Go Ahead

Posted on January 29, 2013 by jasonoruairc

It’s been a miserable week so far, what with the news about Jim’s dad needing chemo, and the heavy snow interrupting things. I really don’t understand how one night of snowfall can bring the whole city to a standstill like that. I can look at the weather forecast; why can’t the Council? Anyway, I decide that a wee dander will help clear my head, give me some space to think, and I find myself taking a roundabout route away from the noisy streets. I start off at Maysfield, walking up beside the river past the Market and the Lower Ormeau. From there I am planning to head up to the Botanic Gardens via the Stranmillis Embankment. It is peaceful by the river; I stop for a while to watch a Cormorant, which is perched high up on the old weir; it is looking down at the grey water as it preens itself. Little remains of the snow now: only slowly shrinking snowmen on lawns, and piled-up ridges of black-flecked, dirty slush beside the roads. Passing the bottom of Rutland Street, a small, icy snowball shatters on the path in front of me; some kids are squeezing the last entertainment out of the winter. I don’t even bother to look round; it was a pathetic attack really. It is not repeated. Can’t blame them for trying to make it last, I suppose; me and Jim used to have great snowball fights when the boys were young, but the fun always faded too soon, when the inevitable thaw set in.

There is a lovely new sculpture of some wee animals playing bodhráns and tin whistles, with poetry in Irish and English, where the path meets the Ormeau Road. I wait for the Green Man, cross at the lights, and start onto the Embankment. In the distance I can see a young man and woman emerging from the bottom gates of the Botanic Gardens, exactly where I’m heading. She is wheeling a girl’s bike – my daddy would have called it a “nurse’s bike” – as they cross the road onto the same side as me. She looks amazing: emerald green cape, bright red beret and gloves; dark hair in a fringe. He has a short beard, and is dressed more inconspicuously in jeans and a battered leather coat. If he were here, no doubt Jim would tut-tut and say red and green should never be seen or some such fussy nonsense, but she is a welcome burst of colour in the dull winter landscape. After they cross, she takes her left hand off the handlebars and clasps his hand firmly, steering the bike with her right.  They are chatting away, enfolded in their own wee world, not really paying much attention to where they’re going. As they come nearer to me he slows the pace and reaches his arm around her waist, pulling her close to kiss her affectionately. They keep walking slowly, looking into each other’s eyes, then gently kiss again.

Jim would have told her to hold the handlebars in the middle if she was wheeling the bike one-handed, and he’d have been right too: the moment is lost as she loses control and it careers into the railings by the riverbank. I’m only a few feet away by the time this happens, and they’re aware of my presence; they almost collapse laughing. He recovers a little, looks straight at me, smiling infectiously, but I’m already grinning. He probably thinks I’m laughing at them getting caught on, but I’m not: they’ve made my day. As soon as I get home, I’m going to hold Jim, and kiss him like that; I never stopped loving that man.

In the Botanic Gardens, the last of the snow is disappearing from the lawn. By the gate, next to a yellow Witch Hazel and the first crocuses, a Rhododendron is covered in red flowers: it is still January, far too early for these blooms. I wonder if the lovers passed this way too.

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Flagging Hopes

Posted on January 21, 2013 by jasonoruairc

The abrasive, high-pitched, chainsaw-like buzz of his wee car being excessively revved by old Gerry from next door rips me away from my idle daydreaming in front of the TV. I have been watching a report about the continuing Loyalist riots on the Newtownards Road. Cars have been burned out, politicians issued with death threats, and homes in the Short Strand attacked by sectarian mobs. Some of the masked rioters haven’t even reached their teens yet. Depressing. I get up to watch out of the window in fear for my car which I have foolishly parked next to Gerry’s. He’s rammed a few neighbours recently; apparently one couple were sitting in their vehicle when he slipped the clutch, crossed the street and piled into the side, completely wrecking their driver’s door. I’m amazed he’s still able to get insurance. But there is no damage this time; he takes off, stuttering towards the end of the street with the engine complaining loudly.

It is bitter outside, typical Mid-January Belfast weather: cold and grey, the interminable rain blowing along on a light breeze in fine, almost-mist-like droplets. I don’t want to go out in this, but I have letters to post, and the car needs to be taxed; if I’m going to walk down to the gasworks I may go now. There is no point waiting for the rain to ease off, and snow is forecast for tomorrow; I can procrastinate no longer. I stash my documents and letters in the capacious inside pocket of my long coat, and wrap up warm: scarf, woolly hat, gloves. On the Ormeau Road I pass through a posited sectarian boundary, which is delineated by flags: at Ballynafeigh the Union Flag, on the Lower Ormeau the Tricolour. Today they are sodden and wrapped pathetically around the lamp posts. I imagine them hanging permanently flaccid like this, rotting; dissolving gradually in the rain, their colours leaching out imperceptibly, fibres slowly untangling, fabric mouldering. But I must pay attention to the street as well: there are large puddles on the pavement and road, and I need to keep well away from the kerb to avoid getting drenched by mischievous taxi drivers and lumbering buses. When I get to the bottom of Donegall Pass I notice a new billboard. It is displaying some of the forthcoming attractions Northern Ireland has to offer in 2013: Londonderry, City of Culture; Fermanagh, G8 conference; Belfast, World Fire and Police Games. They started rehearsing for the Games early here, I think, recalling the news bulletin.

The DVA office is quiet, and I’m all done within ten minutes. I set my face to the weather once more and start back up the road towards the comfort of a turf fire and a cup of tea. When I get to the shops on the Lower Ormeau, I notice something: there is a large, black and white-panelled umbrella on the road. It is completely extended, nearly taking up the whole lane; cars are pulling out to go around it. There isn’t enough wind to whip it scratching awkwardly along the road, so it sits there, bizarrely immobile. It hasn’t been snatched by a sudden gust out of somebody’s hands, or been turned inside out and discarded. It’s in perfect condition. There is nobody running after it, nobody even near it. I am perplexed by this: how has it come to be there? I try to picture the circumstances: the owner spontaneously combusting; being beamed up by aliens; teleporting. But there’s no corroborating ash pile on the road, no scorching; nothing.

Maybe it’s not so exotic though. Encamped there on the glistening tarmac the umbrella could serve as an alternative flag, a symbol of peace, equality, and tolerance: continually circumvented, ignored, and un-newsworthy. I leave it silently protesting in the face of the oncoming traffic, and head for home.

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Jammy Dodger

Posted on January 17, 2013 by jasonoruairc

I’d finished Dublin Road and was starting on Donegall Pass, opposite the Police Station. My day hadn’t got off to a great start: some gent had caught us parked on the double yellows outside our office earlier and had passed a comment, which irked me a bit. I mean, we had to park there while we got the van ready – what did he expect us to do? But things had improved from there: it was a dry day, chilly, but not bad for January in Belfast; what was even better was that I’d not had any abusive customers, and it was already lunchtime. There are always motorists round here who park up for half an hour while they nip into the shops, and they often stay longer than they mean to, so they over-run the meter. If I’m writing them a ticket when they come out, I always say to them to stick an extra 30p in, to give themselves fifteen more minutes in case they get chatting and lose track of the time (women are *by far* the worst for doing this, I’ve noticed). I mean, what’s another 30p compared to a parking fine? To be honest, I don’t think many of them pay much attention to my advice though (sometimes they shout at me). Don’t get me wrong: I’m not a big one for writing out tickets; I only do it when it’s a clear violation of the rules. I’m scrupulously fair.

I’d just written out a ticket for a Belfast-registered black Honda (which was *way* over the maximum) when I encountered her. I heard the pinging of her bicycle bell in the distance first, and looked up. There was a couple walking along hand in hand on the pavement near me, the girl carrying a violin and the man a small black box (maybe he was a DJ?). She obviously knew them, because they stopped and looked round when they saw her, and she dismounted and fell in line with them, chatting away. She was wearing some kind of woollen shawl, with a big scarf, and had reddish-brown (auburn?) hair down to her shoulders. I suppose she was in her late fifties. Anyway when she saw me, she just launched straight in, asking was it alright to park in that space, because she would need to bring the car down some day. Well, I like to be helpful, so I explained to her that you could park for up to two hours. While I was telling her the rules she delved into the basket on the front of her bike (it was one of those old-fashioned black bicycles), and pulled out this plastic bag with what looked like a jar in it. She gave me a wide smile and thrust it towards me. Instinctively, I recoiled, of course. She was insistent, though: it’s jam, here, take it! She pulled it out of the bag to show it to me. This was most unexpected: why was she trying to bribe me? The ticket was already written; and there would be no going back on that, *no chance.* And anyway, it wasn’t even her car (was it?). To be honest, I was a bit flustered, but I didn’t show it. I maintained my professional coolness, just like I would with an angry motorist: Nowhere to put it, I said, can’t carry it. I held up my hands to show her my lack of pockets (that did the trick). She just grinned, put it back in the basket, and the three of them went on their way, up towards Botanic Avenue. Some people.

Nice jam though: Baxter’s Rhubarb and Ginger.

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Doleful

Posted on January 11, 2013 by jasonoruairc

In the 90s they used to hide behind screens of bullet-proof glass at Shaftesbury Square dole office. They needed them. The barrier fostered abuse of power, rage, fear, oppression, and violence. It encouraged those civil servants who were disposed towards playground megalomania and sadism to indulge themselves in bullying their helpless clients.

There were two rooms: one downstairs, where you queued up to sign on, and one upstairs, where they dealt with administrative stuff like new claims. I spent time in both places. I had to sign on once a fortnight at the same window at a designated time, and I often got the same young guy signing me on; I hated having to face him. He had small, mean eyes, behind black-rimmed specs, combed-back dark, greasy, hair, and a thick, white, neck. Through thin lips, he interrogated his subjects about their pathetic attempts to find work, with the forensic attention of a Cold-War spycatcher. There was a lad with special needs whose signing time was five minutes before me; needless to say he always got challenged, and usually ended up in tears, appealing pointlessly to the clerk’s better nature. We were all soft targets – it was easy to pick holes in our jobsearch evidence – but he was a real gift to his tormentor, who took every opportunity to wield his power. I don’t think he ever went as far as getting the boy’s benefit stopped though; this would have ended his fun. No torturer worth his salt ever lets his victim die.

The upstairs room was laid out differently, with tables for filling out forms, and chairs for enduring the inevitable long wait. Everything was bolted to the floor. One time I was up there when this woman came in, all tracksuit, tattoos, and thick Scottish accent; you couldn’t miss the smell of drink off her. It was about ten in the morning and she was already blocked. Within minutes of being in front of the screen she was roaring and cursing, banging on the thick laminated glass with her fists. They must have stopped her money or refused a payment. She tried to lift the seat next to her, but it was securely fastened down. The clerk studied her quietly and impassively in the few seconds before security arrived and dragged her away. The next week, when I went back, the same partition was cracked into a spider-web where somebody had managed to attack it with a heavy object. I wondered if the Scottish woman had done it.

Twelve years later the place has changed completely: the plate-glass has gone, and both floors are open-plan, with booths. The staff are friendly; they call you by your first name as they discuss your situation. The taunting and goading has ceased, and you sit down on comfortable seats while you wait to be called to sign; there is no more queuing in line. It seems that in the years since I was last here, somebody somewhere up the chain wised up and introduced humanity to the building. There are still security guards, but the jobs have been outsourced and they are from a private company. I got talking to one a couple of weeks ago when I was getting used to the new ticketed waiting system. He was very friendly, in his late fifties I’d say, with this mad grey hair that stuck straight up like Don King’s. After giving me the information I needed, he started to chat away to me, asked me about my story, offered commiserations. Then it began: I’m not racist, but see them Eastern Europeans? Why are they being let in here? Can’t even speak our language, just come here to scrounge off us. They should all be sent packing. I gently argued with him, and seeing that he wasn’t getting a sympathetic ear he rapidly moderated his tone.

I went to sit, watching the board for my number to come up. It was warm in the room, and most of the male advisers were in t-shirts. There was an overweight female adviser opposite me, with bad makeup and frizzy blonde hair, wearing a light fluffy jumper and a bright, gaudy scarf. She was eating a bag of crisps at her desk, and indulging in occasional conversation around the partition between her and the young lad at the next booth. He was trying to get some work done and wasn’t very responsive, so she finished her snack and quietly called out her client’s name. It was almost inaudible, even from where I was sitting. Unsurprisingly, nobody stirred, and she went about her work, lethargically typing with two fingers. She didn’t make any further attempt to call her client: if he was in the room he must have missed his appointment, and that would not go well for him. Moments later my phone rang; a withheld number, possibly important. I answered it, and in a matter of seconds Don King was over telling me to end the call. But what if it was a job offer? No matter, Rules is rules; you can text, but no phone calls. The threat successfully neutralised, he sauntered back to his position by the door. As I settled back to my waiting, I became aware of the piped-in background music for the first time: Ghost Town by The Specials was playing. England in 1980: rampant racism, Thatcher’s Conservative government, rioting, soaring unemployment, inequality, recession, media manipulation, class war. What’s next? I wondered, UB40’s “One in Ten”, maybe? In fact, the next song was Under Pressure by Queen and David Bowie, from 1981. That DJ has a dark sense of humour, I thought to myself, as I crossed the room to sign on.

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Shoes and Socks

Posted on January 7, 2013 by jasonoruairc

We were on a day trip to Fermanagh to do some workshops and a forty-minute free concert in the Tourist Information Centre in Enniskillen. The event was organised by a charity that brought live music to the public, in places where it might not usually be heard. We played in prisons, day centres, nursing homes, libraries, psychiatric hospitals, you name it. The centre was quite a small place, warm and modern, and there was good demand for the traditional music; there were about ten rows of plastic seats, which soon filled up as the start time approached. Laura, our contact from the charity, had come with us this on this trip and was sitting to my right at a table with various piles of information leaflets about the charity. We’d already done several performances in schools around the area, and it had been a long day, with a lot of travelling; we were tired and looking forward to getting back to Belfast and maybe a last pint in the Hatfield Bar.

We started the set with some reels, The Navvy on the Shore and A Midsummer’s Night. Towards the end of the first tune a woman entered the room. She disturbed the mood completely, letting the door slam behind her, and walking across the room, in front of the audience, to sit on the floor to my right. She was in her late forties, dressed in a long skirt, white blouse and a brown-green tweed jacket. Her wavy, greying fair hair hung loosely down to just above her shoulders. Hung around her neck on a gold chain was a pair of tortoiseshell spectacles. I instantly and incorrectly stereotyped her as a prim librarian or schoolmistress. At the end of the piece she jumped to her feet, applauding energetically and whooping. After she had finished her performance we introduced the next set of tunes, three jigs. As we started the first one, she turned to the audience and announced that she was going to show them some Irish Dancing. She had been taught to dance properly as a child, and was dismayed at the way the children of today pranced about with no appreciation of the good old style. Michael O’Flaherty and his Riverdance nonsense was to blame.

I watched with a mixture of horror and amusement as she kicked off her shoes – too much of a heel presumably – and started to leap into the air, kicking her legs in front of her, arms rigidly locked down by her side. She zoomed up and down in front of us, making full use of the available space. At times like this it is difficult to maintain composure. I knew our guitarist, Alan, was trying to get my attention; I could feel his eyes boring into me. From experience, I knew better than to look at him; a laughing fit would spell disaster for the performance. She was a terrible dancer, like a puppet with some of the strings cut. After the jigs were finished, she again addressed the room, exclaiming that the floor was too slippery for her to dance properly, and she needed some dancing shoes. She sat back down.

There was a palpable sense of relief in the room. But it was not over: as the next set of tunes commenced I could see her gaze running searchingly round the band and the front row. It settled on my feet, and with rising panic I realised that she was eying up my shoes for suitability. Obviously, nothing was going to prevent her from dancing. Alan knew what was going on: he was managing to keep his face from view behind his long hair, but I could see his back shaking. Mercifully she rejected my shoes and approached a tall man in the centre of the front row who was sporting a pair of loafers. He handed them over meekly and she wasted no time slipping into them. No good: they were far too big. Undaunted, she approached Laura’s table, seized a pile of flyers and stuffed a handful into each shoe. Job done. The improved traction made her bolder; she flew up and down, producing daring turns and jumps with no fear of slipping. In terms of technique, the quality of her dance was no better, but the new zeal was breathtaking. She continued for the remainder of what had once been our show, and when the music finished, she led the applause for an encore. This was the good traditional music, the old stuff, the way it should be. Afterwards, as the crowd started to disperse, she sat on, relishing the afterglow of a great performance. The man in the front row was still sitting there in his socks after most of the others had left; it took him some time to pluck up the courage to ask for his shoes back. She pulled the flyers out, all mangled and damp with sweat, gave him his loafers and then handed the leaflets back to Laura: Here love, you might need to run the iron over them; they’re a wee bit creased.

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Political Football

Posted on January 2, 2013 by jasonoruairc

He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Simple as that. It could so easily have been me. I am still selfishly grateful that he was there in front of me, that his action saved me from the suffering that most certainly would have been mine otherwise. It was a fine spring day and squads of noisy kids were terrorising the streets, throwing water bombs and good-natured abuse. The boys’ childish skirmishes were a welcome distraction from the sectarian tension which was roiling in the background as we built up to another summer where riot police blockaded protestors into the side streets of the Lower Ormeau while they forced through contentious Orange Parades.

I was walking maybe five yards behind him, having just crossed the Ormeau Bridge. He was beside the high, windowless, red brick side wall of the Asia Supermarket. To my left was a narrow strip of grassy, litter-strewn waste land. He was just an ordinary young man, wearing a white t-shirt and jeans, trainers.

On the gable wall of the house across the street was a large circular mural. It was like a ‘No Smoking’ sign with a stylised Orangeman in place of a cigarette. It was captioned with the Spanish Civil War anti-fascist slogan No Pasarán. Underneath it were three shirtless boys, their skin beginning to burn in the sun. They were lined up at the kerb, shouting across the traffic at him as he walked innocently ahead of me. There was a football on the pavement in front of him, which they wanted him to kick back to them: C’mon mister – we can’t get across…  So he checked the road right and left for buses and lorries, and then took a short run up, his eyes fixed on the ball. He should have picked it up and hoofed it like a goalkeeper – I like to think I’d have done that. The boys on the other side were wide-eyed with anticipation and incredulity. As his foot connected there was a quiet thud. If it hadn’t been full of stones, the football would have cleared the slow-moving cars perfectly; it was struck sweetly. But, of course, it only moved about three inches; he let out a howl of agony followed by a burst of expletives. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had broken a toe or something. In physical and mental pain he hopped to the bus shelter and sat down, tears lining his cheeks. The boys were bent double laughing; they didn’t even have to run away. The sight was comical enough, but I suppressed the urge to laugh as I went over to see if he was ok. He was more embarrassed than anything – he’d be fine – should have known better. Wee bastards got me a good ‘un. But there’s worse things could have happened to me round here. Own goal, mate, own goal.

***

Irish translation by Tom Clarke here.

 

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Consuming Passions

Posted on December 18, 2012 by jasonoruairc

It is August 2007, and the warm sunshine has brought crowds of Saturday shoppers into the city centre. Belfast’s new cathedral of consumerism, Victoria Square, is not yet open to worshippers. As the complex nears completion the excitement is palpable: you cannot wait to get in there. The Square will host the biggest House of Fraser ever built; next summer you will be able to pay £160 for a Dolce & Gabbana t-shirt in the sales. Although the Credit Crunch has begun it still seems like a distant problem: something for bankers to fret over; something you hear about on the news but ignore. It is irrelevant; you have never heard of Collateralised Debt Obligations or Credit Default Swaps. Like thunder and sheeting rain over faraway hills that hasn’t spoiled your summer holidays yet, the full force of the looming financial meltdown and subsequent recessions has yet to arrive. In just over a year’s time, house prices, now at dizzying and unsustainable heights, will plummet, and shops will be boarded up. Panicking governments will ineffectually print money, lower interest rates, and cut welfare. The banking system will collapse, exposing the rampant greed and cronyism of engorged capitalists and politicians. Smoke will be dispersed and mirrors cracked in the glare of outraged public scrutiny, yet nothing will be done by your self-serving elected representatives. Social unrest will become the norm, and the Far Right will flourish.

But all this is yet to come: right now you are pausing on one of the benches in front of City Hall to eat lunch in the sunshine. You watch the kids milling around in their dark baggy clothes, self-consciously shouting, joking, and mutedly chatting in small groups. When they talk, their eyes often scan the pavement as much as their friends’ faces; they seem uncomfortable, ill at ease. Their lives are complex, problematic, challenging.

After lunch it’s time to go shopping. Walking down the wide pavement of Donegall Place in the lunchtime throng, you stick as close to the plate-glass windows as possible, trying to take an easy route through the jostling hordes in front of you. Outside Queen’s Arcade your attention is snatched away from the mundane. Catwalking towards you are two girls, eighteen or nineteen years old. They are slim-waisted, curvy, with long, straightened hair. One is blonde, the other a redhead. Their makeup is perfect: simple, effective, subtle. They turn heads, male and female alike. The outfits are the same: shorts, sandals with heels, and identical white t-shirts emblazoned in bold black type with the words Pornstar in Training. When you see this proclamation, a host of thoughts clamour for your attention. After sifting through them, you finally understand that the point of this joint effort is to grab attention, to provoke, to demand devotion. These sassy girls will have a comeback for every smutty comment, slagging, and chat-up ever attempted. They own the street, the dancefloor, the VIP room. Certain things are ordained for such sirens: blue skies, endless credit, Dolce & Gabbana, marriage to some buck. Life is sweet.

But you know it’s all wrong: the foaming mass of lies, exploitation, and manipulation that assaults you from every billboard, TV advert, and news bulletin has legs. The girls are living proof of that.

 

Audio, read by Maria McManus:

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Those Were The Days, My Friend…

Posted on December 10, 2012 by jasonoruairc

Do you remember when there used to be a metal paling fence outside Kelly’s Cellars that made a sort of corridor? It had a turnstile at the end, by St Mary’s. And there were those big gates at the end of Castle Street. Turnstile there too: once you left the city centre you couldn’t get back in. It was a real pain for guitar and banjo players to get through. They had to hold the cases tight to their body and shuffle through like prisoners on a chain gang. It was difficult enough when you’d had a few pints, never mind carrying a big case like that. I think those gates on Castle Street were the last ones to be removed.

We always used to play in Kelly’s on a Saturday evening, in the wee snug opposite the top door. It was just big enough for a small table and about seven people. It was brilliant, because once you were in there you could play away to your heart’s content, and the noise from the bar didn’t bother you. The ones at the edge of the session, where it spilled out into the bar, always got the melters asking for ‘Carrickfergus’, or the kids trying to sell jokes or cigarette lighters. So, you had to get there early enough to get a seat in the snug, and then you were on the pig’s back. It was no place for a non-smoker though; turned into a gas chamber within minutes of the session starting. You’d sit there playing tunes and there would be five Regal burning away in the ashtray, with nobody actually smoking them. Rollups were better because they’d just go out. There was so much free drink you would be steaming by ten. The bars used to close earlier back then, and once you were thrown out of one, you’d generally be trying to get in somewhere else for a late pint.

The Castle Mews, next door to Kelly’s, was usually a good place to try, but you wouldn’t get in every time. Sometimes it’d be rammed by the time we showed up, and no amount of pleading would help; tougher, and better-connected guys than us were getting turned away as well. There was always something exciting about knocking the door: the promise of illicit drinking for a couple of hours made the whole thing so much more enjoyable. The bar was class for late drinking because it had no windows downstairs, so from the outside it looked permanently closed. It also had this wee secret passage that led out onto Castle Street, so you could sneak in and out undetected.  If you didn’t get in, well, you either went home, went to a party, or tried one of the clubs, like the Docker’s or the Electrician’s, where you could drink all night if you were able for it. Sometimes we’d go up to Ardoyne and go on the rip in one of the bars or shebeens. That place had its own laws; closing time didn’t seem to really exist up there. It was a nightmare to get home from though.

There were a lot of house parties in those days, quite often at my house. It was a two-up, two-down terraced place on the Lower Ormeau Road; it was amazing how many people you could jam into it. On one legendary night the place was so packed that the musicians were sitting everywhere: on the kitchen floor, the table, the worktops, and the few available chairs, of course. Somebody fell into the sink and just carried on playing anyway. They’d all come back to play tunes with this amazing flute-player from Brittany, but in the end he couldn’t get a seat and had to stand in the doorway with a tin whistle.

I had great neighbours in that street, never complained at all, dead friendly. I remember there was a houseful of students over the road who didn’t fare so well. That was the first real ‘student house’ in the street, I think. The couple on one side of them had a wee baby and they were finding it hard enough to sleep anyway, without the all night rave music on top of the squealing. Didn’t need that carry on. The students were asked nicely to keep it down several times but they didn’t just ignore the requests, they were cheeky with it: told the neighbours to “eff off”. I’ll never forget the look on that girl’s face when The Man arrived at their door. He must have only said two words to her and she went pure white – like someone had walked over her grave. She called down her housemate: the blood drained instantly from his face too. They were gone the next day.

The main problem about being out in town was getting a taxi. There were two depots on the other side of the Castle Street gate. There was always a queue, so you would end up waiting for ages; and there’d be ones who arrived after you that got lifted after two minutes because they were going west or north. None of the drivers wanted to go south; it was like unknown territory to them, too dodgy. We were blatantly discriminated against, and the injustice burned us, but complaining was no use. I recall one particular time when we were standing there for absolutely ages; the depot kept telling us our taxi was coming, but it never showed up, and eventually we were the last ones there. Then this bloke rolled up and asked if we were looking a taxi; we thought it was the one we ordered, and got in. Well, he wasn’t a taxi driver at all: totally illegal. Got our names and told us if we got stopped by the peelers he was a mate giving us a lift home. He didn’t have a clue where we were going, and nearly crashed twice on the Stranmillis Road, where we shouldn’t have been anyway. Turned out he was blocked.  We got out after the second near miss; didn’t pay him.

If we were early enough out of the bar we’d ring our local firm, but most times they’d be closed by the time we got to the payphones at the corner beside D Cabs, or else all the reply you’d get would be: “do you know what time it is mate?” Quite often you had to queue for the phone. I remember one night I’d been in the Hercules Bar, and there was this drunk girl in the phonebox. She was having a fight with her boyfriend – I don’t think he was keen on coming to get her – and she bashed the handset really hard off the metal box in front of her. After she’d stormed off, cursing all round her, I went to have a look and see if it was still working. It wasn’t: the top of it was hanging off, and the wiring inside was easily visible. While I was optimistically wondering if it could be repaired, a middle-aged fella came up beside me. “Here, let me have a look” he said, taking it off me. He inspected the wiring; seemed to know what he was talking about. “Hmmmmm. Red to red, ok. Black to black. Green to green. Blue to … bits!” This little joke cheered me up as I decided to take the rainy walk home. Plodding slowly towards the Ormeau, I idly wondered if he’d ever really wired up a bomb. I didn’t stop in Shaftesbury Square for a kebab that night, seeing as I was by myself. Something had happened during the week, and reprisals were expected; it felt a bit too risky. I took a safe route home via Dublin Road and the Holylands.

Belfast was so different then: it was edgy, dangerous. There was this constant awareness of peril that lay behind everything you did. Even a five-minute walk to the shops or a visit over the road to Bilko’s for chips could be a tense experience. When the IRA blew up Frizzell’s on the Shankill, killing all those people, we knew there would be a revenge attack. We walked through the entries to keep off the road; some people put up barricades in their front hallways. When we went to Kelly’s that Saturday we were the only ones in the bar. We played down the other end of the pub, by the locked main entrance. The doorman thought we were mad coming out at all, and told us if we saw him running, to get behind the bar and hit the deck. We didn’t stay long. The thing is, you never knew what was coming next. Sometimes it was comical; like when we were upstairs in Madden’s and one of the barmen came in, told us there was a bomb scare and we were to drink up and get out; the peelers were downstairs. There were these visitors from Galway up for the weekend; they freaked out, spilled drink in their rush to leave. We laughed at them, calmly finished our pints, took our time. We knew it was just a ploy.

I suppose one of the ways we coped with the mayhem around us was by partying. We’d play tunes and drink anywhere. Nobody had any money in those days, but the bars were packed all the same. Belfast’s a much better place to be living in now, of course. No way you’d want to go back to the bad old days. But you know what? I loved the craic we had back then; the pure wild madness of it all. We didn’t give a damn.

Still can’t get a taxi though.

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The Cat’s Whiskas

Posted on December 6, 2012 by jasonoruairc

I’ve slept in. Nightmare. Red-eyed and hungover, I jump out of bed. My head is banging and my stomach is full of acid; I might boke yet. In a flash, I recall that there was whiskey last night. We’d been in Tom’s for tunes, then up to the Jamaica Inn in Ardoyne for more of the same, then back to someone’s house. I can’t remember getting home. I wonder if it’s worth going busking at all; the good sheltered pitches will be taken by now, and it’s lashing outside. I should go all the same; I’m a first-year student at Queen’s, and I don’t have much of an income. I’m out playing six nights a week, picking up a few quid on some nights. It helps, but it’s still hard to make ends meet.

I put on my dressing gown and go down for a piss. In the bathroom next door I can hear running water. I knock the door; ask if they will be long. It’s Bronagh; she says she’ll only be a minute. I really could do with a shower: my long hair is starting to feel a bit lank. Need to take the scissors to my beard as well. I descend another flight to the kitchen, make tea with extra sugar, and toast, using the last of the bread. My stomach doesn’t like this assault, and lurches. I pause outside the toilet, hold my breakfast in, and go back to the top to get dressed. Dose of Gaviscon and I’ll be grand. Can’t wait for Bronagh; if I don’t get down town soon the day will be completely wasted. She’ll be in there for another half-hour at least. I shout through the bathroom door to her to take her time. She asks if I’m going into town, and can I get some cat food? You know the one she likes, fussy wee beast won’t eat just any old stuff. She’ll get me back later.

When I get into town my suspicions are correct, there are no dry pitches. The rain has eased a little, to a clinging mist of fine droplets. I try and earn some money, but after half an hour I am soaked, and haven’t even made enough for the bus home. Punters don’t want to stop and listen in this weather. It’s a disaster: time to give up. I remember to drop into Dunnes to get the shopping. In my groggy, stumbling, rush I have left my wallet behind me. Only need two things anyway.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I frigging hate working Saturdays. The girls were out last night, and I had to stay in because I was getting up early to come in to this dump. I bet the craic in Pips was brilliant too, good old bop, few wee vodkas, maybe a party after. Bitches’ll all be suffering today, feet up, fire on, watching TV. I know what I’d be doing: nice breakfast and back to bed; sleep it off. Then get up and lounge on the sofa in my jammies and slippers. Maybe bring the duvet down as well. Still, there’s always tonight. Have to get them round the house for a bottle of wine or something before we go out; get them fired up or they’ll be no fun at all. Jesus this is so boring.

Oh My God. Look at the state of him. He must have been sleeping rough: his jeans are nearly through at the knees and he’s soaking. His hair is hanging down to his shoulders in rat’s tails. It’s terrible that people like him have nowhere to go. See so many of them these days. He needs a good scrubbing down, a shave, and a haircut; might actually be quite good-looking if he took care of himself. As he comes up the aisle I can see that his eyes are all puffy – I can almost smell the drink off him from here. He must only be in his twenties; that’s too young to be an alco, surely? But you never know these days, recession and all. He’s probably got nits or fleas or God knows what. Maybe he’s mad in the head; that would explain why he’s out on the street. God love him, but I hope he doesn’t come to my till.

Oh no. Here he comes. Oh flip me, no. That’s disgusting. Can’t believe it; didn’t think people would really do that. He must have spent all his money on drink. This is awkward. I am so scundered. Should I say something? No. Keep the head down and hopefully he’ll go away.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

OK: let’s get this stuff and get home, shower, and warm up. I’m going to have to walk, but I’m soaked already so it’s not going to make any difference now. I haven’t enough dosh to get the fancy cat food; the fleabag will have to take what it’s given. I’m sure it’ll eat when it’s hungry; you can’t be picky when you’re starving. So there we are: sliced pan loaf and one tin of Whiskas. I pay with coins, and give the girl the correct money. I smile at her; I bet she’s glad to get the change. She says nothing, and is giving me a very strange look, embarrassed and horrified. I find this very disconcerting, and hurry off back into the drizzle without any further chat. The look on her face bothers me; I can’t work it out. It’s only when I’m halfway home that I realise. I burst out laughing; can’t wait to tell the others.

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Strangers on a Plane

Posted on December 3, 2012 by jasonoruairc

She is dripping with gold, well-dressed, classy. The whole ensemble looks expensive: silk scarf, camel hair coat. She is attractive too; in her early forties I would guess. Her shoulder-length dark brown hair falls perfectly. The fingernails are such a dark red that at first sight they look black in the gloom of the cabin. I have the reading light on, but I’ve been dozing. I’m too tired to read; the bus journey to Aldergrove seemed to take forever. Her husband sits between us, looking at the paper. Her voice drags me out of my half-slumber: You didn’t get me what I wanted for my birthday. She has a middle-class southern English accent. I sit motionless, with my eyes open, realising that she is deliberately speaking louder than necessary. I can’t hear his reply. You’re skirting over the issue, she says. The bad grammar tickles me; she is letting herself down a bit here. He replies, but again I don’t catch it. Well? Are we going there? Are we? She is really going for him now. I glance round, only now noticing that her lips are thin and mean, pursed in a tight red line of dissatisfaction. He must have given the correct response, because the attack ends there. She opens a magazine.

At Temple Meads train station the cafe is warm and welcoming. It is nestled under one of Brunel’s arches, and I enter through an old-fashioned red-painted shop door. Inside, I hear gorgeous gentle West-Country accents. The woman behind the counter is going off-shift. She is balancing the till, taking different coins from battered old takeaway tea cups. She tells me she can never get the change right, but a couple of pennies don’t matter: couple of pounds is different. When she’s finished I order tea, and pie and chips from her colleague. The banter between the new server and her customers is familiar, homely, friendly. A taxi driver goes in behind the counter to leave down his plate and mug, and lifts his book before going back out into the night. After a short while my dinner arrives. I open the end of the pie with my fork. It looks disgusting. The soft pastry contains a glutinous grey slop with black lumps in it. But I am starving and must eat before I catch my train; there is a long weekend ahead. I slosh vinegar on my chips, eat a couple, and then take my first forkful of pie. I watch in dismay as the thick filling oozes slowly out onto the plate from inside the case. The food is so hot that it scalds my tongue, and I have to suck in air to try and cool it down. When I get over the stinging heat, I am astonished. The pie’s appearance was masterfully deceptive: it tastes delicious. Content, I take a swig of my tea.

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