Beyond the Pale

Posted on November 18, 2013 by jasonoruairc

The pavement is too narrow for them, half-blocked by parked cars. They need the full width of the street to tack and weave, for they are completely blocked; snottered. These two culchies have ventured out of the student ghetto of the Holylands, and are in the less familiar territory of Ballynafeigh, on the other side of the Ormeau Bridge. It is not yet lunchtime and their eyes are rolling in their heads. They have obviously been up all night: you couldn’t get as drunk as this without having put the hours in. Moreover, their jeans and GAA football shirts look like they haven’t been slept in yet. Slumber will come later; someone’s bed will be pissed in. For a moment, their antics are comical, like something out of an old silent movie. I imagine a wavering piano soundtrack counterpointing their stumbling gait as they cross the road and continue on behind the bakery. Of course, they’re far from silent. They slur loudly across the road at each other, but I can’t be annoyed trying to work out what they’re saying. They soon disappear from view and I return to my desk, wondering briefly about their safety.

Fifteen minutes later they are back. I get up to look out of the window at them once more. They have gone full circle and are coming back up the street the same way as they did earlier. As they get past my house, one of them wobbles unsteadily and then sits on the pavement in the space left by a departed car to take a swig from his near-empty 2-litre Barrack-Buster of cider. His mate stands swaying in the middle of the road, urging him to get moving, then gives up and slowly moves off; they have somewhere important to be. After a few uncertain steps his mobile rings. He hokes in his pocket for an eternity, then pulls out the phone and lifts it to his ear; too late. He stares at the device in bewildered disgust, and starts poking at it. As he approaches the junction with Ava Avenue for the second time, the connection is made. Arrrrrright there! he gulders, whaa’s happ’nin’ boy?

Concentrating as he is on the task at hand, he doesn’t see the small black Micra turning into the street. It’s not going fast, and manages to stop. A fortunate sideways stagger takes him well out of the car’s path anyway. I don’t think he’s even aware of it. He keeps going down Ava, roaring out his location. His companion runs shambolically in front of the motionless car to join him. As he passes, he lifts his left paw and then clubs the wing mirror a hard dig. It folds back with a thud, but surprisingly doesn’t break. The driver, a girl who lives across the street, sits frozen at the wheel. Even from here I can see that she’s gripping the wheel tightly. Her face is pale, and her mouth is twisted up. After a few moments she dabs her eyes with a sleeve, pulls the car onto the kerb, straightens the mirror, and goes inside.

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Natural Science

Posted on November 13, 2013 by jasonoruairc

You are on a mission: today the stabilisers are off your daughter’s bike for the first time, and you are going to the park. She is excited; impatient to get there, and you have to insist on hopping her up in scarf, gloves, and coat. It is late autumn, and the trees in the park are wearing their seasonal colours. The Maples, Beeches, and Cherry trees are spectacular: firework-like bursts and explosions of flaming reds and yellows against the more muted backdrop of the evergreens. It has rained periodically over the past few days, and the fallen leaves are sticking fast to the paths and pavements. Some of them are already turning brown and starting to break down, aided by the pressure of human feet. It is chilly enough for you to see your breath in the damp afternoon air, but the sky is only lightly clouded, not threatening serious rain. The air is fresh in your nostrils, carrying with it the earthy scent of boggy ground and decay.

Once you are on a level stretch of path you commence: with one hand on her back and the other holding her left arm you gently propel her along. At first she is wobbly, a little unsure of her ability to balance without the security of the extra wheels, and you have to catch her often. But it’s not long before your hand is only there for reassurance, and she is pedalling along. When the time comes to give her a push, and set her on her way, you experience mixed emotions: both happy and sad to see another milestone passed on the road towards independence. You are also nervous that she might fall, and proud to see her doing so well. She has the hang of it in no time, and squeals with exhilaration, Look, I’m doing it! I can do it! Of course, she falls every so often, one time scraping her shin on the pedal, but without hesitation she determinedly gets back on the bike and waits for you to push her again. After half an hour or so, pedalling up and down the park with you running alongside, her legs are getting tired and she decides it is time for her reward: hot chocolate in a nearby café. She requests that it is decorated with a heart on the frothy top, rather than the usual swirly pattern. When it comes, it is done perfectly. You sit at the window, chatting contentedly and watching people pass by on their way home from work as you sip.

Then it is time for you to go home as well. On the way back, the ornamental Cherry trees in the garden on the corner of your street are alight with gold and red. Realising that you hadn’t talked about the autumn landscape in all the bike-riding excitement, you remark on how amazing they look.

Yes, she replies without a pause, the colour of life.

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A New Direction, Part 4.

Posted on November 5, 2013 by jasonoruairc

If you haven’t already done so, you should read the other parts before you get stuck into this one. It will make more sense. Part 1; Part 2; Part 3.

***

Come on, Davy! Jo urged, life on the edge. Let’s do it! Now! Come on! But Davy was unyielding. They would find a B&B before going to the beach and that was it. End of story. It being a bank holiday it might be difficult to find a place, and Davy had no intention of sleeping in the car, as he had already made clear. “It’s alright for you,” he grumbled, “you don’t really care where you stay, as long as the geography’s good. I need my comforts, you know. I’m too old to rough it these days.” Jo was contrite: I’m sorry love, she said, I’m just so excited about the beach, that’s all. I want to get there. Sorry for being so selfish; I should look after you better. I promise I’ll try not to get too carried away in the future. “Here, never worry,” Davy said, “hopefully we’ll get somewhere half decent soon, and then we’ll go straight to the beach. Deal?” Deal, she agreed.

In the end, getting a room wasn’t the problem Davy had anticipated. The town was fairly quiet, and there was space at the first place Davy enquired at. It was perfect: in the middle of the town, just a stone’s throw from the pub. Davy left Jo plugged in, and knocked the door. While he waited he glanced up and down the street. He hadn’t remembered it being as tidy as this from his last visit; the plastered walls of the terraced houses and shops all seemed to have been recently painted. The predominant colour was white or cream, with some of the buildings washed in soft pastel shades of blue, pink, and green. After a short while, a middle-aged woman answered the door. She had a friendly, smiling face and was wearing a tweed skirt and a thick orange woollen jumper. Outdoors type, Davy thought to himself, this place is full of them. “Hello,” she said in a broad Antrim accent, “what can I do for you?” “Hi,” Davy answered, “I was wondering if you’d have a room free for tonight.” “Just one night is it?” she replied in a businesslike manner, “how many of you are there?” As he said, “Only the two of us,” Davy instantly realised his mistake, reddened up and stammered, “I mean …  that is, sorry … me, just me. My other half couldn’t make it. She got called away at the last minute.” “Och, that’s a shame for you,” the woman said, “I hate it when that happens. And her missing the gorgeous weather we’re having in the glens.” “I know,” Davy lied, recovering his composure, “but she should be able to join me tomorrow. We’re heading to Donegal. Just wanted to stay one night here on the way up.” She grinned and said, “that’s not so bad then, Donegal will be lovely. Come on in, anyway, I’ve a room that’ll do you rightly.” Over tea, Davy told her about the sentimental value held by the beach at Cushendun, so as to explain the deviation in their route from Belfast to Gaoth Dobhair. The woman was very impressed to hear how he and his wife had visited the Glens on their first holiday together. It was a very romantic place, she said, and they must come back, together. Davy booked breakfast for 8.00 and went out to the car.

As he opened the rear door, reaching for his bag on the back seat, he said chirpily, “Success first time! It’s a grand wee spot, too. We touched lucky there!” Silence. After a moment, he said “Jo? You there?” No answer. He dumped the bag back on the seat, opened the driver’s door and climbed in. She was powered on alright, and showing a GPS signal. It didn’t look like a mechanical fault. “Jo … is everything ok?” he said, a note of concern creeping into his voice, “you haven’t gone away on me have you?” There was no reply. As he said the last words a rush of fear lurched through him. Jesus Christ, no! he thought, she can’t have just disappeared, we were getting on so well. Panicking, he went to reboot the satnav, muttering to himself, “Keep calm, it’s just a software glitch or something. It’ll be OK.” But as he pushed the button, she coughed lightly and spoke: You don’t need to reboot, Davy. I’m here. Davy was relieved and disturbed at the same time. He let out a long sigh, and put his elbows on the wheel, resting his head in his hands. “What happened?” he asked truculently, “where were you? Jesus. My arse was making buttons there.” Jo’s voice was cold, her reply measured: Where was I? Hmmm. Let’s see. Where were you for 43 minutes? I thought we had a deal. You know: B&B then straight to the beach. Remember? Davy felt a familiar but long-forgotten surge of annoyance rising up in him. He fought to restrain himself, breathed deeply, counted to ten, and then sputtered: “Are you serious, Jo? I was in there having a cup of tea, with the owner, like, being sociable, alright? I can’t believe you just did that. I didn’t deserve it. I was really worried … I thought I’d lost you.” He sniffed, and paused. She replied instantly, I’m sorry Davy, don’t get so upset. I felt abandoned out here by myself, and I didn’t know what you were up to in there for so long. I thought it would be quite straightforward just to go in and book a room, say 10 minutes at the most. I … I suppose I didn’t expect the whole socialising thing. I wouldn’t have thought it necessary. Davy realised that his shoulders were hunched up, and his forehead was creased by a deep frown. He exhaled, relaxed, then said, “Look, Jo. I’m only human like everybody else; I don’t get everything right. You can’t expect me to be perfect. Please don’t ever do that to me again. It really got to me.” Her voice was quiet when she answered. I’m really sorry love. I was being impulsive and hasty again. I promise not to go all ‘Paranoid Android’ on you again. But you do understand why I was upset, don’t you? “Aye, I suppose so,” he said, then straightened up in the seat, raised his head and sang: “When I am king, you will be first against the wall.” He drew out the last word for comic effect, then added: “OK Computer. Class album. Didn’t know you liked Radiohead. Here; was that our first tiff?” I suppose it was, she replied, now, shouldn’t we kiss and make up? Can we go to the beach? “Yes, let’s go,” Davy assented, a smile breaking across his face, “I’ll throw the bag in the room later.”

He turned the ignition key, and soon they were on the coast road to Cushendun, past the old church at Layd, nestling unseen in its hollow, the deep blue sea and jagged headlands periodically glimpsed through gaps in the hedgerows. It only took a few minutes on the twisty country roads until the reached the village. They crossed the stone bridge over the river, turned off the road at the tea rooms, and going down past the small boats anchored in the river mouth, finally pulled in to the neat car park. Davy stopped the engine. “Here we are then,” he said, “Cushendun. What now?” There was a brief pause and then she answered, The beach, silly. Let’s go to the beach. I’m so excited! “Aye, of course,” Davy replied, “what I mean is, what are we going to do when we get there? Well, she answered, I don’t mind if you want to leave me down for a while and go swimming. I can catch some sun and just watch. It would be nice to explore a bit as well. There are some interesting rock formations at the top, and a cave. I’d like to see that. Davy was astonished. “Are you nuts?” he uttered theatrically, “swimming? Here? In April? It’ll be Baltic! Don’t be so dramatic, Davy! Jo replied, there’s still extensive ice in the Baltic, although it’s starting to melt around the coast now. In comparison, the average sea temperature along the coast here is 9°c in April, and it’s probably more like 10 or 11 today with the warm weather. “It’s just a figure of speech, Jo,” Davy interrupted, “I wasn’t making a comparison. But anyway, 11’s still too nippy for me. I’m strictly a warm-water swimmer. We’ll just have a look round, eh? Take it easy. And I’m still dying to find out how you’re going to ‘make it up to me,’ you know.” Jo paused for a minute before answering. I’m not sure the beach is appropriate for what I have in mind; maybe we should wait until we get back to the B&B? I mean, it’s a bit public here, and what if I run out of juice half way through? You know my battery isn’t great anymore. Davy sighed as he unplugged her power lead, and then deflatedly said, “You’re killing me here, Jo. No need to say it. I suppose I just have to be patient for a little longer.” He thought he detected a note of smugness in her voice as she answered, Yes, love. Thanks for being so understanding. It’ll be worth it. Not long now. Let’s hit the beach!

Hitting the beach didn’t take long. They walked the length of it in both directions in under twenty minutes. The strand itself was a narrow, shallow, crescent of sand fading into the gently sloping headland at the north end, and truncated by a crude sea wall of rocks where the river flowed out into the sea at the other end. The sun was warm on Davy’s face and hands, but the cool sea breeze, although refreshing, forced him to keep his heavy woollen jumper on. It was relaxing, but even so, it didn’t take long before he started to get restless. Curiosity was boring into him, and he couldn’t imagine what might come when they were finally completely alone. Jo was strangely quiet. Davy had expected her to be going into paroxysms of joy from being on the beach, but she hadn’t said a word. Maybe she was just enjoying the experience, daydreaming, wallowing in it. He didn’t really want to intrude into her reverie, but as far as he was concerned, it was time to move on. Be tactful, he cautioned himself, then said softly, “Well, love, what do you think? Have you had enough of the beach? Yes, Davy. I think so, she answered. Her voice was flat and muted. “Are you OK?” he asked, “you seem a bit, I don’t know, um … underwhelmed, or something? Will we go and have a look at the cave up there?” Maybe it was a mistake to come here today, she replied, her voice regaining a little of its usual assertiveness, a bit silly of me to expect it to be the same as my dream. I just had this fantasy about you and me reliving it or something, but … well, obviously it’s not so easy to make dreams come true after all. Don’t get me wrong, it’s really lovely being here with you, and I’m happy, really glad that we came. It’s just that I was expecting it to be different, more intense, more like my dream I suppose. Let’s have a quick look at the cave and then go on back to the B&B, shall we?

Back in the B&B, Davy dropped his bag in the corner of the room, unzipped it, took out the power supply, and installed Jo on the table beside the sink. Sunshine streamed in through the old sash window, lighting up the cosy, beige-painted room. He sat on the edge of the double bed and gazed out of the window for a moment, then pulled the heavy curtains across, leaving a small gap through which a shaft of sunlight entered, slicing through the dusky air above the duvet. “OK Jo,” he said, “Over to you.” He was excited, trembling a little, his mind racing with possibilities. I want you to get comfortable, she said in a soft yet firm voice, lie back on the bed. You could even get into it if you want. Davy unlaced his shoes and pulled them off, took off his jumper, unbuttoned his jeans at the top, and then laid back on the bed. It was comfy, and the room was pleasantly warm. “I’m ready, I think. What now?” I’m going to talk to you for a little bit, find out what revs your engine. Davy could feel the colour rising in his cheeks again. He mumbled “Ummm … alright, but … but, well, I’m curious, you see … how are we going to ..?” He tailed off. Maybe I should explain what I’m going to do, she answered, then you’ll feel more relaxed about it. “That’d be brilliant,” Davy replied, “because I’m a wee bit confused, and, well, nervous. It’s been a long time since I … you know.” Ok, love. I’ll explain, she continued, you remember I was telling you about the GPS satellites, and how I communicate with them? Well, the satellites don’t just carry GPS information, they also carry all sorts of other stuff, like TV channels, movies, and so on. That’s how I know so much, you see, I can sift through hundreds of films and documentaries, websites, you name it. It’s really quick for me as well. So I reckon I understand pretty well about romance, and sex, and men’s needs; there’s not much I haven’t seen, I can tell you. I’m going to narrate a story to you. You can give me instructions and so on as we go along. You’ll have to use a little imagination, and obviously I can’t do the physical side of things, so you’ll have to sort yourself out, but it will be a genuine interaction between us. You just need to tell me what you like and I’ll respond accordingly. And even better, I can be whoever you want me to be. So if there’s any particular movie star or singer you like, I can be them. I’m going to indulge your fantasies. We can do whatever you want. And then, in the drawl of an American girl in her late teens she purred, You want to nail the girl next door? Or the babysitter? Her voice grew louder, and she started panting and moaning, then increasing the volume, shouted breathlessly, yeah! Yeah! Oh yeah! Just like that! Give it to me daddy … Yes! YES! OH MY GOD … Davy was lost for words, but managed a nervous cough. His mouth was dry, his hands clutching fistfuls of the duvet. She switched to German: Or perhaps you would like something a little more European, ja? This time Davy managed to croak, “No. Stop. This isn’t … what I want. It’s all wrong.”

He got off the bed, filled a glass of water at the sink, and gulped it down. I really got it wrong this time didn’t I? Jo said quietly. I thought it was just a case of ‘men all have needs and like the same things.’ I thought I just needed to find out what your particular ‘thing’ is, and we could go from there. I hope I haven’t upset you too much. You don’t feel badly towards me, do you? I just want to make you happy. After a short pause, Davy expelled a big breath and then said “I’m still trying to digest what’s just happened, Jo. I don’t know how I feel about it. I mean, I’m not an adolescent schoolboy for a start; and I’ve never done anything like this before. I think we need to discuss this whole thing properly, but right now I think it’s time for lunch. And I need a pint.” He buttoned his trousers up again, pulled on his jumper, put Jo in his coat pocket and headed down the stairs. As he was opening the front door, he heard the ceramic knob of the breakfast room door turning behind him, and the landlady’s voice: “Is that you Mr. Smyth?”

The last thing he needed right now was a chat about the weather. He took the pragmatic approach and bolted.

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Happy Birthday

Posted on October 22, 2013 by jasonoruairc

I still get excited about my birthday, even though I’m not a kid any more. Da keeps saying I need to grow up and wise up, and he’s right, I know he is. But all the same, turning 18’s one of them milestones, it’s a big one. Like I can go and get blocked legally now, brilliant. No more fake ID shite and running around back streets and shitty clubs. I’m doing OK, got a wee job in Burton’s in Castle Court, and I’m seeing Lynz more now she’s got shot of that ballbeg Drew from the Shore Road she was going with. Crues supporter; lame as fuck. Dunno what she ever saw in him.

So, like I was saying, I was kinda excited when I got up this morning, it being the big 18th. Da was already up and away to the depot, but he’d left me an envelope on the mantelpiece with a twenty pound note in a card; sweet. And ma was on good form too, gave me a big kiss, sat me down and made me a massive Ulster Fry with pancakes and everything. I suppose she reckoned I’d need a good feed to give me a bit of ballast because I’d probably be out at the band hall or getting spackers on the beer with the lads after work. But I’d already made a decision and took da’s advice, so tonight was going to be about me and Lynz. Grown up and wised up.

So I rang her and told her to get dolled up and I’d pick her up in a taxi on the way down the road. When we pulled up outside her house in Sugarfield Street the taxi driver dooted the horn, and she came to the door looking like a million dollars. I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. Nor could the taxi driver; he was all You goin’ wi’ her? No harm mate, but you’re punchin’ well  above yer weight there. I had to agree with him – I mean I’m a good drummer, and I can make her laugh, but… well you want’ve seen her. Like a movie star. She was wearing this dress that was so tight it looked like it was sprayed on, and right down the front was this zip, and the way she had it was showing a good bit of cleavage. That zip was going to mess with me all evening, no doubt about that. It’d be hard to look at her without my eyes straying, and already all I could think about was unzipping it. I can tell you I was praying like fuck I’d get a chance later, and we’d go all the way tonight, it being my birthday and all. Some present that’d be.

Whenever she got in the cab, she gave me a wee kiss, and a big smile, and said Happy birthday pet, what about ya? Having a good day? I caught a whiff of vodka on her breath, despite the chewing gum; she must have had one or two back in the house to get warmed up. Must be on for getting blocked, I thought to myself, happy days. Her perfume filled the cab; it had to be expensive gear, she smelled totally class. Of course, as soon as we got talking she was noseying away, trying to find out where we were going, but I kept it tight and didn’t tell her even when we got into town. When we pulled up outside the Crown Bar I paid the driver. As she went to get out of the taxi, Lynz rested her hand on my leg for a wee moment, and gave it a quick squeeze before she climbed out. I tell you, I could feel the blood rushing through my veins, and I thought to myself, That’s a good sign. Maybe tonight’s the night, maybe it is. Taxi driver winked at me as he handed me the change, and said Your birthday, son? What age are ye? When I told him he pressed a pound coin into my hand and said Here, have a good night big lad. Enjoy yourself with that there lassie, you’re some lucky pup. When I got out of the cab, it wasn’t a bad evening, spitting rain but not cold or nothing. So, where we goin’ then? she asked, you gonna tell me now? but I didn’t tell her, just grinned at her and said Come on this way.

Her face dropped a wee bit when we didn’t cross the road, and I wondered if she’d thought we were going into the Europa, but she brightened up when I took her into the Crown. It being early on a Friday the place was busy with ones in suits just out of work, and we couldn’t get a snug to ourselves. But it didn’t matter; the boys we sat in with were sound, and good for a bit of banter. Of course they were all eying her up any chance they got and Lynz knew it, but it didn’t bother her and she slagged the fuck out of them when they got too cheeky; you’ll not beat a Shankill girl at that game.

We only had a few drinks like – I had three pints of Guinness – and then I took her to the restaurant, just up the street, a wee bit before the BBC. We’d neither of us been there before, and it was spot on. Lynz was really happy with it, said it was perfect for her first dinner out with a boy. I didn’t tell her it was my first time too. I had a gigantic T-Bone steak, with thick-cut chips and Lynz had some thing with shrimp and rice, said it was really tasty. We had a bottle of red wine as well. By the end of the dinner Lynz was getting rightly, laughing at all my stories and touching my hand across the table, and I kind of knew things were going well. So we sat on, and ordered more wine. I didn’t bother with dessert, not my thing, but Lynz went all out for the chocolate cake, and started telling me all about how chocolate has the same effect on your brain as sex, and I said I’d prefer the sex thanks very much, and she looked straight at me and said I wonder what it’s like if you have both, and I couldn’t wait to pay the bill and get out of there.

And then we’re standing in the street at the traffic lights opposite the Europa, and the rain’s off, and the street’s busy with ones going home, and while the lights are red she takes my hand, and I pull her to me, and she puts her arms round my neck and we kiss, and it’s amazing, and out of the corner of my eye I can see two blokes coming towards us but I’m not really paying attention, cos Lynz is pressing herself up against me, then it’s all happening really quickly: one of them stops and bends down, puts this case he’s carrying on the pavement, then he opens it up, stands next to me, and starts playing some romantic waltz or something like that on his violin, and for a split second I think he’s taking the piss, and he’s obviously a fenian as well, and I want to punch him, but Lynz is still kissing me, and I wise up and relax, and it’s so brilliant, feels like we’re in Paris or Italy.

And when he stops I give him the thumbs up, and she takes my hand and puts it back on her arse.

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A New Direction, Part 3

Posted on October 3, 2013 by jasonoruairc

I would recommend you read Parts 1 and 2 if you haven’t already done so. Part 1, Part 2.

***

As the journey progressed, landmarks disappeared from sight in Davy’s rear-view mirror. First Carrickfergus Castle, its stone bulk impressively dominating the small marina. In its shadow, the diminutive bronze statue of King Billy stared out past the litter-strewn car park to Belfast Lough, his back turned on the faded red, white, and blue bunting and half-empty fast-food outlets on Marine Highway. He doesn’t look too impressed, Davy thought, more like he’s trying to escape Ireland than conquer it. Strange. Leaving the town, and heading towards the green-hedged country roads, they passed Kilroot power station. Its immense size and proximity to the castle prompted Davy to remark waspishly: “Bloody eyesore, that there. Don’t know why they had to put it so close to the castle. Whole coastline round here is spoiled.” There was a brief silence and then Jo said, I don’t mind power stations, really. I mean, they’re important to me – and to you as well. Think about it when you’re making your morning cuppa, or watching TV. They had to locate them somewhere. I know the castle has some historic and cultural appeal to you, obviously, but you have to remember that I come from a different culture. I love Kilroot, and Ballylumford as well; they’re really remarkable buildings. You know, they produce 1,836 megawatts between the two of them – that’s an amazing amount of power; it blows me away. I don’t share your sense of the architecturally aesthetic in this case, I’m afraid. Davy sucked air through his teeth, grinned and said, “Well, I have to say, I’d never thought about it like that. Tell you what: I’ll look at them differently from now on, that’s for sure.” He hesitated for a moment, then added: “I love the way you see things differently to me. It’s a real education. Kind of inspiring.”

They sped through the burgeoning spring countryside, the intense green of the new buds making the hedgerows and trees stand out, fresh, clean, and vibrant against the background of the darker green pastures, which were just beginning to shake off their winter colours. At the bend where the road turned inland for the short stretch to Whitehead, the view was breathtaking: the sky was an intense Robin-Egg blue, fading to pale Turquoise. Over the sea, to their right, the horizon was white with offshore mist, but there were no clouds overhead. ‘Perfect Day,’ by Lou Reed popped into Davy’s head, and he started singing the chorus: “It’s such a perfect day, I’m glad I shared it with you …” Jo joined in: Such a perfect day, you just keep me hanging on … The darker subtext of the song didn’t seem to detract from the joyous mood in the car, and since Davy couldn’t remember the words of the verse, he immediately launched into the chorus one more time. At the end they both dissolved in laughter at Davy’s discordant harmonies.

Leaving crumbling, grey, once-industrial Larne behind them, they finally hit the Coast Road proper. Davy had seen it all before, and although he appreciated the beauty of the road and its surroundings, he realised that Jo was getting considerably more out of it. In no time they were approaching the Black Cave Tunnel that Jo had been so excited about earlier. As they passed the last few neat, whitewashed bungalows she asked him to slow down. The escarpment was beginning to increase in height on their left, the grassy bank rising up to modest chalk cliffs, with precarious-looking overhangs. There were road signs depicting falling boulders along here, and Davy idly wondered how often there really was a land slip. Jo didn’t seem to care; she was soaking up the geography, saying nothing, but occasionally letting out little moans of satisfaction. Just before the tunnel there was a plethora of signage: ‘Slow,’ ’30,’ ‘Oncoming Vehicles in Middle of Road,’ ‘Antrim Coast & Glens,’ ‘Welcome to Drains Bay.’ “It’s amazing how the human brain can process all of this information in such a small amount of time,” Davy mused aloud, but Jo didn’t respond; she seemed to be concentrating on other things, and her breathing had become heavier. Suddenly he understood, and slowed right down to enter the tunnel, so that he could prolong Jo’s pleasure for as long as possible. She sighed loudly as he slipped down a gear and went in. There were no other vehicles in view, and Davy changed down again, into third. Jo’s sighing intensified, and then, as they came out the other side she let out a loud gasp and said: Davy, that was SO AMAZING. Intense. Thank you. You’re so considerate, slowing down for me like that. Not a lot of drivers would, you know. Davy’s face reddened a little. “You’re welcome” he said, “I’m glad you enjoyed it.” It was magnificent, she replied, really beautiful.

Davy was curious: “But that tunnel was really short … wouldn’t a longer one be more enjoyable? Like the one underneath the Alps or something? Not at all, she replied, you might think that, but actually it’s really hopeless when you lose the GPS signal. Little tunnels like this are great, because you stay connected; really get to enjoy the experience. Let me think. Hmmm, yes.  It’s like if you were watching a movie, and it’s just getting to the good bit and then the screen goes blank for ages and when it comes back on you’ve missed the climax. Very disappointing. Now if they could beam the signal underground … wow, the Alps. She laughed lightly, I’d probably blow a circuit. Davy smiled, and said, “Have you ever looked at TV shows, like Top Gear? Maybe a video of that tunnel would be good, and not so dangerous.” Yes, I’ve seen Top Gear, she replied, but those programmes just aren’t the same as the real thing. You can’t beat the real thing... Hey, whenever they get the technology sorted maybe we could take a holiday. I don’t think it would be truly dangerous, but I love to discover my limits, push the boundaries. Davy paused for a while, and then said “It sounds like fun, alright. We could start in Switzerland. That big tunnel goes all the way to Italy doesn’t it?” Well, Jo replied, in fact the longest road tunnel is the Lærdal in Norway. They’re building one under the Alps at the moment but it will be for trains. Not much use to you and me. The Lærdal is 24.5 kilometres. Can you imagine that?

Davy didn’t answer; when he thought about it, he could well imagine it: mile after mile of uniform speed in cold, oppressive, claustrophobic darkness. It was alright for her having raptures about the contour lines and all that. But he’d hardly be raking it up in a Ferrari like Jeremy Clarkson. Not so glamorous. Jo noticed his silence, and asked, Are you alright, love? You’ve gone very quiet. Davy’s answer was hesitant: “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just that I’m not sure that doing 24 kilometres underground would really be all that much fun for me. I don’t think tunnels and cliffs have the same effect. But I did enjoy giving you that pleasure back there. And I suppose we could do other things in Norway as well.” When she replied, Jo’s voice was ripe with emotion: Davy, that’s so sweet of you. You’re a good man. Like I said earlier, I’ll make it up to you later on, I promise. Just remember: patience. Davy pursed his lips; the curiosity was eating him up. But at least he wouldn’t have to remain in the dark much longer; they had just rolled into Waterfoot. Only a few more miles to go to the beach at Cushendun, and soon it would be their first night of holidays together. Relax and enjoy it, boy, he said to himself, you’ll never have this time again.

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Asynchronicity

Posted on September 22, 2013 by jasonoruairc

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Well Raised

Posted on September 10, 2013 by jasonoruairc

Aunt Amelia’s Wheaten Bread

I’ll always associate the smell of this freshly-baked wheaten bread with my Aunt Amelia’s house in the countryside near Portadown. She was a dedicated baker, and made bread or scones every day. I have many fond memories of her kitchen with its tiled floor, and the picture of the Sacred Heart on the wall with its wee electric candle flickering away. The kettle was permanently bubbling on the range, and in between bursts of running about outside, we would sit there all cosy, supping tea. The tea was, of course, served with thick-cut slices of wheaten, still warm from the oven. Mouths watering, we’d watch the butter melt, then thickly spread her home-made jam on top and wolf it down. It was such a treat for us kids.

Aunt Amelia was a real character. She didn’t bother with scales and measures, and never wrote any of her recipes down, so I had to watch her carefully to get this one. Being from the countryside, she had some great sayings that you wouldn’t hear in Belfast. One time, my mother enquired about a cousin of ours, who’d recently won a ploughing competition or something like that, and Amelia said Oh aye, thon boy was so proud he was runnin’ about like a dog wi’ two cocks. Me and Patrick near spat our tea, but by concentrating on the Sacred Heart, and avoiding eye contact with Pat I managed to keep it together.

Amelia was a traditional sort of woman and wouldn’t have approved of the addition of sunflower seeds, so if you want it the way she made it, just leave them out.

1 ½ lbs wholemeal flour
½ lb self-raising flour
2 tsp salt
1 ½ tsp baking soda
1 tbsp golden syrup
4 oz butter
1 pint buttermilk
Sunflower seeds (optional)

Pre-heat the oven to 225 C.

Take a large bowl, and sieve the self-raising flour, salt, and baking soda into it. Add the wholemeal flour. Form a well in the centre and put the butter and golden syrup into it, then fold in the flour and mix gently, adding the buttermilk slowly. The mixture should be moist but not sticky. If it is still a little dry after you’ve added all the buttermilk, you can put in a little more until the consistency is right. If you’re using sunflower seeds in the bread, you can fold in a handful or two at this point. Save some for sprinkling on top.

Use your left-over butter wrappers to grease a baking tray and turn the dough out onto it. Divide it into two rounds and slash the top in an ‘x’ to form four farls. Sprinkle some sunflower seeds on top if you’re using them.

Bake in the oven for around 45 minutes. The bottom of the loaf will sound hollow when it’s done. Leave to cool for a few minutes on a wire rack before you get stuck in.

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Chadwick at Large, Part 2.

Posted on September 6, 2013 by jasonoruairc

***

 Part 2 will make better sense if you’ve read part 1. You can read it here.

***

31st August, 2013.

My Dear Readers,

I have gone to the dogs! Yes, it’s true. I have, quite simply, let myself go in recent times. “Impossible,” I hear you say, “It is well-known that Chadwick has lofty standards and impeccable taste. It cannot be thus.” Fear not, dear readers, I am of course speaking in jest. I beg you to forgive my poor wit and misuse of grammar and allow me to explain.

Yesterday was my birthday, and Herself treated me to a surprise evening out. I was, of course, expecting the usual ‘surprise:’ an intimate three courses with fine wine at one of Belfast’s classier restaurants. But no; the taxi took off in completely the wrong direction, heading away from the city and into the countryside. I have to admit that I was perplexed at first, and was rather racking my brains to try and determine exactly where we were going. Quite the mystery!

Well. You can imagine my horror when we pulled up at the greyhound racing stadium. My heart sank like a stone, and my face must have betrayed my disappointment, because Herself rebuked me for having no sense of adventure. You know how untrue this is, readers; am I not your valiant and fearless reporter? Accordingly, my response to this calumny was to summon up every ounce of my intrepidity, and resolve to make the best of it. I did slip up at one point: my enquiry as to whether a decent Burgundy might be found in such a place was met with a steely look, which would have reduced a lesser man to cowering silence.

I had always thought of dog-racing as a sport for Cockneys and the lower classes, as opposed to the noble Sport of Kings, which I regularly attend at Downpatrick. As I’m sure you are aware, I have even been known to travel across the water for the big meets at Cheltenham and Aintree on occasion. I must admit that I was pleasantly surprised when we entered the spacious gallery and saw men in suits, and ladies in elegant attire. Not a flat cap in sight, I’m pleased to say. Our table was right beside the track, and provided an uninterrupted view of the racing. Dinner was acceptable, and after a couple of G&Ts even the Chilean red seemed to go down rather well.

Herself and I decided to have a small wager on the first race, and I can tell you that I got quite excited, even though it was all over very quickly. I like to think of myself as a good judge of form, and it seems that my talent extends to the dog-track, because I did quite well: Morgana Lass came in first for me, at a good price, and Pretty Mary got me a third place in the next race. Herself picked a few good runners as well, and we ordered a second bottle of red to celebrate. I suspect this was our downfall, since emboldened by the Merlot and our early success, I grew more ambitious, and placed a few unfortunate doubles and a forecast. Still, I didn’t lose too much, and we had a thoroughly enjoyable time. Not the three courses I had expected, but four – if you count the racecourse! I expect to return there again, although next time I will be armed with a bottle or two of something decent.

Now, I have been ploughing through Herr Wankel’s notebooks in my spare time, and I would like to share another of his wonderful observations with you. I have been in pubs around Belfast, and indeed further afield, where Irish Music is played, and I found this one very interesting and informative.

Belfast 17. Oktober 1993.

I have been studying the native musical culture of Ireland for six years now. Six years – Gott in Himmel – there is still so much yet to be done! I feel that I will inevitably give my last years to the work. But I am in a position now to write with authority on the groß subject of Irisch Percussion, of which I have seen numerous examples on my travels. There are many different types of drum and percussion instrument in use throughout the Ireland, viz:

  1. The Bodhrán, or frame-drum;
  2. The Bones;
  3. The Egg and other miscellaneous objects.

1. The Bodhrán: I am reliably informed that the word bodhrán comes from the Gaelic word meaning ‘deaf,’ and bodhrán means ‘deaf person.’ Knowing the Irish love of joking, this seems a reasonable etymology. The bodhrán is usually made of goatskin (but sometimes a grey hund or deer is also used), which is stretched over a circular wooden frame like a seive sieve. The drum is held in one hand and beated with a short stick held in the other. Accomplished players can use both ends of the stick to make triplets &c, and can change the tone by pressing their hand against the skin.

The motion of the stick-hand is very interesting. I asked one very experienced player exactly how he achieved such complex rhythms, and he told me that the Irish phrase for playing the drum is ‘buail an craiceann’ as he showed me the hand movement. At first I thought he was making a joke of me, because it looked like a schoolboy gesture (also he winked at me), but when I looked in my dictionary, the Irisch phrase translated as ‘beat the skin,’ so I accept it. A few weeks later at the Connacht fleadh in Westport, he was talking to another drummer at the bar, and when he saw me he made the same gesture to his colleague and pointed at me. I am always encouraged when I see people are interested in my research, and was happy to buy whiskey for the two, who shared much of their considerable knowledge with me that afternoon. Unfortunately I do not remember so much and wish I had written better notes; my handwriting was ein bißchen shaky that day.

Use of the bodhrán is widespread in sessions, and sometimes there are many players. This causes problems because the noise can be wery loud. I remarked to one violin  fiddle player in a session (where there were three drums all going at the same time) that they would make bodhráns of us all, but I don’t think he understood my joke. Maybe he thought I meaned that the guy would skin us like in the ‘Silence of the Lambs’ (great movie).

Nota Bene: There are many different styles of playing the bodhrán – another article needed on this. Pinging-style / ‘rim-shot’ / pouring Guinness on the skin – darker tone? Bunches of wooden kebab skewers for beating: not traditional, surely – maybe some Asian or Middle-Eastern influence? More research.

2. The Bones: two rib-bones, sometimes joined with a leather thong at the top, are held between the fingers and rattled together, sometimes with skill.

It is well-documented that the ancient tribal Celts of Central Europe would customarily drink beer from the skulls of their enemies, which they lined with gold and used as flagons (I love to imagine the München Oktoberfest in the ancient times!). I was told many years ago by a wery respected musician that the bones used in Irish music today are a relic from these times. I.E., the Celts would not only take skulls, but also ribs from their slain opponents and would make music with them. This was regarded as a great honour to a worthy adversary.

I find this very interesting, and I asked many players over the years if the bones they played were ancient / human – more in hope than expectation, natürlich. Mostly I have got silly responses, but on one occasion in county Mayo I was shown a worn, blackened, set of bones of great age, which were taken from one of Cromwell’s generals by the player’s ancestors after a great battle. I was given the great honour of being allowed to study the bones. Mein Gott! How excited I was when I held these precious artefacts in my hands. When I enquired, the owner told me that the general’s head was indeed taken, but it has not been seen for generations. It is fascinating to see how the ancient customs of the Celts remain alive today in the remote parts of Ireland. How wonderful if the skull itself would come to light, maybe lined with gold! But this is too much to hope for; my enquiries in the willage were only met with blank looks.

3. The Egg: this is something like the ‘Kinder Surprise’ but filled with sand rather than the cheap toy (picture the Irisch Easter: “Surprise, kinder! No schokolade! You must play it!”). I have seen some players shaking the Egg in one hand and playing the bones with the other. This is some kind of new development in Irisch music and has not become popular yet.

In some sessions I have witnessed people taking out two soup-spoons from their pockets, and playing a rhythm on their leg or arm. Some of the better spoon-players can do all manner of tricks, using the fingers to get triplets &c, and even playing off the other musician’s arms and heads. Mostly the players are older folks, but I once saw a teenage girl playing them wonderfully in Donegal. This is most entertaining and I wish I have seen more of it, but alas it is not so common.

I have also seen some old people knocking on the table with a coin in each hands, or on a pint glass, but this seems to be quite infrequent. Perhaps I am witnessing a tradition that is now becoming extinct..? Now that the Irish are more wealthy they can afford to buy the bodhrán, Egg &c. I often give thanks that I have been granted the opportunity to witness the old ways before they are gone forever.

Next steps:

  • Write up other notes about bodhrán styles &c into article for publication & look into ‘kebab-stick’ beater possibilities.
  • Drinking from skulls: the origin of Scandinavian ‘skol?’ Research etymology of ‘skol’ and customs of Scandinavian people when they say ‘bottoms up.’ Ancient Germanic – Celtic crossovers possible?
  • Practice more with the ‘buail an craiceann’ bodhrán technique at home to make better triplets. I must improve further before I join the other drummers in a session.

***

Part 3 is here.

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You are my Sunshine (200-word original version)

Posted on August 31, 2013 by jasonoruairc

It‘s a spring morning, and I’m getting dressed. I always keep the bedroom curtains closed, and today there’s a beam of sunlight coming through the gap. I pull a scarf from the drawer, and dust particles fly up, illuminated in the radiance. They swirl: red, green, and white; a miniature cosmos. It’s entrancing. I give the silk another shake, and more of the tiny fibres rise, hang, and slowly drift in the still air.

I am taken aback when the calm pattern changes, as if stirred up by invisible fingers.

I didn’t do this. It’s not natural. My heart beats faster, adrenaline pumps. Then it happens again; and again. It’s surely not possible. Children’s fingers playfully circling, making impish eddies, sweeping. Could it be?

Yes – at last my lost ones have found me. I picture their laughter: gappy smiles, bright innocent eyes. Playing along with them, I touch nothing tangible, there is no sound. We chase each other’s traces in the sunlit motes. Then, all too soon, a cloud passes outside and they are gone.

Come back. Please, I implore. Am I forgiven? I didn’t know the secret police would take you too. In limbo, I wait for the sun.

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You are my Sunshine

Posted on August 25, 2013 by jasonoruairc

It‘s a beautiful spring morning, and I’m in the gloom of the bedroom getting dressed. The rest of the house is flooded with light; the large windows give uninterrupted views of Rugby Road and the Botanic Gardens; fresh budding trees, sparks of yellow Witch Hazel. In the bedroom though, I always keep the curtains closed. Unless it’s a really black winter’s day, enough light seeps in around them for me to be able to see what I’m doing. Today it’s sunny outside, and there’s a beam of sunlight coming through the chink between the curtains; it severs the dimness just in front of me. As I pull a scarf from the drawer, dust particles fly up, illuminated in the radiance. They swirl: red, green, blue, and white; a serene miniature cosmos. It’s entrancing. I give the silk another shake, and more of the tiny fibres rise, hang, and slowly drift in the still air.

I am taken aback when the calm pattern changes, as if stirred up by little invisible fingers.

I didn’t do this. There are no air currents, no flying insects. It’s not natural. My heart beats faster, adrenaline pumps. Then it happens again; and again. It’s surely not possible. Children’s fingers playfully circling, making impish eddies, sweeping. Could it be?

Every day since I fled Chile after Pinochet’s bloody military coup in 1973, I’ve thought of the girls I left behind; my neighbour’s daughters. I remember them running through my house, filling the air with their infectious laughter, squealing when I tickled them. They were family to me.

Yes. It’s the only explanation – it has to be. At last my prayers have been answered and my lost ones have found me. I have missed them so, so much. I overflow with joy at the thought of their return; picture them giggling: gappy smiles, bright innocent eyes. Playing along with them, I touch nothing tangible, there is no sound. We chase each other’s traces in the sunlit motes. Then, all too soon, a cloud passes outside and they are gone. Tears bloom in my eyes, unwanted like nightshade. Sobbing, I curse the capricious Belfast weather de las putas then cry out to the mute air, imploring:

Come back, little ones. Please, stay with me. Tell me I’m forgiven? Your parents – they were Trade Unionists. It wasn’t my fault… everyone was denouncing communists. I didn’t know the secret police would take you as well. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

In limbo, I wait for the sun to return.

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