Dublin
Part Two
Well there she was then, outside her cocoon. Treading the streets broad and narrow. Sinead kept a shawl wrapped around her head, a picture of frailty in this petri dish of future obese diabetics. Fast food ventures had sprung up faster than mushrooms on an infected scratch these last few months, and the cancer factories made sure to blast whiffs of roasted chicken and fried potatoes 24/7 into the air for the benefit of passers-by. One minute you minded your own business, the next you developed an inexplicable craving for oily pig skin scrapes. These chippies came under many different names, proposed cuisiiines from many different parts of the world (Mexican, Chinese, Middle-Eastern, Greek, Lyonnais, you name it) –and they were all shit. They were usually found between a pub, a phone shop and a betting shop. Either that or a pub, a betting shop, a pub and a pub. And a betting shop. Fast food joints definitely outnumbered churches by now; in a word, they competed for popularity with sunning salons.
Oh this was so wrong on so many levels, Sinead internally wailed. It was bad for people’s health, bad for innocent little piggies and fluffy chicken who hadn’t asked to be born, bad for the general smell and general cleanliness of the town -and it was bad for her innate faith in human nature. See, Sinead desperately wanted to believe in people’s goodness, she fiercely hankered for universal harmony …and this was how they repaid her. By pigging out on junk food or gambling. By paying more attention to their mobile telephone than their fellow pedestrian (“Mind where you’re going!”). By posturing as adolescents, too. Cargo pants and American sport caps had become de riguiour for thirty-going-on-fifteen year olds.
To be fair, Sinead knew that hypocrisy comes in all shapes and sizes, it moves freely across class lines. Idiocy could just as easily strike seated to a nice cappatea with cream scones as huddled around a sticky table laden with half-liters of the-black-stuff -Who was to say which type was worse. Polite back-stabbing or full-on hostility? Poison or bullets? She could not decide, she hated it all. Ah yes it drove the sensitive poetess mad it did, having to brave the constant aggression and unrelenting vulgarity of the great unwashed. Hustle and bustle she didn’t mind, coarseness she could not abide. And Sinead sighed in petto: she may just have to take another of her famous final retirements from public life as soon as her foray into the danger zone was over! Regroup, reload, rebirth.
“Buy five, get one free!” Take for instance local radio: their "yoof" DJs were verily testing the patience of saints; lesser women than Sinead would have been driven to curse, so inane was their verbal diarrhea. She often felt like vaselining her ears shut before switching on the radio for theirs was some diabolical bollix, diabolical and nothing short of shite. Fair play to them though, it took some special skill to unleash such manic torrent with a straight face:
"Oh and did you see "Holby St." last night? What a goal! I was on the edge of me seat, I swear I nearly cried. Keith Duffy, phwoar -I bet he doesn't half-drink Carling Black Label, should have gone to SpecSavers lol! What do yous think? Call us on 8090666 and you may be in with a chance to enter our special competition: a night for two at the Leopardstown race-course! Can yous believe it?? Where you will be competing against a full squad of crack-fuelled Northsiders -only kidding- where you will enjoy full hospitality courtesy of our sponsors Crispee, the crisp you can drink -So if you fancy winning your weight in Pints of steak, call us. At 8090666, our lines are open until they get disconnected and now the question of the day: Should congestion charges be applied to the town center? With us this morning to debate the issue is anti-road protester "McTarzan" -not his real name, I presume- and Trucksto International Construction Ltd analyst Damian O'Neill. Damo, let me ask you -oh yes but first, the answer to our movie quiz: Which of these smashing movies of recent years -"Red Dragon" with Hannibal Lecter, "The Wedding Planner" with J-Lo and "American Pie 2" with that pair of breasts- did not feature a Stars And Stripes flag within its first five minutes?"
Lyric FM. Only Lyric FM would do.
So there she was, out in the open, on a mission, braving the elements and the tourists’ quizzical looks. The Irish captain had said something about needing her powers of empathy, something was afoot (and it wasn’t etc.) that would require unusual awareness of possible differences of opinion; her unique sensibility might come in handy, he had mused (Roy was not best known for his softly-softly approach). Against expectation, Sinead found herself strangely aroused by the prospect of getting back into active service and she shivered with excitement. She felt needed.
Dublin had come a long way from being a colonial outpost for Baronets looking for another countryside to hunt in. The Easter Rising had seen to that. True, The Daily Mail and The Sun could still be found on sale here, but the English royalty hadn’t been seen in town for a good century.
The city had grown its own effervescent way, sprouting genius novelists and cracking beverages like nobody’s business. It had always brewed a simmering element of insurrection and now it fired on all cylinders, propped up by American Dollars, Chinese labour and English lo-cost flights.
It was a proper city, buzzing with infuriating trends and counter-trends, reverberating with multi-directional clashing Karmas and vibes that simply demanded urgent attention (“This year is the year of Chinese-Irish Friendship, have a Chinese national round for tea tonight!”, “Colin Farrell is so hot right now, grow your eyebrows Colin Farrell style!”, “This decade marks The Gathering TM, invite all your faraway cousins to come spend in The Republic!”, “millionaire Bono urges you to donate generously to his charity –cough up for the needy thousands of miles away!”).
Schemes were being hatched, destinies bigged up or else knocked down (and didn't she know something about it!); headlines were being rewritten by the soundbite; news were the next day's chips; European funded road-works were started never to be completed, the construction of a second airport terminal airport was forever being considered; immigrants from all parts of the world were adding their own sparks to the mix; the GAA still refused to allow soccer and rugby at Croke Park even for the forthcoming sensational qualifier against France.
Meanwhile, little boys dreamed of glory and playing for Manchester United; the Celtic Tiger filled the coffers of the national (private) banks, these very banks that were blocking any attempt by foreign counterparts to get a foothold. “Travellers" and "Settlers" exchanged over the air waves; European call-slave-centers relocated to airless basements; untold acts of gratuitous kindness occurred in the unlikeliest of places. Skangers were on the prowl (baseball caps had been spotted), girls called their mothers and she didn't know why. Hen-nights / stag-nights were on constant rotation through Temple Bar, science teachers despaired at the lack of exposure given to proper subjects, the brilliant Joyce exhibition at the National Library was in full flow.
There was a huge heroin “problem” going on and gangsters shot each other outside pubs to public approval (never hurt but their own kind, God love ‘em). Public toilets saw more action than night-clubs at closing time; "Hot Press" was lifting the lid; "The Village" was leaving no stone unturned and RTE was paying Gerry Ryan tank-loads of money to sneer at rock lyrics.
Crass -ergo memorable- advertising campaigns were being hatched up by people in “ironic” glasses; tricolour fake plastic breasts urged visitors to "Kiss My Arse" in Gaelic; hotels were charging visitors an arm and a leg to join the fun and share in the experience; double-shift waitresses ignored witty remarks about "fried lice". The papers claimed a new cure for cancer had been found (or was it a new cause?), infants were clamouring for attention from their harassed Mas, do you want salt-n-vinega with that? American army planes on their way to the debacle that was "liberated" Iraq stopped to refuel at Shannon; children got abused in the safety of their home; football supporters exchanged blows over perceived clear penalties. Couples fell out and made up; fell out again. Radio listeners were lucky enough to hear Mike Skinner telling them to dry your eyes, mate (The Streets -"Dry Your Eyes").
Your average street saw film-shoots taking place like Little Italy never happened; commuters exchanged glances morning and night without ever breaking the ice –the wrong word may do damage that can never be repaired. Noses got pierced, aspirations shot down in flames. Crazy money changed hands for houses which everyone had been deserting as recently as the 80s; landlords laughed themselves breathless as tenants kept phoning them to come and get the fecking bathroom tap fixed pleeeeeeease.
Frasier's showed hundreds of sport matches from all around the world but don’t go telling the TV companies; teenage Goths hung out by the Bank for fear of getting beaten up elsewhere; cleaners and security staff were trying to get some sleep during the day; pedestrians glued to their phones texted while walking and no-one smiled anymore. Tax evading IT heavyweights were recruiting and the wide-eyed climbed over each other to join the queue. Temple Bar doubled its local population at weekends; genuine vintage picturesque horse-carriages treated tourists to tours of St-Stephen’s Green lasting all of –oh- ten minutes; local team (?) Real Madrid merchandise flew off the shelves; TV catch-phrases made for a roaring trade in T-shirts and plastic mugs; Ireland was undergoing the most pronounced move away from religion of any European twenty-something “generation”. Fathers refused to talk to their sons; children helped themselves to their Ma’s purse.
The clergy had been bracing itself for the pope’s death for quite a while now and the tension wasn’t getting any easier to handle; insecure young men pumped iron in ozone destroying gyms (“you’re not on the list, you can’t come in”), unattractive girls wished they could lose weight or took an unhealthy interest in work; camp hairdressers chatted outside, cup of coffee in one hand, fag in the other. Often they smoked, too.
Kildare Street had become a hubbub of police activity: the placard waving rabble on one side, the chauffeur driven elite on the other. Protesters were a permanent feature, what with their continual demonstrations against corruption, the erosion of pensions, the A&E crisis, the new bin tax, the Clergy protecting paedophile priests, Shell’s designs on the country’s natural resources –you name it, all to no effect. Bertie didn’t hear them from beyond his bullet-proof window. Bertie didn't care.
To be fair, only babes fresh out of the bog would ever expect the movers-and-shakers to move or shake on behalf of concerned citizens, them human / civic / animal rights defenders were clearly living in La-La Land! This never had been the way societies evolved, change never had been on the agenda -press barons sold their papers one way or another.
Meanwhile, the overweight Health Minister dispensed advice to whomever could never be bothered to listen to her anyway; mountains of fliers got printed, straight to be dumped on the pavement; babies just wouldn’t stop crying; bouncers were bracing themselves for gay-bashing on Tuesday nights; Damien Dempsey, Damien Rice and the Thrills, Kila, Hal... a multitude of bands were chronicling the travails of modern life, and so was resident Irvine Welsh. Westlife still existed –in a manner of speaking- and kept Louis Walsh in the lifestyle to which he had become accustomed (fair play to Louis Walsh). Samantha Mumba had been "seen about town", the red tops breathlessly reported; the male TG4 pop reporter rounded up on poor Irish speaking kids to poll them about the new Bryan McFadden single (they liked it); poets camping on Grafton Street sold their roneotyped works in the middle of full blown hurricanes; smokers were reminded to step outside; this vehicle is rehearsing; a Tallagh man was being questioned in conjunction with; celebrity is what celebrity does; dangerous looking (read: cute as a button) teens strutted their stuff up and down the new giant shopping mall in Dumdrum, showing off their new trainers; picturesque "characters" played to the gallery of delighted Trinity Corner tourists (“Here, have a go on my bongo, blow into me didgeridoo -100% Fenian!”); hotels promised “individually styled rooms” on account of not hanging up the same picture in every suite; “genuine Irish experiences” meant taking in extended pub pit-stops (“Have you ever tried Ice Guinness my good man? It’s totally different, for only 99 pence more! Comes with a generous helping of ice cubes on top.”).
Bookies sprouted at every street corner; chickens, eyebrows were plucked and potatoes, brains fried. Computers crashed. Captains of industry thanked loyal staff and gave themselves an extra bonus for prudent purse strings tightening. Security guards left their vans unattended to stop for a cup of coffee. Their office did not provide them with coffee, that’s why. Local administrative districts kept their staff motivated by exchanging invectives as to their respective worth (“your street has more single mothers than mine”); talent shows were on the hunt for more of the exact same; Louis Walsh threatened to "reveal everything"; brats were still crying. Turks chased Poles for construction jobs, Poles chased Lithuanian blondes; TxT mssges hurtled through the air, narrowly avoiding innocent birds and Mickey Mouse shaped balloons escaped from the clutches of little children. Children cried some more. Ian Paisley was blasting hot air; Gerry Adams was reassuring everyone that Sinn Fein was not [message cropped]; elderlies despaired of this young generation and were shunted away to rot in hospices not even connected to the Internet for their trouble; housewives got stabbed while doing the washing-up, headless corpses were discovered in the Liffey; undiscovered geniuses honed their art in smelly bedrooms. New tramway lines. Cabs, cabs everywhere and even more Internet cafés. Guinness-is-good-for-you. Me Da is bigger than your Da. Etc. etc. etc.
Yes, this was a proper city. The lives therein may have been just the same as those everywhere else in the world …but for them famous smiling eyes. Ah yes, the smiling eyes. They made it all different, didn’t they; they made it unique, without equal –in your face, Sainte-Foy l’Argentière! And she was part of it, she was a fixture in her own right, whether she liked it or not.
She paid her dues to the local mayhem. No matter what her cretinous detractors might say, Sinead was a living breathing testimony to Dublin’s proud rambunctious tradition, contrarian and prone to self-aggrandisement with the best of them. A bona fide Dub, always ready to shoot her mouth off and make a stand against whatever –and there were plenty of whatevers to rail against. She lived here and she lived now –let it be known! One foot in America and the other in Europe, a mystic and a fighter, a trail-blazer and a modern woman.
Dublin was changing before her eyes, the Celtic Tiger had lifted it by the scruff of the neck and thrown it to the wind. The result was there for all to see: the sleeping monster had taken off with gusto, ecstatically overtaking theBrits in the process. It had grown chrome on its cars, fangs in its supermodels mouths. It not so much devoured its young as recycled its downtrodden into street walking placards (“Golf Sale this way ->”, “Sushi Bar Vouchers”, “Fire Sale Today Only”).
Ten years ago, Sinead had been vilified for tearing up a photo of the pope; these days, nobody minded the third-gender, facially pierced waiters serving Capuccinos (Capuccini?) on D4 bar terraces. Was Dublin the new London? It certainly looked so. You had your local Soho for them charter-flight hen-nights, you had your gay quarter around George Street; there was now talk of concentrating Chinese businesses in the Parnell Street area. Y
ou couldn't walk the town center without hearing Spanish, French, Italian, Polish, German, Nigerian, Japanese, Romanian, Dutch, Turkish -and of course Chinese but then Chinese was easily the second national language already. There was no point asking anyone but a Guard for directions. The capital's non-stop 24/7 semiotic fireworks pulled at you from every direction, they demanded your attention and savings. Advertising covered every possible surface, tramps paved Leinster South, and pumped up charity muggers (aka “chuggers”) turned Clarendon Street into an assault course: "Hey there, lovely scarf you're wearing! ‘You got a second to spare?" But no-one had a second to spare. No-one was interested in the Rain Forest or human rights activists boiled alive. "You never had it so good!" "Feel the urge!" "Kiss My Arse!” The town had grown all manners of tentacles prying into your headspace and it had become a matter of moral resistance to ignore or prioritise, abort or initialise. Response time was getting ever shorter, it had been calculated and factored in by boffins with degrees in commerce. Some suggestions you will follow, others you will leave behind like fish choking on dry land.
Sinead navigated this free-for-all with great unease: Rip-Off Ireland TM did not agree with her spirituality, Mammon did not sit easily by her side. She hadn't shaved off her hair to put up with 5 Euro Pints, did she? (The same Sinead would go on to give away a house of hers to the homeless –take that, Big Society!) The way she looked at it was: more ads, more aggro. Ah yes, if there was something you could expect to hit your eyes at any given moment, it was advertising...: "Feeling stressed? Visit our tranquil retreat! Come on in for an Express Relax Session TM and reload in no time, getting ready to go out and get 'em has never been so easy!" "Broadband Special Offer: only 35.99 Euros a month (plus VAT and installation costs, terms and conditions apply)" "Maaaaa, why can't I have the same trainers as my friends?" Turning one’s attention to Art definitely looked like a more rewarding option, sighed she.
Except of course this was complete hogwash.
Of course you couldn't bury your head in the sand and hope for the best, now was not the time for navel gazing, daydreaming, disengagement or adding useless lines to the word-count -Now was the time for action! The future of Dublin –and, incidentally, of the entire human race- was at stake and where was that blasted Cork man when you needed him! Just when you couldn't switch on the telly without coming across his rugged unshaved face, now that she needed to meet up with him, the fecker was nowhere to be seen! … Typical, just typical. Sinead crossed the bridge. She crossed the bridge and reached the road. Now that she was on the road (you know the one), she then crossed the street and there she was, right at the corner. She trained her straining eyes on the junction past the house (no, not this house, that one) and looked for your man.
She weighed her options. If she continued down that street, she would make it to this street. ... Then what?
…...
Tourists unfolded their rainproof maps and consulted each other, arms flapping about. Yes, well spotted, every street sign was also given in Gaelic (What could Duvlin possibly mean?). On the other hand, if you didn't like the local weather you just had to wait five minutes for the sky to change seasons.
Cars idled by, their windows safely closed against reaching hands. The Liffey carried ill identified debris with arms sticking out of the water and it was cold, very cold, in the tunnels where the scavengers waited to pounce on said ill identified debris. Every now and then, something dropped into the river and nobody wanted to look too closely at what it was. Better stick to the main streets, don’t wander by the river banks. Shady characters rolled up handmade cigarettes, grey-faced kids accepted them with a curt nod. Coins exchanged hands. All of the kerb warriors were clad from head to toe in sports apparel despite little evidence of gym membership –a month subscription would set you back a dozen packs of cigarettes, easily.
Sinead was at a loss to explain this sartorial contradiction: why wear athletic clothing, were they working on their digital dexterity maybe? But no-one ever talked, no-one ever explained anything. Eyes squinting against the rising pungent clouds, everyone stood their ground, marked their respective territories. The lads assessed the talent on show: nice little ride, that, wouldn’t mind having a go. Young wans in bouncy skirts strolled past them in one direction and then retraced their footsteps in the other. The rites of spring or something.
Engaging with people might have its uses, maybe it was time to take the plunge? Thoroughly annoyed, baffled and bewildered (plus the fact that her new shoes were killing her, sweet mother of God), Sinead turned to the guy manning the newspaper kiosk next to the dumped mattress:
"Excuse me, and-a-very-good-morning-to-you-indeed” (he might be a RTE listener) “I was just wondering... I’m waiting for a friend, see, and... you wouldn't have happened to see someone ‘looks a bit like –well- Roy Keane as it were?"
Your man eyed her suspiciously, evidently asking himself is she touched or is she touched. He spat on the ground the dried up cigarette dangling from his lips:
"Someone who looked like him? I don't think so. Hey love, shedloads of people walk by every second, ‘think I clock them all? (only the lovely Coleens in their school uniforms yeah, but that was probably a story for another day) ... Now if you're looking for Keano himself, he just comes down that road -what, five minutes ago- and he turned left at the traffic light. Looked in a hurry to get somewhere cityside. …I still say the culchie gobshite left us in the lurch though."
Sinead's jaw dropped. She swiftly picked it up off the chewing-gum encrusted tarmac (you don't want to leave your brain hanging out for everyone to see), thanked your man and hurried off in the direction he had indicated. A-ha, now she was going somewhere! Soon all would be revealed (the whys and hows and therefores), before not too long she would get to the bottom of this and –like- totally grab the bull by its horns! Heads would roll yeah! Bring it on!!
Then she would be able to resume her own lifelong quest for the ultimate note. But first...
"Goodbye!" slammed he the door.
(Dramatic Twist)
Roy approached Leinster Lane.
Even when the sun shone like a bastard, the narrow ouverture was cast into perpetual shadow, squeezed as it was between two high lugubrious buildings and cobwebbed with dust. You could have grown strawberries in there and mistaken them for spinach.
Roy felt a chill travelling North by Northwest but -ignoring the ominous sense of eerie foreboding bearing down on his shoulders with the weight of a thousand threats- didn't hesitate as everyone in their right mind would (hesitate that is, with regards to the ominous sense of etc.). He entered the cul-de-sac. Advancing through the gloom, he progressed through the darkness. (sic) Whiffs of decomposing chicken Mcnuggets wafted through the fetid air and settled in pockets of stink; rats probably scampered about, shrieking or whatever it is that rats do; flushes echoed through rusty pipes –it was all scary as feck.
Roy finally made out a human shape standing at the bottom of the end, some bloke or something. Ever the fearless adventurer, pilgrim Roy continued on his journey of discovery and approached the man who was dressed in an assortment of shoes, trousers, shirt and jacket. That was when Roy spotted it: your man sported an umbrella! And -get this- he pretended to read a paper! In near total darkness! Sum'at here was not quite right our kid, Manc based Keano remarked to himself, but this uneasy feeling somehow made sense. It only conformed to your man’s description and confirmed your (other, that is) man’s gut feeling: this must be the man! Roy moved closer.
"Hey man, are you... the man? I've been sent from The Chinaman, ‘know what I mean? I'm the one expected by "Dorothy"."
"Oh really?"
The crusty creep had adopted an ironic tone that didn't bode too well for the rest of their conversation and Roy promised himself to do a job on the snooty snob at the earliest opportunity.
"So you say you're the one...? Ah. Forgive me for asking but your face is vaguely familiar... have we already teamed up on another job?"
"Maybe we did. Maybe we didn’t. I don't think so but in either case, I would certainly not tell. Never confirm nor deny in our line of business."
"How true, how very true.... I must remember to add this one to my repertory. Mum's the word eh, and Bob's your uncle."
The naturally slightly effeminate partially disfigured English-accented dressed in black left-handed villain had a funny way with words. Quite unnatural, almost scripted. Oh, and he was fat too.
"And with whom have I the pleasure to talk if I may ask?"
Huh. This was getting hairy, this was getting tense and no Brucie or Pally were on hand to step up and save his bacon -Think, Roy, think!
"My name... is of no importance, my official identity negligible." (One-nil! Take that, you c)
"Very well. So I take it you know all about the procedure to be observed; Shazza must have filled you in."
"Actually no, not as such. It's all on a Need-To-Know basis, so I was told" (tapping his nose) "That's why I was hoping you’d fill me in, like."
"Of course. Naturally. Good old Shazza’s managed to keep his big mouth shut then? Good. I was under the apprehension he might make too much of his time waiting for you at the publick house. So he hasn't."
"Ah sure he hasn't. ‘Has been a good lad, has our Shazza." improvised Keano. "Shazza" clearly had to be the gnarled barfly from The Chinaman -These crazy cats deffo had a weird sense of humour with their code-names! Were they also slipping each other Mickeys, slogged dames, and sang like canaries when cornered by the fuzz?
But the malicious malfeasant chose this moment to produce a handgun! Which he proceeded to point at our hero's face! Oh but this hadn’t been on the cards only a second ago...
"Isn't he?” spat the right skank “What a shame nobody around here goes under the vulgar nickname of... Shazza!" -the alien antagonist pronounced the name with evident disgust- "I must therefore conclude that you are currently messing with me, Mister whoever you are. You are neither part of the equation nor the specialist we have been expecting!"
And almost right on cue, the dark-looking devil glimpsed at the pub earlier on showed up:
"Hello hello, what have we here? What seems to be the problem? Did I hear someone say "The owls are not what they seem...""
"...and vehicles may appear closer in rear-view mirrors" replied the gormless gunslinger. "Welcome aboard and join the fun, friend. Looks like we have ourselves an intruder, some chancer who for some reason as yet unknown is trying to take your place. How most extremely queer... Now who could he be?"
"Why, I know this guy!” exclaimed the expert. “How could you not recognise him, you pillock? It’s charismatic box-to-box all-tackling all-scoring inspirational never-say-die tireless irrepressible uncompromising multi-medalist English and European champion hero to millions and scourge of European midfielders for the last dozen years Roy “Keano” Keane, that’s who!" And the imposing interloper spat on the ground in a probably highly unhygienic -never mind unpleasantly distasteful- manner.
"’Footballer eh? No wonder I didn't recognise him” replied the contemptuous contrarian “but what on Earth are you doing here getting involved? What business of yours is this, soccerman?"
"I'm here to defend my country, honour the good name of the only proper team in Manchester and foil your fiendish plot, that's what!" replied guess-who.
The truth is, Roy was getting pretty cheesed off with the both of them and was starting to develop a fairly low opinion of this horrid hullabaloo. The situation was clear enough: your man imagined he could use your man for his arse monkey and Roy would have none of that. The last time he had felt so out of his comfort zone was when he had ventured out of his UEFA protected hotel in Glasgow. Glasgow was a place where taciturn men called out to each other “Hey Jimmy” in the street.
The vicious villain waved his gun in Roy's face.
"A-ha, so you thought you was just gonna turn up and... save the day, like? Just who do you think you are? James fucking Bond? And how exactly did you propose to foil our masterful plan eh? ‘got a black belt in karaoke? Huh? Well have I got news for you my friend: there’s no Christmas in February! Failte!"
"Failte yourself -ask me arse!" growled Roy.
"Why, you uncouth yahoo!" lashed the lisping lecher. "That’s no way to talk to me! …But then, I don't exactly expect you to talk, you troublemaker -I expect you to die! I've got a firearm and I intend to use it! But first..." and he half-turned towards his arriving acolyte "...you will help me tie him up, we don't want any more pissing about around here do we?” Sneered the sinister sir: “His impetuous interference has been going on for just about long enough, let me pop a cap up yo ass and job's a good' un! Then we'll get on to the main course."
The fat feck bore down on the courageous Corkman under the watchful eye of his sick sidekick and flattened him in the dirt (the courageous Corkman that is), stunning him with a crafty blow to the back of the head. Blast! Roy briefly lost consciousness under the vicious assault, only coming to to find himself incapacitated under the brutal bastard’s bloated body. The vulgar villain produced a length of rope from his capacious pockets -Clearly the professional prick had come prepared for all eventualities!- which he swiftly tied around Roy’s arms with a dexterity that revealed a long experience in the matter.
A crazed look never left his eyes and the silence in the air was now thoroughly complete (but for the window rattling roar of passing trucks and the wig bothering razzmatazz of hovering helicopters). Your man smelled funny.
In a flash of inspiration, Roy interjected:
"Forgive my curiosity, but since you're gonna kill me anyway, may I just ask what this is all about? I take it you're not in town to watch the lovely Jo-Anne Cantwell on TV 3 "Sports Results" at eleven?"
"Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha -no. The mere suggestion! Truly you are one of a kind, Roy er... Deane, but I’m afraid we have bigger fish to fry -no disrespect to Jo-Anne- places to see and people to kill. And all will be over in..." checking his watch "just about now."
"When you say it's gonna happen now, when exactly do you mean?"
The rugged ruffian let out a snarling laugh that would freeze the blood of lesser men than Roy.
"Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Now means.... now, you fool! In precisely ten minutes' time, a group of French school-children on one of these cultural trips wasted on McDo chompers will enter the National Library situated right behind you” and the wicked wastrel pointed at the very wall Roy was sat against! “Once inside, the blighters will proceed to the Pleasure Dome on the first floor, that is to say the Reading Room itself!” and here the crude creature croakedly cackled, clearly no Culture admirer he, tss tss “We have managed to provide the little shits with miniature cameras which they are bound to spontaneously produce -against the express advice of Liam the friendly Science And Art Attendant- to take snaps of the celebrated dome. This is when the cat leaps out of the bag.” and here the grotesque gargoyle observed a dramatic pause.
Roy’s curiosity was aroused, it was positively getting a stiffy.
“The disposable cameras’ flashes will trigger a fire alarm which will lead the Library staff to evacuate the building. All visitors will leave the building. All of them? No! Cos' our man will be there, at a strategically chosen window overseeing Leinster House and -I’ll have you know- he is top notch is our man. Hit-man sniper from hell yeah. Dallas Texas, Ohio University, Vietnam, Nicaragua, Salvador, Falkland Islands, Stockholm Sweden, Algeria, East Timor, Tiananmen Square, Chechnya, Belfast, Iraq -he's done them all. Nobody knows his real name, he only goes by his initials.”
What with his man-handler’s halitosis hitting hard in the head, it was hard work paying full attention to the grotesque growler’s self-satisfied spiel -but Roy managed. He was all ears, in fact.
The camp caricature continued.
“He’s been hired by everyone who’s anyone the world over, has sealed the deal in every no-can-do situation he’s been contracted to take care of, he’s the go-to man for any gone-to-be target... we’re talking about P.P. in person!" Cripes stroke-a-duck! "Yes, the man himself!! And he’s working for us presently. P.P. will have safely secreted himself in the wee-wee room on the top floor and in twelve minutes' time, yes twelve minutes’ time... guess who’ll be greeting the Chinese Prime Torturer on the steps of Leinster House huh? ... That's right, Bertie himself! The legend!! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!” and here the wicked wanker broke into a devilish laugh that would curdle blood if only blood was curdable “He stands no chance! He may be Bertie, he will be punished nevertheless -and punished by The Hand Of God yeah! For he is wicked, wicked and not who he pretends to be!"
"What??” gasped Roy “Are you seriously suggesting he is not a Socialist?? Jog on!"
"Oh no he's not, he is not you poor lamb! Little did you know, you clearly have not a clue ‘what is at stake here! Bertie comes under many a different name -some of these I wouldn’t care to repeat in a Sunday supplement smash-hit novel serialization favourite- no no, my friend, the final hour of the moment of truth between Good and Evil has finally tolled its bell at long last and Justice will be served only as reckoning will have it …in the only way these people understand, natch!"
"Blimey, you ain't half putting it seriously are you?"
"Indeed not Irishman, for our cunning plan is flawless. Nothing can stop us now -with or without back-up- and if you presumed to interfere you are well and truly fecked! Soccer players eh, ‘think the sun shines out of their arse, not much going on upstairs..."
Lying in the dirt crushed under the grotesque gorilla, his brand new trainers ruined -Gwendoline would kill him-, Roy cursed his luck. He was reminded of Rodney King’s heartfelt plea: "Why can't we just... get along?" You got that right Rod, why don't we... Why do we always have to reassert the rule of Law over the wicked enterprises of callous ruffians? Callous ruffians –and ruthless miscreants too! Why oh why oh why do people positively embrace the tempting lure of e.v.i.l. eh? ... A mighty sigh spread across Roy’s shoulders like Giggsy tearing through the opponents back four. Damn. A keen observer of human follies, Keane thought he knew the answer. (To be fair, the fact that it lay contained within his rhetorical question also helped.) Might is not right, the pen is mightier than the sword. For all their misplaced certainties, these two bozos still had a lot to learn. Choking back blood, the vanquished victor wondered:
whatever happened to... the simple pleasures of life?
You know the ones, the ones that elevate us from the rank of societal automats to fully sentient living beings, the ones that make a mockery of the 9-to-5 routine to reveal the world in all of its munificent glory hidden right behind the sales projection chart, the extra on top, the almost imperceptible plus, the whizz wham bam, the fruity after-taste, the cherry on the cake, the director’s commentary and the subtitles track, the complementary digestif on the house and the nec plus ultra –in a word, what replaces “getting on with it” with “actually enjoying it” (hurrah alleluia ooh ah Cantona).
Roy wondered. When did we forsake our natural propensity for careless fun?
Why had Love Of Life been jettisoned to make way for efficiency and conformity? Take these fantasista players (Baggio, Ginola, etc.), did they really need to get their creativity strangled in the name of team tactics? Huh? Come back Dionysos, all is forgiven! Sometimes it felt like all we are expected to do in this world is relinquish our sense of wonderment and aim instead for the middle-of-the-road. Lower our expectations to unthreatening artefacts. Compromise. Lessen. Capitulate. ... But why should that be? Why accept to close ourselves to the phenomenological thrill of discovery and excitement? Life bargained is life devalued. (Which reminded Roy of something these crazy Frogs always got accused of indulging –nay, wallowing- in: this concept of "Quality Of Life" (TM).)
Now then, let's see... Roy ignored the pervading pain pulsing through his pelvis and made a quick survey. Some details in life are just too good to be passed over:
The smell of bedsheets left to dry in the sun; the first sip of beer; the clean clap-clap of footsteps in an empty corridor; jumping in a puddle; a saxophone player doing the "Betty Blue" soundtrack in a courtyard on a summer evening; the salty whiff of seaweed; the sun on your skin; the mad whirlwind of electrons inside your body when battered by the wind; chasing the kids in the garden with a garden hose and getting chased in return; passing your hand through your hair; the look of unconditional love in your dog’s eyes; the smell of freshly mowed grass; warm bread; feeding a bonfire and watching it burn for hours; fields of lavender in the summer; watching the sun rise; watching the sun set; the explosive kick of a ball; beating the traffic; a hole in one; stroking a horse; farting in the bath; throwing stones at a window-pane; running away from the first teardrops; sliding; breathing; cherries; children; holding hands; scoring a decisive goal against The Arse at Highbury -all these little things that make life precious.
Roy promised himself to have a word on this subject with hypersensitive singing seer Sinead if he ever made it out of here alive. She of all people would surely find a way of expressing and articulating these sensations in a graceful way (Roy was not renowned for his graceful side), she would know how to celebrate the privilege of sharing in the Here and Now.
Instead a slight change of direction had occurred, like.
Instead he found himself nose deep in McDo polystyrene, scrapping with belching bigots who couldn’t link up three syllables together for as long as they’d have a hole in their arse. True that, there he was, reduced to mixing it with garbage collector rejects that anyone with a half-sense of decency would surely love to strangle with dental floss and throat-piss with intent -It was so unfair... Did bad guys really have to win? Seriously? Was that laughable lot about to win the day? The thought made Roy sad. He raged at the injustice. He frowned himself into a passable impersonation of Kris Kristofferson’s face circa 2015 -Oh, and he was probably destined to kick the can now.
His eyes swimming in pain and enraged by the gross unfairness of it all, Roy fumed. The angel of Death was breathing heavy upon him and he could see little stars forming at the corners of his eyes. Your card has been marked son, this chapter is drawing to an end.
Resolution
"So... ‘Looks like the end of the road in your little adventure, wouldn't you say my good man?" snarled the rotten ruffian "Looks like it's hasta la vista Vienna and no mistake, catch me if you can Mr. Copper, it's time out at the end of the road -all bets are off."
If anything, Roy was getting weary of the mincing muppet's mannerisms: just where exactly had the effete feckwit learned to speak? Through a translation software?
"You say jump, I say how low can you go! Your chips are well and truly down, did you really think you could outwit us, fool? Did you imagine that there was light at the end of the tunnel when it was in fact the headlights from an incoming vehicle and we are that vehicle!! We are your nemesis, you misguided agent of evil! We are the wrath of God and the oranges inside its twirling sock! You got it all wrong sunny boy! We have been summoned by a higher being to deal with the incarnation of evil and slay the wrong-doer for we have a mission to fulfill –oh yes we have- and by Jove we will! (Fulfill it, that is.) Prepare to meet your maker, you fool"
When suddenly the walls resonated with the following address: "What the feurke is going on 'ere!"
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