When the England football manager Fabio Capello today announced his squad of players for the European Championship qualifiers, little did he realise he was keeping my dream alive.
The day may soon come when the England team takes the field armed with two strikers named Crouch and Bent. Medievalists rejoice. It's the Name of the Rose all over again.
Sunday 29 August 2010
Friday 27 August 2010
Time for something a little different, in the shape of a short story I wrote 23 years ago.
“Fuck’s sake man, get that blade off’ve ‘im! ‘Ees gonna kill that stupid fucka!”
“Bladclaart man, you wanna get the blade you get the blade. ‘Fee wanna kill the man ees gonna kill the man and nuttin’ we can do ‘bout it.”
It’s a wet Brixton night.
He’s holding me three inches off the ground, my back pressed against the wall of the pub toilet.
I know the guy. In the past he’s been okay, but tonight he’s gone crazy on me.
One of his hands is scrunched on the lapels of my biker jacket, lifting me a foot off the ground.
His other hand presses the blade to my jugular.
There’s a fair bit of flesh on my bones. It takes the strength of a mad man to hold me up above the ground with one hand. As long as he stays this mad I’m okay. If he gets sane all of a sudden and lets me go, I slide down the wall and the blade slides into my neck.
If he gets any crazier he’s just going to stick it in anyway.
I can feel it pricking my skin.
The Rastas aren’t pleased with all this. They’ve got businesses to run from the premises, and Babylon swarming all over asking questions they can do without. They’re leaping up and down, shouting at him to let me go, but they can’t pull him away ‘cos then I drop onto the blade. If they try to get the blade off him he’ll do it anyway.
I’m adrenalin calm.
I know it’s nothing to him.
He can kill me, or he can let me live. A dead white male on the floor of the Coach and Horses in Brixton on a Friday night ... well, the Boys are not going to be overwhelmed by witnesses are they.
As with many things in life, it happened when I least expected it. I’d been shopping there a dozen times before, and like I say, I know the guy. With deals like these it helps to have your own Man. Saves you getting hassled by everyone else.
As I walked into the pub I caught his eye, sitting over by the juke box as usual. An exchange of glances and head straight for the Gents.
“Yeh, harsit goin’?”
“Watcha wan’? Black ‘ash?”
“Nah. I want some ‘erb, if you got some.”
“Yeh I got some. How much?”
“Nah man, gonna cost you ten for draw. S’good bush, y’know, s’ Sensi, y’know.”
“Oh come on, if it was real Sensi you wouldn’t be selling it to me for ten.”
“Well, s’good, y’know, right?”
Then three guys walk in. They must’ve seen me walk in and they’re after my business.
I’m not interested in them.
“Hey man, watcha wan’? Ya don’ wan’ ‘is gear man, it’s crap. Look, I’ve got good ‘ash, see. Red Seal, see.”
“I don’t want Red Seal.”
That was my mistake.
I should have just ignored them. Now my Man thinks he’s about to lose his deal, and while it probably isn’t worth that much to him, there’s ethics. Yes, even in dirty toilets on cold wet Brixton nights there’s ethics, and these other guys are out of order.
“Hey, wassyar problem man? See, I deal with the man, see! He come to me befah, y’know?”
“So you say I can’ sell no ‘ash in me own backyar’?”
Then the third guy takes hold of my hand, opens it out and squashes something into it, closing my fingers around it. It’s an old trick. You got it so now pay for it. No way I’d ever buy like that, not without seeing and smelling first. That’s the way to end up with licorice or oregano.
Now things were getting a little out of control.
My Man sees me with the other guy’s gear and reckons I’ve done the dirty on him.
He flips. Shouting and screaming he grabs me and pushes me up against the wall, fast and strong.
The others are laughing, but then he pulls the blade, and they start to jump up and down, yelling and screaming at him.
He’s forcing the air out of his lungs through clenched spitty teeth, using all of his strength to hold me up against the wall.
I’m aware of his mates trying to get him off me. I’m aware that my wallet is being passed around out there somewhere, but that doesn’t worry me in the least.
The real game is between me and him.
We breathe hard on each other, his eyes on mine.
His sweat and heat on my sweat and heat.
I know it’s nothing to him.
He can kill me, or he can let me live.
© Charlie Adley
Friday 20 August 2010
After a few minutes lying on my hotel bed in Clifden, I started pouring sweat from all over my body.
Ooerr. Not nice.
Maybe I’d overdone the delivery of toxins into my body.
Maybe I’d drunk too much alcohol too quickly in too short a space of time.
Maybe I’d failed yet again to escape from the craic that is Race Week.
Each year I decide whether I’m going to embrace the 7 crazy days Galway plays host to the entire nation. Where the Galway Races are concerned, you have to be either immersed in it or run away from it. There is no happy medium.
This year I fled, heading off across the sea to inis Mor, to spend some time with Soldier Boy. The last time I went to visit him I brought with me Grumpy Chef and another friend who had recently been through a major trauma.
Reliable as ever, Soldier Boy delivered a splendidly mad time for all of us, cramming as many macabre and bizarre experiences into our first 40 minutes on the island as the Universe might provide, should it conspire to do its deadly best.
I’ll spare you the details of that true yet highly unbelievable story and instead just share the ingredients: a very hungover ex-soldier covered from head to foot in freshly-ripped flesh wounds; a mobile phone that barked like a dog; a savoy cabbage; several bottles of wine, some bacon and a steep corner on a bohreen by a stone wall, eight foot above a hundred yards of tightly-packed bramble bushes.
As the Americans so quaintly put it: ‘Go figure.’
This time it was going to be different, calm, quiet, just me and my mate sitting outside his gaff for hours under cloudy skies, looking down on the small harbour town of Kilronan.
Off the boat, it felt natural to fall into and out of a few pubs, and then polish off a few tinnies outside his home. Then we strolled back into town in the evening for few more and then a couple or three by the side of his fire pit, under the stars in the evening, talking gentle bollocks into the early hours.
It was one of those days when you hardly noticed how much ye’d been imbibing, but a flow of beer as steady as the rain that falls on da Wesht was delivered into my bloodstream, so it was only when I stood up that I realised I was exceedingly drunk.
Mind you, sitting down had not been easy either. As soon as I lowered my substantial frame into one of Soldier Boy’s Director-style chairs on his deck, it slowly and wholly disintegrated, sinking beneath me like a lift in an elevator shaft towards the ground, very much as an ex-chair might. Sorry about that, mate!
Next morning we both awoke with sunburned faces, rigid and peeling. Despite the fact that we looked like a pair of grated beetroots, nobody seemed too troubled. In fact, everywhere we went to eat and drink the service was great and delivered with a smile. But sadly the recession was hitting hard, and at 8:30 on a July evening, when the pubs in Kilronan should have been kickin’ major tourist butt, there was myself and himself in Joe Macs, a table of Yanks visiting their family and a few locals at the bar. The place was deader than dead, and if it was like that in high season, gord help the people of the Arann islands.
Mind you they’ve seen worse times, and doubtless will yet again.
The next day it felt great to turn Shaaanny car left at the crossroads after Rossaveal, heading west for Clifden. I’d forgotten just how mouth-wateringly beautiful is the road that cuts through Roundstone bog. Stopping the car, I stepped out into the sounds of the silence of a Connemara day.
The wisssshh and shusshhh of the breeze; the gurgle of the streams running off the bog; the fwwwummm fwwwummmm sound of a ... oh thank you thank you Universe ... a single black swan in flight, cutting low and magnificent across the face of the distant hills.
My hills - the Twelve Pins, God’s own fruit bowl, sensual peaks and swirly valleys smoothed by glaciers, looking perfectly majestic and commanding in a comfortably moderate Irish way.
My good friend The Goat had been called off to play in Tully Cross, so upon arriving in Clifden I checked into the Alcock and Brown Hotel, where new owner Mike was just the right side of incredibly enthusiastic, managing to resist the temptation to ask me if I’d recently walked through a forest fire, or did my scarlet scabby face always look like that?
I headed straight to the bar in Terry’s, for a pint of Guinness and some excellent fish and chips, but despite the time of year and the exceptionally friendly and efficient staff, the place was empty. I’d expected the posher places to be suffering, but thought that the capital of Connemara’s pub grub would be hitting the high season tourists’ bellies aplenty, but no. All the crowds I’d seen that afternoon had been day trippers, now disappeared, leaving four French tourists to wander disconsolate, looking bored and hard-done by as only the French can.
D’Arcy’s was closed and Malarkey’s was empty. It was just too early for the locals to be out in Clifden, so I took my sandpapered face off on a Stations of the Triangle Tour. Into Griffins to watch some sport, then to Vaughans to sup a few whiskies, then into Lowry’s to talk to a fisherman or two and drink some more black, and back to Terry’s for a couple more, followed by another excursion to Malarkey’s.
By the time dusk had fallen, I was quietly and privately bombed, so tired and weary I fell upon the bed in my hotel room, to read my book and grab an early night.
All was fine.
Well, no, all was not fine. I felt sweaty. All of a sudden I felt yuckysweatyhorrible and pooper, please tell me I’m not coming down with something!
No. I wasn’t ill, I was just lying on a plastic bottom sheet. What a vile and patronising practice that is. Hotel rooms are not cheap, and if you’re a hotelier you simply have to treat your guests with respect. We’re paying handsomely precisely for a good night’s sleep in a bed we don’t have to make ourselves, and yet, there I was, having to strip the bed entirely, remove the wretched sweat-inducing placcy precautionary device and remake the bed from top to bottom.
Instead of feeling all special and mollycoddled, I now resented having to pay to sleep in that bed. It was no longer an object of comfort and luxury.
Hoteliers of Ireland, stop treating your punters like 6 year-old bed-wetters. Take off your plastic sheets and help the tourists feel at least as comfy as they do in their own beds. Otherwise they will day trip and go home.
Next year I think my liver and I will stay home for Race Week. I’ll just give in, let it eat me up and burp me out.
Thursday 12 August 2010
Sliding into a taxi after one of the most cataclysmically bad days I've had for years, I start chatting to the driver, who comes from the Congo.
Just like me, he has lived and worked all over the world, but arrived at a polar opposite conclusion.
Whereas I have been lucky and found the vast majority of humans I've encountered to be good, he feels that 80% of people are bad. He says they all have a selfish agenda and are out for what they can get.
However, he has not lost his faith in humanity.
“When someone comes into my home, I welcome them and give them food.” he explains.
I tell him about my day, explaining how, at times such as this, I latch onto my 4 ‘F’s of humanity.
“We are all 4 Fs, my friend. We are all fallible, freaked out, fucked up and fantastic!”
He pauses to take in this theory, and then smiles.
“Yes, and the oxygen is free, my friend. The oxygen is free.”
I thank him for his excellent counsel and tell him what my wise and good friend Dave Rainger said to me decades ago, when I was in a similar state.
“The sun will still come up tomorrow, Charlie!” said Dave, and as I relate this to my cabbie, he smiles and we share a splendid silent moment.
(By the way, to see the genius of the aforementioned Mr.Rainger and his partner in creativity, Jyl Millard, hit this link http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FLTkPletzyY and then visit his website listed over there in my 'worth an eyeball' listings.)
Saturday 7 August 2010
The Galway City Tribune ran a story last week under the most shockingly ill-judged headline (something approximating ‘Amputees left out on a limb by the cruellest cut of all.’) There are many apt places for wonderful puns, but that story, concerning the complete lack of funding for children’s prosthetic aids in the West of Ireland, simply wasn’t one of them.
On Friday I was shocked by the City Tribune once more, but this time by Darragh McDonagh and Dara Bradley’s excellent reporting of an internal HSE West document leaked to the newspaper, revealing the terminally ill state of our local Health Services, following the moratorium on staff recruitment imposed in March 2009.
I found the following revelations terrifying, desperately sad and damning.
Damning yes: an indictment of all of us, for putting up with such base idiocy.
So that they might be spared the long wait alongside all the eedjits who’ve accidentally sawn off their arms after the pub, cancer patients attending UHG’s A&E Unit were due to be able to use a new Oncology Assessment Unit. The new unit aimed to reduce the length of time cancer patients have to be hospitalised, and cut down on the number of cancer patients waiting around on trolleys.
Cancer patients on trolleys? Aye, sadly so. Two weeks ago, a 65 year-old patient suffering from ovarian cancer had to wait on a trolley in UHG’s A&E for 25 hours before she was admitted to a ward.
Now the HSE refuse to confirm an opening date for the unit.
Why are we putting up with this?
4c out of each euro you earn is going to NAMA, to pay off the banks to pay back the developers, who are still living it large in their affluence, stuffed to the gills with private health insurance.
The only topic more emotive than cancer is babies. Plans for the Paediatric Orthopaedic Clinic have been blocked, while the proposed Early Pregnancy Unit has been put on hold. Now a harrowing trend has emerged: due to the loss of 225 nursing posts from acute hospitals, more Caesarian Sections are being performed than ever before, to maximise the turnover of beds.
But but but that’s insane. That’s messing with a woman’s right to a natural delivery, now and forever after.
Whatever happened to that Hippocratic Oath? That good ol’ ‘First do no harm’ thang.
Don’t think that meant
‘Do no harm to the banks.’
Why are we putting up with this?
4c out of each euro you earn is going to NAMA to pay off the banks to pay back the lenders who are still living large and still selling sub-prime mortgages to people who can’t afford them.
The Tribune’s special report goes on to reveal that nurses are so overworked they are unable to receive mandatory training, while staff morale is at a most despondent and miserable all-time low.
The loss of nursing posts has meant that despite the allocation of a Lung Services Unit, all dedicated respiratory services have been stopped, while the cutting of 100 jobs from HSE West’s Mental Health Services has brought about a marked increase in the number of violent incidents from patients in the service.
Why are we putting up with this?
4c out of each euro you earn is going to NAMA to pay off the banks to pay back the speculators and traders who are still free gamble and win on our losses.
So what about the kiddies? Please tell me the kiddies are going to be okay.
Of course they will. As long as they never come into contact with TB, mumps, measles or rubella. 96% of children due to be immunised against TB are now walking the streets as potential victims, because there just aren’t enough nurses employed any more to administer the injections. Over 50% of the children who should by now have received their MMR vaccines will never do so.
I’ve seen the tragedy of a hospitalised infant with a bad case of measles, her parents wondering if she’d still have her sight after the illness abated.
Why are we putting up with this?
4c out of each euro you earn is going to NAMA to pay off the banks to pay the salaries of bankers who are well able to afford accountants who will save them from paying taxes because they are still awarded ‘bonuses’, which are doubtless less prone to tax, while you and I, should we be lucky enough to have a job, just have to pay good old-fashioned income tax along with all the other proles.
Oh and the levy. Did I mention the 4% levy that goes from your wages to NAMA....? Levy shmevvy, it’s amazing the amount of words they can find to describe taxes on the poorest when they need to save the arses of the richest.
After losing 135 jobs over two years, services offered to older people by the HSE have been decimated. Programmes and activities for older people have been slashed, resulting in a lack of social interaction, participation and inclusion of older people, and subsequently their loss of good health.
Okay, so that’s amputees, older people, babies, cancer patients, pregnant women, children and the mentally ill.
Hit them first and hit them hardest.
Why are we putting up with this?
4c out of each euro you earn is going to NAMA to pay off the banks to pay back the developers who paid off the politicians who made the cuts so that they can pay off the bankers who ... yes, it’s a corrupt profiteering cycle, given whiter than white acronym respectability by those who will gain the most by plundering our losses.
“ ... another 230 positions will go in the HSE West area.” said Labour Councillor Colm Keaveney, “Nothing is sacred, only the Budget and the bottom line.”
Good man yourself. At least somebody else said it.
I was starting to feel lonely over here.
Colyoomistas, don’t just sit there and accept this as the status quo.
These priorities do not represent the kind of society any of us should be proud to live in.
Yet by virtue of our inertia and silence we allow it to happen in our names.