Age five was his first introduction to fight or flee adrenalin rush disabled from release. His first memory.
He took me. How dat bastard dad fucker even new were the f’ing skool waz, I dunno.
Nobody didn’t even no ’e ’ad no lingos!
When his ‘windy’ closed (he has affection for it now), his older sister could speak for him almost telepathically. That was at home. Left alone, away, glottis stopped, by a name beginning with a kicking K.
Yer’ll sweat an’ shake like a shiteing dog wit’ tongue pushing forward until yer seriously damage yer lingual frenulum – why didn’t dey call him a sibilant Steve so dat ’e could at least ’ave sounded like a conventional stammering bastard? Dat waz a bit of de hypabollocks!
Infant Skool was okay because, I think, I was aurally indistinct. In other ways, less so. Shitting in my pants and being nursey wiped didn’t help my disabled status and being dragged out of a class by the fire brigade may have somewhat tarnished a less than distinguished reputation.
Feckin’ own it yer gombeen bastard did yer burn down Tescos or not?
In spring, I didn’t limp remembering a snow slip but took the risers slowly (falls have memories). Mossy red-brick walls barbed wire sentinels green bottled glass embedded in concrete deter da t’ieving tinker bastards.
We could imagine that, if such a perfect example of the oeuvre was entered into the Chelsea Flower Show, it may have won the Urban Garden Gold Medal, 1966. If Ishihara Kazuyuki could have looked at it then and seen the three pebbles in the puddle, would he tell me that they were the island homes of the Immortals: Pengai, Fangzhangi, Yingzhou? Other visitors might say that the still waters reflect the face of g-d and green gunge has a musty smell to it.
The brambles threading stinging omens, the crumbling edifice of the outside shithouse (Izal or Da Daily Mail black damp bum), built by an aesthete, perfectly pantheons the space. The yard is broadly oblong, the flags are too perfectly proportioned – a Scouse sectio aurea. There are Aiseki here, appreciation stones randomly thrown and kicked into spaces. Suiseki, Scholars Rocks. The planting of grasses and indigenous plants reflect tenacity: Wee-the-beds, dan-de-lion, taraxacum officinale, lions’ tooth, puffball, blow-balls…
In iz ’ead ’e can’t arf tawk de shenanigan de ra de ro dodo.
… Stained my sheets for 13 years. I’ve never made coffee from its root.
A dandelion totem Easily blown From place to next Embeds where it can.
Climb the black gate open or not, hang, look down for smelly brown shoe slimes and rats. Drop. Off, off and away. You had to take the jigger corners at speed, bounce off the wall red-brick dust scrape with moss. OW! Skip the turds in smelly narrow fear.
Out in light Stamp tarmac Bubbles In a summer sun.
Off to Da Rec don’t fall on the spiked fence like Daryl did thigh splurt. Play football at Otterspool, always running after the ball. Chase and beat the double-decker back to skool.
Running always running. Down from Da Dingle, up Lark Lane (stop off to see my friend Yan How at the Chinese chippy opposite the laundry to crash his new Chopper bike against a tree) through Sevvy Park:
Beautiful daffodils, Nail varnish ice lake, Island dens then Secret caves.
Head to the beautiful Cast Iron Shore to bullion bullets by deserted barracks. Jump from breeze block mountains to save a watch from scally Mersey shit-swimming bastards who saw me hitting the glassed ground Speedy Gonzales. Burning down Tescos always running. Scrumping, earwigs shit run! Gob mutely, head fluent.
Ma showed me the Saturday pennies sweet shop with the littleness she had and her glass eye.
Faberge eggs doubloons, sherbet spaceships cream soda treacle toffee sugar sick.
’e learnt about pointing den – der non-verbal incommunicadoze.
Oddly, I often had views of my night-time kissing never returned right side of her face. There wear six kids…
De udder was up da duff.
Sitting on a couch in a flat on Eggy Road just down from the Dingle near the dip that was later flattened by a dual carriageway. In the background, there was a wonderfully comforting click-click-click of Arran cable creations that always fitted so well. Crawling secretly behind the couch towards the right-hand side of my clicking comforts she handed sweets that we all forcibly shared mutely sucking.
Not an idyll. Ma Josie was a bastard. She was happy to scream furiously at Da’ Billy about their various disagreements but did a classic ‘wait til yer fadder gits ’ome’ when the kids were involved. She unleashed a sadist upon us.
Three little ones early to bed, hiding Cornflakes and Weetabix in the pale green ottoman, could not steal the milk.
Naughty giggles remembering the slaps on an arse that made me piss, later, ripping cotton sheets then sweating under polyester ones, monsters under the bed booting lurking faces in ajar wardrobe doors.
Was dat wen bastard sis Maggie Maggie May was bangin’ yer ’ead against the taps when she waz washin’ yer beautiful black curls just missing yer astonishing pearly blues?
Was that when I called her a fucking K…K…K… cunt when she chased me down the long flocked fucked corridor. Slamming the door on her punch – ow scream glass stream blood? Mea culpa battered.
Primary school was interesting because, inside it, his speech was of little concern – these people knew him. Cogger left-footer girls and boys segregated in play…
Through da iron gates, da durty twinklin’ bastard fell in love with Hoggy ooze Da’ owned da dairy down da road.
They played footy and Bulldog, watched in amazement as a callipered polio lad danced on his hands. Pencils were dropped to glimpse Miss Philips’ sussies.
Fadder Mangan was da divils sperm and fer Christ’s sake don’t get ’im started on the Sisters of the Immaculate Conception.
Every Wednesday, Gag Boy had nothing to confess and could take a very long time trying to say and invent his misdemeanours. Mangan, who stank of sacristy sherries, forced nicotined bodies of Christ into his gob every Sunday.
Dey always called it quits at tree ale bloody Marys (Ave mazza graasy arse plainer) an’ an aggggghhhh fadder!
In a Manganesque way, Mrs McKenna was particularly enamoured of the spliced cane to increase his pain. Nuns were also sadists. ’e told Ma about de ’ead wrongly caning his eight-year-old delicacies and, with all of her 5-foot 2 one-eyed frame, she stormed up to the school and flattened the bitch.
7 old return Man Isle from. Walking away from the bus-stop Pier Head home, coloured poster attracts. Ma stepped on da bus with de udders. Gag ennyog boy running cop shop couldn’t speak. Wrote address, dunked a doughnut in a cuppa. Walked into Da Flat phalanxed by Da Pigs – Nobody noticed mute missed.
Bless! Boo hoo tra la de dodo.
Outside primary skool was different for him. Yes, of course, there was the sectarian non-violence of his childish days. Rumours abounded that the ‘proddy dogs at St Micks’ wanted a ‘to do’ so they met them on the hill where Miss Philips placated their violence with her beauty.
Adrenalin-wise Ikky Parkinson was his downfall. There was an ennyog route from skool to home that Ikky decided to invade and bully. He lived on Gladwyn Street, adjacent to the flat. He caught him there so… his hitherto disguised subsumed sharded green-bottled embedded in cement f’ing anger cunting throttled ’im.
Da cheeky little bastard complained to Gag’s Da and waz told t’ sling ’is f’in’ ’ook.
He was a ‘sixer’ in the boy scouts who proudly wore a yellow toggle and was chuffed to be a flag bearer. Then, they had a joint ceremony with the Boys Brigade during which his speech was my speech and somebody chortled. We had no option but to stand up, cross the church and let our adrenaline kick the living shit out of da Proddy.
Jeezuz I’m all fer dat free speech malarkey! In nomine Patris et Fillii at Spiritus Sancti. F’in’ Omen.
Gagging and shitting seemed inadvertent friends. Around a fire at a boy scout camp Akela told the story of the headless horseman. During the night, he needed the toilet. ‘Crap, where?’ has a curly K.
’e went in ’is sleeping bag!
The following morning, somebody conveniently blamed the smell on the pylons. Must have smelt him on the bus back but were kind enough not to mention it.
Had to show it to Bastard when I got home. He banned me from the Scouts because they couldn’t take care of me.
Two-faced tossa!
Then the cunt sherry stinking ghoul Mangan paid his first visit to our home. He scared the shit out of me anyway. Why was he going into the lounge to see bed-ridden Josie? She didn’t even go to church!
Because we moved away.
Moved from the river to a pebble-dashed sea, a ghetto with aspects of flats, sans neo-classical water-features, groves, grottoes and demesnes. A sociological ‘folly’ in Croxy, near Kirby, on the East Lancs Road (just opposite the English Elec where the boxing club was). We had a fitted kitchen that Josie would never use.
He was really upset one night when bastard Bill came in crying and turned off the telly half-way through an episode of fucking Star Trek! Ma had ‘gone’ on her rubber ring to save the sores.
The followed/fallowed day, he was ordered by Shithead to go in alone to pay his respects.
I froze there no kiss, No comfort, Touch, hug, Click-click-click.
He was sent to school that morning. On the way, ’e told some-one and the git told somebody else and the bastards announced it in assembly. Because he could never make ’is gaggings understandable, he wailed like an effing banshee.
The school was okay, the teacher was very protective because of speech and death. He missed polio boy, Yan, Mrs Philips and even Ikky Parkinson. No ennyogs. Sympathy has its draw-backs. He was an alien who was given the prefectural honour of running the corridors ringing the handbell for the break. He was the person who was twatted across the back from behind with the edge of a tennis racket.
Bless ’im fadder but ’e committed a non-verbal revenge dat involved a right gud twatting.
High slatted wooden back fence, wire netting sides supported by equi-distant cement posts, vaulted to retrieve balls. Opening the back gate, no secret space – the path didn’t curve or twist, aiming to be at the back-door quick. Either side, was laid to lawn smelling of sneezing green. Small rose-beds near the house – the prick that bleeds rather than the brambling itch.
Lawn knees shears cut.
Informed opinion is that gardens are places to play in – they probably are if you’re younger than five. After that, the possibility of destruction leads to banishment.
One day, he played a slow-motion cricket with his brother. He shouldn’t have been facing the house expecting him to catch the corky. Thwack (too hard). Shit. Please c…c…c…catch. Tinkle crack. Fuck. Slap. Slap. Slap, slap, slap. Punch.
‘Would any sensible judge approve of my beatings for playing ball when I was a boy?’ (St. Augustine.)
When ’is balls dropt ’is life became a feckin’ quantum entanglement of dickotomic penile vomit.
I jus’ lucked at tings different bak den. Robbin’ was an eskape from de beatings with straps, spliced canes an’ de wudden tings dat stopt de beam from rockin’ in PE. De middle klass kids wanted ’orror bucks from Lewis’s an’ putters from Jack Sharps. Da crow Jesuits cudn’t give a flyin’ skirted fuck. I waz payed with moolah, an air pistol an’ a guitar. I tuck it ’ome an’ Paul (Big Mo’s boyfriend) taut me Status Quo. I waz shit cos I didn’t no I was left ’anded.
Sociopathy and anger fill a gagging life and there is no amount of crashing rugby and cross-countries can calm it. Running my first marathon to New Brighton to swim in the open-air swimming pool, could not dent it.
At Gramma Skool, in RE, we religiously recited chapter & verse in turn. To help me, the priest kept me in dat shoiteing sweating space until there was a giggle in the class. I crashed through two rows of desks an’ battered blood splatter. It was Rob – my New Brighton mate. In their wisdom, they decided that my viva voce was not sufficient to complete Latin, French, German & Spanish, so was sent to a remedial class where I studied them all. Pensé que había eyaculado en mis bragas! Esa maestra era mi mundo.
The violence of the bloodletting in the boxing club was reflected in tractor puddles, estates and homes. An 18-year old walked up to me and nutted my 14-year nose. I took the splurt home. Big Bro went after him didn’t catch. Later, we were in the sweetshop, and Bro was battered against the sun-lit door. I rushed out screaming at the gang to stop the ribs breaking and the loss of an eye. Ran ran home for Da’ help. He was ironing and refused to move. Bastard! That didn’t stop him from later kicking the shit out of his son in the hall overlooked by the ubiquitous sacred heart of Jesus. Bro escaped away. Gag took a decking once, stood up and stared the bully down. Left home 16.
Udder dan dat, everyting was normal.
Off for interviews… refused a job measuring holes in crates with callipers… travelled down to Rugby for an engineering apprenticeship but was refuse.
Effin’ Kays!
I turned up for rugby training early one night and it was pissing down. Asked to shelter in a car, I told the story to a patient man. He advised me to visit an English tutor at NE Liverpool Technical College.
’e did.
