Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Townie Skangers




So me and the fat girl from the Luas, who has the Nigerian boyfriend who has a gambling problem but calls it a job, are in a pub, at 10.30 in the morning.

A fucking kip of a pub.

The type of place that seems designed to keep the light out.

And the bit that gets through in milky beams is full of dust motes and sunlit despair.

The hole is already half full. Or half empty, depending on what you think of the people in the place.

In the bay of seats beside us there’s like a whole family of townie skangers.

The women have blond hair with black stripes along the splits in their heads, and look like they’ve walked out of that ‘novel’ Peig and put on Nike tracksuits. The men are all prematurely aged from too many crispy pancakes and have Indian ink in random places on their heads and hands, but dressed well.

Not so much mutton dressed as lamb. But shite dressed as mutton, and all fucking buckled drunk.

They must have had a mad one the night before.

I have a pint of Bud in front of me. There’s tiny white bits of jellyish something floating around in it.

And I’m thinking what the fuck am I doing?

I wouldn’t mind if the fat girl, Loretta is her name by the way, was in anyway gorgeous, or rich, or maniacally intelligent, but she’s just sitting there. Her drink has an umbrella in it.

Jesus.

I neck the beer. White bits and all.

It’s nice.

And the Cure are playing on the radio.

You know that song with them all in the wardrobe falling off the cliff, and your man playing the hook of the song, on a comb. You think the horrible fucker would use the thing.

I used to love that song.

It came out when I was 17 I think.

When I used to hear that song I used to feel instantly happy. The melody used to make me feel as if the pied piper, or the tambourine man, would be along to show me the way any minute.

I’m still fucking waiting.

Good songs always hit me that way though. A tickle in the belly. A flutter in the throat.

The feeling itself is enough these days.

My phone rings.

It’s my girlfriend. The mother of my children.

I press the silence button. A tiny betrayal. I gulp my beer down, drowning a little tweeting guilt at the root of my tongue.




Then I remember I haven't got a penny. How am i gonna pay for this shit?


Stumble Upon Toolbar

1 comment:

Niamh B said...

Love the black stripes along the splits in their heads description...
Think you should have answered the phone tho - might've been important!