03:45
A date with 'Tarnation" in the Irish Film Institute with my long-lost girlfriend Aoife. The pitch: 'Gay scrapbook'. Scatty energy in the town on a busy Sunday night. Aoife and I are walking along Dame St discussing where-to for some much-needed refreshments when we find we are accosted by a group of four of Dublin's finest young Olympic athletes canvassing for the donation of nothing less than cigarettes.
Routinely, politely, I inform them that we have none as we don't smoke. End of the matter. I take Aoife's hand and we walk in close order more briskly, murmuring.
To our chagrin, a moment later, we find some of them are sauntering alongside, bluntly reiterating their immodest requirement, despite our previous negatory advice, in unsettling, garrulous tones. It's a free country, nothing wrong with going up the same street in the same direction. Free speech and all that. Did I see four or six of them? Best say nothing, keep walking and smile. Shrug shoulders and try to shake the tail at the corner.
With no pickings from us, I mistakenly assume they turn on someone else as we pass Thomas Read's plate windows. Around the corner on Parliament Street, however, the pavement widens and two of them manoeuvre in front to obstruct us.
Traffic is heavy. The streets generally are rammed with people bustling about. It does not reassure me. I keep careful eye on the youthful male and female prancing in front of us in their grubby tracksuits.
The young man, I'd guess 19, spotty, skinny, shorn, short, is highly agitated and most certainly on or off some thing. He struts forward and comes all the way up to my face and outright demands a cigarette. Before I can answer, and without further provocation the pale brute and his horrible girlfriend kick off. He raises his voice to me: “When I ask for a cigarette, YOU’LL GIVE ME ONE!"
Initially, I find this intemperate escalation incomprehensible. I assert again, by way of clarification, that I don't have any cigarettes. I do not say 'I'm sorry, I don't have one', I just cut to the chase. Glancing at his short girlfreak, he explodes with inexplicable rage.
'YOU'LL GIVE ME A CIGARETTE WHEN I FUCKING ASK FOR IT!' In the next millisecond his girlfriend chimes in with her screeching voice. (Something about cigarettes, I believe.)
I am quite astonished and a bit slow to react. The thought enters my head that I would like to spank him for his effrontery but of course he has his playground gang with him and I rapidly am gaining the understanding that the situation is full of peril.
I make sure Aoife is behind me and protected. He paces before me like the panther in Dublin Zoo. Sizing him up, I reckon full sure I can handle this midget. He draws his edge. 'GIVE ME A CIGARETTE! You'll give me a cigarette when I fucking ASK FOR IT!'
For her part, his minute girlfriend is now suggesting in her own indelicate manner that I should apologise to half-pint for not giving him a cigarette, which I don't have. Non-negotiable. Things are moving really fast now.
I'm at 1m 83cm. That's six foot one in the old money. Midget-man is definitely on drugs or alcohol. He's missing his lithium, his glue or everything. He's about five-foot-one but wiry looking. Spurred on, his four-foot-seven girlfriend has totally invaded my space. Her stinky breath is close enough to condense on my cold chin.
I note her position to the right and keep watch over him to my left. Quickly I glance around to see where is the wolf pack. I make sure to not touch her and move a step back. Lover-boy is losing his lid. "Give me a cigarette! (FUCKING FUCK FUCK FUCK!)"
What can I do? Reason with the guy? Ask him to hang on so I can buy him some cigarettes in the nearest inconvenience store? No. This is offensive. I won't be intimidated. I refuse to be. We were having a nice, boring night. Aoife seems a little tired, what with all the travelling she's done recently. I want to get her home and tuck her peacefully into bed. This is unacceptable. In an effort to maintain some decorum and recover some dignity, I tell Joxer politely but firmly that he has no right to speak to me like that.
I said it because I needed to. Perhaps I should have said nothing.
He shudders and says 'I'LL-SPEAK-TO-YOU-ANY-WAY-I-FUCKING-WANT!". I'm still not impressed. Gnashing, he paces and primes but for whatever reason, he holds his distance. The only thing preventing him from launching a physical attack is that to him, I suspect, I might be a giant. I glower at him, puffing out my chest. He ceases pacing and scowls back, staring at me with a turn in the side of his mouth.
Then I suddenly cop to the realisation that he might be holding a weapon. That's a different game. It's getting real real, real fast.
The midget with the fidget's worried too, about him, I hasten to add, not me. She glances over and inserts herself between us. I can see her eyes twiddling but she's too low down for me to read. Are they co-ordinating some rehearsed moves?
Quickly, I weigh the odds. I'm bigger than either and both, I'm no pugilist but I'm OK to push. They've got four hands, plus others to call on nearby. I'm so fed up with this kind of shit. I await the first kimbo slice. It's up to him to call it in. If he fails to kill me tonight, he might kill some other poor fucker. What if he takes it to a tourist? That'd be too bad. I might just take a stand. Tonight might be the night.
I don’t mind going down in flames but the weak link is that absolutely nothing must ever happen to my GF.
In that moment before shit really hits, everything slows. Time stretches. I guess it's because the heart rate goes up. A hundred potential destinies split, reunite, cancel each other out and resolve into a singularity. That's what reality is, that what's left after all the potential deductions.
Time stops. Without time, nothing can happen.
I peer through the mist to this runt's miserable little life. From a family of five or six kids. Western suburban ghetto lifestyle. Shouted down a lot. Bored to death every day. Eats nothing but junk food. Hid behind the couch when his da came home drunk. Nick name of "Pee Wee". Generally ignored, unless he became violent. Given to understand that he can have anything he wants in this world if he takes it. Drug abuser. Failed by education. Behaviour goes unchecked. Kicked. Smacked. Tough. Love. Nobody who ever asked him, 'How are you feeling?' Nobody who ever said, 'Stop that!'
Kicked out of home by his ma after taking a swipe at her when she caught him robbing her purse so he could buy drink and hash. He loves her more than anything and he apologises when he's sober. It's the only thing he's ashamed of. She's just glad to get him out of the house.
A date with 'Tarnation" in the Irish Film Institute with my long-lost girlfriend Aoife. The pitch: 'Gay scrapbook'. Scatty energy in the town on a busy Sunday night. Aoife and I are walking along Dame St discussing where-to for some much-needed refreshments when we find we are accosted by a group of four of Dublin's finest young Olympic athletes canvassing for the donation of nothing less than cigarettes.
Routinely, politely, I inform them that we have none as we don't smoke. End of the matter. I take Aoife's hand and we walk in close order more briskly, murmuring.
To our chagrin, a moment later, we find some of them are sauntering alongside, bluntly reiterating their immodest requirement, despite our previous negatory advice, in unsettling, garrulous tones. It's a free country, nothing wrong with going up the same street in the same direction. Free speech and all that. Did I see four or six of them? Best say nothing, keep walking and smile. Shrug shoulders and try to shake the tail at the corner.
With no pickings from us, I mistakenly assume they turn on someone else as we pass Thomas Read's plate windows. Around the corner on Parliament Street, however, the pavement widens and two of them manoeuvre in front to obstruct us.
Traffic is heavy. The streets generally are rammed with people bustling about. It does not reassure me. I keep careful eye on the youthful male and female prancing in front of us in their grubby tracksuits.
The young man, I'd guess 19, spotty, skinny, shorn, short, is highly agitated and most certainly on or off some thing. He struts forward and comes all the way up to my face and outright demands a cigarette. Before I can answer, and without further provocation the pale brute and his horrible girlfriend kick off. He raises his voice to me: “When I ask for a cigarette, YOU’LL GIVE ME ONE!"
Initially, I find this intemperate escalation incomprehensible. I assert again, by way of clarification, that I don't have any cigarettes. I do not say 'I'm sorry, I don't have one', I just cut to the chase. Glancing at his short girlfreak, he explodes with inexplicable rage.
'YOU'LL GIVE ME A CIGARETTE WHEN I FUCKING ASK FOR IT!' In the next millisecond his girlfriend chimes in with her screeching voice. (Something about cigarettes, I believe.)
I am quite astonished and a bit slow to react. The thought enters my head that I would like to spank him for his effrontery but of course he has his playground gang with him and I rapidly am gaining the understanding that the situation is full of peril.
I make sure Aoife is behind me and protected. He paces before me like the panther in Dublin Zoo. Sizing him up, I reckon full sure I can handle this midget. He draws his edge. 'GIVE ME A CIGARETTE! You'll give me a cigarette when I fucking ASK FOR IT!'
For her part, his minute girlfriend is now suggesting in her own indelicate manner that I should apologise to half-pint for not giving him a cigarette, which I don't have. Non-negotiable. Things are moving really fast now.
I'm at 1m 83cm. That's six foot one in the old money. Midget-man is definitely on drugs or alcohol. He's missing his lithium, his glue or everything. He's about five-foot-one but wiry looking. Spurred on, his four-foot-seven girlfriend has totally invaded my space. Her stinky breath is close enough to condense on my cold chin.
I note her position to the right and keep watch over him to my left. Quickly I glance around to see where is the wolf pack. I make sure to not touch her and move a step back. Lover-boy is losing his lid. "Give me a cigarette! (FUCKING FUCK FUCK FUCK!)"
What can I do? Reason with the guy? Ask him to hang on so I can buy him some cigarettes in the nearest inconvenience store? No. This is offensive. I won't be intimidated. I refuse to be. We were having a nice, boring night. Aoife seems a little tired, what with all the travelling she's done recently. I want to get her home and tuck her peacefully into bed. This is unacceptable. In an effort to maintain some decorum and recover some dignity, I tell Joxer politely but firmly that he has no right to speak to me like that.
I said it because I needed to. Perhaps I should have said nothing.
He shudders and says 'I'LL-SPEAK-TO-YOU-ANY-WAY-I-FUCKING-WANT!". I'm still not impressed. Gnashing, he paces and primes but for whatever reason, he holds his distance. The only thing preventing him from launching a physical attack is that to him, I suspect, I might be a giant. I glower at him, puffing out my chest. He ceases pacing and scowls back, staring at me with a turn in the side of his mouth.
Then I suddenly cop to the realisation that he might be holding a weapon. That's a different game. It's getting real real, real fast.
The midget with the fidget's worried too, about him, I hasten to add, not me. She glances over and inserts herself between us. I can see her eyes twiddling but she's too low down for me to read. Are they co-ordinating some rehearsed moves?
Quickly, I weigh the odds. I'm bigger than either and both, I'm no pugilist but I'm OK to push. They've got four hands, plus others to call on nearby. I'm so fed up with this kind of shit. I await the first kimbo slice. It's up to him to call it in. If he fails to kill me tonight, he might kill some other poor fucker. What if he takes it to a tourist? That'd be too bad. I might just take a stand. Tonight might be the night.
I don’t mind going down in flames but the weak link is that absolutely nothing must ever happen to my GF.
In that moment before shit really hits, everything slows. Time stretches. I guess it's because the heart rate goes up. A hundred potential destinies split, reunite, cancel each other out and resolve into a singularity. That's what reality is, that what's left after all the potential deductions.
Time stops. Without time, nothing can happen.
I peer through the mist to this runt's miserable little life. From a family of five or six kids. Western suburban ghetto lifestyle. Shouted down a lot. Bored to death every day. Eats nothing but junk food. Hid behind the couch when his da came home drunk. Nick name of "Pee Wee". Generally ignored, unless he became violent. Given to understand that he can have anything he wants in this world if he takes it. Drug abuser. Failed by education. Behaviour goes unchecked. Kicked. Smacked. Tough. Love. Nobody who ever asked him, 'How are you feeling?' Nobody who ever said, 'Stop that!'
Kicked out of home by his ma after taking a swipe at her when she caught him robbing her purse so he could buy drink and hash. He loves her more than anything and he apologises when he's sober. It's the only thing he's ashamed of. She's just glad to get him out of the house.
Da is dead or in jail at this point. Undiagnosed psychiatric disorders. Probably can't read body language or something. Problems with learning and socialising.
Here he is, this basket case, wantonly breaking the city's Sunday night truce. I raise my hands in a defensive posture, feigning a glance at my watch. He is not quite ready to make his move. I call over my shoulder to Aoife: “Stay behind me.” He shouts again.
"I'll talk to you any way I fucking want. WHEN I WANT A CIGARETTE YOU FUCKING GIVE IT TO ME!"
Yeah, I'm sorry life is so tough but fuck him. Fuck his ugly little bitch with him. If I capitulate to this bully, it's going to make life in this Dirty Town that much harder for me and for everyone else forever more.
I suck in my breath. My neck tenses. Indignation boils within me. The night's heart beats and time runs quickly forward again onto a moment of silent stir.
His hoe dissolves. I believe I can hear her footsteps as they pad away. It's illusory. He turns his toes toward me with a stiff jaw. The light sparks in his eyes. I'm going to have to do this on instinct. What can I remember about my instinct?
He leans forward, fists clenched at his side. I stand erect and put one foot behind me to steady the ship. He approaches and I draw a bead. Oh, it's on.
Just then, a hand grabs my collar and hauls me down. It's Aoife. She wants me in the back of a cab. "Come on," she says. "No wait..." I protest, half-heartedly.
"Get in" She pulls me in and shuts the door, reaches across and locks it. Immediately, I have the feeling that this plan is better than mine. Half of me wants to stay there and answer the call. Our withdrawal from the field is a victory for him on his level and I resent him for it. My better half has better sense.
Here he is, this basket case, wantonly breaking the city's Sunday night truce. I raise my hands in a defensive posture, feigning a glance at my watch. He is not quite ready to make his move. I call over my shoulder to Aoife: “Stay behind me.” He shouts again.
"I'll talk to you any way I fucking want. WHEN I WANT A CIGARETTE YOU FUCKING GIVE IT TO ME!"
Yeah, I'm sorry life is so tough but fuck him. Fuck his ugly little bitch with him. If I capitulate to this bully, it's going to make life in this Dirty Town that much harder for me and for everyone else forever more.
I suck in my breath. My neck tenses. Indignation boils within me. The night's heart beats and time runs quickly forward again onto a moment of silent stir.
His hoe dissolves. I believe I can hear her footsteps as they pad away. It's illusory. He turns his toes toward me with a stiff jaw. The light sparks in his eyes. I'm going to have to do this on instinct. What can I remember about my instinct?
He leans forward, fists clenched at his side. I stand erect and put one foot behind me to steady the ship. He approaches and I draw a bead. Oh, it's on.
Just then, a hand grabs my collar and hauls me down. It's Aoife. She wants me in the back of a cab. "Come on," she says. "No wait..." I protest, half-heartedly.
"Get in" She pulls me in and shuts the door, reaches across and locks it. Immediately, I have the feeling that this plan is better than mine. Half of me wants to stay there and answer the call. Our withdrawal from the field is a victory for him on his level and I resent him for it. My better half has better sense.
I console myself that I'm doing the right thing by my girl. The fact is she probably saved me from a slaying and I'm scared and humiliated.
Runtyballs grabs the door handle and spits on the side window. The taxi is not moving. It's tight against the kerb, jammed in traffic. I had the idea that we'd wheelspin out of this mess. The cabbie doesn't utter a word. Why silent now, all of a sudden, Mr. Driver Man?
I'm confused. How'd it come to this? From a boring no-action movie to a real-life show-down. How is the driver nonplussed so about lunatics scrabbling against his windows on a Sunday night trying to murder his clientèle?
"Dat's w’at it's loike," he says, chronically.
The taciturn taxi-man finally forces his way through the clusterfuck streets and we escape in silence. I’m aware that my heavy breathing is audible. Aoife is considerably shocked. Her nails dig into the cleft of my arm. I'm trembling. She is crying softly.
She hasn't said much all night, which is annoying. Up until now I've been enjoying myself, almost, apart from the mental roundabout of the movie, on my long-lost date with my special lady. Now we are tantamount to post-traumatic from our Sunday night misadventure.
"Did you see him? He was gonna go for me. Crazy. I told him we had no cigarettes. I can't believe it! And his horrible little girlfriend."
"Awful." says Aoife, sniffing and gnawing.
The rickety cab slides down Winetavern Hill and away from the danger zone. My adrenaline decays as the cab slows and bears left on to the south quays. My breath is returning to normal, even if my pique is rare. Something's up with Aoife in the middle of all this but I don't have time to wonder because, what's this?
The taxi rattles past a mob of ten cops standing on the corner which happens to be the location for several large and busy pubs (not my scene). Standing amongst them is a tall, young crew-cut civilian in a puffa jacket. Six foot three and well built, a guy bigger than me and he looks fighting fit. He may be a doorman or something. Blood spurts from a nasty gash beneath his left eye. I'm pretty sure he didn't leave the house in that condition. Some of the cops at the back of this troop snicker about some such.
He's relating something to the one cop who is upfront and putting it into the notebook. The bloodied bouncer is pointing this way and that. Like the haggard cabbies, the cops seem unimpressed by the gore tactics of Sunday night in Dublin city. A blink, a bump, a word and you are no longer having fun but fighting for your life.
Dumbly, I remark, 'There but for the grace of God go eye.'
She looks at me, appalled by my eye-rony. She ends up going to bed in the same schtum mood she spent the evening in. Now I can't sleep as I blog this on her computer.
09:13
Some denizen has just littered a giant wardrobe in the Brown's loading bay there. FFS. Thanks again, Dublin.
14:13
Hallelujah! The Black Man In Black is sent to our salvation:
Runtyballs grabs the door handle and spits on the side window. The taxi is not moving. It's tight against the kerb, jammed in traffic. I had the idea that we'd wheelspin out of this mess. The cabbie doesn't utter a word. Why silent now, all of a sudden, Mr. Driver Man?
I'm confused. How'd it come to this? From a boring no-action movie to a real-life show-down. How is the driver nonplussed so about lunatics scrabbling against his windows on a Sunday night trying to murder his clientèle?
"Dat's w’at it's loike," he says, chronically.
The taciturn taxi-man finally forces his way through the clusterfuck streets and we escape in silence. I’m aware that my heavy breathing is audible. Aoife is considerably shocked. Her nails dig into the cleft of my arm. I'm trembling. She is crying softly.
She hasn't said much all night, which is annoying. Up until now I've been enjoying myself, almost, apart from the mental roundabout of the movie, on my long-lost date with my special lady. Now we are tantamount to post-traumatic from our Sunday night misadventure.
"Did you see him? He was gonna go for me. Crazy. I told him we had no cigarettes. I can't believe it! And his horrible little girlfriend."
"Awful." says Aoife, sniffing and gnawing.
The rickety cab slides down Winetavern Hill and away from the danger zone. My adrenaline decays as the cab slows and bears left on to the south quays. My breath is returning to normal, even if my pique is rare. Something's up with Aoife in the middle of all this but I don't have time to wonder because, what's this?
The taxi rattles past a mob of ten cops standing on the corner which happens to be the location for several large and busy pubs (not my scene). Standing amongst them is a tall, young crew-cut civilian in a puffa jacket. Six foot three and well built, a guy bigger than me and he looks fighting fit. He may be a doorman or something. Blood spurts from a nasty gash beneath his left eye. I'm pretty sure he didn't leave the house in that condition. Some of the cops at the back of this troop snicker about some such.
He's relating something to the one cop who is upfront and putting it into the notebook. The bloodied bouncer is pointing this way and that. Like the haggard cabbies, the cops seem unimpressed by the gore tactics of Sunday night in Dublin city. A blink, a bump, a word and you are no longer having fun but fighting for your life.
Dumbly, I remark, 'There but for the grace of God go eye.'
She looks at me, appalled by my eye-rony. She ends up going to bed in the same schtum mood she spent the evening in. Now I can't sleep as I blog this on her computer.
09:13
Some denizen has just littered a giant wardrobe in the Brown's loading bay there. FFS. Thanks again, Dublin.
14:13
Hallelujah! The Black Man In Black is sent to our salvation:
A post office customer has been praised for his bravery after tackling a raider at the post office on Botanic Road on Dublin's northside before 11am. The customer - who is originally from Africa - suffered cuts to his forehead after falling through a window of the post office while continuing to keep hold of the would-be raider.
14:15
According to radio reports, a preacher man in a black coat and hat tackled the would-be blagger in a tracksuit and balaclava. An African from the Congo shows the locals how to live the noble life. How there is a duty to God and justice. Even though we State can't provide the basic dignity of work to the man who is in the post office to collect his dole, he can show us how to live proper. The preacher, he wrassles with the thief.
14:29
They pass through the 2-metres of sticker-covered plate glass in the struggle. The scumbag can't believe it, flying through the air like that, through a window and all. Outside, the preacher is sitting on his chest, holding him down, blood dripping from them both.
“Get off me ya *%$^%!” He belts the perp with his trusty leather-bound bible.
"No! God's in my team, pal, I'm not letting go!" Bewildered and stand-offish, all everyone else has to do is mop up and call the cops. Our hero disappears into the background.
15:15
The preacher has delivered unto me an epiphany. We don't live in a religious police state. We live in a sanctified Revenue state. It's the corporate version of the Republican conservative dream. The grandiose symbols of the much-trumpeted national prosperity are doled out euro-by-euro to poor black men with no civil status. Yet they represent on our behalf the transcendent ideals of bravery and righteousness.
15:22
The Republic of Euro-land. With its revenue men and its anti-revenue men, armed with laptops and shotguns, running around grabbing the money off each other.
16:22
Hammer and bit. Shovel and saw. Out of the grit and grind of a despondent city there emerges a glass shattering shimmering shark. And he's on our side.
22:13
Youth is wasted on the youth. Violence is wasted on them too. In this town asking someone for something is the same as mugging them. If you refuse you may be subjected to abuse, taunts, threats, and having to listen to miscreants scream at you like their parents scream at them. I'm not afraid of violence, but I despair at having to hum to be heard.
The men in uniform stand tall around the corner. It's only Sunday night but another fight. Someone has come a cropper and he's scared. If you're not bemused you'll cry.
One of thse days it's going to come down to quality human beings versus scumbags. Scumbags always win because they drag you down to their level, the street level and they tool up and start stabbing, shooting, squirting, spitting, screaming and swinging whatever crap they find lying in the gutter. With the blood staining your eyes, you'll understand why they earn the impoverished reputation they so richly deserve. They're feral children. They might mix with the rest of us, but they're not fit to stray with animals.
23:45
The god of humanitarianism, love songs, journalism, tax-avoidance and money:
According to radio reports, a preacher man in a black coat and hat tackled the would-be blagger in a tracksuit and balaclava. An African from the Congo shows the locals how to live the noble life. How there is a duty to God and justice. Even though we State can't provide the basic dignity of work to the man who is in the post office to collect his dole, he can show us how to live proper. The preacher, he wrassles with the thief.
14:29
They pass through the 2-metres of sticker-covered plate glass in the struggle. The scumbag can't believe it, flying through the air like that, through a window and all. Outside, the preacher is sitting on his chest, holding him down, blood dripping from them both.
“Get off me ya *%$^%!” He belts the perp with his trusty leather-bound bible.
"No! God's in my team, pal, I'm not letting go!" Bewildered and stand-offish, all everyone else has to do is mop up and call the cops. Our hero disappears into the background.
15:15
The preacher has delivered unto me an epiphany. We don't live in a religious police state. We live in a sanctified Revenue state. It's the corporate version of the Republican conservative dream. The grandiose symbols of the much-trumpeted national prosperity are doled out euro-by-euro to poor black men with no civil status. Yet they represent on our behalf the transcendent ideals of bravery and righteousness.
15:22
The Republic of Euro-land. With its revenue men and its anti-revenue men, armed with laptops and shotguns, running around grabbing the money off each other.
16:22
Hammer and bit. Shovel and saw. Out of the grit and grind of a despondent city there emerges a glass shattering shimmering shark. And he's on our side.
22:13
Youth is wasted on the youth. Violence is wasted on them too. In this town asking someone for something is the same as mugging them. If you refuse you may be subjected to abuse, taunts, threats, and having to listen to miscreants scream at you like their parents scream at them. I'm not afraid of violence, but I despair at having to hum to be heard.
The men in uniform stand tall around the corner. It's only Sunday night but another fight. Someone has come a cropper and he's scared. If you're not bemused you'll cry.
One of thse days it's going to come down to quality human beings versus scumbags. Scumbags always win because they drag you down to their level, the street level and they tool up and start stabbing, shooting, squirting, spitting, screaming and swinging whatever crap they find lying in the gutter. With the blood staining your eyes, you'll understand why they earn the impoverished reputation they so richly deserve. They're feral children. They might mix with the rest of us, but they're not fit to stray with animals.
23:45
The god of humanitarianism, love songs, journalism, tax-avoidance and money:
U2's Bono will edit UK newspaper The Independent for a day to highlight the problem of AIDS in Africa.
