09:00
1981 DIED: Bob Marley, Jamacian reggae singer/songwriter, No Woman No Cry
11:39
The Dirty Dublin street cleaner is come and gone and after leaving the jacket on the street that the bum discarded last week due to the snap of belting sunshine. Who is going to clean it up if not he? Who can I call? This isn't a cloakroom, despite the wardrobe. Who said he could decide what crap to sweep and what to leave? Who signs off on that?
18:33
"Did yiz see whar he dooo-ne?"
- He's after batterinher in de car.
"Did she try to run him over?"
- After he was batterin her yeah. He stood behoind a lamp-post.
"Who were dem fellas who came running over?"
- I dunno, some Powe-lish fellas be de look a dem.
"He said it was his girlfriend."
- True love, wha?
18:47
"She's me girlfriend!" is his legitimate defence for throwing a concrete block through the back windscreen of the car she's driving? What the hell can you say to that? If you told tell it to the judge, he'd shrug his shoulders too. It's provocation in and of itself.
Vengeful girlfriend style, she murderously drives the car like a battering ram intending to pin him under it. Hopping behind the safety of a lampost, Clarke Gable makes faces at her to further the loving antagonism. Her terrifying, preternatural groan winds out through the smashed rear windscreen.
"Oillll Killll YOUUUU-HHHH!"
The sounds from the street far surpass any drama on TV, so I tune in. From my balcony, I can see the breeze block sitting across the back seat. Pallid, languid, he tells her to fuck off and starts walking away up Church Hill with a strut. He's unbathed and wears a grimy parka. I can't believe he has a girlfriend with a car. She drives away in the opposite direction.
Just as he's dodging behind the lampost, two young men spring out of a passing black Beamer with an East European registration plate. They gallop towards him, gathering courage as they run. I can tell one of them is not sure what the hell the other one is doing. Seeing that a woman was involved as a victim of violence, they just instinctively hit the response button and now like Batman and Robin they run towards the scene.
The dirty Dub drunkie looks up and sees them bearing down the Hill. Bulky and earnest looking, they are wearing puffa jackets over tradesmen's overalls and with their close-cropped hair and rosy cheeks, look like the militia.
I don't know what language they are shouting but by the tone of voice they communicate in, I imagine they are a bit nervous at the strange things in a cold land.
He sees them coming and palms outstretched, the skinny boyfriend attempts to greet them with an explanation. With formidable determination they descend upon him swiftly.
"Lads - ". One of the workers siezes his shoulders and pins him to the wall. Good strength. The other grabs his legs. Together they drag him to the ground as he attempts to charm them. "Fellas! Ah fellas!"
The block-wielding Romeo is pinioned but he continues his servile strategy as he struggles to get his breath.
"Fellas!" he appeals, "Dah was me gurlfrien'. She's me gurlfrien'!"
Oh so that's his excuse.
"Oim having a row wi' me gurlfrien'!"
The workers look at each other and click tongues, clearly unsure what to do. The unwarrented logic is starting to translate into unwarrented action. They're appalled and for a minute or more discuss their next move. They reacted, she's gone, he's non-threatening to them, all they wanted was to help purify and reclaim the streets. The question is, how are they going to explain all this to the cops?
They decide it's hardly worth it. They let their grip on him slip. Everyone has a girlfriend. Even a skinny junky raised on cheap soda and white bread swinging a concrete block has a love life. Some just handle it better.
