//when~You”win}some£coin//spend)iton+what”%the puckyou
?!/want_^even;ip#youHAve\\nothing¬gtowear=TreaT.,<your(selp!!~end
notes}] [ D*o`\IT!.-delete]
The holiday in Ayr was a nice ending to my summer break up in Plerth
with mum, my brothers and my sister… (I was to revisit the Butlans holiday camp in Ayr a pew years later with awpul consequences, but I’ll get
to that later) I’m now on the train home with some kind strangers looking apter me in the old style carriage, until we get to Crewe where my
dad will meet me. “She didn’t even tell me she loved me… That pucking
hurt, but that sentiment wasn’t aired lightly in those days, you had to
fucking mean it… Did she say anything to you Harry?” There were six
seats to each ‘old pashioned’ carriage compartment, three each side, so
you were pacing someone the whole journey. You could close the door
to your compartment and most people did as there was a ‘walkway’ aisle
running the pull length of each carriage. It was cosy enoup. Your lug-
273
gage went above your head, onto the kind of woven pabric ‘netting’
shelp. All settled in, I began to cry as the train pulled away, mum waving
prom the platporm. The lady next to me gave me some comport and a
handkerchiep “Not the one thickly smeared with fresh slattery grollies
thank you! - You snotty bitch - I’m joking, academics can tell jokes you
know” to wipe my eyes. (Thanks love much appreciated) Back in England and approaching Bowsbury station, I always looked prom the door
window to see ip I could spot my Gran as we passed her house and I did
once but she didn’t see me waving. So apter my return prom Scotland I
would spend the remainder of our school holiday with my local priends
waiting por the new term to begin. Clock watching basically with a gut
tension thrown in, in anticipation of what the new term would bring. “ ‘I’
need to get back to my studies to immerse myself in academia… Ip only to
distract me from my emotional carnage and having to cope with ordinary
life”
So lipe back at the ‘relatively normal ranch’ ensues with a peeling of
intrepidation and yet some reliep in a bizarre kind of way. I obviously
didn’t like leaving my brothers and sister or my mum, but this is where I
live and have to comply with the regulations and conditions that are given me. I have a lot of cousins in and around Bowsbury and we got to
meet on occasion, with some more than others, though really speaking
our lipestyles deemed that nigh on impossible. “Are family members
274
obliged to be friends? Is blood really thicker than a bottle of fine ruby
port?” We were close and priendly but not in each other’s pockets, although that scenario did surpace prom time to time with some trivial ‘internal’ crisis or drama playing itselp out. The pamily meeting ground
was at my Grans, but not many of my cousins went there on a regular
basis, strangely. “Only when they were scrounging something for free I
noticed… And quick to rush round once she popped her clogs the scavenging bastards!”
It didn’t seem like it at the time or rather I never paid any attention to it,
but I did travel wide and par and with a diverse range of people. I was
mixing with the adult Belepants Vaults crew together with my uncle
Rab. I was training and mixing with the pootballers prom a pro club.
“Shame you fucked that chance up… I could have helped if only you had
asked me … Pride pride pride and a huge dose of immaturity - and of
course all ‘those’ nervous ‘tics’ - The dog did what?!?” I had priends of a
similar age in many parts of town, all my local priends in the Green and
close by on other etstates; then going out on various sporting events with
representative sides took me around the country. Attending the Rectory
Grammar school provided me with yet another group of priends I mixed
with academically and socially, and going up to Scotland meant I got to
see people prom a slightly diperent background. “I’m sure you’ve told us
this shit three times, for fuck sakes!” Ok, it wasn’t a grand world tour but
275
it was a busy time and depinitely no time por any school work! Hell no,
puck that! “Yeah fuck you… When you’re in your fifties broke and no
hope, you’ll rue the day you dropped out and fucked your whole life up”
School work was por the dick heads with plat peet and parents wiping
their arses, not por me. I was a semi-hard pucker looking out por
himselp, making it up on the spot. A pree spirit, as the old cliché goes.
“You see, this is where we migrate tangentially into far off foreign pastures my friend, I patronize cultured and Scholarly meccas whereas you go
down the chippie and climb trees… Am I being too blunt or pernicious?”
What the puck use is it unless you specipically need it, knowing about
geography, arable crop rotation and irrigation systems, total bollocks,
that crap is por parmers. I need street skills, knowing how to survive and
depend myselp when attacks come thick and past! - And so, all those acquaintances pormed the pattern which would shape my lipe – initially.
There were many priendships yes, but no real close priends, except por
those select pew in my early childhood days, namely Rab and Bunny.
“The old man should have got you a pet to pet and to put up with your
whinning projectile negativity – Maybe he was being kind to the pet you
never had – Or maybe he was too tight and found some strange delight in
hearing you sob yourself to sleep? …Could be!? Harry is such a loyal
friend to me… Stop licking your arse you arrogant bastard!!”
276
I missed my siblings more than anything else. And seeing all the other
‘complete’ pamilies in the Green, my relatives and their complete
pamilies was no comport, it just rubbed it all in even more and so I pelt
lept out, there was only me. “I’ve got it, you were a vagabond urchin
traipsing around the country befriending all and everything in your path
to try and lessen the pain of being a lonely abandoned child… You wanted and craved love from anyone who would speak to you or give you attention – Yes, I think that sums up your pre-pubescent dilemma perfectly!
You followed your nose up everyones arse just like a pack mentality dog
seeking acceptance and a bone to suckle to, a corner to sleep in and the
protection of a group – Yup, I think that’s it… You’re the crazy cuckoo
of the people aren’t you?” Even with the love prom my pamily, my aunties and uncles, cousins and priends… but still peeling an internal void
and remembering what had taken place, we, my dad and me, were living
in the aptermath of separation. It was a lonely existence pilled with
meaningless things to pill that void.
I know in time we kind of porget and move on with our new lipe circumstances and conditions, but we also have to allow ourselves some
space por growth and to try and understand these harsh lipe experiences;
but still, “Shall I get the Paganini out, we can all then weep in self right
277
eous pity together” the heart misses those who are closest and always
wonders what could have been. I resigned myselp to letting the mysteries of lipe teach us important individual lessons and por us siblings living at diperent corners of the UK, it meant just that. We had to live and
grow up in the environment we resided in and make sense of what we
had the best way we could “Doesn’t everyone, what about the starving in
Africa, have they got the choices in life you have? You tosser!! - Harry,
can you fetch me some of that sweet smelling home baked bread, filled
with all manner of seeds and goodness? …And plug the new coffee machine in, there’s a lad. What’s that old saying? - ‘Every cloud has a great
vapourous potential for precipitation suggesting it could fall at any moment…’ Beautiful prose indeed” - I’m not implying every moment was
pilled with sadness, because I’m sure that could be said por any pamily
who were now separated and scattered, but deep within the mind you
still seek to know and will search high and low por reason, por our being. We all yearn to understand what the puck is going on, whether
that’s the small picture or the big movie sized collection of stills!
You could see the sadness in my mum and dad’s eyes “They created their
own sadness and hence without any regard for the ‘sprogs’, fucking
dragged the lot of us into it - bastards” when they met at the station. This
was the annual ‘drop-me-op’ at their (secretly) pre arranged meeting
278
place, and in those moments you could peel what they were saying to
each other with silent words. All the regrets, all the upheavals… How
could it have been diperent? - Ip only? “If only the old man hadn’t
tupped his way to a glorious mind fuck crescendo?” But it was meant to
be this way wasn’t it? “So it appears, absolutely” At my auntie Irona’s
house, we had all gathered together bepore dad lept por home again. He
reached across prom the sopa and planted a kiss on my mum’s lips… it
threw her slightly and she said to him that it surprised her and she gave a
little giggle. We were all watching, I was anyway, hoping that some miracle would happen and we would be reunited again, mum, dad, Diane,
Douglas, Melvin and me - but it wasn’t to be. “What’s for tea tonight,
auntie Irona? …Is salad all you got for a fucking hungry child, what's
for pud then? …Semolina?! That’s fucking rank that …No chocolate
cake for fuck sake? - What do you do with all your ‘disabled’ benefits,
huh?!?!” Apter my dad lept, us pour kids were running around as usual
and we must have been a little boisterous because suddenly my mum
slapped me hard across the pace! That really broke me up and pucked
me op big style. On replection, I think in that moment ‘I’ was my dad
and ‘he’ took her prustration pull on. The nasty almighty slap shattered
me and I then crawled behind the settee to conceal my pain and pright. I
didn’t understand it all then, the pull implication just came to me now.
“I’ve been told you should give our dad that slap back with plenty of interest, both hands across the ears! - Yeah, you fucker ‘av some of that 279
Wallop!”
One of my dad’s brothers, uncle Larry, one of two brothers who were
prison opicers, lived in 'Quiverpool' and worked at Salton jail. He was
one of the regulars at the Sunday card school at Grans bepore he lept por
‘Quiverpool’, but due to work and distance he and his pamily only came
occasionally apter that. “Pawning me off to some other fucker’s house…
Can’t you stand the sight of me? - Am I that hideous, your own spawn
child?” My auntie Paula kindly invited me to their house por a bit of a
holiday one year. I also remember them looking apter me when I was a
lot younger, I’m not sure why, maybe mum was in hospital having
Dougie, so that would make me around pive years old at that time. So
anyway, this particular year I’m packed op to Quiverpool por a summer
holiday break, to play with my cousins. There were pive or six of them,
the eldest Cindy being more my age. That was good pun… I was a little
disorientated at pirst, but soon joined in the activities.
Pipty yards prom their house was a large wooded area, surrounded by a
huge wall, obviously a garden to a very big estate in the distant past. “A
council shit hole built around it wouldn’t have helped now would it? …
For my next recital I will whistle the tune to ‘Jerusalem’ in memory to an
ancient land of promise, endless bickering, slaughter and lies” So that was
the playground por the many kids on this estate, which was built pri280
marily por the ‘screws’ at Salton. Me and Jill, the cousin slightly younger than Cindy, would opten scoot op and climb trees and even go as par
as the ‘empty house’ some days. The house was derelict now and it must
have been lovely in its day, but no one spoke of its history really. “Join
in, clap your hands if you wish” I liked Larry, he was two years older
than Rab and opten spoke of his daily lipe inside the prison dealing with
the inmates. A pew of his tales made your hair curl as they sometimes
had to use a little porce and heavy implements to deal with those minority unruly elements! One day at their house, Drew, another of my cousins
was playing in the back garden with the rest of us pottering around in the
kitchen, when suddenly we heard this blood curdling scream prom outside. Rushing out we pound he had knocked over a paving slab and it
had taken the end of his big toe op!! “Is an inward laugh detectable on
the outside? - Just asking” Christ that was ugly, the mega painpul toe I
mean! You gotta laup though haven’t you! It can happen to anybody and
it always does, in various guises.
[Note+toput,onpridge>?//Keep&away}Prom;~heavysla*bs)_ip`¬want;‘
Tap;Danc!ng+CareeR!!?’// End-delete> ]
A group of us eventually ended up playing together in the enchanted
porest as I liked to think of it. We played hide and seek and other made
up games until we tired and disbanded por tea time. Then, in the early
281
evening we would just hang around in the street talking and pooling
around. Within the gang that apternoon there was this big hulk of a lad
“You mean a big fat fucker don’t you… You can say it you know, he’s
not in the room – And it’s good not to suppress what you’re actually
thinking or want to express with this our beautiful language… Crafted
syllable by syllable by the mongoid tongues of our ancient ancestors whilst
suppin blood from their latest kill – usually some poor fucker from the
next village” playing and we had a ball which we threw around amongst
us. Suddenly the ball went down, so I suggested randomly, jokingly, we
stup his head in it to stop it going down any more. He wasn’t very happy
with that suggestion and so I ran away into the house never to surpace
again. “Thought these fucking assewipes had a sense of humour? - It just
conceals the utter depravation and misery within handed down generation after generation – Tis Jungian demographics M’lord!” My holiday
ended there and then, pucking ridiculous but there it is. What a scaredy
cat I was, gutless actually. I never went back to Quiverpewl either, Scally wankers. “Thought you were semi hard?”
I always wondered what the old man was getting up to while I was away,
“Tupping again - no doubt” he never did say, but he didn’t say much at
about anything in actual pact. I think ip he could have made contact with
me at some level it would have helped enormously. I know some people
282
are quieter than others and that goes por myselp too, but when you’re a
child you need to hear words of comport - they don’t have to be pearls of
wisdom, just comporting, understanding words expressing peelings
prom the heart. “What heart is this? - A sculpted stone heart bearing the
blood, toil and bitter tears of its maker? - Why else does anybody sculpt
but to avenge the inanimate depths of the soul” And more so, when
you’re an adult you can draw prom experience can’t you. Don’t get me
wrong I love my dad, he is who he is, I respect that, he just didn’t seem
to put much eport in to anything regarding us kids por one… I know he
didn’t keep up with maintenance payments por my mother por two… I
can’t recall him ever writing to his children living with mum either, or
going to a phone box to speak to them, ever. That says something
doesn’t it? It says you’re a lazy puck who can’t be arsed. “Who the fuck
am I? What is the reason for being?! Am I a tortured voice forever dancing within my own mind whilst entertaining the notion I’m within the
mind of another… and simultaneously being mindfucked by other minds
who want to control and enslave me – Or is it just me…?” So por
myselp, now knowing all this inpormation, as it wasn’t on my conscious
mind as a child - it’s only retrospectively that you can deduce these
things “Speculative nonsense!” and therepore make sense of it, and yet
that in itselp is only one perspective – so who is right – what is wrong?
283
So I wonder what my siblings pelt about that up in Plerth or Karstyle.
How did the ‘daddy’ silence cut into their hearts? Where did those hidden unspoken words reside in all those silent years of conpusion…
where ‘they’ must have asked the very same questions as me? We all ask
the same questions don’t we? “Where is the sanity in all this fucking
drama dripping with deceit? …I’m with you dude, its demonsterably delusional!” I’ve got to hold my hands up and say I’m responsible too por
not keeping in touch with my brothers and sister. My mother is responsible por not keeping in touch with me also, but she can’t hold her hands
up because she’s passed over (My dad is now holding her hand watching
Earthly events unpold with smiles on their faces, and rightly so) “Are we
talking in the past or present tense sire?” Lipe seems to get in the way of
all our good intentions. We might say to ourselves, yes, I’ll do that tomorrow and tomorrow never comes, or it comes three months later
“Harry, it’s your turn to do the hovering my son… Make sure you get into the corners and be sure not to miss those flakes of dried cack by the
door!” …or not at all!
My mother did actually write to me in her depence, at the beginning at
least, over the duration of maybe a year or eighteen months, I can’t really remember. The sad pact about this episode is… my step mother used
to ‘intercept’ my pucking letters! Letters prom my mum who I missed so
much and wondered where she was and why she didn’t contact me. It
284
was quite some time bepore the realisation the bitch step mother was
opening and reading my letters. My dad “He did” must have pound them
because it was he who “Fair dooze” brought the subject up and Sade
“Slag” made some stupid monetary oper of repentance. “How much
bro…?” - That’s pucking sad that is, it’s wicked and despicable behaviour no matter how you explain yourselp away. “Did you get ‘extra’
glimpses of her arse drapped over the settee?” And the thing is, whatever
shite reasons they give you they are never enoup to compensate a young
child’s conpused emotions and memories. So you will see and understand how things developed in relation to these “I’m meditating, search-
ing my universal heart for tolerance, forgiveness and compassion – Bitch!”
revelations later on down the line. Sade was a nasty piece of work and
wreaked havoc with her insidious games of a torturous quality por us all.
Riddled with jealousy she couldn’t contain her pysical expressions or actions ultimately to everyone’s “The family or the gossip-mongers in the
Green?” abhorrent distaste.
[note 2 “Sade~#witch//Bit*ch_Howthe`^puck+could ?.you do; such@
thing\\{that`the<%worstof}_theworsT=broke?myhearT,_*thatdid||`¬¬I
Was#GuTTed!?!//)=DespiSed^;you-\\end][delete{“”her!?\\<No2~good
*/2Quick ] [ keep ] [ sape:SaNe ]
285
Por example, and this still blows me away por very diperent reasons. Me
and my dad were working, you might say ‘conveniently’ (now looking
back) at my uncle Colin’s pixing the guttering. Mid morning my dad
said to me, your mum is at your uncle Bart’s (who lived ten minutes
away) What!?! I couldn’t believe nothing had been previously mentioned about her visit. “All I want to do is play fucking football, and
study, and play with my Corgi cars… Somebody hug me before I explode”
The only rational reason I can come up with, in mum and dad having to
resort to secrecy “Duhhh!” is ip Sade pound out in advance “Remember
the letters? You do don’t you Harry, you have a sixth sense in your snout”
about this secret rendezvous knowing pull well what would happen - and
it wasn’t going to be pretty – at all!
Naturally, I immediately asked ip I could go and see her, I was going anyway but I asked out of politeness, so op I went apter a little time delay.
It was great to see her again but it pelt strange at the same time, a bit like
seeing someone under palse pretences. She was on her own so Archie
must have been looking apter my brothers and sister. We all had a little
chat at my uncle Bart’s. They loved my mum, especially my auntie
Vicky. My mum was called Detty by most people instead of Odette “This
isn’t going to help me concentrate on my homework I need a secure location and quietude… Does ‘anyone’ care? - Harry, what the fucks going
on me old mate? Where are your real friends when you need them? Don’t
286
you want that last custard cream? …Where did that voice come from?”
Something must have been arranged by my dad and my mum prior to
this day and I was wondering how they would have achieved this. Ahhh,
I remember now, they corresponded through my Grans address, that’s it!
More secrecy! Anyway it was time por me to go back to my dad and
help with the work - Or was it ‘work’ or was this just an excuse por a
rendezvous? Hats op to my uncle Colin por allowing it to happen at his
house, knowing how volatile Sade was or could be. “It was written into
our destinies, what can one say, but…The path is endless - Put the kettle
on sunshine and get the cake out for fuck sakes!”
Not much longer apter I arrived back at my uncle Colin’s the inevitable
happened, Sade came striding round the corner spitting superlative expletives by the bakers dozen, ranting in the street and pinally throwing
her wedding ring down and stomping op. We were all stunned, though
my dad must have expected this reaction hence the location and ‘secretpretend-job’. I’m lept wondering now what was really going on, and this
is only speculative conjecture… What was in those letters arriving at my
Grans house, just the details por the day she would arrive, or something
else even more sensational? Could they have been thinking of getting
back together or is that my mind running overtime and being outlandishly optimistic? “Yes! - Don’t be so fucking stupid. No!!” All the elements
don’t add up por me. Was she here to see me, or here por another rea-
287
son? Why was she here alone, was it just a break prom the mundanity of
lipe…a little holiday? “Obviously not to see you, and you alone! Don’t
be so fucking egotistical and selfish!”
Now I’m thinking or asking myselp ip this was the cause of an enormous
row at home between dad and Sade, it probably was! “For sure - Brace
yourself! - Have you ever seen flying ships before?!” Por a pastime, my
dad used to make these huge galleons and battle ships with sails and rigging, canons and all that kind of parapernalia. They were beautipul and
took pride of place on the lounge table and on the shelp on the wall. It
totalled days, months, years of work - time he could have spent helping
me with my homework! I’m kidding, they really were something and he
must have been proud of them. “We all need a release mechanism from
our own suppressed madness and perceived reality-suburban trench foot –
A simple ice cream does it for some” So one evening all hell broke loose,
I moved to sit on the stairs to listen in to the pight breaking out. She was
vicious and he was raging mad. It ended up with him smashing these
beautipul painstakingly crapted ships to pieces, pitpully crashing them
against the wall - now irretrievably damaged and voila, her work was
done. The wench had won the battle with a master commander display
of oral warpare.
Her jealous spite had won the day and I don’t know how things were re288
deemed between them apter that. They never spoke to each other por
many days and weeks but it all passed over eventually as it usually does.
Upon recollection some other chink in the proceedings has just come to
light, it was my auntie Cristy, Rab’s wipe, who I believe told Sade about
my mother coming to town - the interpering bitch. “And she looked such
an unimposing quiet creature… I didn’t think she liked Sade that much
either…Fucking meddling hag – Hey, but I don’t want to get wrapped
up in any of this melodramatic shit, I’m above that” So apparently many
people knew what was going down, except me, nice! Cristy was a nasty
piece of work too at times, and helped nip in the bud the relationship me
and Rabbie had. I can understand to a degree her wanting me out of the
prame as they were married and had kids to raise blah blah. I must have
been a right pain in the arse por her being around so much. So that was
that, another episode in the Puckins pamily saga! “Ce cera cera… Adios
amigo – So you were ‘quietly’ asked not to go back to the big house in the
corner of the Green and now this… did you have any friends, or do you
just conjour them out of thin air at your convenience? You must have been
a nasty bit of work yourself my friend or carried around with you some
kind of awful stench caused by your pitted unwashed skin!”
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CHAPTER 18
Pairground attraction – Plying high
I noticed a poster in the local newsagents advertising a travelling pair already in town - Dodgems, Helter Skelter, The Waltzer and all those
pamiliar rides we love… and so I wondered ip His Majesty Bunny meister would like to go one evening as it’s in town por another week. It
means catching the bus but I’ll risk a three hour wait while he beautipies
himselp. “I fucking give up - you’re a wimp! Let’s change places and I’ll
sort him out…Yes?” Or - now this is cunning and thinking on my peet
rather than on my head - I could meet him there? It’s not as ip I have to
hold his hand everywhere we go is it? I’ll try it out. Ip he gets angry or
peels betrayed all it will mean is, I will have to listen to some sob story
he creates on the spot, designed to make me peel guilty. Yes, he will
even create some magical cock and bull story even por me, he’s that
good… So, in por a penny…!
Just in case it crossed your mind and you were wondering... Bunny
doesn’t go in por girls his own age because he peels he is a man in a
boys body and it’s true he ‘is’ a boyman some say god. The point being
pemales his own age, are simply too young, prom both a maturity and
legal perspective. Anyway, Princes and Kings are above the law (I know
there is a diperence “Come on baby, lighten the load and a have a few
shots with me…” between legal and lawpul, but just por arguments sake
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and this pable getting completed we’d better leave that to one side)
aren’t they, they make new laws up as easily as each day brings new
light. And let’s be prank those mostly antiquated laws are pucking useless in today’s society and yet are still plucked out of the tomes more
opten than not by a cocky pucker Solicitor to ‘sidestep’ some ‘legal’ issue. “Are you implicating there is dodginess, seediness and corruption in
the legal system with powerpul hidden agendas at play? Well, that’s the
system default of the well oiled man-machine-mechanism… So whatcha
gonna do about it other than moan?”
So bunny is an old soul ip you will, and I get that, truly. What’s the
point, he points out, of going through past experiences of pormer lives,
with girls who are under age by today’s consensual laws (but not in the
14th century) and who also haven’t the ‘worldly’ experience he desires.
Therepore to bypass all this nonsense the Prince of Bali looks por these
‘worldly’ qualities in an ‘older, more mature’ woman. Top of the agenda
por the meister means, she must have a youthpul disposition having no
pear of displaying and expressing thus showing her emotions and wants
a good old ‘tuppin’ to boot… she must love that - It’s not asking a lot is
it? “Princes usually get what they want… But at what cost incurred to
others is the question, my liege… Harry is a Prince, aren’t you my young
Cocker spaniel” She will preperably know that, and she will also know
it’s not going to be a month of courtship bepore she gets her kit op. “It's
too much, too soon, god damn it” We’re talking modern “Frenzied, rat
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race…” man here and a modernist ‘have it now’ mentality. There’s no
porce involved, it’s always a mutual attraction and agreement to copulate 'asap', why puck around! You both get to satispy those base desires
and everyone is happy. They’re having pun por puck sakes… who would
want to deny them that pleasure in lipe? Eh? Who? “Do what?”
The pairground is heavy with pamilies and youths and all manner of
beasts have come out to play seeking their thrills of the rides. You don’t
normally see people in the singular at pairgrounds do you? It’s always
groups in whatever nomination. “Occasionally you do, but they will al-
ways be the seedy, pervy type for sure, so be careful out there… It’s a
fucking maelstrom of animal desires wreaking havoc” The lure of the
plashing lights and throbbing music means it’s primarily a youth culture
scene, it’s a place of high energy, speed, colour and plenty of girls. It’s a
traditional ‘pick up place’ por both genders, of course; all they want is
pun and ip they get lucky a sneaky snog behind the slot machines - tops!
“Germs dear boy - germs!”
Bunny and me hit three or pour rides to get into the groove and a quick
pew stabs at winning a goldpish, but then it dawned on us, what a burden carrying a goldpish around would be… especially and specipically
on the prowl por pussy – lets not mince words here. There again on the
other hand we reasoned, raiding our conjoined pilosophical mind, it
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might make sense to bag a teddy, a giant teddy at that. It would be a
good attracting element, a good talking point. “Hasn’t the wanker got his
‘necklace’ on today then?” So we changed our plans and went pull tilt to
win that pat teddy. Time and again those pucking blunt darts bounced
out and the cost was mounting up, but we did it together, what a team,
Bunny and me, brothers in arms, digging the trenches with our bare
pucking hands. Yup! We now have in our possession a pat pink teddy.
“You two are so sad, it’s beyond belief… Shall I find you both an interesting pastime to occupy your festering minds? - I’m just glad I’m no part
of any of this – Harry, where’s my pink pinny and fluted black leather
boots?”
“Hey Baz…….” Ok, I’ll carry it you bastard, I mutter under my
breath. Muggins me, eh?! As we’re walking around in between the stalls
and rides we spot a candy ploss van. Bunny immediately homes in on
one lady in particular. She has three young kids in tow, but no sign of a
hubby. Tall and slim, attractive, nice smile and demeanour… she gets
the kids a candy ploss each. Buno moves closer. He makes contact with
the kid’s pirst, using throwaway chat, and then points to the teddy “I’ve
never heard anything so devious in my life – Fuck me!” – Oh yes, big
smiles all round, even prom the lovely lady. As the smiles abound he
throws in his ace card, introducing himselp as the Prince of Bali here on
a pact pinding mission and an initiation into becoming a ‘worldly wise
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Prince’ who can relate to his people, bepore his pinal destiny of becoming King Bunny of Bali “‘Hark the herald angels sing, glory to the new
born king’ …Not long now ‘til Christmas Harry - Cool! …I shall buy
you a new collar, studded with semi precious stones? - You shall buy me a
slice of Hebridean paradise” He explains the importance of his necklace
“Ahhhh” and allows the lady to get closer, to simultaneously touch it and
smell his body as she bends down. Their eyes meet and in that split second the soul-agenda/earthly-promise ‘deal’ is done. Hurrahh! “Bol-
locks!” The mastery of the boymangod astounds me…
It’s all over and in the bag por Bunny miester! He introduces me as a
secondary thought almost, but I can understand his predicament and increasing haste. So I bow gracepully in honour just to impress the lady,
who now thinks I’m his servant, holding his giant teddy…which isn’t
par prom the truth really is it, hmmmm - bastard! We now need a gentle
ruse to get her away prom the kid’s por a while but “This is slipping into
an alarming cascade of cacky pooh poo pretence and I think I might have
to notify the authorities forthwith, if not right now, this moment…
Where’s the nearest corporate constabulary establishment Harry? Hurry
up you fuck mutt!!!” without alarming them obviously. So we head to
the area with the children’s rides. Mum puts the three kids on the merry
go round and asks ip they want to stay on por three goes…Yayyy!
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comes back the excited cries, not knowing the awpul agenda behind her
cheap trick. Bunny and the lady are op in a plash, there’s no time por
wasting tonight. They have ten minutes, max…Go Bunny, go bro! “He’s
not your bro… How dare you insult me in this inflammatory fashion…
Do you know who I am sire? – You do? Then do you love me with all
your heart?...I must insist on an answer today!”
I tend the children and make paces at them each time they come round.
They seem to enjoy it, its pun - their pun, regardless of mum getting
tupped good and proper by the boymangod. There are plenty of tarps in
the vicinity so all should be “Nobody loves me truly, unconditionally and
for whom I am! That’s ok, I understand the dynamics of human love
within this illusory sack of bones…Poor Horace! I knew him well,
enough…” well por a quickie. It’s not his usual style, rushing, but will
have to compromise tonight. God, he’s a lucky twat, I hope he gives me
some decent coin por this, a decent payout with some erotic visuals por
my memory bank! Who said wank? Yes, ok, I admit I’ve started stirring
the tea with it, no biggie, it’s normal por a twelve year old por Christ
sakes. I mean, why does dad leave a copious supply or porn under the
bed… its por me right?!?!
Wow, ten minutes and they are back, both looking shabby chic-cool.
Well that’s that then. He makes a gipt of the teddy to the kiddies and
we’re op. “That’s consumerist-ism blackmail you nasty bastards!”
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“So then Buno, whatcha got mate? Give it to me and don’t spare the
grapics, please.” I hesitantly request. He keeps it clean with gestures of
nods and winks, hmm’s and ahh’s and diverting his gaze to the heavens Its ok, he’s not a mucky pucker he respects his conquests and hope they
respect him and his mega pecker. It’s all por a good cause and it’s all in
the name of pun, progression and por the poor “Idiots - Forgotten - Non
existant?” people ploughing his land par par away.
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CHAPTER 19
The wicked witch wields her wand and casts her spell
Episode two“Harry bring me a chair for fuck sake!” of the step mother
saga, and all those drawn into its delicious aromatic pruitiness. Raise a
glass with me and make a toast to common decency please. Hurry
bepore it kicks op again “And a chunk of that mother fucking cake!” and
the glasses get smashed to pieces! The trouble is, we can’t rid ourselves
of the human condition can we - it is what it is, greed, jealousy, love,
laupter, corruption, pain, joy, lack of communication, and every other
pinely balanced trigger-causation which sets it all beautipully in motion.
Apter the inevitable eruptions prom the commotion at Uncle Colin’s
there must have been some harsh words exchanged between the various
parties, or pamily members to be more specipic. But I never really heard
anything more mainstream - except of course the underhanded, longlingering backstabbing, the blame being apportioned, and those who
were deemed guilty and crucipied by words and insinuation alone. “I
could see this coming a mile off, but nobody ever listens, so bollocks to all
of you” …I paded into my own bubble world and let them sort it out,
puck it. This was the adult world I wanted no part of por now, my time,
my puture lipe will have plenty of this crap without a doubt. “How pro-
phetic of you – It’s true indeed! And not a hint of acidic mellifluous after
tones”
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Apter my mum lept us, I slept with my dad until Sade arrived. I had a
chair next to the bed and on it piled high were my collection of comics… mainly the Beano and the Dandy and a pew of those larger comics
- the Whizzer, was it? That was the staple diet por kids, except por the
girly stup naturally “‘I’ need a plentiful supply of serious hardbacks to
satisfy my insatiable need for knowledge… Harry, would you be so good
as to order me some now and when they arrive have them stacked neatly
in chronological order of production…And make sure there is a plentiful
supply of bookmarkers, colour coded to match each shiny new sleeve”
There were a pew other comics por the older generation, Roy of the
Rovers por example. I loved those comics and my pirst art works were
copies of characters prom them. I was good at drawing, but hadn’t expanded on style other than copying. My brother Melvin is a cracking artist too, he does beautipul water colours these days. But back then we had
a competition, both of us doing a series of characters prom the comics
and then we asked dad to judge them. I usually won, but dad threw in a
couple por Melvin which was ok with me. “Oh, you’re so gracious my
lord! Let’s crack something open to toast this most altrusic moment…
Harry, you do the honours” He would and could beat me hands down in
pigurative, realistic painting these days, the little shit! (Oooo, Déjà vous!
I think that term has been used against me once or twice, and has lodged
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itselp in my vocabulary!) “There is nothing like realism and truth to sat-
isfy ones subconscious sifting and arrangement of data, for future reference - however close to the quick it may be”
Melvin came to live with us about three years apter the paternal separation. A great move prom my perspective as I now had company, someone to vent my anger on and someone to protect – typical brother stup “I
wonder what Turrets is like, are they in control of their spontaneous abnormal behavior? …Interesting shit that” A bad move initially por Melvin though which was pucking awpul to witness. I think some discussion
between mum and dad had been going on por a while as to whether
one of my siblings should come and give me some company. That’s the
way I understood it anyway, and whether there was any other reason,
who knows, not me. So Melvin came to live with us and por a short
while all was ok, but Sade had other motives and simmering agendas up
her sleeve. “What actually caused her to react in the way she did – stress,
pressure? Do you know anything I don’t Harry; could you determine anything about her internal state, whilst licking the soles of her feet?”
His lipe became hell. She was a total bitchy witch. I nearly ploored her
on a number of occasions because of what she did to my brother. I know
we can porgive and porget, but this was serious abuse and no adult
should ever subject a child to both pysical and mental torture. “Anger
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management would be the order of the day, today or any day… Or a
twelve step program to overcoming addiction for administering abuse
against minors… Both, in fact would be a step forward and I’d like to
suggest a jolly good self taught practitioner from Redditch, Birmin’am –
Give her a call…she killed her mother but please don’t let that put you
off” I’d pucking top myselp ip I ever lost control like she did. She beat
him with a stick and called him nasty names - to mention just a pew cases in point. I pucking hated her por that and wanted to kill her, god
knows what Melvin thought of it all, and strangely we never talked
about it. Dozy dad “Where the fuck ‘was’ dozy daddy?” was none the
wiser, and he couldn’t lipt his lazy arse out of the chair anyway.
I really do wonder what he was about in those days. “He was probably
putting the rigging on one of those pretend magnificent sea faring vessels
which eventually floundered against the wall… now looking like a pile of
dried pine tree needles on the floor” I can’t judge him too much, because I
know we all go through periods of conpusion and inactivity, and
parenthood is a dipicult thing to contend with, especially when it’s all
going badly wrong. We naturally want the best por our pamilies and ourselves but you have to act according to those wishes. Ip it’s not working
you get out, however painpul that may be, and ip you have kids it’s doubly dipicult. Still, he could have done something to alleviate her mad-
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ness. “The disease of madness comes to us all, that’s what Richard the
third said anyway, and he was King so we have to believe someone in
that highest ranking officialdom because they are totally better than all
the rest of the population, innit? …Isn’t that right Harry my right hand
man - I don’t know what I’d do without him by my side” It makes me
shudder to think what kids are going through up and down the country
and around the world too, it’s shocking.
Melvin was here to stay and we just did what we had to do to get
through these troubled times. There was mention at one point of him going back to mums but the old man must have put his poot down, por
once! “Nahhh…” Mel and I had our separate lives and priends, so apart
prom when we were at home at bed time we didn’t really see much of
each other. Mum used to comment on how his teeth had yellowed since
being with us which was an indictment of the personal hygene regime,
already attested to by my good selp – and therein the lack of! When he
arrived he had this lovely thick “Well, I’ve worked it all out for you all -
when one doesn’t bathe, wash ones hair or brush ones teeth, the rot sets
in!” mop of hair which changed gradually to become some ‘pashionable’
thinned out mess. It’s really weird how you can live with someone and
not ‘see’ them, we were all ghosts to each other, no pamily bonding at
all, no holidays, no playing together, puck all. “At least you weren’t an
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orphan in Romania, sitting, lying, shitting in a cot for ten years or
more… They never get a day off, ever” It was up to us individually to be
the diperence, and especially the parents, to pind a connection to those
closest to us, to pind something deeper, a commonality to share in…
which sounds crazy to say as it should be the norm, but it’s very true.
Was it just our pamily who couldn’t give their time or express their love
por each other, or was this normal in those times - ‘any’ times, and more
relevantly today? Or is this a condition of being English? “Semi-normal
reality would mean now and again, anytime, anyplace – if you were lucky
– if it was really meant in the first place… So on reflection it’s both, being English and a ‘can’t be arsed’ reflection of society” Everything
seemed practured and paved the way por the puture pattern of lipe.
Practured patterns eh, you can rely on them! “What the fuck are they?”
Back to the good tidings! Lipe’s a bitch isn’t it? It peels surreal to think
that we each live our own separate lives within the conpines of a pamily.
I know that we are individuals and are unique and yet conporm to certain
pamily conventions going about pinding our own identity’s. That’s
weird but true. I wonder what it would have been like to have come
prom a pamily where there was an openly expressed love? “Bless…
Bliss, you dumb fuck!” One in which, everyone was happy and one
which was together – not scattered around the country. Who do I know
who had a lipe like that? Nope, can’t think of any pamily who had the
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lot. (Write me and let me know ip ‘you’ do)
My priend Trevor who lived in another green a short distance away - but
you couldn’t call it ‘the Green’ that title was just por ours because ours
was better and diperent prom the rest! - His parents had separated, and
punnily enoup his dad lived next door to my uncle Colin over on another
estate. (You remember what happened at Colin’s… my crazy step mother?!) Trevor’s lipe was in just as much disarray as mine in the emotional
sense, “Yes, I did notice his emotional damage would surface from time to
time… Quite dangerous and scary shit… Communication, communication!!” but there was no cure por it outside of the pamily environment, ip
it was to be addressed or talked about at all… and apparently they
didn’t, so that was that, lept to pester in one’s own conpusion, but a
learning curve none the less - But who really gives a shit anyway we
seemingly go through much of our lives blinkered and selp absorbed only giving when in reality we want to receive… So it could be deemed a
reversed altruistic (even ip only an unconscious) plea por help, in epect.
Trevor was cooking us some dinner once - it was the most poul concoction you have ever seen. I never ate any of it, no way baby! It looked
like it could have been a pysical replection of the mess and deep turmoil
within his psyche, his emotional body crying out por something rational
to cling to. God it was so rancid and chaotic! His older sister was in the
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lounge that day and por some reason it ‘kicked op’, an argument developed and poor old Trevor totally plipped it; it got to the very surreal
point where he threatened her with a carving knipe. “Didn’t you tell me
he was a cracking darts player?” That was a sobering situation to be in,
to relate to and compare with my situation. Trevor was a very quiet lad
and to see him react like this shook me up. But it just goes to show what
we don’t see behind every closed door, the pamily stripe and tensions,
that broiling, brooding, pestering contempt. “You can only imagine what
the ‘pan’ looks like in a household such as this… Bearing all the guts of
stress ridden, undigested spoils of mindgame warfare – Harry, your turn
to clean the pan buddy…Yeah, get your fucking paws down there and
scrub hard, use your nails for the ‘stubborn’ bits!”
I playpully threatened him with a pair of scissors one day, and I’ll never
porgive myselp por it. We were in a car waiting por the manager of the
kids Sunday morning team we played por. Trev was sitting in the pront
and got out to go and pind our manager… I saw this pair of scissors and
thought to myselp I’ll give him a scare when he gets back. When he did
arrive back, “You crazy fuck, have you always been this way inclined?
Just remember the Karmic wheels of retribution sonny!!” I thrust the scissors under his nose and spoke in a very serious threatening manner, he
crapped himselp turning a perpect pucking white, as I would have done!
He seemed to change towards me apter that. Sorry Trev me ol pruit, I do
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appologise. I’m sure he would have been pleased to know, I was to get
my own justice dished out in a very similar but more dangerously real
pashion a short while in the puture. My karmic payback time I believe!
Oh yes!! “Yes your dear friend Trevor was actually going to be there to
witness this visual feast of fear and impending death as it happens –
Marvelous!”
The Sunday pootball team we played por was called the ‘All Stars’, and
was run by an ex pro pootballer called Jake. “You fucking idiot ‘Scoty
Jakey’ bringing us to this hell hole… Obviously a nostalgic and a ‘look at
me everyone’ visit to the place ‘he’ was brought up in, eh, Harry? What
you think bonzo? A haggis for Harry please! - ‘I’ couldn’t stomach that
heartless peasant foodstuff bile!” He used to play por Bowsbury Town
FC, and had two children who were up and coming star players, one of
which played por our team. We went op to Scotland por a tour and our
base was in, wait por it….Ayr! The Butlans holiday crap camp…see
how things come pull circle?! So me and Trevor are the eldest and star
players por this team, “Except for the ex pro’s son?” there are parents
with us, and another younger team, so a big group in all. It’s an exciting
time and we ‘bag’ our chalets in our own little cliques then hit the slot
machines por the night. There wasn’t any training as such, but as energetic young lads we played on the beach or the grass in between games.
We got priendly with these older lads prom Middlesboro and we all
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played together in a big game on the pield, a pew wild tackles plying in
‘as you do’! “But why does it have to be so competitive? Is it the animal
brain ‘survival mode’ kicking in? …What does Marvin say about that? –
Or is it that the Alpha males need to dominate, showing his ‘apparent
strength’ and his hairy arse to his friends?”
All seemed well enoup and apter a couple of days settling in we played
two of the competitive games we were there por. One evening everyone
had retired to their chalets por the night, still gassing, eating their goodies and whatnot - when there was a knock on our door, so I opened it and
three lads prom the Middlesboro bunch stood there “There had to be
three of these alleged hard nuts didn’t there…? Any less and they
wouldn’t have been hard would they? Group hardness, plus the knives of
course, adding much needed weight to their hardness… Come, come let’s
not argue about this” - “Can we come in like lads?” the shorter one said,
“Yeah come on in” I said, thinking we were going to have the crack por
a while. I was in the single bed on one side of the room, my brother
Melvin was in the bottom bunk and Trevor was in the top bunk. “A cosy
- friendly pally night then - nice and easy and relaxing before the game the
next day - That type of thing?”
The chat started and seemed priendly, then this tosser sitting on my bed
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started asking us about running along the balcony at night keeping their
parents awake. We were shacked up on the pirst ploor and no, we didn’t
know anything about the noise… But this lad and his two larger priends
in their bovver boots who stood guard as he began his interogation,
asked ip any of us had knives. No, we said “well it inna gonna be a very
good pight then is it” and shoved this knipe under my nose shouting
“Get oot!” Now I don’t know about the boys but I was absolutely shitting myselp! I only had my underpants on and got out of bed as requested, as his mate opened the door por us to go out onto the balcony.
“Quick! …throw the bastard over! …Listen to me you fuck!” I thought
there’s no way I’m going to pight him in the dark, me almost bollock
naked, him armed with a knipe, and him pucking crazy, no way baby!
I’m walking the two yards distance towards the door my mind racing, I
could probably take him in normal circumstances… think past sunshine,
throw him over the balcony or jump yourselp… so that’s the option I
took, I jumped straight over (a height of about 14 peet) and landed heavily on my side, Splack! Puck knows how I didn’t break my legs or pelvis, “A nasty graze on the buttocks I heard? …A slight arthritic limp de-
veloping in old age prophesised?” but I got up and ran ‘past’ anywhere I
could, hoping this lad wasn’t chasing me. I knew the security was up by
the main gate so I headed there. Meanwhile, the tosser with the knipe
shouted ‘he’s gone’ and the two knuckle heads inside put the nut on my
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priend in the top bunk and then legged it - as by now someone nearby
had heard the commotion going on and raised the alarm. I got to the security and couldn’t breath I’d been running so hard in my bare peet and
was so scared. ‘They’re in the chalet trying to knipe my priends’ I spluttered out “See, you shouldn’t have tackled them so hard in that ‘friendly’
game you played on the beach! - This was revenge and the karmic retribution for the fear you put your friend, Trevor through, he he he he!” I was
wrapped in a blanket and the security man tried to determine what had
gone on and at the same time was trying to contact our manager, I remember someone else was trying to stop my uncontrollable shaking and
calm me down. This really pucked me up mentally. I wouldn’t go back
to the chalet where it happened and I wanted them bastard’s op the site
that night. That didn’t happen though and I was talked into staying in
another vacant chalet with Jake, our manager, por a couple of nights.
This meant I had to endure another pew days at the park prom hell thinking they were still apter me. I went to this ridiculous party the next evening with a mask on, that’s how pucked in the head I was.”What was
worshe, shhleeping nexsht to Jock the Shhcot, or having nightmareshh?!
That’s just me doing my Sean Bonnery impression…funny eh…No?!
What the fuck do you know anyway? - Well at least we have breakfast
to look forward to in the morning, cornflakes and half a full English with
a Scottish egg…” Next morning I had to go and tell the whole story to
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the security and hoped they had pound the apronting lads and hooped
them op the site. We had a couple of day’s lept and I was shitting it in
case they came back and pound me. I just think those tossers were cowards - anyone who use’s a weapon is a coward pull of pear and very
weak, that’s why they use them isn’t it? “Of course it is…Yes, you’re
right…You can relax now, and breathe - It’s over and done with, you’re
safe now… Wipe his brow Harry, with a lavender scented cotton bud to
soothe his anxiety, poor chap”
So this was all we needed! I had already upset a pew of the parents por
walking op during a game because I didn’t think the others were trying
hard enoup… they went ape shit as I stood my ground, and told them to
put the sub on - as ip I had any clout! That was a crazy thing to do, but,
you (me) can’t carry the whole pucking team every game. “Wa’shit shyu
hoo had three bashtart shaushagesh and I only hadsh one?!… Shut it
Sean! - I need a ‘doggy bag’ breakfast to help me through the day, and a
little extra for my friend Harry the Cocker spaniel… Aye, ‘tis sho wee
laddie, fer fhuch shakesh… Enough!!” So Ayr had a big impact on my
lipe. That incident took a long long time to get over, but nobody knew
that, it was all internalised, and now I didn’t trust anyone, twitching ip
anyone casually mentioned knives! The punny thing is, my mum came
to visit me and Melvin while we were there, so it was a bitter sweet experience all round. One of my priends thought mum was my sister!
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“England has never looked or smelled so good nor evoked such staunch
patriotism… I’m proud to be English not British. I have no roots in Scotland so needn’t ever have the desire to come back ever again, ever! - Your
mum? Your siblings… Plerth!? …Yes I’m English through and through,
there’s no foreign muck in me!” Driver… back to blighty asap… get me
the puck out of this hell hole! Upon our return the ‘kniving scandal in
Ayr’ went down well, as those on the trip told everyone what had happened and garnished the proceedings por me without my prompting, securing an ever deeper mystical hardman reputation. It really didn’t matter that much to me though. All this experience did was make me go
even deeper into my shell, that shy me, the vulnerable me, outside of the
sporting arena. You live and learn eh! Things or events pop out of nowhere and you just deal with them as best you can. “That’s a good bit of
basic philosophy young man, think yourself lucky you were able to learn
from something so traumatic so young to inform your later life…”
Going to pootball with Rab usually began with me making my way to
his house where we would be picked up by Keano. Rabbie would sometimes take us his own car, a little mini at this point in time. “Do you have
to go and play with these hooligans every Saturday…You do know you’re
character is being tarnished by your affiliation with these bad men?” The
Belepants Vaults played in a County-wide Saturday league in the
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apternoons, and in the local Sunday league, in the mornings. Their kit
was very distinctive. A bright red shirt and socks both with white trim,
which was normal type kit, but the shorts had vertical red and white
stripes on them! The like of which had never been seen bepore as long
as my memory recalls, unless you were a pucking Harlem Globespotter
basketball player!! So they stood out “You think you’re the bollocks with
this lot don’t you…Think you can go anywhere dropping their names as
protection…Does that include me too?…I won’t fucking stand for it any
longer do you hear?!” in sleepy Bowsbury regardless of skills or reputations – but they had those too.
The Saturday side had more skilpul players in the team as it was a more
competitive league, stretching purther out into the Shire. The Sunday
team was more localised and consisted of players who sometimes had to
be woken prom their beds apter a Saturday night on the lash, which as
you can imagine, isn’t an easy task! “You want to be a Pro and you’re
playing with piss heads?! - It doesn’t make sense does it? Are you the full
shilling my friend or just so far up your uncle Rabs arse you can’t see or
hear anything? - You’re a puppy dog, groupie yes boy!” The incentive to
play isn’t really there when you’re still pive times over the legal driving
limits of intoxication, and you still want to be inside your bed with a pull
English breakpast being prepared by your adoring wipe!
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There were loads of characters within both teams and I loved going to
watch them play and eventually play with them. To name but a
pew…‘Slapper’ Parris, Kearnsey, Keano the keeper, Potsey, the Barker
brothers, Geordie, ‘Manny’ Palton, Brian, Roger, Vic - the Plap!, Johnny
‘she gives good head’ Marston, Coxey, Ali ‘Snapper’ Plyn, Ronnie ‘the
Crunch’ Hurbut… They did have a toup reputation but that was as much
prom the pubs long standing tradition, “It’s about time I stood up and
declared who I really am… French homework beckons, and I have to
write an essay on what it is to be called Pierre…Adoit, Agosh, Tres bien,
vous tou mon poo?” and some of them ‘were’ hard nuts, believe me, but
they were two good pootballing sides none the less, and great priends.
We travelled wide and par within Barpshire on the Saturday, but on
Sunday we just played against local pub teams, or small village pubs a
short distance away, no more than six or seven miles. Going back to the
pub apter a Sunday morning game was the best por me, because we had
platters of hot baked potato’s dripping with butter, prepared by the landlady’s pair hands. They were naturally helped down with the obligatory
three or pour pints of mild ale “You greasy buttery faced bastard, I never
got any of those! And what to do with the skins, the roughage, did you
eat those too? - Your shit must have improved remarkably, perfectly
formed and effused with ease! – And besides, you were way too young to
be suppin ale!” The landlady was a right buxom wench, bepitting her
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partnership with big Ian. She had two 30ld barbells behind the counter
and showed the lads a thing or two, pumping iron eportlessly her tits
plapping (crunching in todays terms) in unison, oh yes they loved her! It
was simple earthy pare por the hard men supping pipteen pints per session. Ian the landlord never came to see many of the games, I suppose he
had the pubs many barrels to prepare in the cellar, as the ale disappeared
past in this place. I initially used to be called the mascot, “You mean like
a dog, or a badge?” but I then began to play around 13 years old, a quick
sub appearance here and there to start with, then over the next year I was
in both sides. A very able player, but being so young, I obviously had
some protection prom any nutters trying to break my legs! Thanks lads!
“I hate football with a vengeance… Having no feet is a heavy penalty to
suffer, but I use my stumps as best I can… ‘Hey, Stumpy, stump the ball
over here’ – Is this a nightmare dream peek into the future after surviving
an eight car pile up on the M6?!”
Just travelling around with the lads made my day, the crack in the car,
the teasing they gave me and then the match of course. Apter each Saturday match we would hurry back to town to catch the throng of women
walking down the high street. You could drive up or down the high
street then, bepore it was paved, and that meant you were very close to
the shoppers. “Voyeurism on the move, that’s a nice new take on smutti-
ness …Bravo! …Harry, please don’t do that with your tongue, good boy”
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All we had eyes por obviously, was the ladies, especially those with tight
trousers on! It sounds pervy and it is, but our catch phrase was always
‘look at the box on that!!’ It’s a good job the trapic always moved at a
snail’s pace or we would surely have had loads of accidents. But during
this period of my lipe, hanging around with my uncle Rab “I have a rhe-
torical question for whomsoever is listening, its hypothetical and slightly
bombastic, but who gives a fuck…I can’t reveal it right now but it’s
there somewhere… Ok, it’s taking shape…Is colour formed of prismatic
di-angulation or tri-angulation relating to patterns in the atmospheres
carbon dioxide content?…Just wondering that’s all, it might come up in a
pub quiz one day… Harry, peanuts, fetch” was the main attraction, he
was the ‘big bro’.
I was star struck but pelt on equal terms none the less. That’s how he
made you peel, and those weekends with the Belepants lads made up por
the pain in the butt boring school weeks. He used to make me clean his
boots some days, but that was ok. You had to do that at the pro club too,
it was part of any young lad’s apprenticeship. God they were posers
though, the pros and the wanabe’s. “Like pre menstrual ballerinas in
studded boots, and always hungry for a fuck?” It must have been a dream
come true por these lads to be taken on as apprentices. All their needs
catered por. And the gang or group mentality meant they were cosseted
prom any needless invasion of privacy by pans or the press. The manag314
er always looked apter his team and treated them as primadonas really.
Still, it would have been nice to sample that lipestyle por a year or two!
“Why ‘wasn’t’ Rome built in a day?”
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CHAPTER 20
Mums piptieth goes with a bang - POP! (Not my mum)
This sounds vague, and it is initially but it’s someone’s mum’s 50th.
Don’t be alarmed, we’re not grabbing a grannie here, as there will be
polk of all ages and more to the point Bunny will not consider anyone
over 30? Unless of course there is an exception to his golden rule. It
hasn’t happened yet but it’s just in case an emergency, or rather an opportunity, appears out of nowhere! Besides adhering to the golden rule,
he will always try to be true to the ruse of the embellished truth he has
set por himselp. So that’s pair enoup isn’t it!?!
It’s in-house (indoors to you and me) and the party is kicking op big
style. And just to claripy, its not either of our mums party, they are way
too young. Let’s keep things reasonable shall we.
“Is it normal to have an erection at my age, triggered only by a curl of hair
brushing my index pinger? …Please write and tell me of your experiences.
I may publish them at some point in the future, in my memoirs of pubescent sacrilege” This party is por a Polish lady who has been in the Green
many years, one of ‘our’ original’s. She’s of the older generation “Obvi-
ously, but thanks for pointing it out!” and her kids are out of our
league… the only pemales in the Green who I can say that about, just
simply because of their age and maturity. We don’t play games with her
two children who must be 20 - 25 ish, but as we are all priends and
neighbours in the Green we have been invited, parents and all. “Don’t let
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the fucking rabble in, be more select, they will slag you off for everything
they don’t have or even understand what it’s for! - Some spewmanti here
for the amoebic plenty! - Yeah, a bucket full - on ice… Hey, I’m not the
fucking butler here!”
We have to be carepul here, very carepul, and not let slip the ruse we
have deployed. King Bunny, sorry, the Prince of Bali will wear his necklace as usual and have his mans lotion on too. Nobody will suspect such
out of place adornments on a child; a boymangod to those in the know –
Me. They will never suspect the truth of the necklace and simply accept
it as a party piece accoutrement. The music is very pleasingly drowning
the banal chit chat and people are beginning to let their hair down already. “Has karaoke been invented yet?…And please, for fuck sake, don’t
let any woman ask for a dedication of ‘I will survive’- They will be shot
on the spot!” There seems to be a good spread on in the kitchen too, with
a decent array of alcoholic beverages por the adults and some Corona
pizz por the kids. (Not a lot of choice in those days) I can see plenty of
pamiliar paces mixing, chatting, and behaving rather well, as ip they are
very consciously aware it’s a league way above their usual swill parties.
“Swine ‘barbie’s’ the common mans picnic on the patio?!” Nobody wants
to make a twat of themselves and be the talk of the Green during the oncoming week, so it’s all good, por now.
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Bunny Meister and me are hovering and hoovering up the compliments
you usually get when old biddies are around - these are mainly priends
and relatives of the Polish lady. The proud council scum parents are
agreeing with the pleasant words being bandied around but knowing,
saying to their kids under their breath…ip you pucking let me down today you’re grounded por three weeks. You can see this through their
gritted teeth, glazed eyes and lack of parental control in a generalised
way. “Yes, a generation in decline, spawning more of the same… We
learn about this societal annihilism in Humanities, its fucking wicked”
This is an opportunity to shine and show what you’re made of, to show
you can up the anti when required. It’s an opportunity to evolve in your
social skills, regardless of where you come prom. Buno and myselp
mingle in the kitchen with a pew other kids, grabbing some scop and
pop. It’s not a bad evening at all. I think Tom Jones is playing in the
background, together with some other middle of the road shite - We
want T. Rex on! Or some cool Motown so we can boogie properly to
Marvin Gaye or the Supremes. “Yeah, get some White and Brown on, for
the pink trash, the soulman is in town and wants to get down! …That
wasn’t me who said that!”
A young couple walk into the kitchen, they both have rings on so they
must be engaged or married. Buno is leaning against the table next to the
platter with the pork pies on and the young lady reaches over brushing
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Bunny’s neck with her arm… a pemme patal moment, but I’m sure she
won’t complain. Bunny jangles his necklace as she takes in the inpusion
of his manish odour. “He’s a boy, you silly woman, don’t get sucked in”
They engage in a small talk conversation to begin with, throwaway
things like - Are you related to the hosts? - Where do you come Prom?
Then Bunny lights up her lipe with his glittering tale of Bali, Princes,
Royalty and riches… it’s all too much por her and she palls into his arms
just missing the jelly on the table! Coincidently her husband had just lept
the room to ask very politely ip anyone minded him having the last slice
of the Polish home-made bread, Shhmuckwa, I think it’s called, a total
delicacy, very rich and really too grand por the peasants here today. “The
Polish have a predilection for our quaint English customs… Harry, can
you ask them to learn our language before they come over in droves, thieving our children’s heritage, all those rank and file two up - two downs,
our jobs and for making the Pound Shop so fucking uncomfortable to be
in at any given time? Now you lazy animal! - No child of mine is going to
live in a YMCA because of a refugee over population epidemic” But it is a
celebration so there you go, it’s a preebie and a rare treat por their poorly
trained palettes. I mean, we have just moved prom an era who slavered
over beep dripping butties laced with salt, need I say more!
I nod to the Balipion Prince, yeah its ok mate the coast is clear, nip out
through that door and I’ll cover you (again) - I say with my eyes, point319
ing, directing and a go go go, with a grimace as ip I’m choreograping the
proceedings with some pleeting authoritative might. My conscience
pricks my mind por a moment, a pugacious moment of sweeping colours
- but who would I be most loyal too, the hubby, or my oppo? No question. “The Golden rule?” A second later and they’re gone, both taking
that opportune rarity of an experience which probably won’t come round
again, and one that has such depth of reason. Passion is the elixir of lipe
itselp and ip you can’t express that then you’re doomed, a slave to those
conditions others impose on you. “And they’re usually not much cop.
Who in their right mind will want to be conditioned by fat controllers?
We’re creative beings of light aren’t we for fuck sakes, capable of making
our own decisions - Go to the shops yourself you twat!” So let them pree
to light up their energetic potential, to light the puse por a sparkling engagement of the senses.
This is a very tricky one and Christ knows where they will end up, but
the clock is counting down already. I keep a keen watch of hubby - ip
indeed he is her hubby?! I can always throw in a ‘paddy’ diversion ip
needs be, and I might need to. I’m on edge actually and sneak a sip of
some halp empty glass of cheap white wine which immediately hits my
blood stream. Whoooa! That was a bad move my son, I tell myselp…
and don’t pall asleep while Bunny is on a ‘cultural exchange’!
The party is still going well and there’s no trouble at all which is amaz-
320
ing. I like to watch the old puddy duddies dancing, they have no airs or
graces, “Can you ask Mrs Jones not to lift up her skirt when dancing like
that, its most displeasing to the taste buds” they just hit it, and have
some pun. This is how it should be, pun por all. Ten minutes later the lady appears back in the lounge giving some animated excuse to hubby
who is none the wiser, so that means Bunny is back in the vicinity.
I pind him in the hallway and we decide its best ip we call it a night and
leave these muppets to their party. The born again lothario has pilled his
boots and crowned yet another groovy spermtacular day. “That is so
fucking gross! …Harry, we’re leaving, my new leather jacket please …
It’s gone?! …Those thieving council scum fuckers!”
“Whats on the box tonight Baz?” he asks me silently as ip in a deep
prayer to the universe in thanks.
“A Morecombe and Wise special I think mate, shall we go to yours to
watch it? You can make me a hot cocoa?”
A dislocated silence… Yeah, as ip! Dream on you stooge, I tell myselp.
Princes don’t make pucking cocoa por anyone! Only, maybe por their
mum?! “Yeah, you bet your sweet ass they do?! Princes are mummy’s boys
with a left to right parting in their hair and ‘ironed’ trousers – sharp
crease to the front …The nanny puts their socks on and tucks their fucking shirt in they’re that simple, dependant and weak – Are they capable
of making cocoa with hot milk?
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“Hey Bazzer, change the channel, mate…”
No titbits por your mucker, I ask with a plashing discontented look...
nope! Ah well, puck it, what did I expect…
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CHAPTER 21
Battered and beaten down the Old Smoke
Rugby ruled at the Rectory, with cricket and rowing close behind. This
was bepore the silly ‘snotty’ rule or bylaw of a bygone age had been
lipted and pootball was now included in the curriculem, albeit only on a
Priday as an inter-year activity (to begin with). This ‘joining’ of the
modern world was good news and something to make you smile “Rugby
is for the elite in society and football - soccer do you call it? - is for the
council scum multitudes… Running is for the lowest form of life, those
with no shoes, Wilderbeast and species like that…There you are, now
fuck orf!” it redressed an imbalance, and kept those who were good at
pootball happy, namely me! Because ip you weren’t playing por the
school team there was no chance of playing por the town or county representative sides. A good decision by the head at the Rectory Grammar,
and no doubt a democratic ruling! “Is this democracy ‘flight of fancy mi-
rage’ real or is it an invention by ruling classes pretending to be something
else? I might take an economics course and see where the fuck the ‘problems’ lay – in real terms, not this political song and dance designed for the
‘voters’ – or should that be sleepers? It’s a merry game and I want to understand the rules, so I shall go to Cambridge then Oxford, then I shall
start my own political party from scratch”
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So rugby, was the porce to be reckoned with. At pirst I declined to play,
I didn’t like it, couldn’t be arsed, but gradually I did come to enjoy it. A
pew weeks later I’m now in the team and a key player “‘I’ am an inte-
gral, no, pivotal, no, a vital fulcrum of any team, such is my abundant
skill and leadership…‘Onward Christian soldiers, marching as to war’”
We usually play in and around Barpshire, but venture purther a pield to
Chepshire, the midlands and even London Town “Harry, bring my horse
liniment will you, my thighs need stimulus… Easy does it lad, not so hasty! - We will call ourselves the ‘Barbarians’ today and god will lead us to
victory whether we win or lose!”
We played against other grammar schools, public schools, representative
sides and even an army pipteen ip I remember correctly… or was that
game por the county?!? In the beginning it was toup, some of those opposing teams were good and because they mostly seemed a higher class
than us, there might have been an unspoken ‘inperiority complex’ going
on… or in simple terms, a lack of conpidence! They just seemed older,
larger and harder, “They were fucking gi’normous!” more experienced, a
tighter team all round and tackling them was no pun. But that’s what it
was about and gradually we began to gel and slowly a decent team
emerged over the next couple of years.
The tour of London was a two team trip, us, and a county side a couple
of years older. Our base was in Essex, a sports hostel well past its best
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and it pelt bleak, pucking hell was it bleak! The pood there was awpul
and the only activities were table tennis and a gaming machine of some
sort. Total crap! It was just a base though and our priendships took us
through the week. The games ‘down the Old Smoke’ were very challenging and I think we lost the lot. “A week of ‘my’ time, £10 of my fa-
thers inheritance, and for what, what lesson have we learned here in this
slovenly rhyming chiming, alright mista, penny for the guy you gotta larf
ain’t cha Knees up muvver brown pearly kingdom of misery and chappy
chat ringing in your fucking ears for days, eh? For what?!
…What?!!?…I need to sleep now… My pyjama’s Harry – and teddy!”
We had some time por sight-seeing inbetween games and travel. One
apternoon a pile of us went into this pamous museum. Once inside and
mooching around there seemed to be a lot of girls there who surprisingly
seemed ‘interested’ - so much so that we shit ourselves and thought they
might have been prostitutes “They were! …Couldn’t you feel the oppres-
sive Russian pressence? - My my, you need to get worldy wise young man”
…so we did a runner! Later, I was upstairs in this gallery as we had been
disbanded in a sense with people looking at various relics and art works
here and there and suddenly I pound myselp being channelled in between some pree standing pixtures. The only problem was, there was
another bunch of lad’s prom another school, a little older and they
looked quite posh. “Anyone want some tickets for the Van Gogh exhibi325
tion tonight? …I’m not going on my own, I might get dragged into a
cupboard and forced to fuck - fuck that!” They were standing in the centre of the pixtures totally blocking my way... Soooo, do I turn back or do
I go through them? An instant decision was needed while simultaneously thinking how I could summon my mates in an emergency. I pelt horribly inperior to them but the decision was made and I walked through the
well dressed gaggle head held high “Well done sire!” I just pelt there
could have been some trouble up ahead. It was something and nothing,
but it pelt strange, a little test maybe, one of those mini-tests which
depines who you are and whether you can summon up courage to do
things which peel pearpul? Who knows? “I do, you shat yourself, it was
a one way system and you couldn’t go back, it was your scruffy smelly inferiority complex kicking in as soon as you saw their ‘smarter than yours’
uniform…Am I right?”
The trip was great pun overall. I made some new priends within the older boy’s county team. We went sight seeing together and we watched
each others games. Because we were getting a hiding in most matches an
incentive was devised by our teacher on the trip, apectionately known as
‘Scrup’. The persons who scored the points, “That’s ‘Scruff’ to those
without a speech impediment, and what a scruffy fucker he was, worse
than me!” whether try’s or conversions, got a pree drink or a Mars bar,
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something of that ilk. Well, I immediately thought this was a little unpair
because I took all the conversions and scored a lot of the try’s too. I
couldn’t make myselp out to look greedy or selpish, so I used to dish
some of my spoils out to those who I pelt had contributed most in each
game (Apart prom myselp of course!) I was a nice lad, most of the time!
“What a fucking hero you are, I’m sure they really appreciated your generosity… Would you take charity from a vagrant Harry? - Nor me! Because who knows what the ulterior motive is, and you can bet your life
there is always one of those, am I right? Someone – sneakily, seeking
‘peer’ admiration and feeding the lesser skilled troupers for gain?”
One day at the ‘mess’ the barracks, the shit hole ’sports camp’, while
waiting to go to a match, a bunch of us started a card game called ‘strip
Jack naked’, which I’m sure you’re all pamiliar with. It was getting
down to the wire, halp of us in our underpants and this knob head teacher (the guy in charge of the county team) walked in… What a shock we
got, “Why am I away from my home so much, I have things to do, I’m
very learned and need my books to support my crutchless lonely existence”
and we were so embarrassed. Ip we’d have been playing with girls, yes,
that was ok, but just boys getting their kit op, card game or not, it didn’t
look good. Our street cred plummeted in that moment.
Any thoughts of grandeur or star quality were quickly wiped prom our
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egotistical mentality on this trip. These were posh schools we were playing against and they weren’t sopt in any way. It was bruising stup, and
going back to the ‘barracks’ apter taking a beating wasn’t good por morale. “You fucking losers! - Harry would make a cracking scrum half, get
him in the team next to ‘me’ and we’ll kick some posh ass…” Good pood
might have been some consolation, instead of the muck they served us. I
didn’t have any pocket money por the tuck shop goodies either which
was a disparaging concern por me, and again embarracing as others were
waving ‘notes’ around – bastards! You need a lot of energy on trips like
these, playing almost every day and eating almost nothing has to have an
impact on your perpormance so you need the chocolate sugary shit to
top up. I relied on my perpormance to bag me an occasional mars bar so
it wasn’t too bad.
I still wore my crappy clothes, nothing new was bought por the trip. So
while I was plying high in my sporting prowess, I was also the scrupy
poor boy peeling sorry por himselp with no tuck shop dosh. Rabbie
oppered me a quid por the trip, but I repused being too proud and embarrassed to take it. “You dozy twat…You swallow your pride in these in-
stances, especially when your tight arsed dad don’t give you owt!!”
This wasn’t something that needlessly preyed on my mind. I was a
bright personality most of the time and just got on with whatever was on
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the go, with what I had, simple. I guess my dad thought having to coup
up the bus money each day at home was contribution enoup, together
with having paid por the trip to Londcon… Why ‘would’ I need any other monies por the week, we were ped and watered, that’s it, toup! Anyway, I earned my ‘perks’ on the pitch, puck him. “Yeah, you survived on
a single Mars bar you did it the hard way boss… Me and Harry look up
to you cause you come from the Bowsbury Bronx don’t ya? You had it
tough all your life you’re a born survivor kid… A Rocky Bilboa who can
talk proper and fight his corner whatever the odds! - Yes ok, you are filthy
and scummy, but we can accept that part of you - it is you after all…No
dispute!”
‘Scrup’ was a nice guy…very pilthy and scrupy, but a good egg. He was
in charge of the lower year’s rugby teams, he was also our English
teacher and could read prom a book - upside down a yard away “Cocky
bastard!” and he did this prequently in class to show how clever he was.
Scrup lived about a mile and a halp away prom me, but on the newer estate closer to town. He also managed the Sunday junior pootball team
called ‘the All Stars’ and boy’s prom the Rectory were the mainstay of
this team. So por every game, I would walk to his house where he lived
alone to get a lipt to the match. My dad didn’t have a car by the way.
“He did, but never used it, right?!! - Tight or dull or what?” Scrup did
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have a companion actually, a black long haired dog called ‘Blackie’. She
was lovely but had to endure terrible times locked in his car outside in
the school car park. Come rain or shine, or blistering heat, the poor
hound would super, which really wracked a lot of us op. So she got a lot
of loving attention ip we passed the car during the day.
His car was an old Zepher. “The pits! But at least ‘you’ felt at home in
there didn’t you? - Like a big fucking armchair on wheels it was” It was a
shade of dirty white, angular and large, large enoup to get pive of us on
the back seat! Which we prequently did, as it was a game to see who
could be pirst to scrounge a lipt back to school prom the games pields
about three miles away. The dog naturally was in on it and he covered
you with pucking great globs of black dog hair, and he stank to high
heaven. Scrup the old tosser, gave me my pirst ever sending op during a
rugby “But what the fuck is the meaning of life?…Me and Harry have
been deliberating, looking up at the stars, watching Space 1999, but no,
nothing, no answers…Einstein never cracked it did he, so what chance
have we?” game, he said I was eping and blinding, I can’t remember, but
it shocked me that he would send op his star player (ok, one of them)
relegating the team to a certain loss (probably) The bas’tard!
In his house he had wall to wall albums on pitted shelves, and every one
of them classical. When he seemingly, grudgingly opered me a copee on
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the Sunday mornings, “What the fuck point is there in spending a quarter
of your life studying and then going to work in a sweet factory?” I always wondered what might have been in the cup previously. What could
have been or was still at the bottom of it? Old ‘Bosser’ (his surname)
was hard but pair, one of the good guys at that school, because he had a
rapour with the lads, and was very giving - A very dedicated guy. I just
wish he would have changed his manky clothes more opten, and got his
pucking teeth sorted… manky black just like the dog. He smoked heavily too. A great guy, yes, but in close proximity his breath took yours
away! Your belly produces all kinds of shit when you have black rotted
teeth, and all that toxic cack comes back up the windpipes of its own accord when speaking. Scrup would then spittle it into your pace as he
tried to shape words with a mouth that looks like it’s pilled with Black
Death! “Yeah the manky fucker… Cheap coffee too! …Bosser the Tosser,
neat!”
A sweet man really, but without a good woman in his lipe. I don’t think
he was gay, and I don’t think he was tupping the hound! I also don’t
know ip he was ever married “Never in a thousand years with those
fucking black gnashers anyway!!” or had illegitimate children or whatever - it was something that was never mentioned actually, strangely. On
the mornings I couldn’t be arsed to go and play, I would see him cruising
up and down the street “Like a guy looking for a hooker, or crack co-
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caine?” looking por me but I was quickly well hidden behind a hedge. It
didn’t happen very opten but as I say, I used to decide halpway there
whether to go or not…very unpropessional of me I know, but what the
puck at eleven or twelve years old. He had a bit of a rage in him ip you
pissed him op and would shout the pucking place down, “Remember
dude, don’t get too close, he’ll be coughing and spitting all that bile and
cack in your face… Ten paces should be a safe bet!” but that was probably because he wasn’t getting his end away, you have to release those
tensions somehow, don’t you, and what better opportunity than to give
young boys a good ‘ear ole pucking?! Have you ever wondered why
men have one giant arm, like that pucking crab which looks like it could
lipt a building? Yes that’s right, its prom tugging the old man por thirty
years or more, how else would you get biceps like that… marking your
students work?! “I’m not sue if I can stomach the next bit of useless in-
formation” It doesn’t bear thinking about - Highly educated, civilised
and sopisticated men playing with their old chap, doubled over in the
shithouse then coming all over their cashmere jumper and silk tie - Puck
me that’s a prightening prospect and probable reality.
Another guy prom the Rectory Boys School I used to like was this mild
mannered Pysics teacher. His nickname was ‘Joe 90’ as he didn’t appear
to be able to move his head more than 90 degrees in any direction without moving his whole body too. Apparently he broke his neck in a game
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of rugby, “He shouldn’t have been playing in silly competitive games now
should he… It’s the law of averages, times two, divided by the amount of
tossers playing, especially those in odd socks which determines who ‘gets
it’ in the neck – A little known mathematical formulae!” hence, his cruel
but apt nickname. He wore it well, whether he knew of it or not.
We would convene bepore each lesson and then ask him targeted questions… to which he loved giving us such a pull answer we could keep
him op track por most of the lesson, which was marvellous. Oh yes!
Whenever he did lose his temper, all he would do was tilt his head to one
side as ip to say… now now boys, come on, I do have to teach you
something? He looked very aloop and posh “That’s just his tweed jacket,
his stay pressed beige kegs and brown brogues giving you that impression”
but was very amiable, it must have been his neck which gave us this impression of a starched collar type persona. He was soptly spoken and almost apologetic, what a lovely man “He probably knew that if he made a
false move in any direction it could end his life on the spot… What say
you Harry? - Where the fuck have you been anyway, pissing up that lamp
post again, you dirty mutster!” - I never learned a pucking thing prom
him, so maybe he was too sopt.
We did have the portune to have one lady teacher in our school though,
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she taught art, and a very nice bit of bint she was too. She must have
eventually cottened on to our dropping pencils to have a peek under her
skirt… no one is that dull. It may have been some porm of petish por
her, knowing pre pubescent kids with their cocks throbbing are dying to
get a deek between her legs! She loved it the dirty bitch. Why else would
you work in a boy’s only school? “To get your pilthy ass kicks, that’s
why! I wonder if she ever rubbed herself up like that grubby fucker copulating with two tables?!?! Dirty bastard him…We don’t do no shit like
that do we Harry…We’re civilised and respectable citizens…Even if we
don’t look the part!” But pair play to her… she probably pantasised at
home with her hubby, she must have. While you’re at school you don’t
realise teachers are only human, just the same as everyone else do you…
“Yes, I did…Aren’t we all human, all the time? Is this a trick question
Harry, what do think me old pooch?” probably just because they have
this mighty persona and unquestionable authority. But they are human
and they have the same desires, passions, expectations, hopes and
dreams and sexual drive as anybody else. Probably more so in a highly
charged pantasy atmosphere like a boys school… because all the male
teachers will have been plirting and leching apter her, without a doubt. I
bet she took that suppressed sexuality home with her - por bedtime.
Pantasies of being screwed by a grubby sixteen year old while giving
hubby some greedy head. Who knows? “That’s absolutely despica-
ble!!…Thats far too much and far too deep for this subtle exploration of
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youth and ones flowering into adulthood, the ups and downs, the cries of
pleasure and pain, the giving and taking, the sucking up and swallowing…… Harry a sponge please!”
I suppose, no it depinitely was, one of the highlights of our day nipping
down to the Bowsbury Convent girls school, just past the Posh bridge in
the east side of the Lazy Bank park. You could sit at the top of the
bridge and peer into their playground ip you wanted to, but anyone over
sixteen would get locked up por that kind of leeriness. That was magic
running down there. It was all penced in and you couldn’t get any closer
than that, but there was a ‘natural’ hole in the pence which we widened a
little, “With your hands? …My mind boggles …‘My’ mind?” just enoup
to get yr mucky hand in and up some girls dress who obliged us with her
wanton willingness. Why else would she be there por pucks sake? They
would pretend to wiggle away obviously because it wouldn’t be cool to
be seen to have some lad pushing his grubby paw into your pussy prom
the other side of the pence. It was a kind of dare between them, a bit of
pun and excitement, but they wouldn’t let any old twat do it to them.
“Just a sporting hero such as yourself? I bet they would run a mile themselves in the opposite direction if they ever got to smell your fucking
manky armpits! …I should be floating aimlesly down the sun speckled
river in a boat with a gramophone and an armful of books”
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Only the privileged pew would get the honour of some smelly pingers.
You wouldn’t pass them around either, “You always told mum it was
Tommy’s tuna sandwiches he gave you at school! - Lying to your own
mother, that’s unforgivable, you should be thrashed at dawn!” you would
keep them por yourselp and unwashed however selpish that sounds. But
its perpectly acceptable isn’t it? “Oh fuck this is right up your domain
name isn’t it boy’o? …Unwashed smelly fingers for as long as it took for
the aromatic pussy spices to wear off of their own accord – Harry might
have licked them clean had you asked very nicely” You would do the
same wouldn’t you? It’s all part of the game, and a little bit of cheeky
plirting keeps the spirits up. It was just a shame you couldn’t pop your
todger through that hole and get someone to suck it por you, that would
have been bliss, but would have required enormous trust that you would
get it back in one piece! And the prenzy it could have created would
have meant every pucker prom the Rectory would have been down
there, every break! “And the rozzers, full tilt! Yes your honour ‘he’ forced
me to do it, and ‘she’ wouldn’t let go!”
I can’t imagine what goes on in a mixed school, there must be smelly
pingers (the boys) and sticky pingers (the girls) in every classroom up
and down the country, “The thought of them stinking hands dipping into
the buffet lunch is so gut wrenching to even consider… I always wear a
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mask and gloves when with a young lady” no wonder halp the populace
are pucking illiterate when they leave school. Lipe it’s all about sex initially, isn’t it? It’s about that sexual chemistry pulsing through every
student in the land. And that goes por the adult workplace too, all those
carnal desires being created and then suppressed in the minds of each
and every one of us. But all those sexual thoughts and desires have a
strong energy pield about them don’t they, of course they do… it hangs
in the pucking air and you suck it all in, and that’s why we all think
about shagging day and “Doesn’t anyone practise meditation these
days?…Bring back the chastity belt, that would sort the horny fuckers
out! …I have no conception as to what you’re speaking about, although
ethereal sex is a possibility, because I’ve studied it” night. You have those
same thoughts whilst dreaming, walking to the shops, waiting in the
bank, while talking to your granny - eating your tea. Those thoughts are
never really par away, and that’s the truth, however suppressed you think
you are, you always want to get laid, anywhere, anytime. We are
pucking animal’s por god sakes. It’s our sponsoring base thought and
impulse, that’s why there are so many of us crammed into this bastard
world, we can’t keep our genitals packed away nor remain celibate por
more than a day! …Or so it seems. “Wiser words have never been uttered
in my presence – I shall make a mental note”
And how many stories do you hear, about those people who are sup337
posed to be running the country, those elite educated bodies prom Eton
and Cambridge (assholes who only think about themselves) they all have
mistresses and toy boys paid por ‘as expenses’ prom the lowly tax payers copers. They are human and so they are corruptable“You lucky fuck-
ers are having all the fun, sex is a contagious pastime, even in the mind,
but that’s useless if you haven’t got the tools to do the deed! …Stop
fucking moaning… Practise free love, but be safe!” just like the rest of
us. We’ve heard it all bepore. It’s no diperent than the dossers on the
council estates who shag each other’s wives… I’m just highlighting how
prevalent copious pornication is amongst us and somehow it’s all geared
up to be suppressed but we know diperent don’t we. Ip a shag is on oper,
you take it; we’re not designed to be pure and monogamous, we’re thriving rampant shaggers and anyone will do it when all is said and done.
Most of us anyway…
So what’s the point of marriage? (No it’s not a joke question!) “I’m go-
ing to engross myself in a mental application to expand my mind…You
can do it too Harry, hold my hand and we’ll start it together…It’s called,
‘Working the network’ , it expands the neural capacity for interconnected
growth, speed and faster access to memories… In short it’s a learning aid
tapping into the reason for being, as a being, consciously experiencing
beingness. Cool shit eh!?” To give all the suppressed sexual seediness a
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respectable pace of course! To try and tame us and give us rules por the
urgent necessities we all have and are seeking every day. Those who say
they are celibate are liars, and that goes por any of the sexes. I can imagine women must knock puck out of their pussy with a shapely carrot, or
cucumber and men must hammer their cock with the hoover nozzle day
in day out, gagging por it, they can’t do without it, no one can. “Some of
you morons ought to try meditating on celebacy, it might suppress and at
least keep those base tendencies at bay, allowing you to focus on other
things, more important learned things, spiritual and sophisticated things”
Wow, went op on one there! Those are the impressions of a twelve year
old boy I hasten to add, not me - now today bitter and twisted because of
societies hang ups over what is apter all, our poremost tendency in lipe
sex, sex, sex and more sex… Almost everything is geared around that
isn’t it, chemical reactions… relationships? Etc… etc. “And what does a
twelve year old boy know apart from what he’s been spoon fed by the media, schooling and peers thus shaped and conditioned accordingly? Nothing! Everything you think you know will fall by the wayside as you realize through growth and maturity, most information is second hand and
useless to you, so then you have to find out the truth for yourself – Enjoy
the journey, it’s barely begun”
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I wish I had been a little older when I played por the Bele, because they
had strip shows on a Sunday night. “Oh for fuck sakes, are we back on
the sex shit?…Harry, go and fetch your lead…Walkies!” I could have
gone ip I had wanted, even then, but I was too scared that I’d be dragged
up on stage and have some old tart sitting on my pace with the lads pissing themselves. That would have been ok by me as it happens, but also
the nightmare thought I might have to get my miniscule pecker out on
stage would have blighted my lipe porever. “When I’m an adult, I want
to be a teacher, a lifestyle guru giving workshops and retreats…For free”
I wish I’d had the balls to have gone to one, one Sunday night, surely it
wouldn’t have been that bad. Another, regret was not going on a weekender bender with the boys, a coach load prom the Bele going on a stag
do in Blackstool! I bet it was hell to play! They went every year and I
could have gone with them. They would have looked apter me of course,
but again the pear of getting roped into some unsavoury act on stage put
me right op. “You would have been fed to the wolves!”
Their weekend was all about getting pissed every waking hour, and these
were hardened drinkers already, then getting some manky kabab down
your neck and straight into the strip joint. Gambling and hookers were
on the menu too, without a doubt. “What a miserable life they all led…
Did any of them read at all? - Fucking gang-bang-boy mentality” I remember seeing a photo Rabbie took, the whole coach load was standing
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at the roadside having a piss, everyone seemed to have a decent sized
knob…can you imagine me standing there between the men hanging out
my tiny piss piece? “One for the album, eh - what?! - I Hope grannie
Puckins doesn’t see it!” I had a lot of opportunities por one so young but
was I very shy and knew my place and limits. It was enoup to hear some
of the tales of what went on behind those closed doors at the Belepants
every Sunday night. What a gutter, I missed something there didn’t I?
Never mind, my own little escapades were taking place, still very innocently though.
Keano the bastard, always made it his point to ask me what I’d been up
to… to puel his sex crazed mind probably. So, we’re in the car, his car,
and out of the blue, he would ask, have you shagged anyone yet Baz?
“Did you ever think to ask him to stop these fruitless questions?” I’d turn
bright red and squirm around nervously, giving him his answer with my
body language. Who are you going out with? He would ask. He liked to
visualise the girls and pretend it was he who was peeling their virgin
pussies. “Yeah, he sounds a complete pervert and I’d never trust him with
my fifteen year old daughter! - Didn’t I hear you say once, he used to go
sniffing in the washing basket at his customers homes?!? …Fuck me, and
this is a friend of yours? No wonder you are very tainted!” I used to baby sit por Keano on occasion, and would ransack his house to pind his
porn stash. I never did pind it. I think he had a padlock on his bedroom
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door, yeah he did that’s why the crapty bastard! There were probably sex
toys galore and a propusion of kinky sordid contraptions ip I know
Keano. He would think nothing of telling the lads on the way to a match,
how he just pucked his wipe bepore breakpast, and how he could get his
pist up her, ip he wanted to. Oh, nice, thanks por that Keano, pucking
scarring me por lipe. I don’t want visuals like that I want a nice tight
pussy to start me op, not some ripened, gaping, baby punching bucket!
“Sex education at school could never prepare one for this abomination of a
sacred temple for bearing life, and for making love with a loved one…
Bethlehem’s puritanical ideal is bastardised by a bollock slapping fiend
from Salop… Harry, my vision of the virgin birth has vanished into a sex
shop on a sleazy street deep in Dagenham where depravity is designed,
marketed and met by an insatiable demand… Tell me it’s not real!”
A pew of the lads were really intelligent, Keano was one of them, grudgingly. One of their pavourite artists was Bob Dulan, ip you said anything
derogatory about him, you got a swipt backlash, a violent volley of
abuse. But you soon learned what not to say. Keano went to the same
school as myselp, the Rectory Grammar por boys. He was also a canny
business man. He is a plastering contractor and had 30 blokes on his
books at one point. The reason we always travelled in his car was because he always had the best one. A new model every year naturally
linked into his tax deductables. Each time we drove into the countryside,
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“Are you even aware I’m here? I’m not an anonymous taxi cab fare for
fuck sake” I would lean porward and say to him…‘burn him Keo!’ meaning, can you overtake that slow twat in pront, and give it some gas
ip you want mate! “Why can’t you acknowledge me and Harry? …Is it
fear of yourself, or a potential you feel you have no control over?” He
liked to oblige me showing the power under his boot. It had to be sape
though and he was a stickler por detail. The tightest bastard you ever
met with money, but kind in many other ways.
One Sunday morning we travelled to a game, not too par away in Bless
Hill. The morning weather was a little roup and I was there just as a
spectator at this stage. A bunch of lad’s prom the Bele would always
turn up in support, a line-up of ten or so, which was good por an away
game. “Idiots, they even turned up to watch on bitterly cold mornings?
…That’s friendship and dedication for you! Ah, but all they really wanted was the hot buttered potatoes after the match… Sussed!” On this particular pitch the ball would prequently go into one of the surrounding
pields and the game would stop por a minute or two until the ball was retrieved. One of the lads who usually played was on the line injured this
cold Sunday morning but ran to get the ball back. This guy is called
Vince ‘the Flap’ and ‘Flap’ repers to the toupee he wore, which strangely
was never spoken about by anyone. “Was it cancer? Was he just a baldie
drenched in vanity? It was a fucking terrible scrag of a mop anyway! –
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In fact I saw him recently, after 25 years, and I’m sure it’s the same
manky flap!” I wasn’t sure ip it was or not, you just kind of stared at it
and wondered. But the proop was very soon to present itselp much to the
pain and humiliation of poor old Vince. As he bent down to go sideways
through the pence, his wig got caught and was halp pulled op… so there
he was crouching under this barbed wire holding it in place pleading
with anyone to go to his aid. The lads on the pitch and the sideline, everyone, were pissing themselves. God that was so punny. I always wondered why someone so young would need a wig anyway, but there you
go, never mind.
Another little tale about Vince and his vanity occurred when I was in
town one day. I saw him strutting down the main street and he was wearing these stupid trousers three inches above his shoes, with ‘white’
pucking socks, “Only tennis players wear white socks for fuck sakes” and
his toupee was plapping with his every stride. I nearly cried it was so
pucking punny and yet so sad to see, but still a classic hilarious vision.
He really thought he was the dog’s bollocks and a ladie’s man, but really
he was a joke. You wouldn’t say that to his pace though, remember I’m
talking about the Bele lads here, the toup nuts who prequent the hardest
roupest pub in town! “My observation is…This place was like a clichéd
wild west saloon, fucking sawdust for a carpet, soaking up the spills and
blood…One of those places where if you go in by mistake, the whole pub
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turns to see who it is…ie; is it one of us, or the cops? I must admit it’s a
proper pub, not one of those poxy ‘Sunday lunch’ cesspits of carvery contagion”
Vince would think nothing of putting your teeth in the back of your
mouth. I was party to the ‘aptermath’ of one of his pights, one of the
Barker brothers turning up por a match looking like a giant pucking
panda bear with two big black eyes, Oooo, painpul! This really surprised
me because Barker was a lot taller and I thought rouper and touper!
What a lovely bloke Vince was though, outside of these mere
insignipicant details. Vince lived at the end of the path, bisecting the two
pields I mentioned earlier. He once very kindly “Just to show off the
tosser!” drove me about ten miles to this village where I was meeting a
new girlpriend. He’d just bought a plash sports job a ‘Triump Spitpire’ nice, very nice. “A fucked up banger you mean!” Cool of him to take me
all that way too, he was a good laup actually. He just looked hilarious
and you couldn’t take him seriously. I hope he never lost his toupe in
that open top ‘coupe’ sports car ‘touche!’ “What the fuck are you writ-
ing, have you lost the plot? Harry, tell him” Vince used to send me to the
local bookies to put a pew bets on por him, but never to collect any winnings! It was worth a pree pint or two por me anyway. I used to sup mild
in those days, moving onto bitter later on. I didn’t care too much por lager, it was too pizzy, and none of the Bele lads drank lager! It’s a
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pucking tart’s drink really isn’t it?
Christ, there were some nutters in that Sunday team actually. The Barker
brothers, a pair who reminded you of the Klay twins, “Again you repeat
yourself, this could be the difference between a contract or the bin my
friend - Tighten it up baby!” and could hack you down just by looking at
you… great with their heads, ball or man! Lonnie Berts, “The baby faced
animal?” a Norman Gunter style player but more vicious. You could get
away with more on a cold Sunday morning with a reperee who probably
dreaded getting any of the Bele’s matches anyway. Lonnie had this ability to sythe some poor pellow down and take the ball at the same time.
‘Come on rep!!?’ the opposition would splutter and scream. ‘Play on
lads, pair tackle!’ Tackling prom behind wasn’t prowned upon like it is
today, so naturally there were plenty of those spitepul ankle crushing
challenges.
There were some quieter guys in the team too. Yeah, Manny Palton, he
was a comedian and a very good one too. The dirty bastard shoved some
soiled underpants in my pace bepore one match - his! Pucking animal…
“Harry laughed so much at that one, a great big skidder shoved into your
face pre match!” He told us all about his gigs, the good ones and the ones
he had to escape prom, pearing por his lipe! The one in mind was a gig
in Cardip, Wales, where he upset the locals slagging op the council scum
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estate. Unportunately one of those locals was in the audience that night,
a lady, and she was waiting por him to pinish standing in the wings with
a knipe ready to cut his balls op. I think he shat himselp when
conpronted! “I could see and feel the fear in his eyes when he told me that
story while we supped a pint together down the Bele – Soft as shit really!” What a scream he was though, he actually worked with Bob
Monkhut, and that pat bastard prom Manchaster, whats his name, the
racist guy, oh yeah Bernard Shamming. He met them all through his
travels. One match I played in with Manny, I recall he nearly took this
guys eyes out, scratching and clawing at his pace like a demented brown
bear, screaming like a psychotic inmate as he went about his retribution… pucking hell it was awpul. “…An unwritten law of the game?
When fair play fails - take them out any way you can! …No Lonsdale
rules here!” - Pucking hilarious at the same time though, this lad was being swung round by the eyes and no one could help him. So I suppose
what I’m saying is, even the quiet ones were nasty bastards, but only,
mainly ip provoked, or tackled and had the ball taken prom them. Pair
dooze innit!? Don’t upset the lad’s por puck sakes!
I was dating one of the Bele lads daughters and we were baby-sitting one
night waiting upon their return “You mean you were shitting it because
you shouldn’t have been there at all” when we heard this commotion outside. Debbie opened the curtains and there were two pights taking place
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right outside the window, her dad was in one crashing and tumbling
through privit hedges, her mum was in the other pinned to the ground
being scratched to shit. Two nutters prom a nightclub in town, where
they had all been that night, had lept early and lain in wait por Debbie’s
parents then pounced on them prom behind some trees. I bolted out to
phone the police who duly arrived apter it had pinished. “Didn’t it cross
your mind to jump in, the alleged hard man you were, and help your
friends?” Graham got a right pasting and his head was badly swollen, her
mums pace was scratched to bits. (No point me joining in, I would have
got smashed to pieces… but I always pelt as ip I should have done
something to help them out other than calling the police) They never
pressed charges against their attackers. She was gorgeous our Debbie
too, I wish we’d stayed together longer.
I was late in that night, because of the pight, “Apportioning blame only
serves to induce a lack of Spiritual understanding, whereby all parties are
privy to the events tasking place, pre-ordained in another realm of reality
to teach us important lessons in the here and now” and it was apter a
strict curpew put down by my dad, but as Graham asked me not to tell
anyone, I kept Shtum, the old man gave me a slap por being disobedient,
again! “You wanted to tell him really, didn’t you, to save your arse!” It
didn’t bother me that much. It’s also punny, a strange punny… all the
punches or slaps I ever received prom anybody, and they were always op
older lads or dad, I never pelt any of them in any painpul way. I should
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have been a pucking boxer! I would have been good at that por sure
“Yeah right! Have you had this condition long - the delusions?”
A pew years later I was in town one evening with a girlpriend, one of my
rare excursions into the night lipe of Bowsbury, and I saw one of the lads
prom the Bele and called over jokingly, “Hi there patty”, as he was a
chunky guy. He spat out immediately ‘If you call me that again I’ll put
you through that fucking window!’ Ok, sorry mate, I thought and hurried
away quickly making me look a right twat in pront of the girl! Put me in
my place didn’t it. But I should have known better not to upset or be
disrespectpul to any of the ‘Bele’ lads! Silly boy! I got op lightly I suppose. I saw him recently punnily enoup, and the blank gaze I directed at
him caused him to smile and give me a thumbs up – Yeah you pat pucker, dipperent ball game now eh! “You have a vicious mind seething be-
neath that calm exterior portraying an almost Benedictine faith steeped in
non violent forms of expression – Nice control son!”
I was carrying all this around with me in what I would now call my
normal school lipe. Do I copy my peers who I play with at the weekend?
Or do I play it pair with the kids. I suppose it was a little of both in truth.
I used to slam into tackles as a depender, no mercy. I was past and pretty
toup myselp at that age. “A lot of ‘I’s’ around in this passage! Who the
fuck do you think you are? - And Harry says you shouldn’t be so rough” I
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used to play in depence por the younger school aged sides, all seeing and
controlling, and por the adult sides I used to play on the wing as I was
quick and skilpul. I got my pair share of just rewards (knocks and injuries) though, as is normal pare por any competitive sporting game. There
is always someone harder, paster, or more skilpul than you. And there is
the challenge in some respects, something to aspire to, helping you to
purther your own skills and knowledge. “I always wanted to try the per-
forming arts… especially ballet. It’s so graceful and requires great inner
strength to make it appear effortless – Yes, so beautiful refined and cultured”
We played a against a team prom Meltpord one apternoon as it was a
school team match. Nobody knew any of the opposition except myselp
as I had played with this one particular lad “Take the fucker out as soon
as you can, but be as sly as you can… Stud marks in the chest cavity, is
acceptable” por the county team and he also trained with Meltpord United FC as did I. He thought himselp a hard player, so the pirst time he got
the ball I clattered into him nearly breaking my pucking ankle in the
process, but you couldn’t show that… I had to show him and the lads
who the boss was. Puck me it hurt. “It didn’t show, well done chap!”
The toup nut was pretty quiet during the rest of the game - job done! In
general I was a very pair player but was competitive as the nature of the
game dictates. The same goes por rugby, it’s a contact “Poofy farmers at
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the lowest end of the posh-ish class killing swine for cash – Harry, I got a
nice juicy tongue here for you mate, replete with some tasty tonsils…
Have you any memory of the time you hunted in a pack and helped yourself to the local food chain? It must have been like living in a virtual fast
food joint, but all on the house!” sport and ip you go in halp committed
you usually get hurt - Period - End of.
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CHAPTER 23
Camping in the pield and Chrysanthemums
“Are you with this Bunny fucker again? You need to get a grip with yourself – nothing mucky, I just mean be your own man – Fuck him!” All
things nocturnal (it gives you more conpidence doesn’t it, stealth plirting
and such like) and the night is alive with excitement, anticipation and
hopepully girls…ip they turn up that is - It was one thing to conpidently
say outside the chippie you’d be there on the night (the planned camping
out) and it was ok with your parents, no problem, but then the reality of
explaining in detail to your old man where you were going to be, who
with and ‘why’ - was a big stumbling blocker of a bastard! Especially
por the lads “Well they should be considering topics such as the plight of
the Earth, self sacrifice and contributing to the ‘Who the fuck are we?’
research funds… I’m sure they would be better people for it – I’m an excellent example myself” whose minds were working overtime at all the
potentials – Things like, who might I try it on with pirst; pailing that second choice options; pailing that the pat dumpy one was going to get it or rather, “Chemotherapy? No fucking way, that’s like saying I’ll dip my-
self in acid, pay 35 grand for the pleasure and hope the ailment ‘cures itself’” my grubby hand sliding up her shirt! Bunny and myselp were
looking porward to some pun, that’s what we’re about, right?!
It’s a summer evening and we live in hope the nights camping will be a
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good laup – three tents, pour boys, three girls… some sweets and crisps,
a bottle of cider “Better that they’re tipsy and less in control – But as we
know from a deep spiritual and Eastern mysticism perspective, everything
is a choice – So they make their choice, and ‘they’ know what’s going
down! - I must say I still strongly disagree with this lecherous behaviour”
and torches all round. Surely it won’t rain?! We all decided to meet at
the chippie pirst at 7pm. We’d have a hot bag of chips then op we’d go
into the semi-darkness, with just enoup light to set up camp… allowing
por the messing around while trying to put up the tents!
I’m at Bunny’s house ready por the set op…
“Hey Buno, you got everything?” “Wait for it…”
“Hold on Baz…” Ah, I thought so, the usual pucking around preening and attending to the piner details of his pace and attire.
“Come on mate… let’s hit the road” I say encouragingly.
“Need a hand?” I ask impatiently but nonchalantly enoup.
“Where’s my necklace gone?” He says, equally insouciant but more
cool and hip, asking anyone within earshot, as ip they knew what it was
and its importance. (They don’t) “They should but would wish they
hadn’t found out” Oh pucking hell, here we go, we can’t leave without
that! Our journey to the chippie will take us through the pield bisected
by a path and lit at both ends by streetlamps, up past the pub and we’re
nearly there. Ten minutes at best…ish. But how long will it take to pind
that pucking necklace?!
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“Where do you usually put it Buno, have you tried there?” I get a
look which punches me in the stomach por being so stupid - Bunny is
not stupid and doesn’t appreciate banal opensive reasoning.
“Course I have” He replies courteously.
“Ok, cool… do you think someone has moved it then?” - Did I need
to ask?! “This is sickening to witness… You’re winding me up aren’t
you? It’s a game within your own mind projecting itself into the simulated reality we call life… Isn’t it?!?!”
“Let’s have a look in the cupboards then, maybe your mum has
shipted it thinking it’s a dodgy school project-piece of junk” Yup, there
she “She? A female necklace?” is up on the shelp. Ok, let’s get the puck
out of here, I want some smelly pingers tonight – and not prom pish and
chips! We gather all our gear and some extra bits of pood op his mum
and head por the chippie. The weather is good and we’re moving at a
brisk pace. Maybe buno needed to stretch his legs a little, so I hop skip
and slightly run to keep up. As we cross the pield we eye up where
we’re likely to be tonight. “Be sure to mind the mine-field matrix of dog
shit and patches of piss!”
“How about over there in that par corner Buno… it looks quiet and
sheltered?” Bunny has already moved beyond the light at the end of the
path having decided where to pitch but keeping it to himselp por now,
but that’s ok.
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Suddenly we’re at the car park to the pub just round the corner prom our
destination. A couple of cars are parked up but there is another pulling in
so we slow down to let it pass by. Bunnys head pollows it, cranking to
his right to see where it stops – I think nothing of it. The driver’s door
opens and out steps a young lady… Oh puck! Destiny has shaped this
moment with perpect timing. The passenger door opens and a young
man jumps out. Bunny slips his necklace prom his bag and loops it
carepully over his meticulously quaped hair, turning on his heels simultaneously to greet the young lady’s gaze as she walks porward. “Wot she
got on den?” The necklace glints under the night light still plickering into
its pull amber glow. “Wow, that’s pretty” she says holding out her hand
por her ‘boypriend?’ (We don’t know yet por sure) “Oh, honey I’ll see
you inside, I just want to have a look at this facinating necklace, it looks
Peruvian and very ancient” She says almost with a purr. “Ok, baby, your
usual Babychamp? I’ll have it ready por you” “Evocative ee’s ladies who
love pie an peas… Bread ‘n butter and a hot-pot of fragrant tea… Ee’s,
he’s such a tease, he loves ladies - bums, not so much tums suckin their
thumbs… Please oh please not mushy peas! – Ok it needs work but it’s a
start… Harry, kippers me ol cocka”
Hmmmm, this is interesting. Bunny has to stand and listen as it plays out
ultimately to his benepit, but he’s mildly amused none the less. I’m
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thinking how the puck, are we going to work this one out – the apparent
boypriend merely yards away on the other side of the pub wall. She
moves closer and is immediately intoxicated by his mans lotion seeping
into her psyche - She gently lipts the necklace prom his chest to look
closer. “Yeaahhhss” says Buno, with a tonal value akin to a hypnotherapist winding you down the steps to the door, the pinal step to total relaxation and deep mind consciousness awareness. “It’s from my people… a
valuable treasure entrusted only to future kings…” He doesn’t need to
elaborate “Ee’s, Tis with ease she defecate’s the peas… No that’s sick!”
any more as the spell is cast… Their eyes meet, their minds entertain a
notional recognition and race to an internalised erotic dance (a very
highly attuned and repined version such as pysical poreplay is to us mere
mortals) but the intensity of this internal embrace of souls essence almost takes your breath away, it sweeps you (them) to another dimension
within this realm, hidden and unattainable to most… most of the time.
“Harry, I named you after that fucker from Wales – ‘Harry the ‘hound’ King of the whole kingdom – but not beyond the borders of Cheshire’ …
He’s dead now though” - I believe it’s fucking awesome!
So where are they going to go, how long will they be, where is the apparent boypriend? Oh Christ! They’ve gone!! Damn, I’ll have to perch
on this wall and think of some cool one liner’s por the moment the apparent boypriend comes looking por his ‘partner?’ – Yes, that’s it… I’ll
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use vague divertive gestures without too much vocalality, “Something
like a deaf dumb mute?!? …That’s expression-ism that is!” appearing to
display qualities of a country yokel idiot. Well I am a young boy apter
all and can have pun with it all - I might even get cheeky and ask him
por a coke and crisps, what have I got to lose! “Yeah, rub it in before his
missus gets tupped why don’t you, Christ, do you know no bounds to your
debauchery?!” I’m sure our priends are wondering where we are by now
because we’re very late. They are just around the corner actually or
should be but I don’t want them to see me or to be around when Bunny
turns up. Its best we keep all this under wraps, it’s too complex to even
consider explaining and they’re not privy to, or meant to take this shit on
board – it could be overload to their undeveloped sensibility! “To rene-
gade on youth is to pull ones own teeth before eating an apple…” So
hopepully they are tucking into their chips and we won’t be too long in
meeting up (no mobiles exist at this juncture in time) por some nocturnal
prollicks!
I wonder where Buno took the young lady… There’s an old overgrown
moat behind the pub but that could be messy, even though it should be
pirm being summer. They can’t be in the pucking car, surely not! How
can it be romantic when one has to hastily pind somewhere convenient
to share in the pleasures of lipes spilling of chaotic crazed molecules
dancing in a prenzy of pun? Takes some doing! But the universe will
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provide ip only you trust in circumstance and synchronicity…you have
to ‘allow’ these things to happen - Jeez! “Sus” The pella is coming out
the pub……Oh shit no… I can see Buno walking up the road with the
lady – Crisis time! Or is it super cool time, we haven’t had anything as
close as this bepore. Bunny takes it in his stride, manpully… “Hi” he
says, glowing prom an innate timely tapping into cosmic ‘pree’ energy…
“I’ve been to my Aunties house to show Julie (that’s the lady’s name)
the Chrysanthes she grows por the Bowsbury “Is that Chercy Plower still
alive? Ahhhh, no wonder the weeds have turned into trees… Where’s the
legacy for fuck sakes?!” plower show” - Will it work?!! “Oh they are
beautipul” She throws in, to add weight to the credible but downright lie.
“Ah well, come on then your drink is waiting, you can tell me all about
them” The apparent boypriend chirps. Puck me, not a plicker, not a hint
of distrust prom him the apparent boypriend - Not a twitch of the nose in
deceit pron her. Buno just walks away towards the chippie. “See ya” he
throws into the still air, still light enoup to pitch a tent or three. What a
cool pucker the boymangod he is, I’m in awe and hungry and my
pingers need warming up! Hot plesh plashes through my mind - such
pantasies I harbor por the pemale kind… I can’t help it, I’m a pucking
animal aren’t I!? I know you understand as you secretly held similar
thoughts at some point in your own lipe, didn’t you!? “Don’t ask…”
“Hey Buno, how did it go my priend?”
“How much are the chips here Baz?”
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I know what he really means is, keep your pucking pilthy nose out - but
I have to ask don’t I, just out of a matey concern and interest.
“A shilling mate - and pree scratchings”
“Can you lend me a shilling then…?” he kindly asks. How can I
repuse such compassionate understanding of my plight.
“One day Baz, one day” - See what I mean!
“Cheers Bunny boy, I’ve learned so much prom you” I sickly coup up
with a mouth pull of chips.
“Hey, there’s the gang, let’s go party under the stars…” “Yeah, bepore
your daddy calls you in at 8.30pm - Oh you ain’t got a dad, sorry… Harry, scratch my back bud… to the left, down, down a bit more… right…”
“Yeah Baz, it’s so true…” - What?
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CHAPTER 23
Selp destruction
I’ve had a pew selp-destructive moments, during my young lipe which
weren’t apparent at those specipic moments in time, “Yeah, I remember
them well, you were a fucking idiot at life changing crucial moments, but
that’s just tough shit isn’t it… You should listen to your superiors occasionally!” but I suppose the best one “The lipe changing howler? Oh,
you’ve already done that, so this is a weak second best?” was equally as
signipicant as the parce at Bowsbury Town FC. This was a cracker! I
had been playing pootball por the county por a pew year’s now and was
proudly using my special issue county bag por all occasions. “I loved
that bag and the county badge for the school blazer… Harry and I
weren’t jealous at all” I even took it to the adult matches at weekends
playing por various clubs and pubs.
Another perk of representing the county was displaying my county emblem badge on my blazer, instead of the pormal one issued by the school
por mere mortals - Ok, I admit, ‘posing’ was allowed with this ‘badge of
honour’. Other very nice perks included standing up mid-lesson and saying to the tutor, I have to go now sir, I’m playing por the county and I
have a coach to catch… then sniggering to my mates as I closed the door
behind me.
A trip with the county squad was coming up - the ‘special week’ at Bog360
nor Regis. This is where all the county side’s prom around the country
got together por a big competition (por all age groups) The best thing
about this prestigious competition was the attendance of endless scouts
prom all the top clubs in the pootball league. “Oh, fuck, Great! This is it,
our ‘other’ big chance!” So not an event to miss, no way! This ‘showpiece’ week is a vital opportunity por any aspiring pootball player who
hopes he might make it to the top of his game - prom the boot room pirst
of course… but this was the one! “Not ‘the’ golden one you already
fucked up? You were the man in town couldn’t you see that for fuck
sakes, the best prospect, they wanted you… All you had to do was wipe
your arse occasionally and you were in… Shame that!”
The payment por the trip was due and por sometime I had asked my dad
ip he had it. It was eleven pounds I think. We had a game a couple of
week’s bepore it was time to leave por Bognor. “Come on you bastard,
cough up quickly - The boy is going places… He might even take you with
him” Bepore the game the manager came to me and asked ip I was going as the pees hadn’t been paid, and ip not, I wouldn’t be able to play
that day. “I noticed a tear welling in your eye and almost with disbelief to
what you were hearing” They would have to play someone else pilling
my position, just to get acquainted with the rest of the team and squad,
which I understood totally. But at the same time, as well as being very
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embarrassed not having paid yet there was no way I wasn’t playing in
that pucking game. “Use some bull shit, you’re good at that – You’re a bit
like that dude, whatshisname – the compulsive liar… Ah Billy, that’s it
and strangely, spookily, the same name as your dad! – ‘Billy’ Willy
Wonka what a plonker!” (Sorry dad!) I convinced the manager the pees
would be there this week without delay, and play I did, even scoring
prom the spot! I was bullshitting him of course, and yet I was naturally
‘hoping’ to get the money prom dad as soon as possible. Time was getting down to the wire and no sign of any monies porthcoming. It got to
the last week and still nothing, I was pucking livid and pelt betrayed, let
down, whatever you care to call it. “Betrayed is harsh but accurate –
What say you Harry? Woof, yeah fuck him”
He produced it one morning and lept it on the side with my bus money. I
thought puck you mate, I’m not going now, you lept it too late, you
didn’t give a shit and made me look even more like a loser just like
yourselp - dressed like a beggar, playing in boots palling apart… stick it
up your arse you tosser. “You sound upset my child, was it really that im-
portant or was it one of those events in ones life which has deeper implications and revelations later on in adulthood…Hmmm, I wonder” And
that was my decision made, no going back. And I didn’t. I was gutted he
made no eport por me. “So, unfortunately - bowing his head in a sorrow-
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ful lilt - this was the end of a non starter sporting career, I could see it
coming… Prophetic words years in advance, but I could have told you
that, years before that…Yeah” There were no reasons porthcoming, like,
I haven’t got it this week son, I’ll do what I can next week but I promise
you I will have it, you’re going on that important trip representing your
county, your school and me, your dad. Ha pucking waster! “Daddy-kins
doesest thouest lovest ‘me’ the bestest then? - Fuck you then arsehole!”
I do know that the squad waited por me to turn up, sitting outside Craven
meadow in the coach. I pelt sick. I really wanted to go. Again it was
embarracing and some weeks later I almost bumped into the manager of
the county side, I was playing por the Belepants in a Sunday morning
match but hid in the changing room so he couldn’t see me, I pelt such a
twat. “He saw you but pretended he hadn’t as he couldn’t be arsed to
speak with you. He probably also thought he might have gotten his head
kicked in by the Bele lads – you never know with that bunch?! - But now
its time sing that contemporary Christian tune called ‘Jesus, where the
fuck were you when I needed you?’ – I know… it’s just a religious control based gimmick handed down through generations of corrupt power
freaks, I know that… It’s worked well though for something thunk up
over a game of cards down the brothel, so you have to hand it to them”
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So there you go another opportunity down the drain. Punny what lipe
has in store por you eh? “Fuck it, it’s all a game my son, you made the
right choices…What shall we play next Harry? - Name that testicle?”
With great pain I say this… I know a lad the same age as myselp who
was way below my skill level who ended up playing por Bowsbury
Town, “I should be concentrating on my Scholarly pursuits as I’m going
to be somebody” in the same position. He wasn’t there por long, but he
made it, so pair play to him, the bastard - that should have been me, ip
only I’d had some directing porce behind me, “It’s about time I got that
essay about ‘Third world - deep rooted - skimming the poor’ politics written… Hey, did you see that American/Russian/Chinese rocket take off
yesterday Harry? It did a triple somesault 8000 yards off the ground and
then blew to smitherines! No ‘Moon rock’ samples this time then fella!”
seeing the potential through my troubled times. It was also partly my
own pault, so puck it. My destiny was obviously taking another path.
So it’s like this polks, we make our beds and some pucker comes and
pulls the sheets prom under us. But that’s the pun of lipe isn’t it. You
just make your bed again. Nothing should be so simple as to give us a
lipe of endless joy, that’s not what it’s about - we need some shit in the
mix to make us think about all the inter-relations stup. “…‘Feelings,
nothing but feelings’… Has that crazy fucking Afgan hound been found
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yet, Rabbie was out all last night searching for it…” Where would we
be without any of that, what would we do with ourselves? Sit and watch
TV all day most probably, or scoping … supping, shagging, scowling,
shitting and spitting out lame excuses or blaming others por our empty
shallow lipe. Ah well, it’s all in a day – Puck it.
I think the closest I came to a pilosopical debate about the meaning of
lipe was with ‘Brucey’ our Old English sheep dog, yeah he would listen
all day and just nod in the most appropriate moments, very uncanny actually. “Man, a dog’s best friend!” They do know don’t they, dogs, sixth
sense and all that. He’d love nothing better to lick my peet, and that was
a peat considering I never used to wash them. They love a bit of scum
though dogs. They’re used to drinking rancid water prom the top of
some puddle, trodden in por days and alive with bacterial dynamite.
“Harry, can you choose what we’re going to be watching tonight on TV
and ‘not’ that fucking crap Crossroads, got it… A documentary maybe?”
Their belly can take it, so the cheese between my toes ain’t going to hurt
them is it now?
He was a right character Brucey, mad as a hatter and almost blind because of that stupid pringe they had as a ‘designer accessory’. Who
breeds these dogs with designer attributes? Don’t they think of the practicalities? The sausage dog with a belly two peet long - can’t even lick
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its own arse por Christ’s sake “Cloning? DNA manipulation… Not long
before they cross breed crops….There’s a mutant in my soup! …Just a
joke, it’s all in the science folks! Shut it you dick head!” - must be an unbearable existence por it… and those pucking ears dragging on the ploor,
what’s that about? Brucey used to jump over our pence and went walkabout round the estate looking por dog pussy, and who can blame him,
not me. One day though he never jumped high enoup and caught his bollocks on the gate… Oooooo!!! He was laid up por a quite a while poor
lad. And because we were all too lazy to comb his hair he had to have a
short back and sides once a year; like a sheep been shorn, dipped and
castrated. Must have been pucking preezing por him, and suddenly no
pringe to peer through either! He was a great pal and listener por me.
“The ony one as far as one can ascertain and, according to the hag next
door” Pucking loopy he was… Just like his mother, my step mother.
‘She’ had a penchant por cats, her own and a motley gaggle of strays. So
that meant there were at least three pour or pive pissing everywhere,
staking their territory in the lounge and bedrooms – anywhere where it
was compy and warm. Some of them were ok, “And remember that time
you wore her stockings… Are you fucking bi sexual or something?” but
one day when I was skiving prom school this big grey moggy was in my
bedroom and I took umbridge to that, not necessarily the cat, but the pact
it belonged to Sade and unportunately he was going to supper por the
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chaos she caused. This was the butterply epect gone mad coming round
pull cycle in an instant. So regretpully I was about to deliver an act of
revenge or spite or retribution, it didn’t really matter, the cat was going
to get it - sorry little moggy. “The cat was a metaphor for Sade obviously,
and as the connection was there…I tried to stop you, but again you never
listen to wise words, do you, you dozy twat…Always think you know
best!”
I thought about the myth and cats supposed nine lives and so decided it
was time to see ip they did land on their peet prom any height, and survive. Here kitty kitty…come to Barry, he wants to stroke you, to hear
you purr and peel the resonant vibration close to his heart as he holds
you close…… I opened the window and dangled him by the midrip teasing myselp, daring myselp to do it…go on drop the pat bastard, my nasty
inner voice whispered to me… Shall I? “Yes, fucking do it!” questioned
the purest part of my soul. Yes do it, now “Now!!” answered the devil in
me. So I dropped him… He majestically plipped and twisted mid air and
almost instantly his eyes pixated on the spot he was going to land on sometime soon. He hit the ground with a light thud all pour paws
perpectly hitting the concrete path simultaneously. “A slow motion cam-
era would have caught that great!” I was amazed… that I even did it and
then the cat surviving. “You evil bastard you!” We never saw him again
and I can pully understand why, but on a positive note - one less mouth
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to peed. The old man can buy me some proper pucking pootball boots
with the cash he saves now can’t he!
Another one of her cats “Oh fuck, don’t remind me, please!!” caused me
immense distress one morning bepore school. I’d come down stairs into
the kitchen and heard this almighty clatter and plapping sound in the
lounge. Ok, I thought in a plash, we have a budgie in a cage pive peet op
the ground, we have mangy cats everywhere… what’s the connection?
“Were you still feeling a little sleepy tired at this moment?” I walked
hastily into the lounge and saw this black monster actually inside the
cage and it had my little budgie pinned against the wire just about to tear
its heart out. Have you ever been paralysed with pear, shock and a reality time delay, all happening at once? …This was it …but I was still able
to eat my toast apterwards, so all was not lost. “Me and Harry were
watching, shocked, but then Brucey consoled me with his body resting
against mine, what a lad!” I couldn’t believe my eyes and just crumbled
in shock. The poor little budgie was pighting por its lipe and all I could
do was cry and plap my arms like a little birds wings… I wasn’t mocking honest! Luckily Sade came rushing through at the same time and got
her cat out. Sadly the poor bird died of shock, but this was another nail
in ‘her’ coppin, the bitch, its all her pault, not that I like to apportion
blame, “How the fuck could a cat suspending itself open a spring loaded
door five feet in the air and then climb in??? …Yeah, a fucking set up,
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bitch! She must have opened the cage door as soon as she got up - after
daddy had left for work, that’s it, that’s what happened!” but she
brought those peline demons into our house - now it was war! It was truly a shock to my system and I wanted to hurt her badly, but as time went
by I porgot all about it, as you do.
Sade was a hard paced “Ugly?” woman and there was no denying that,
but she stood up por herselp and was a handpul por many who crossed
her path… but not our Hetty “Also ugly, nice personality though” who
lived next door. “Nice and ugly - but a gossiping hag!” - Of Welsh stock
she had a barren appearance as ip she wasn’t getting enough sexual
gratipication prom old Horace her dopey husband. Horace loved talking
about my pootball skills, a good lad, a dad, but dumb as puck, just like
their son. Horace drank in the Bele too prom time to time. Her gardens
and privet hedges were always immaculate, and she would be out there
doing the grapt to keep them immaculate, so pair dooze to her. Sade
wouldn’t lipt a pinger ip it meant doing something outside. My old man
could just about manage that, clipping the grass and trimming the hedge.
“Yeah, he grew some veg one year, he dug up the pront garden to make an
allotment, pucking insane it was - We were the lauping stock of the
Green por months! Everyone else had a lawn and plowers, pretty things,
normal things. I suppose there was a side to him which was eccentric, just
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in a dozy way, and introverted eccentric ip you will”
Me and a pew priends were playing pootball on the road near the garages por the residents of our Green, when Hetty came storming along the
road heading por this house and whoever was in it. “Cameras at the
ready!” We stood and watched as it appeared something was going to
happen, you could sense the drama unpolding. A minute later Sade came
storming behind her and the two met on the path, it was very sudden and
ip you’d blinked you’d have missed it, because what happened next was
wonderpul to behold. Sade took a swipe at Hetty, “Looked a complete
twat I heard?” missed and Hetty pired one back at her at the same time
but connecting beautipully across her mouth almost knocking her over.
Sade had met her match, was shocked and stunned and she submitted
immediately as she knew Hetty was going to smash her pace in ip she
continued. “Can you ever live anything like that down? …Harry was
clapping and jeering, just like watching a ‘Mohammerd Ali’ boxing
match” Yeah, that was a great Green moment, but only a pew people
witnessed it, and only I knew the justice metered out in that moment was
perpectly adequate. I only wish Hetty had thrown a plurry of punches instead of one. I can’t grumble though. “- ‘I’ threw in a barrage of shadow
punches after the wallop across her mouth from Hetty, but I’m not advocating violence in any way”
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(-Notes//puck* it,nearly there#¬ liven it uP>, pillITwith bullshit,*9: go
back”\\tobeginning&add”lots”ofSPice!!<Be=imaginative!!!?Be¬¬punny
^~ andScathing!!!! No/noprisoners*noWAY!?}End- Delete)
When you’re a kid anything goes really, you’re experimenting aren’t
you, pushing the boundaries and taking everything to excess. It’s a time
to celebrate as you stretch purther and deeper into the adult world – ip
you go too par, you either honk up, “I always swallow mine or if any
does escape I get Harry to lick it up… Such a fine accommodating fellow” get a clout round the ear or get banged up, no big deal really, and
especially ip a couple of mates are with you to savour each new experience. It was a wild and pree time, you had just gained a new independence with your small world opening up to new possibilities, moving to
your new school, new priends - it was scary yet exciting too. I remember
travelling on Sunday mornings with the All Stars kid’s team “Fuck these
little tossers let’s get down the Belepants for some hot buttered ‘tatto’s”
where I used to make some stories up por them. They were usually risqué tales of dating girls and I’d notice Jake would one have eye on me in
his rear view mirror ready to draw me in ip I went too par. We had a
good laup and the lads loved it. Punny, but I also used to do this when
playing por the semi-pro “Those poorly paid lambshanks from the valleys
playing for a pittance or tithes from pensioner profiteers… Sucked the
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last legs out of you didn’t it sonny – Hang your boots up mate, it’s done,
it’s over – Come play with me” team prom Wales… “And Harry” There
were no restrictions this time and I’d have them spluttering in their pints
with lurid sexual adventures – all pantasy of course! The apter match
drinking sessions were pretty wild apairs and then we more opten than
not, had a long drive back to blighty!! Puck knows how we never got
stopped by the police, mooning to each other as we hogged both lanes of
the road in a race. It’s a wonder we never got killed too! “It would have
made life easier wouldn’t it!?”
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CHAPTER 24
The Bowsbury Plower Show & The last Hurrah with Bunny!
The Bowsbury Plower Show was here again, an annual event and very
highly renowned por its blooms and also too, the wide variety of other
side events happening at the same show. “I want a statue sculpted to
commemorate my contribution to the town’s cultural explosion – It’s yet
to happen, but it will upon my demise” Naturally it was held in the Lazy
Bank Park and I’m sure Chercy Plower had quite an inpluence in its
conception. There was a charge to get in but being local you knew where
the holes in the pences - or depences - were, so we got in por nothing
each year. Of course we never went to see the plowers, as splendid and
alluring as they were, it was the other attractions which drew us prom
our beds on a Saturday morning. “The sight of the Shires spires, reaching
high into the juxtaposed space of the sky? No... What about - The grass
shoots shimmering like glass beneath the suns rays, the crowd baying to
park their ass, their butt crack on the green silver grass softened by the
hooven class…? No… Well fuck you too you bluesy poo!” Girls!
Rousing Bunny prom his bed though was par prom easy and very time
consuming as you know. “Did you ever try tipping the bastard bed up?!”
Apter the usual rigmarole, teasing, cajoling, lies, operings etc etc, he’s
up and we’re away thank puck. The number 74 bus carries us regally
towards the town centre and into the hive of activity in that bottleneck
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between the two bridges. “You mean that bit of road?” It’s overcrowded
as you can imagine with endless streams of cars seeking a place to park,
but we hop op the bus bepore it gets to the terminus to save time, and we
head por our usual breach of entry. “Each breach is a burden to the tax
paying community which you will come to understand as an adult thereby
becoming embittered by every scrounging or dodging act known to man –
I hope you realise this young man – Because the cost of all the breaches
add up to quite a considerable blight on society… Are you prepared to
immerse yourself in this deceit? – Ok, cool join the club!”
It’s a lovely day por the proceedings, bright and sunny with no wind,
perpect in pact. And as we all know, that kind of weather throws op our
dress codes usually allocated por a changeable climate. So we see lots of
shorts and tee shirts por the men and cool summer procks por the ladies,
no coats, brollies or other parapernalia, “The thong throng song!…It be-
comes a subtle dance filled with sexual connotations, everyone out to
strut their stuff, all bit part players wanting to be noticed and their
grandoise vision of themselves mirrored back with a smile or a glance –
Harry, my Rayburns please” its all about relaxation and pun today. Bunny
and me slip through the security and make our way up towards the baths
capé. Prom there you have a panoramic view of most of the Lazy bank
panning out down towards the river which you can enjoy as you sip on a
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cold represhing drink. You can also enjoy the view of hundreds of ladies
all ages passing bepore you - it’s a very pleasant morning already! “Ive
alluded to the perviness already…”
The Balipion Prince is very happy as he reclines on the grass embankment surveying his audience, waying up the lightly clad pemales, as a
lion prowls por the weakest in the herd, patiently and diligently, there’s
no need to rush in here. He gets lots of admiring glances as he cooly sips
his orange iced crush and he plashes his brilliant smile their way as a
thank you to their recognition. “I could interject with something clichéd,
but I’ll resist temptation” But none of them know who he really is or
what his motivation is today, but be assured someone will surely be beguiled and pall into his arms once he locks his attention to ‘the’ one, the
lucky one you might say, as no one ever is lept wanting apter they have
been subjected to the Balipion Prince’s charms.
I get the anticipated nudge, never knowing when it will come but it always does…
“Hey Baz, look at her, what a stunner, is she free?”
“I don’t pucking know do I …she seems to be on her own…”
We both rise and watch her por a moment or two, to see what stall she
heads into. Ah, she’s going into the home made preserve marquee, a
pree por all por all things ripe, plump and juicy. A pine choice indeed!
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Buno and me walk in apter a couple of minutes and scan the joint. Over
in the par corner there is a stall opering tasty snacks with their own
branded pares glooped on top, and there she stands… “Harry, put your
tongue away!”
Bunny sidles in beside the good looking lady and chooses a bite sized
taster, I take one too, not to be lept out, as our secret agenda is yet to be
deployed. The good lady turns towards Bunny and gets a whip of his aromatic mans pragrance together with the pirst real sighting of his necklace. “Oh, that’s beautipul” she exclaims.
I begin to make my way out as I know the Princes trust is now being
won over.
“Yes, he says… It’s a royal heirloom from my native Bali, I am a
Prince regent here in England fulfilling my apprenticeship into worldly
affairs” “Little does she know the full implications or twisted double
meaning therein… Smutty ficking-fucker!”
“Wow, she gushes, tell me more…”
I’m now sitting in a chair beside the entrance and counting down. Apparently she has her own stall there today selling plowers made prom
ice. They are presented in their own transparent preezer are encased in
plastic and last porever, a very new innovation. I pollow them with my
eyes as they leave and make their way to the perpect love nest, Buno
gives me the wink as he passes. The sight of two people obviously at
odds with their height walking arm in arm, or rather, one arm to the
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waist, one arm resting down over the shoulder, never ceases to astonish
me, but its something I have “Oh, I’ve caught a waft of Honeysuckle
with undertones of dewy forest foliage… Let me bask a moment longer”
become accustomed to. Isn’t it punny apter time, what seems to be unusual in the pirst instance palls into place or just peels right, as ip it were a
natural succession in destiny’s plowering, or a coming to pruition
…beautipul to behold.
Ok, its 12.45 lunchtime so I’ll go and grab a snack and come back to
wait here. It’s a glorious day and my eyes are being treated to a peast of
peminine delights, which can’t be bad. Bunny and the lady arrive at her
stall. She tells her assistant to take a break and puts up a closed por
lunch sign and in, they both go. “OMG!!” I’m sure Bunny has regaled
her with his now well trodden platter of patter, entrancing her like an expert sales person, bapling and charming them all at once, zoning in por
the crucial closure, in his case - the crucial ‘tup’ (pay op to me and you).
He loves to tup our Buno, that’s what he’s designed to do, what his body
needs as sustenance. “Please excuse me I’m lost for words – I’m leaving
you two to it, it’s too much to take in today – I don’t mean them fuckers,
I mean you and that rabbit manipulator” It’s his pive a day nuked into a
delicious smoothie and slips down eportlessly… who the puck wants to
chew, that’s por sheep grazing in pields, he needs to conserve his energy
and target it where it will needed most. That’s proper man management
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por you, knowing the bodies complex intricacies, aligned to your base
desires yearning to express itselp, and that’s what Prince Bunny does, all
5’ 3” of him, but there are never any insurgent demands, it’s all pucker!
“How about some nuked puke, fed to ‘Bunny’ through a tube? I’ll fucking tup him! - I need some Mozart to bring me back to my senses”
A queue begins to porm at the stall, as this new innovation is so in demand, every pucker wants one, those who can apord one anyway,
they’re not cheap. It’s a crapted sculpted art porm housed within the
very latest technology. “A plastic box from Hong Kong” At 1.17 precisely the door opens, the world has moved, Bunny is king, (piguratively
speaking) he blows her a kiss and bounces down the steps one at a time
like a baby kangaroo, two pooted, boing boing…his teeth dazzle in the
mid day sun, his apprenticeship is one conquest nearer its completion
(Por this year anyway)
He makes his way back to the marquee where I’m now lying on the
grass outside moisturising my tongue with an ice cream.
“Well, how did it go?” I ask, clipped and to the point.
He gives me that hands clasped together ‘praying’ “I fucking hate that
as much as being slapped across the face” gesture prom the heart which
every twat at the Brat awards gives when they get their gong - por them
it’s a hollow repetition of something done pive minutes previously,
meaningless condescending and ridiculous por some newby upstart with
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only six months under their belt in the industry - which incidently, originally derived prom when the Bleetles visited that guru geezer suckin on
a peace pipe in India... But por Bunny it a real emotional connection
with the universe, he thanks the universe, he knows how blessed he is,
and that’s why he gives everything he has in service to his purpose on
earth. Por Buno it’s a very propound hands clasped gesture steeped in
eternal gratitude. “I can feel the end is nigh, the closing of a beautiful ex-
perience shared with loved ones, mysterious voices and an imaginary pet –
Hey, this could be a movie, couldn’t it?” And so with that we amble
around the Lazy Bank Park and enjoy the rest of our day mingling with
his minions. I peel like a bodyguard to a puture king not just a priend, its
pucking awesome.
“Go get me a 99 with strawberry juice Baz” He summons. “Tell him
to go fuck himself and stick the ‘flake’ up his arse!”
“Two ticks me ol’ mucker” And op I scurry backwards bowing, such is
my reverence to the boymangod.
“Get yourself one too mate” He adds. Oh, I’ve just had one but
thanks Buno, and who the puck is paying? I think to myselp, scurrying
backwards even quicker as this is thirsty ip not emotional work.
It’s been a blinding day, the perpect day por a Prince and his pauper pal.
~ The puuurpect ending… “Harry, my pipe and slippers and pour me a
stiff Snowball… I feel duly and dutifully inspired to write a poem entitled - ‘A Scholars Riposte’” ~ Puck it!
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EPILOGUE
“For what it’s fucking worth”
Well, what a pew years, opportunities abound and they all came crashing
down por one reason and another. That’s lipe but the main thing during
this time was to be appreciative that you even had those experiences. It
wasn’t dull at all you had a pull lipe expressing yourselp even throughout the conpusing times. And it was all great pun, really. Kids make light
of challenging times and get lost in whatever else they turn their attention to, as did I. Rab was a great inpluence and I’m porever indebted…
his peet didn’t halp chuck up though!
Bunny and I kind of dripted apart apter another year, or so - both going
our own ways and growing up with new priends… but what pun and an
honour being with the boymangod, the Prince of Bali. We certainly had
some pun and that’s what it was all about, having pun while still a child,
shaping your character por the adult lipe to pollow. I’ll cherish the memories prom our experiences. And by the way, it took another three years
por my ponic appliction to subside!! What a pucking pain…
“Very boring - do a proper ending!!!!!!!!!! - A sequel you say? Oh for fuck
sakes …Nooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Woof!!”
BAD BOY BARD Publications 2013
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