Fields of Athenry

Tommy O’Hanlon says he knows some families up Carnley Road way, who still speak Gaelic at home.  Most of 'em from Mayo he reckons.  I'm doubtful, but then again, when we were kids he once told me Father Mullin tried to touch his arse one afternoon, so he could be onto something. 

Anyway, we've never been like that in our house, though I know the old bloke still gets a twinkle in his eye when Ireland beat England at rugby.  Nothing to do with nationalism, or republicanism, or religion.  He still half-believes, but when the Provos started blowing stuff up over here, it turned his stomach.  All those old songs he used to sing.  He doesn’t sing them any more.  And whatever residual notion he had of the pike in the thatch, has also gone. 

One time he was first through the door at St Theresa's.  Every Sunday.  Think he still winks at the place when he goes past, but funerals apart, that's as near as he ever gets these days. Our Patricia's the same; Irish-lite.  Four Green Fields and a bit of Pogues. 

Had to laugh the other week though.  Sunday afternoon and after half a pig and a sackful of potatoes and veg, most of the family is dozing in front of telly and fire.  Songs of Praise comes on, so our Patricia turns the sound down and puts a tape on.  "Rebel songs of Erin" or some such bollocks.  Got it off a car boot for ten bob. 

Anyway, the old lass wakes up during some line about a prison ship sailing away, and she sees the great British middle class, washed and polished on the telly, apparently singing along, and she’s up and shouting at me dad, “Wake up will yer Jackie…they’re singing the Athenry on Songs of Praise…” 

Reddened and roused, he opens his eyes.  It only takes him a couple of seconds to work it all out.  He’s quick that way.  Doesn’t say anything to ma and he’s already closed his eyes again as he silently mouths “Feckin’ eejit”  and goes back to sleep.

Martin C

Mano Blanco

It was always the same at the end of every harvest, the last days rituals and the almost deflated feeling of finality. Manu tossed old rotten fruit crates on the fire, just like he's done so many times in his home country, where he'd farmed his families land.

He headed down to the  coast line for one last time this year and bought barbecued sardines from a vendor, he could see his countries coast line in the distance and watched the lights come on one by one as the sun went down.  A half hour ferry trip home but culturally and economically a thousand miles apart.

  As he mooched back to his temporary caravan home, he reflected on how the sands had shifted and how glad he was he'd always treat migrant workers with respect.

   The economic meltdown had left it's mark on Spain. Now increased taxes and export duties had rendered his farm in Spain no longer viable, his fruit crop going to waste, a victim of the vanity projects like the airport in Valencia where they forgot to allow enough space for the runway, projects which effectively bankrupt his country.

  And now Morocco, his salvation, one of many Spanish migrant workers finding work in North Africa, the world turned on it's head. If he was careful the money he earned would just about see him through winter back home.  He'd heard the Moroccan authorities were tightening up on the working visa regulation for next season, if it turned out to be true it would be the ultimate irony. The world going well and truly mad or had it already gone mad and this was the period of redressing? What goes around comes around. He was just glad the Moroccan farmer who employed him was returning a favour from 20 years ago when Manu had employed him as migrant labour. He'd like to think he was employed for his experience or organisational skills. But he wasn't, he was the hired help, the Mano Blanca.

JW

Hate You Job?

Finding myself between jobs in 1990, a friend suggested contacting an old school mate as the place he worked were always looking to recruit. I knew from the horror story's that the work was rough, but it was only six weeks at most until I could start my proper job, so the call to Dave was made.

Monday, 7am found me waiting outside the hide and Skin warehouse, a subsidiary of Northern (wholesale) butchers, part of a huge abattoir/fat refining complex. The gaffer was an elderly Ukrainian bull of a man called 'Jo' who set me to work salting a grisly pile of cow skins. Stank isn't the word.

The cow hides were semi frozen (it was winter) slimy, and could weigh anything up to 80kg each & the salt wasn't table salt but more reminiscent of the grit that is spread on the roads. They were then weighed, graded, and put on pallets for export.

By lunchtime {which seemed to consist mainly of spliff smoking, well, the nature of the work did tend to dull ones appetite I suppose}  the reason the other blokes were laughing at me carrying out this task became apparent. The salt began to eat into the flesh on my hands, causing extremely painful burns. Gloves were out of the question as you could not grip the slippery hides whilst wearing them.

Lorry after lorry reversed into the freezing, stinking hall and tipped its vile cargo onto the concrete floor before me. Christ, what the fuck have I let myself in for?

After a few days, 'Jo' relented and sent me out with a driver for a week. We went to various slaughterhouses across Yorkshire, picking up sheepskins and cow hides. Often, the hides were still attached to their owners when we arrived. I'd stand in the slaughter hall watching with morbid fascination as cattle were shot in the head, and reduced to their component parts within a few minutes. The worst bit when throwing the skins onto the lorry, was when you got slapped across the face with them, some of them still warm and steaming.

Each evening, when I got home, the Mrs {often retching} would make me strip to my underwear in the back garden, I stank like you wouldn't believe.

I stuck it for the six weeks. The upside? a fiver at the abattoir would get you a carrier bag full of chops, steak, and sausages. Would I do it again?... would I fuck.

Si Richardson.

Happy Hour

-Vodka and Orange?
-No, I'll have a Screwdriver. Hahaha....
I fucking hate this job sometimes.
-When are you going to marry me girl, make a dishonest man of me?
-Arh Tommy sweetheart how are you? Heineken?
Another prick. Comes in here every night after work, flirts like fuck. Married with two kids and a wife who deserves better. I've seen the gun in his pocket when he kisses me good night. These fuckers leave you a tip, think they own you.
- Clare honey, how are yer?Two Jamies please.
Shaun and Pete. Now these two, I like these two. Young lads from the 'hood, good fun, good tippers. I think they're carpenters. I know they're union. Sure, they'll flirt but they don't make me feel dirty when they do. It's in fun. I've met their girlfriends. They're going steady.
- Well if it isn't my two favourite whatever it is that yous do. What'd you say we kick everyone else out and us three see what happens eh lads? 
- Clare yer too much honey , I tell yer...
-We might take you up on that one day Clare.
-I'll be here, just say the word. 'scuse me, look who just walked in.
-911 Emergency, Fire, Police, EMT or barmaid which service do you require?
- Just getting off fellas? Rescue any cats?
-Very funny. Erm, two Buds, a Miller and a coke for the rookie.
-Who put The friggin' Ramones on again?
-What you don't like 'em? They're from Queens, just like us.
And here we go.
-The KKK took my baby away/they took her away...
I fucking hate this guy. No you're not fucking funny you're a prick. I caught him doing coke in the bathroom one time. The ladies. Cried like a baby when I said I'd tell his sister. Me and Jackie we go to the gym three times a week together. The gym, look at the fucking state of me, drip white, never see the sun, 6pm to 4am, five nights a week in a crappy neigborhood bar, two packs a shift, drip fed vodka. Thank Christ I don't pay for it.
-Alas Clare I must leave you but I'll return tomorrow.
-Goodbye Sgt.
Mr Ryan, 'nam vet. In everyday at 3 out everyday at 7. $2 tip. Cheap bastard. I have heard every war story way, way more than once. His grandson's cute though.
-Clare same again and one for yourself gorgeous.
-Hey Freddie how are you baby?
-All the better for seeing your beautiful face. When are we going to run away together? I'll get you a greencard.
Take more than a fucking double vodka for me to run away with that piece of shit. I'd rather get deported. This fucking crowd make me wanna puke.
-Er, hey Clare, how's it going?
-Hey handsome, great, great. You?
-Okay yeah. I got a few papers to write but other than that, can't complain. 
-A drink?
-Erm, no thanks, gotta get my grandpa home. Thanks anyway. 
-Mr Ryan. Mr Ryan, Jimmy's here for you.
I wish he was here for me. I ride his tight little arse all the way to NYU and back again. Fuck, I need another vodka.

C W

Fly Fishing With The Old Man

I looked forward to my first day of fly fishing eagerly. My dad and I had spent many, many days fishing the local rivers and lakes with float tackle and ledger rig ever since I was a small boy. I took my first fish, a 3/4lb Perch with my second ever cast, using a built cane float rod, from The River Wharf at Kirby Sands. Parental pride went out the window pretty quick that day. “You jammy bugger! I fished every night for 3 weeks before I caught anything.” It was alright. I loved my dad all the more for his honesty.  Indeed, the bond that grew between us as we fished more and more cannot be over stated.

I would spend hours, I’d like to say in the shed but the truth is the old man kept his rods in my bedroom, admiring his fly fishing set up. An Allcocks Ariel reel and a Mytre Hardy – the less expensive line – rod. I was fascinated by the line, the flies, dry and wet, even waders. I loved it all and I longed for the day when I would be judged ready to fish with it. In truth, I felt that fly fishing was the only true form of fishing. I could be a right little pretentious sod at times and I’d read all the fishing books in our local library, most more than once.

When the big day finally arrived we’d been holed up on a rain soaked caravan site in the Lake District for the best part of a week. The sun had broken through early and dad said he thought today was as good a day as any to learn. I’d cast with the rod before. I was blessed to be brought up in a house that had a really big garden and while the other kids kicked a football around I’d take out my old man’s rod and reel and cast around above their heads anytime Mum and Dad’s shifts meant they’d both be at work together and I was left home. I wasn’t bad at casting; they both worked a lot.

My dad had been given the heads up on a short stretch of river from a local he’d befriended over pints in the village pub and we followed the directions written on the back of a cigarette pack, the old man monitoring the tenths of a mile ticking off until we came to a gate at the side of the road to our left. “This is it lad. Get out; open the bloody gate before anyone sees us.” There was nothing unusual in this; we were always doing things he didn’t want anyone to see. Our garage was stocked with tools that would make the local council blush. Our garden walls built with fine old cobbles from when they tore the roads up near the hospital, all acquired under cover of darkness, after I’d done my homework.

We turned off the road, locked the gate and drove a short way down, out of sight from the road. I could already hear the river. We were traveling light; just the one rod and we made it down the steep bank to river edge. The old man took note of what he termed ‘the lay of the land’, pointing out the debris high in the tree branches left over from the rain induced high water. He picked a spot out in the river at the edge of the fast water, selected a fly, waded out and then put on what I thought was a master class in fly fishing. His casting appeared effortless and almost silent save for the seductive sound of line cutting through the air. He placed his fly in the same spot time and time again. His face a study in concentration and the spark of mischief I loved so much dancing in his eye. He pulled back firmly on the rod sending it up right into the air. Then the tip bent and the fight was on. He let the line run out as the fish speed first up river then down. “Rainbow,” he said with an air of authority, then he cracked a smile. I loved that self-depreciating humour he had. Two minutes later I held a Grayling in my hands. “What’d I tell you son? Grayling.”

I returned the fish to the river and watch him cast again. “Another five minutes and it’s all yours.” His next cast got hung up in an overhanging branch. “I can get it dad, stay there.” I crept down the bank mindful to hold onto the branches as I went. I felt my foot sink then the sky went black.

“Jesus! Get under the bloody water!” I felt his hand pushing down on my shoulder and then the river enveloped me. I gulped down a lung full of water as the current took me downstream.  I tried to swim, unsure what was going on. I stood up on a gravel bar. Looking back up the river I could see my dad, about 25 feet from me packing up his gear standing on the bank. Beside him an angry cloud of wasps circled, oblivious to his presence.

In the car driving back to the caravan we surmised I’d managed to put my foot through a wasp nest, they’d immediately swarmed around me and dad, far from trying to drown me, had saved me by pushing me under and down the river. Amazingly, I’d only been stung twice. Later I learned it could have been much worse.  Dad speculated that the wasps were probably drowsy as a consequence of the river flooding and probably covering their nest.  I never forgot my first day fly fishing.

JL

Anarchy in the UK, well Bradford....

He smells of glue.

Of itself nothing remarkable. 

A few do I’m sure. But they ain’t that close. His is fresh. It’s still fucking wet. And on his chin. And he’s got long hair. And it’s damp with sweat. And he's wearing a bright yellow jumper. And those creases in his face mean it's clear he's had way too much adhesive next to it.

And of the thousand or so people that decided to watch Crass tonight he’s next to me.

This is a ‘March For Jobs’ gig. I'm not marching. I’ve got a lift coming later. I’m 11.

And at this moment, I have no options. I’m stuck.

And this bloke is breathing Evo all over my head. And I just want to get in. We’re shuffling in. The coppers are watching like we’re a threat to society.

I’m no threat. I'm at school. I not looking to start a riot or set about destroying capitalism. I just want to get away from glue-boy.

And eventually I do.

And we’re in a venue that isn’t used much. And after Annie Anxiety has screamed at us for a bit the Poison Girls are on. And the crush starts.

And I may be the novelty young one (it got me some wonderful ‘presses’ against women when I was far too young to be having them at Brannigan’s, the Palm Cove etc) but this ain’t good.

Bit fucking mad to be honest.

Very mad. And scary. 

I’m getting crushed. They’ve got tables on their sides to keep people back. And they’re not moving. And it hurts.

And then someone is grabbing me.

And I’m up.

And watching the Poison Girls. Sat on the edge of the stage.

This is good.

It’s loud. I don’t even like them that much. But I’m right by the band. And they’re ‘grown up’. And 'real'. And 'into' what they're doing.

And I just want to take this in....

'Bombing cities, pulling switches, we won't do your dirty work.....'

And then Crass come on. And I know it’s all a bit earnest even at my age. But they’re fucking good. Because they mean it. Not many that do.

I’m only 11 but I know what they’re on about. And the saddest thing is that even at 11 I know it won’t work.

‘The problems that you suffer from are problems that you make.....No one ever stopped the church by pulling down the steeple, you'll never beat the system by bombing number 10'

We’ll all forget it as we get older, that sense of wanting to change things. Things get in the way. Exams, jobs, bills. And people with glue on their chin.

Matt H

Camel Safari

We set off in our hired green Renault Twingo, which my Mrs inexplicably referred to as a ‘Twingo with a twango’. ‘Thank fuck I’ve only hired it for four days or there might be cause to use the medical card thing after I’ve smashed her in the face with the king size bottle of Malibu after sun’ I thought. The Twingo with a twango had a foldable roof, which we had removed, letting the early morning Lanzarote sun warm our pink barnets on the way to the camel safari.

When we arrived we paid and were each given a shot of hooch, which took the hairs off the inside of my nose when I breathed out. A group of ten people went through this ritual and then we were led to the camels. Me and the Mrs were put on the first camel in the train of five and off we all set off up into the hills guided by a bloke tugging on a rope which was tied to our camel’s noggin.

After about ten minutes we were surprised to see a couple of policemen up in the hills that proceeded to stop our guide and ask him for some paperwork or other. There was a bit of a heated discussion between the three of them and the guide ran off. The coppers chased him for as bit, but the little fella was too quick for them and he was away over the rocks. When the policemen returned they were properly pissed off and came over to me and the Mrs on the lead camel and asked us had we been drinking. She replied that we had had a gratis shot each before we had set off on which the copper produced a breathalyser and asked me to blow into it.

“Why?” I asked,

“Because we suspect you of being drunk in charge of a camel” he replied.

“Everybody else has had a drink why don’t you breathalyse them instead!” my Mrs shouted, clearly agitated.

“Blow into the bag!” he shouted.

“Do one Elvis” I replied.

“What’s your name?” he asked as he took a notebook from his pocket.

“Michael”.

“What’s your second name?”

“Mouse”.

“What hotel are you staying in?”

I gave him a blag name and when he had finished writing he said that we would have to go with him back to the police station where I would be charged with obstructing a police officer in doing his duty and that they were going to obtain a new guide as the previous one was an illegal immigrant and that’s why he had legged it. As we waited sat on our camel my Mrs whispered to me,

“After three, leg it. One – two – “

“Nah love have a minute, we’ll sort it out when we get back to the office”.

After about 10 minutes the new guide arrived and took us back to the start point, where we got off the camel and were escorted to the office. In the office there was an oldish bloke and two young lads who had been walking past us, backpacking when all of the kafuffle was going on. One of the lads pulled out a small video camera and one of the coppers said to me,

“Smile please; you have just been on German Candid Camera”.

Why was that king-size bottle of Malibu after sun in the car just when I needed it most to knock fuck out of the five nuggets in front of me. I’m not sure if it ever got aired on German TV as it wasn’t particularly funny. Although it might have been if my Mrs had of legged it as she was proposing to.

Paul B

Face Down

As the Christmas party was thinning out a bit in the garden, I wandered up to talk to Wes and hit another rich seam of polish vodka.   He had small claw shaped holes on his face that were filling with flecks of blood. I'd missed his mauling by Katie, his wife.  She had just left.  People passed shots and tried to decide what he should think it all meant.  

I remember looking through to a brightly lit room and seeing Ann & Claire and Andy (in an orange wig) dancing like all lives everywhere depended on it.  Johnny was involved in the affray.  After a period of time which could have been hours I became one of them, as did the remaining ten or so casualties.  

It had been light for maybe a couple of hours and Ann had demonstrated some less well-known falling over moves to an eager audience when we decided it was time to leave.  We 'walked'.  I managed to keep her upright and moving in broadly the right direction only through full physical effort, combating a left lunge with a right brace and so on.  I must have taken my eye off the game by the time we were on our street.  Anyway, she went off the other way with a vengeance, I couldn't hold her and the only way to protect her head was by swivelling her round as she went down. With both my hands trying to hold her I plunged face first across the gravel of the pavement.  

There was a fair bit of blood from superficial cuts and grazes across the right side of my face.  Drinking tea, speaking and especially smiling all hurt.  I will tell the people in Newcastle that I had a mountain-biking accident. 

Paul F

A Question Of Sport

We used to talk about it lots. We used to talk about all kinds of things lots. A few of the boys had Staffordshire Bull Terriers, they used to talk about dog fighting. Young wanna be toughs who'd be more likely to pat their dogs to death than let them tear each other apart. No, they had the dogs but it was all part of an image, a facade, nothing more, those boys loved those dogs make no mistake about that. I knew of dogs ate better than I did.

One lad reckoned he'd seen two dogs fighting a badger. He was full of shit. I'd never seen a badger and that's still true to this day. I think he'd seen it in a book, or on a TV documentary. He knew all about it.
"They break the badger's jaw first to make it a fair fight." A fair fucking fight where they break your jaw first? Christ!
 "And then they let the two Staffs loose on him and they work as a team. The farmer, when he's digging the badger out, he shoves sticks down his wellies 'cause if the badger takes hold, he'll not stop biting until he breaks your leg. If he hears the snap of the sticks he'll let go." Our champ could never quite explain why, if the badger was such a fearsome creature, the farmer wouldn't just shoot him never mind, dig him out, break his jaw - with a club, I imagine - and then risk two good dogs.
"Sport, mate, sport."

JL

The Importance Of The Right Equipment Cannot Be Overstated

It's said that to fail  to prepare is to prepare to fail. Well, you'll not find me getting caught out. I've consulted the weather reports, precipitation levels, barometric pressure, temperature and phase of the moon, waxing. I've poured over maps, studied several routes and come up with one I think will work best given the conditions, drizzle/turning to steady rain, the amount of day light I can reasonably expect and, of course, the lay of the land, mostly flat with one or two slight elevations.

I've carefully chosen a lightweight, Italian made day hiker that should offer support yet prove nimble enough should speed be of great import. The temperature is seasonal, winter, but the wet weather has negated the down Summit Parka I'd usually opt for on an outing like this one. Down has fantastic insulating properties, especially when you consider it's weight to warmth ratio, but it's useless when wet. I've chosen synthetic insulation in the form of a fleece jacket, well it's actually part of my 3 in 1 system, all conditions jacket (Mountain Hardwear). It zips effortlessly into the Gortex shell which sports abrasion patches on the high stress areas, shoulders, elbows and skirt. I particularly like this one as the hood is out sized to allow for use over a helmet, if, say, you are belaying up a cliff face for instance. I won't need a helmet today though. Instead I've plumed for a simple woolen bobble style hat, hand crafted by the descendants of the Inca, no two are the same. The hats, I'm not sure about the Peruvians. It's made, of course, from wool and resists the elements well.

I picked up a pair of Gortex mittens in the sale at Blacks, this is to be their maiden voyage, if you will. I've decided to go with the classic Patagonia hiking pant, with the zips at the knees that enable you to convert them to shorts should the need arise, not that I think it will on this particular trip. They are synthetic and dry quickly, an important consideration given the rain expected.

Right, I've chosen a small day pack, I'm not travelling far and I wouldn't want to get weighed down unnecessarily so provisions have been chosen with the utmost care. I'm quietly confident I'm ready for all mother nature can throw at me. Right, I'll be on my way, I think I've got everything

"You off hiking son?"
"No dad, it's Oldham Preston at Deepdale, can you give us a ride to the train station?"

JL

Twenty Minutes

It's never easy staring at a blank piece of paper. "You've got twenty minutes," they said. Twenty minutes, I can't come up with anything in twenty minutes. Where do I start? What would I write? What if someone else has done it already? I have no imagination, I never did have.

Twenty minutes, it's a long time to, say, hold your breath but to actually write something? You can't get much down in twenty minutes can you? How'd you develop a narrative when it's over before it's begun? Beginning, middle and an end, good luck with that in twenty minutes.

What can I write? What can I write? Only five minutes left, I'll have to come up with something... Okay, here goes nothing.

Terry S******  Expenses Nov/Dec 2012.

Terry S

The Girls At Kiss Kiss

I saw his name in the paper.  Micheal Pilkington. Below it in brackets Tiny.

Tiny Tiny Tiny. It mentioned my local, The Brew Inn, is that where I knew him from. I just couldn’t put a face to the name. Tiny -Micheal Pilkington -Micheal Pilkington - Tiny  I tossed the names around my head on the way for my Friday night drink. I didn’t have to ask, before I’d even sat down with my first pint Jim asked if I knew about Tiny.

 ‘I can’t place him, who’d he used to drink with?’

It turned out, I did know Tiny albeit not very well. He was a few years older than us and apart from the odd game of pool I’d never spoken to him, apart from the usual courtesies. I could put a face to the name though.

Jim told me the tale. A few weeks ago Tiny received a tax rebate of £2000.

‘So what you gonna do with it then Tiny?’

‘I’m off on ‘oliday?’

‘Very nice, somewhere exoctic?’

‘Kind of….KissKiss….. for a whole week.’

‘KissKiss the massage parlour on Denbury Road?’

‘That’s right. Open 24 hours a day, seven days a week.’

‘Right…ah well,  suppose Spain hasn’t warmed up yet.’

KissKiss on Denbury Road,  not really a massage parlour more of a brothel.  

This stories not about the morals or the rights and wrongs of prostitution. It’s about Tiny. And apparently he did spend a week there, playing pool naked, sleeping with a different woman every night. He left on the Sunday evening and called in for a few pints at the Brew Inn telling anyone who’d listen about his escapades.

  He was found dead in bed on the Monday morning, died in his sleep, a heart attack.

The newspaper said

Michael Pilkington.

(Tiny)

Regular at the Brew Inn and KissKiss Massage Parlour.

Miss you already

The girls at KissKiss.

 

Soulheed

Wife says “There's someone on the phone wants to talk to you about funerals.” 

I say “Hello,”

He says, “Mr Cullen, as I've just been mentioning to your wife; do you have a funeral plan in place…”

And I say “Well, our Paul's doing the music.  I've left him two tapes.  One called Death Disco and the other, rather wittily, or so I thought, called Death Disco Two.  I'm fairly sure I'll go before him.  And believe me, he'll get them the right way round, so it'll be The Perfect Kiss by New Order for starters.” 

The man says “Actually Mr Cullen, it's more about the financial aspect…” 

I say "Don't worry about that either, I'll leave a few hundred quid behind the bar, so everyone who wants to, can have a right good drink." 

Wonder if someone's got a list somewhere with all our names on and when you reach a certain age, a red flag appears next to your name and they ring you about this kind of thing.  He said he'd send me a brochure, but it's not arrived yet. 

And it’s probably a black flag, not a red one.

Martin C

I Can't Put A Figure On It.

"Arh yes, Mr and Mrs Leigh, it's nice to see you again. Sit down please."

Open night, my Mam and Dad up the school getting it straight from the horses mouth. I hate open night.

"Right, well, Shaun. Phew, what can I say?"

"Well how's the lad doing, that might be a good start."

"Right, right, right, great yeah, sure. The thing is, Shaun, Shaun's got talent...

-Jesus, our Shaun's right this ones a tosser alright. Still, English teacher, bloke, what'd you expect?

... but he's got no, he has no, erm, he has no drive. He doesn't seem to care. He's wasting what God's given him."

"What do you mean Mr Fisher? Is he not doing his homework?"

-Fucking woman's haircut. Looks like he dyes it. Cord jacket. And that tie, what the fuck is that tie all about?

"Oh no, no, no. No, no, no, no ,no... He does his work but it's just that. Well, it's... How can I put this?"

"Why don't you just tell us what he's not doing that he should be doing?"

"Right Mr Leigh, right. Well, the thing is, I think he's capable of more."

- It's fucking knitted. His tie's fucking knitted. Jesus, you're gonna sit there and slag my lad off while wearing a knitted tie?

I know they're gonna kill me when they get home. They always do. I always fuck up somehow.

"More? In what way?"

"Well, I can't, I can't really ..."

"What is it, words, paragraphs, pages, what do you want?"

"Well, it's not really a matter of quantifying it like that it's just that I know he has more in him."

"What my husband's trying to say is if you tell us what it is you want him to do we'll make sure he does it."

"I just feel he's capable of more, it's not about the number of pages or words, it's just he has..."

"More in him?"

-Jesus have you seen him, playing with his 'tashe?

"Exactly Mr Leigh."

"Put a number on more please Mr Fisher."

"I can't. I really can't I just don't..."

"One hundred words? Two Hundred words? Three hundred..."

"Please Mr Leigh, we're not really getting anywhere with this are we?"

"Look Mr Leigh, I'm sure you're a very intelligent man but our Shaun, well look at us, he's our son, we never went to college, we just need to know what you want from him and the lad will do it. Give us a figure to work with."

"Please don't put me on the spot like this. Shaun has talent and he really, really needs to develop it"

"Right come on love let's go see the maths teacher. Thanks for your time Mr Fisher. The lad'll write more, he'll try harder. "

"Please erm, I hope I haven't..."

"We won't take up any more of your time"

"Thank you Mr Fisher, thank you."

"Come on love, maths teacher."

"Jesus, what chance has the lad got of knowing how much to write if the teach doesn't know?"

"He seems a nice man, a bit confused but a nice man. He reminded me of someone."

"Oh aye?"

They're back.

"Mam, dad, how'd it go?"

"Well son you'd need to be a fucking detective to work that English teacher out"

"Shoestring!"

"What Mam?"

"Shoestring."

"Yeah, you'd need to be Eddie Shoestring to work that one out.

"Funny that, the kids call him Shoestring. Did you see his knitted tie?"

Fight Night

I remember, when I was a younger, I used to watch the boxing on TV with my old man all the time. Midweek fights with Jim Watt and Reg Guteridge commentating, Pat Cowdell giving his all, me and the old man camped in the living room with a box of Jaffa Cakes and pots of tea, Mam, long gone off to bed. A Saturday afternoon, European Championship fight, Kirkland Laing fighting in Italy.
"He'll need a knockout to get a draw over there, son." He was right. Jaffa Cakes, Tea, the curtains drawn Mam off somewhere. A big fight, Saturday night/Sunday Morning, live from Vegas, Hagler Mugabi, by Christ those two could bang. Jaffa Cakes, tea, Mam sound asleep.

My old man let me swear up a storm when we watched the boxing. I'd get a clip round the ear any other time. He was funny like that. I loved boxing. I loved my old man. I still do. I miss him, too. I still drink tea and eat Jaffa Cakes. I don't watch too much boxing anymore though, it's not the same.

JL