The sad and sorry tale of Johnny Dickson

Dr. Svetlana Johansen & JP Murphy
The harrowing true story of Ireland’s first male sex slave.

No unauthorised reproduction

Copyright protected 1998 – 2006 US Library Protected / EU Law protected . Infringements will be prosecuted.

The novel is also available in pdf format at this external website

Foreword

I was for over twenty years a medical doctor working in Ireland , during the 1970`s and 1980`s. During that time I came across a patient who’s personal story was so extraordinary as to beggar belief. Treating this patient over a number of years , and developing a relationship of trust with this patient (whom I have referred to as patient “x”) I was eventually asked to assist this patient in putting his story to paper . Going against best practise in Medicine , and concerned about the Ethical situation regarding a Doctor revealing secrets learned within the confines of patient confidentiality , I was persuaded by my former patient that only I could help him tell his story properly.

I duly assisted in helping my former patient tell his story. Though a largely uneducated man, Patient “x” had a an oral way with words that I tried to capture as best I could when writing the story that I have published here. I hope that you will enjoy this extraordinary story. A percentage of the profits from this novel will go to charities for homeless men. I cannot thank the writer enough for the tireless efforts that he put into telling this story on behalf of “Johnny X”
Dr. Svetlana Johansen

CHAPTER 1

I was fast approaching my nineteenth year when it dawned on me that most of the conversations that I had with my oldman were little more than yanderings. That's the name they gave to talking nonsense where I come from. What other folk in the Emerald Isle referred to as talking shitte. Talking shitte was the art of droning on and on. About nothing in particular - and at the same time everything in general. My oulfellar was a great man for talking shitte. Yanders rolled off his tongue by the bucket full.
Yandering on and on he would be. Yandering from one end of the day to the other. Having said that, it was the cheapest form of entertainment where I came from. We lived in an inhospitable mountain region. A place where life was always hard, and more often than not near impossible. Though the oulfellar had been born and reared in that place he had barely a good word to say about it. So it was that he would regularly advise me on the subject of escaping from the hard and harsh Rock. The solid lump of a mountain that we called home technically fell short of official classification as a mountain by some seven feet according to the experts. We didn’t split hairs over such a technical detail around where I came from. It was near enough a mountain for us.

Mountain or no mountain, the suggestion was for ever in the air that the rock was a place best gotten away from. And the sooner the better was the advice we got from all and sundry as we were being weaned. London or New York were good choices to be getting away to by all accounts. I was getting on to be leaving school that year and it was high time that I mapped out future for myself. I was already behind my peers having been held back a few years. There was a few suggested around the homestead that I was none too bright. That wasn’t true said my mother. I was just a slow developer. I knew I was growing up and my schooling coming to an end when one thee oulfellar suggested that I should head away to the West for my future. He uttered immortal words that were scolded upon my soul "Go West young man" , says he to me. His words were spoken with a guttural sincerity that left a great impact on me. The advice to take a direction was a new trend. Before this I was usually only advised of a specific location.

The mother was from around those parts as well, and she was a fair woman herself for the Yandering. The mother’s favourite topic was about the need for a good education. That was her way of offering me a chance of a life as far away from the hard oul rock. Alternatively she'd warn us what a waste of time th`oul telly was. This lecture was usually delivered in the middle of some movie meself and the oulfellar would be stuck into. More often than not some brand of an American Western. The mother would suggest that we could have some time praying together as a family if we weren't more interested in watching telly. She would try all sorts of different tacks to get us to pray. The priest had her ruined. The most dramatic and persuasive excuse she used was to call us to prayer by stirring the patriotic streak in us-suggesting that not offering up your souls for salvation was tantamount to treason. She would remind us that the world was about to be overrun with dirty red commie bastards. Commie bastards that'd already closed the franchise for the one true God to whole parts of the world. Parts of the world that had already fallen to Satan’s Communist philosophy. She had particular affection for the place she called "D'Eeastern Europe. Cut off from the rest of Christendom. Swallowed by a curtain made of Iron she would tell us.
It kept me awake nights wondering how a curtain could keep the Communist whoremongers away from Gods special little Island. Only a curtain between us and the devil the mother would say. Even made of iron it was not likely to be of much use when the Russian troops rolled across the fields of Germany. On their way to take Paris and London. No doubt the communists also had their eyes on Dublin, thriving capital of God fearing Ireland that it was.

It was little enough we really worried about world affairs back on the rock. Life was hard. The days were long. All we were good for at the end of a day was a wee rest with our feet to the fire. The wee rest at the end of the day was however spoiled on regular occasionsby intense pressure from the mother to say a prayer or twenty. However, even with the pressure to pray the warmth of the open fire was a top option to wandering cold and wet in the dead of night across the barren land that was our farm.On occasions when were had to go up the hill of an evening for some job or emergency at some point on the walk up the mountain the oulfellar would stop in his tracks , pull at the peak of his cloth-cap and light up a woodbine cigarette. He would talk man to man with me at such moments. Generally he would advise me on escaping the life that he had ened up with.London or New York were often suggested as good choices. To be getting away to that was. One such late night journey up the mountain the oulfellar suggested that I should head away to the West. He spoke words that were for ever etched on my soul. Indeed it would be truer to say that they were scolded upon my soul. "Go West young man," says he to me. His words were spoken with a guttural sincerity that left a great impact on me. The advice to take a direction was a new trend. Before this I was usually only advice of a specific location to escape to.
I had to try and piece this new information into my limited knowledge of the world beyond the harsh rock. Were London or New York in the West? I guessed not. The father would surely have mentioned either of these places by name if that was the case. That only left the Village of Bally-Do-Natin. I knew that place to be to the West of our homestead. I also knew it to be a Godforsaken good for nothing spot. For months after I was convinced that my father didn't love me because he wanted to see me living among the hated enemies of the next village over. Bally-Do-Natin indeed. I was well put out. My oulfellar was advising his own flesh and blood to live in a place that drew little but negative reaction. And pass remarkable commentary. We were a superior lot. My people had done well in the time they had clung to the unyielding mountain. The rock had provided our clans with an existence of sorts for many generations. The same success could not be said of the people of Bally-do-Natin. They were a bunch of losers. Even in the ignorance of my early youth I knew that I could never be going to Bally-do-natin to make my way in the world. Surely my oul fellar must mean the next village over again? A livelier townland than Bally-Do-Natin. Went by the Name of Gan-daoine. From the Gaelic name meaning the "place without people". That it was a town without people was true to a point. There were four pubs and a population of near twenty souls during the day. But at night, when villagers returned from their jobs all over the county and the pubs were in full flow with customers the population temporarily swelled to many hundreds. Apart from that, the town was also noted for regular faction fights. All in all , there was little enough that would encourage a body to be moving there. Drunk and violent -that’s what they were!

All that town had achieved with its past was mostly a reputation for holding wakes. The proliferation of pubs in the village made it ideal for wakes after a funeral - as the funeral party could move from one pub to another (if they got too rowdy or violent in one ) another would surely be happy to have their business, no matter how disruptive they were.
Dying was big business in Ireland. Life may well have been miserable on the emerald isle, but death was something worth waiting for. Even the most miserable bastard put aside enough savings to ensure that all and sundry had a good night of it when they were counting down their last spiritual moments with the living. On the Gods Special little Island we called that a wake. A wake was a social event where friends, neighbours, creditors and enemies got to say goodbye or good riddance.Or both.Those owed money in particular got the opportunity to put pressure on the distressed widow to cough up a few bob. All this entertainment was paid for by the money the deceased worked hard for while alive. A good wake would get a body remembered for a generation or more.
Some notorious wakes were remembered centuries later. One was still being talked about a thousand years later. The deceased in question had been the high king of Tara and his castle burnt to the ground when waking festivities got out of hand. Events like that we called history in Ireland. The wake allowed a social re-balancing in death that never occurred in life. The biggest bastards were the ones with the best wakes. Surviving offspring of complete bastards were usually well aware that to manage the wrath of the community towards the surviving family a generous lashing out of good drink and fine food was a way to create a feeling of goodwill and bonhomie for elements that felt hard done by in life. While the dead slept the long sleep in the next room a lifetimes worth of enemies gathered for a last bitching session - knowing that the dead were in no position to retaliate. In the mentality of the Gael, getting a free drink from a fellow (dead or alive) was a successful ploy of one-up-man-ship. All the better if the fucker was dead. The wake was an event that required no invitation, and was a much-prized knees up at another's expense. The tradition of waking, the oulfellar used to say, captured the reality of a single life that had offended some and befriended others. He was a sage old dude when he wanted to be.
The wake was a chance for the family to make sure that the every whinger and begrudger had the chance to feel that they had gotten even with the deceased. We are a funny bunch where I come from. By the end of a wake those who felt put down and insulted in life by the bereaved would go away happy. Happy in the knowledge that they had gotten a few free drinks and a bite to eat off the dead bastard. This allowed them at least to forgive, if not forget .
But I digress dear reader. The main problem for me back then was still the central question of where I was to escape to. I would just have to hope that sooner or later it would all make sense to me. This was the state of affairs until Miss Maloney, my geography teacher accidentally put a name to the direction where I was sure that my future lay. One day Miss Maloney was trying to drill compass point directions in to our feeble minds. I discovered something that forced me to rethink my very existence up to that point in time. Gandaoine was according to Miss Malaney due East. Not due West as my father had suggested.I had been told that I was not the brightest flower in the in the field often enough. That was why I was some two year s older than all my peers in school having been held back not just one , but twice. However, even I could not understand how I had been so badly dupe dby my own family? I checked and re-checked my calculations according to Miss Maloneys information. I could come to no other conclusion. West was really East as I knew it. I had been led to see the world through the unscholarly mind of my simple peasant father. And me the scholar now knew better. At least I could confirm to myself that I was not as think as all and sundry had made me out to be. But for y own father to deceive me that I could not understand. Or forvive. The world as I knew it was backwards. If only I had been able to read maps earlier I would have saved myself a lot of trouble. The new way of looking at the world added a dimension of thinking to my plans. Neither Bally-do-natin or Gandaoine would be the place of my future emigration, of that I now was sure. I had to rethink my plans. To start all over again. I restudied the geography books late at night to find where exactly I was, if not where it was that I was to be going. It was important to know these things.
In the course of my further investigations into the mapping issues I finally figured out the answer. I discovered that the British military had drawn up the maps. They had mapped the country from one end to the other to keep the rebellious Irish downtrodden. Perhaps Miss Maloney had been wrong I suspected in the light of my new finding. And my father was right. The map was a deceit designed to make everything backwards to confuse the paddies I suspected.That renewed my faith in my father - though on the downside it meant that my destinations for emigration were again looking increasingly like Bally-do-natin or Gandaoin. There was no doubting in my mind that the Brits had altered the map, of this I was sure. The Brits had us well figured out indeed, for the ignorant and constantly downtrodden Gael would always be heading in the wrong direction with rebellion in his heart and a Pike upon his shoulder. Few back in those days knew much about the lie of the land beyond their own doorsteps and farmsteads. In the fundamental all knowingness of my teenage years I knew that I had the answer. The answer of the puzzle of where the West lay. The place of my destiny.
The more I worked on my conspiracy theory, the more appalled I was at what I found. I was of course anxious to both share and sound out my thesis. The older and apparently wiser generation around me were singularly incapable of understanding my theory . When I put out feelers to test my theory against their ancient well of knowledge, they looked at me like I was cracked altogether. They looked at me as if I was totally demented when I went a little further and warned them that we were defending our state with maps that were totally incorrect. Most just dismissed my theory as farcical and frivolous. Downright bloody stupid many held short of saying. Some even went as far as to suggest to my face that I was completely bloody mad. One or two gave me a boot on the arse when summarily ejecting me from their homes. I began to think that I would have to put this through the more enlightened intellects in the district as the old wans were clearly not up to the task.
I duly prepared my findings to put forward my theories to my class and Miss Maloney. Miss Maloney was considered a hive of intellectual ability in our district. She would surely be a better testing ground for my ideas than the bogsoaked crowd that I had tried to impress back around the homestead. I decided to deliver my findings the next day. I knew there would be tough cross-examination. I suspected that this thing would go all the way to the top, and that it was only a matter of time before the Minister for Defence was involved. No doubt the Prime Minister would quickly get to hear of what was going on too. The PM would need to alert the relatively Irish army about the deception that had been put into the map of Ireland by the British Army. They would need to reconsider our national defence in light of my discovery. I wondered how could the entire Republic have trotted along a good five odd decades since the foundation of the state using the wrong map? Perhaps I was smarter than I thought? Maybe I was some brand of a genius even.
In Geography class the day before the Christmas holidays Miss Maloney started to yander on as usual."Now boys, Drumlins" she began, letting the word hang in the air to create excitement at the prospect of what we were going to learn.
"Boys, open your books to page 23. You’ll a map of what appears to be a whole group of islands in the middle of a bay called Clew bay. These are Drumlins. The cluster of Drumlins are a feature associated with our extensively Glaciated landscape in Ireland. Now if you all will look at the map in the book" Miss Maloney began. I decided the moment had come to share my special knowledge with lesser mortals, raising my hand to attract their attention I prepared to make my case.
"Dickson, what is it?” asked Miss Maloney. There was no going back now.
"The map Miss."
"What about it?"
"Its wrong" I blurted out, proud as punch.
"What is wrong with it Dickson?" Says she with a distinct attitude.
"The directions Miss."
"What about the directions?”
" The map is all wrong. All the compass points are the wrong way around". I delivered my body blow to her fountain of knowledge. I sat back and waited for the reaction as her whole world of intellectual stability crumbled. I knew at this point that I had her attention and indeed the attention of the whole class. With the growing political and military tension in the North of Ireland it was no laughing matter. The Brits had obviously duped paddy yet again. But this time the next generation was on the case. We wouldn't make the mistakes of our forebears. I was so lost in self admiration that I didn't notice the whole of the class was waiting for me to continue dispensing my words of wisdom.
"It's the Brits Miss."
"What about the Brits Dickson ?"
"Well, they designed the map of Ireland miss "
"Its may surprise you to know that the British Army, for all the ill they visited on the world left many of their former colonies with a legacy of excellent mapping. This is a well-established fact. Why is it that you feel we you need to share such a well worn gem of information with us Dickson?"
"For the good of the country," I responded in a blast of patriotic fervour.
"Yesss Dickson ...I'm waiting.... explain yourself if you will," encouraged Miss Maloney. I knew the way she said those words that she thought I was going to deliver more nonsense in her eyes. Secretly I knew the smile would be on the other side of her face just as soon as I had delivered the results of my findings.
"Well Miss, the Brits designed the map the wrong way around to confuse the thick paddy."
"Holy mother of sweet Jaysus" she blasphemed. “How did you come up with that heap of Shiite for thinking Dickson?" She had some gob on her for the blaspheming. “Sweet mother of mercy, I have heard some rubbish in my time , but this one sounds like its going to be the capstone dumb commentary to crown all the other unadulterated rubbish I've heard in twenty odd years of Teaching.” Miss Maloney often spoke to us like that. She could be a right rude cow. I was still confident at this point that I had something worth saying and was all the more determined to prove what I had discovered.
"This had better be good, really good Dickson " she threatened , "Because if your taking the piss I guarantee you that you'll be in detention till your old enough to collect the pension, she warned obviously part interested to hear what I had to say. I was not going to be put out by oul big mouth herself. I suspected that she was just jealous because she didn't have the Smarts to figure out what was going on herself. I got down to the central point of my business and proceeded to present the argument to the rest of my classmates.
"Well, the maps wrong Miss, my father told me Gandaoine is over to the West of our house and I looked on the map and saw it in fact to the East".
"And - your point is?” asked Miss.
"Well can't you see miss? The Brits last act of deceit before they left us to the error of our ways was to fool us with the wrong-way-round map. This explained the succession of failed rebellion attempts by the Irish. Our lads were always at a disadvantage because they never knew whether they were coming or going. I continued to present my case as best as I could, fully aware that the future of the Nation could well depend upon my success. “Well Miss," says I, " The British army put the directions on the map wrong way around when they left to make sure that we were running around like headless chickens. They think we’re all really stupid Miss, that's what my uncle says. Thick paddies he says they call us, so they put all the maps backward to make sure that we'd never be able find our way over to England and attack them."
At this point I took a deep breath and waited for the depth of my words to sink in - and of course, the waves of admiration to wash over me. The force I felt Impact upon me was unexpected. For all her demure appearance Miss Maloney packed a mean right hook. The impact of her right fist somewhere between my ear and forehead was as surprising as it was shocking. I could not for a moment understand the reason for her attitude. Surely she had just misunderstood the magnitude of my words. I had expected some resistance to this new idea.I prepared to elaborate my theory for a second time.
"But Miss, you don't understand," I protested. By this time the rest of the class were sitting in muted silence awaiting someone to take a lead in their own reaction. Miss Maloney made their decision for them by lashing out at me a second time and forever cementing in the eyes of the rest of the class the suggestion that I had presented anything but an entirely stupid thesis. The rabid mob took their cue and burst into a fit of derisory and mocking cackles. "Did it ever occur to you that your Father may not be much of an expert on mapping?" she asked. The thought hadn't even crossed my mind. I had to admit that she may indeed have had a point. She was not letting up and took the opportunity deliver a little lecture of her own. "Some of the greatest minds of the last century went into making these maps, so why in the name of God do you presume your oulfellar would know better?” Exactly about the same moment I realised that the oul fellar had never actually stated where he thought the West to be and that I had of my own volition come up with the theory.
I was gobsmacked.How stupid I had been. I knew at that moment that I could never live out my years in the community of my birth, and that the sooner I could get away from it the better. However, I’d certainly want to do a bit more work on my understanding of Geography if I was ever to have any hope of getting away for good from that place from whence I came. I resolved there and then to make amends for my fundamental misunderstanding of geography and I duly went home to swot up on Drumlins and any other brand of a glacial feature that might impress Miss Maloney when next we had a class. I was now likely to be marked as a total bloody gobshitte. People were looking at me a little funny. Laughing behind my back. And worse, I was still no better off in knowing where the West lay.
Regardless of having made a complete bloody fool of myself again I decided to tentatively question the oulfellar about the statement he often made about "Going West". This time rather than appear a total idiot by asking him out straight where the West was I'd try and slip in the subject at a moment when he was relaxing. When he was in looking at the telly I thought best. He was having none of it though as I tried to broach the question he sunk deep into his armchair to watch the telly late in the evening. Finally we found a late night film we could both agree on. It was some brand of an American spaghetti Western the likes of which the oulwan would disapprove of. Holy unadulterated muck for the mind she would call the spaghetti westerns.
As I settled into the late night flick with the oulfellar I waited to have my go at his well of knowledge. As the movie started to get into its stride a moment of deep insight was presented to me. Some rackjaw of a character was telling a young lad to go West. Was I hearing things or is that what he really said.
"Da?" I ventured to broach the subject.
"Wha?" was the slurred reply I got for my troubles.
"What did he mean when he said to go West. What West was he talking about?”
"The West he’ll be arriving at in about two minutes time when he gets off that oul train ", says he to me still intently watching the telly and not wanting to engage in intellectual debate with me. I was more confused that ever at this point.
"But where he coming from Da?"
"Probably about twenty feet away from the set for the West."
"Really Da, whats a set?"
"Jaysus , he`s coming from the bloody East allright, the bloody East is where they all came from to go to the west. That’s why they called it the wild west.The east was civilised don’t you see. Millions of Irish helped to make the east. After the famine that’s where they all went. However he still wasn’t answering y question. He didn't appear interested in my quest for knowledge. I refused to give in. Why did they do that Da?" I asked tentatively.
"Because in the West the hills were filled with gold, while in the East only the streets were filled with gold".
"The streets in the East are filled with gold Da?"
"Yes son , the streets of the East are filled with gold?"
I thought this was definitely the time to hit home with the big question.
"Da, are we in the West or the East ?"
"We`re neither, we`re in the bloody South East. Now would you ever shut you gob and watch the feckin telly". Says he to me having had enough interruption he said.
That was the end of it. Neither East nor West. I’d come no closer for all the questions and I was not likely to get much more outta him with the humour that was on him.
I settled down to study the West as best I could from the scant information that the film was going to provide. I was careful to note every detail of the landscape. Places with erotic names that I would no doubt visit when I made my escape from the homeland. In my mind I etched such names as Fargo, Shiane, Devils Hideout, the badlands and Dodge city. These were likely to be places that would be important to me when I made my way West. One thing that did worry me was that many of the inhabitants of the West appeared so violent. As for how I was going to get to the west, I knew I had a lot of work to do on my understanding of geography. Maloney was the key to finding out how I could get to the west. One day soon after the telly incident with the father Maloney sprung into the class jittery from drinking too much strong coffee in the staff room. By the look of her she had the hangover from Hell. Jack Murphy said she'd been in his father’s pub the night before, "throwing them into her" according to what his father had said at breakfast that morning. This was good for my cause as she would not be fully on the ball. I would hope to impress her with some of the new knowledge that I had acquired in geography since spending so much time at the geography books trying to figure out where the west lay. Then I could try and hit her with a sly question to get the truth about where the west lay.
I hoped that if I offered up a few well rehearsed nuggets of intellect she'd be over the moon. She would rejoice that her crap teaching was having some results. Miss Maloney was well known to think us a pack of thick gobshites, which is why she had the pleasure of teaching us-she being thick enough herself and known as one of the worst teachers in the school. Miss Maloney would be floating high as a kite if she thought that all that time she spent up in Dublin at the college wasn't a complete waste of time and that she had actually achieved something.It'd give her something to boast about in the staff room at lunchtime. She would have something to say in-between fighting with the other teachers to find out who took a biscuit more than they should have, and wondering why if everyone had paid all their tea money there still was eight pounds short. Jessica Deegan was in there one day on a message and she said that was all they went on about the whole time. It was reasonable enough to assume than that sort of carry on was the usual get up of them. By the time I had offered up me intellectual wares for her inspection she'd be bouncing off up to the staffroom with a bit of one-up-man-ship to stick in the faces of all the other teachers, most of whom had long since given up on us.
"Miss,Miss" I pleaded. She didn't hear me. She was obviously really hung over. I tried again , this time louder.
"Misss, Misssssss" I beckoned.
"I'm not bloody deaf Dickson. What do you want?"
"I want to know something" I continued.
Well isn't that the pleasant change. What exactly is it you want to know?"
"Well miss, I want to know if a Drumlin is a glacial deposit, laid down usually in clusters after the glacier had retreated in an interglacial period or at the end of the ice age when the Glacier retreats permanently". I quoted Verbatim.
"Yes Dickson, that is about what a Drumlin is.”She appeared confused.
I was delighted. She appeared impressed so I thought I'd have another go of it.
"And Misss, Missss". I continued, determined to push forward my advantage. The rest of the class were enjoying my superior show of knowledge to the teacher. All ears were cocked for my next display of one up-man-ship.
"Miss, is an Erratic a rock that is laid down at location foreign to its origin, having been carried by the ice pack when it was advancing?" I sucked up unmercifully.
"Dickson?" My name hung on her lips as she waited, I was sure to compliment my studious disposition. My moment of glory was doubtless upon me.
"Yes Miss?" I replied expectantly fishing for compliments.
"Dickson,” she said - with my name hanging in the air, no doubt she was in awe of my intellect. This was my moment of redemption I was sure.
"Would you ever wise up to yourself. Trying to show off is most unbecoming in any person, let alone someone your age. So leave it out Dickson".
She marched on with the lesson without a word of compliment on my excellent contribution.
"Right. Out with your Galway map. We’re going to look at the settlement factors that attracted people to live in Galway. If you look at the South East sector of the map you’ll see the City of Galway. Can everybody see that?" she waffled on.
"Where is the South East corner of the map miss?" blurted out a confused Mulcahy.
"That's the bottom right-hand corner to you Mulcahy".
"Isn’t the sea blue on this map miss?” asked Burke in a moment of unusually scholarly interest. I had the feeling that Burke had something up his sleeve. He was not the type that spent too much time asking questions on any subject.
"Yes Burke, the sea is blue on the map. Naturally enough don't you think? responded miss pleased at punch with what we all knew was a discreetly veiled barb aimed at Burkes stupid question.
Just as the land is represented by green -again for fairly obvious reasons," said Miss not letting go of her scholarly advantage over the dunce Burke.
"Oh yes Miss, I can see that" replied Burke. He wasn't finished yet though." but then miss, how do the people in Galway breath?"
"Did I hear that correctly?"
"Yes Miss. How do they breath Miss?"
"Burke , I have heard some questions in my time, but this one really has to top them all. Are you wisecracking me?"
"God no Miss."
"Like everybody else they breathe through their mouths".
"But Miss, I didn't think that people could breathe under water".
"Jesus Christ Burke , give me patience. Miss had no response to this line of questioning. It was difficult to see where Burke was coming from.
"But Miss, Galway is in the sea".
"What are you on about?”
"Look at the map miss, Galway is in the sea. Where it says Galway is blue. It’s under the Sea. Isn’t that right Miss?"
Fair fuck`s to him. There was some truth in it. The words Galway were set against the deepest blue.
" Mother of Bloody Jaysus Burke, do you never actually try and use that brain of yours?” She attacked the stupid question not knowing if it was a windup or merely thick.Either way she had no intention of letting Burke be seen to have to have the upper hand. She continued on in her best sarcastic tone."The name Galway happens to be located on what is the physical area of the sea. The city, on the other hand is the colour grey on the map, and it is located where all cities are located, on the bloody land. Understood?"
"Yes Miss,” Burke meekly responded.
Burke had pulled a few feathers from her cap. If my own plans for intellectual enlightenment weren’t going to plan at least Burkes stupid question would help the class forget my own misunderstanding concerning the map. As the whole of the class cracked up laughing at Burke I knew that I was already no longer regarded as the thickest mucker.Burke was now the holder of that title. Things were looking decidedly up again.
But those few days had left me with no choice as to my future. Whatever about temporary respite caused by Brukes even dumber question than mine I knew I could never win the esteem of my peers or elders even at my relatively young years. I had already decided by that time that I was no man for those parts. I`d best be off to where I`d be appreciated as soon as possible. I had to make my escape to the West. No sooner had I made my decision to leave those part’s than the God’s trust upon me a valuable piece of knowledge that was to aid my escape from the futile existence that waited me in the place of my birth. Miss Maloney was the unwitting source of my inspirational knowledge. Though we had well and truly managed to wipe the smirk off her face and aged her five years in ten minutes that day she soldiered on at the chalk face and dropped the valuable gem of information that gave me the key to my escape.
"Now ,if there’s no more idiotic questions lets focus our attention to the " City of the tribes – know as Galway. Its located on the Western Seaboard of Ireland" It was like a beacon of light had been shone for me in the sea of darkness. I finally had a fix on where I was going. I was enlightened , literally. I still wasn't sure where exactly the Western seaboard was though . Thankfully Delaney wasn't any more enlightened than me and helped clarify the issue further.
"Miss, I thought you said Galway City was in the South East miss?, piped up Delaney.
"The South Eastern corner of the map we are looking at Delaney , not the South East of the country.
"But then MisssÖÖ"
"Then what Delaney ?"
"Well Miss, how can it be in the West as well".
"Because Delaney, if you learn`t anything over the last few years in this geography class you would realise that the this small map we are looking at today is part of a much larger map of the whole of Ireland. We are only looking at one small section of that map which has been made to a specific scale so that we might be able to actually make out some features on it. The larger map of Ireland is a different scale - we could not make out the detail on the larger map that we can on this smaller map. Having studied geography for three years you should by this stage at least be familiar with that. Finally, and just to remind you when we study a map we use directions to refer to particular places , which is why we are referring to Galway being in the South Eastern sector of the map , not the South Eastern sector of the country. Do you for once and all understand that Mr. Dealaney ?
He said he did , though he had a look that suggested that he was really still travelling in the dark on the issue of where exactly Galway was.There was only so much humiliation that a body can take however and there comes a time when its best just to shut up.
" Do you bloody well understand Delaney? She shouted.
"Yes Miss, I think so" Delaney lied. Delaney shut up. Even we in our dumbness could see the basic gist of what Miss was on about? Even we could recognise that Delaney was an idiot. I on the other hand was listening to little enough of it. What She had said had in fact sunk home. She had accidentally revealed the Holy Grail. Galway was in the West. I couldn't believe the luck of it. Delaney’s stupid question had given me the information that I needed. Galway was in the West. The west was where I had to go. GALWAY was where I had to escape too. Now I could see the sense of me oulfellars words. He was extolling me to get away as far the hell away from the thump of an oul mountain and over Yonder to the West. He could never say so directly for fear the mother would never forgive him for pushing her only son off the unforgiving rock. The rock that we had been forced to call home. From what I had seen of the west on the telly it was everything our little corner of the world was not. It was somewhere else for a start. It was obviously on the sea - not stuck on the side of a mountain. That of itself had to be a good thing. It had great and dry sunny weather- I knew that from watching old cowboy movies set in the wild west . I just hoped that things were not as completely crazy as they looked to be in the movies. I suppose that they didn't call it the Wild West for nothing. It was probably a good sign that Miss called it the West , that probably meant that things had quietened down a bit since all the movies had been made. Unless of course there was also a quiet West?
I felt that I had at least finally got something to work with in my search for the place of my destiny. For the first time in a long time I was content. Miss continued on with class, and for once I was all ears, anxious to learn all that I could about the place that was to be my home for the future. She started on with what she called the settlement patterns. "Now boys, can you tell me from looking at the map why people chose to live in this place? Delaney rushed to answer, this topic obviously had some special interest for Delaney .
"Miss, I know", volunteered Delaney.
"Oh good Delaney, what attracted people to live in Galway then?
"The slots machines and the pubs Miss," says Delaney proudly.“You see Miss, we were down there for a week last year and that was why we went. My oulpair would let us go to play the one arm bandits while they relaxed in the pub miss,” advised Delaney. Miss appeared perplexed, but nevertheless she continued to try and do her best to knock a bit of sense into Delaney. "Delaney, is there any chance you can take your mind back to the dawn of civilisation and wonder why people went to live in Galway before the tourist attractions?” begged Miss.
Delaney though about what miss had asked him for all of a few moments before responding. "I’ve never been up at dawn miss, but my mother knows all about dawn miss. She’s always talking about getting up at the crack of dawn to get us bloody lot out the door, so she can have a minute to herself she says. Ill ask her If you like miss, when I get home?" Miss sighed with exasperation. There was indeed no accounting for the unhinged workings of Delaneys mind. Even with my poor sense of where everything was in Ireland I was not so unhinged as Delaney appeared to be. He was truly a lost cause. Every class had one, and Delaney was ours.
I had to feel a bit sorry for the carry on that Miss had to put up with from us. Miss did her best to try and teach us what few gems of information she appeared to possess, but it was an uphill battle for her most of the time. But at least she kept trying, we did occasionally admire her for that! From then on I was all ears in Geography class. In every other lesson I slunk into a world of my own, but in Geography class I was like a blotting paper to ink. Me head was away with the fairies as I dreamt about the new life that awaited me. I now knew I had to start making plans to escape to the West as soon as possible. I may only have been a young chap but at least now I knew where I was going in the world. I found out over coming weeks that Galway was a largely agricultural and fishing community. That information didn't give me much hope for much of a better life than I already had. I didn't fancy a life of mucking out farmsteads over there any more than I did at home. I could see little advantage either in getting involved in the fishing industry. That was an industry that was by all accounts an even worse life than the farming.
I would have to give serious consideration as to how I was going to make a living if I was to get married and bring up a family. We were expected to do that when we grew up. Brother Declan always advised us that we should be thinking about the long term even at our early age. He said it would help us to direct our thoughts towards Gods plan for us. I was glad someone had a plan for me, because I hadn't a clue what I was doing with my life. He said thinking about our future married life would help us resist wasting our seeds seeking immoral self pleasure. Seeking self pleasure I heard the older lads say meant wanking. I wasn't sure what that was either. I had a lot to learn allright. Brother Declan promised that pulling the nobs off ourselves would make us blind and crippled. And no woman would ever want to have anything to do with us because we had wasted all our seeds on self pleasure. The first chance I had to waste my seeds was with Alice Maher up the back of the woods. The incident was a bit of a shock for the both of us. She was sure she’d broken something with all the mutual pulling and rubbing. I was mortified and wondered how in the name of Jaysus I was ever going to explain the nature of the medical emergency at home. However, we both survived the experience and didn't do much more messing after that. We took it as a warning from God. Just like Brother Declan said, God is always looking, and I shouldn't have had me hand down Alice Mahers drawers. Nor she mine. The matter was resolved some days later when Alice informed me that she’d not broken any of my equipment and I was only after having a period according to her sister . Putting a name on it made things somewhat easier to deal with.
I asked the uncle what was a period. He looked a bit shocked and sent me off to ask at the school. I thought Miss Maloney the obvious choice. She was having none of it though. She sent me right back to Brother Declan. He started on again about sowing seeds and saving myself for the right woman and I was back to square one. Alice Maher had been told by the nuns that the girls should wait for the right man. Neither of us saw any problem in waiting with one another in the mean time. I told Brother Declan that I couldn’t see what waiting with Alice Maher until the right woman came along. He lambasted me from a height and both sets of our oulwans got to hear about the mutual waiting. They quickly put a stop to that. For a good few months we didn't have a chance to get barely a look at each other.
That was a pity, because I heard around the town her tits were getting bigger and more succulent by the day. Her sister said I’d want to clean meself up a touch and stop looking like some brand of a bog farmer if I was to have any hope with Alice atall. She was apparently also getting choosier about who she messed around with. Not deterred I finally persuaded myself back into her good boks somewhat. But unlike the first time we had messed together now she had taken to getting me to sit on a phone book while she sat on my knee. This tactic was supposed to stop us having impure thoughts. What the nuns told her was the passion. The other lads called the passion a hardon". I was not sure what exactly was a hadron. Neither was Alice. All I knew is that a felt a deep frustration. All my efforts were focused on what to do with the frustration. I made what enquiries I could. The other lads knew less than they made out when push came to shove. Brother Declan said to go away and say two decades of the Rosary every time I felt the frustration. I tried to tell him that I couldn't possibly spend my whole day praying. Alice had no better luck in her quest for knowledge. I got to thinking that the constant state of my frustration was Gods way of telling me that I had a vocation. I was mortified at the prospect. Jaysus. A lifetime of prayer and frustration. I was beginning to understand why the monks lived in the most inhospitable of places away from the girls. About the same time Alice Maher discovered that she was the one to sit on the phone book -while placing it between herself and meself when we were "cavorting" as Brother Declan would be want to call what we called messing around.
The correct use of the phone books made things a little easier and reduced the frustration. It meant that we could snog a little longer. A solution of sorts, if only partially successful. We had been practising a lot at every school and parish disco that we could find and soon were considered expert kissers. People were coming to us to ask for advice and we were happy to share our knowledge as best we could, and would - give demonstrations. Alice was having no deeper exploration which was a hugh pity because her breasts continued swelling by the day and she was looking a topper. The proper beauty in fact. She became less accommodating as time went on to letting me explore her drawers. And more reluctant herself to drop her hand down my jocks. So it was that most times that we met we had to do nothing but stick to the kissing and go home and pray after- to keep the frustration at bay. I wasn't long getting tired of all that. Maybe Brother Declan was right. Possibly the praying was the answer.
I could always run away to the church for a quick pray when I felt the frustration. Half the town spent all their spare time in the Church, no doubt working on their frustration.The other half of the town were usually to be found in the pub. Dealing with the frustration in their own way too. Perhaps that's how they all dealt with the frustration in their adult ways. I was only a young fellow. Just a chap. Sure I’d find out about these things in good time . In the mean time, I had no intention of giving up on Alice Maher, phone book or no phone book.

Chapter 2
Despite my best intentions, in a shorter time than I care to think I had all but forgotten about Alice Maher. The realisation that time was pushing on made me concentrate my best efforts on figuring out how in the name of Jaysus I was going to make a living over there. Out west that is. Now that I at least knew where I was going, life finally had a direction, if not yet a purpose. I knew that whatever fleeting moment of desire I felt for Alice Maher would soon be replaced by hoards of ladies that I knew I`d be pulling way over yonder in the West. Once I had plenty of money coming in I would have no bother pulling better than the likes of Alice Maher, who was plain enough when all was said and done. All the lads agreed, even in the depths of our ignorance that the one thing that was a sure puller for the ladies was the few bob in the pocket. I became focused on the prospects for earning a living over in the West. It hadn't been lost on us that the sons of the big farmers always appeared to be a to be a more attractive lot to the ladies , no matter what they looked like. That left only one conclusion - it was the few bob more than us they had that added to their attractiveness. We were learning fast around that time I can tell you. If I was to have any look with the ladies then there was only one thing for it , and that was to ensure that I made a good living over yonder.
Fishing looked the only real option that was a far away from farming was concerned.I got an oul fishing rod to give the fishing a shot down at the local lake. The whole carry on was no more enticing than I`d expected it to be - cold , wet and outdoors. Was every bit as bad as the farming. Only worse. That was no life I knew there and then.The answer of what to do for a living came when I was watching the TV. Broadcast live from Galway no less.From what I could see they spoke mostly in Gaelic, a language that I was obviously going to have to learn better in school if I was going to have any hope of ever integrating into my new community. The whole of Galway appeared to be full of musicians, singers, dancers and the like. Music, jigging and reeling about the place as they entertained that looked like a fine way to be making a living. Drinking and sucking on the oul fags to boot as they worked. Wasn't that surly the oul job to be going for? I Couldn't help but notice that there were plenty of fine looking young wans running about the place as well. Many of them were looking starry eyed at the lads in the band. I couldn't help but think that show business was the career for me right enough. At that moment I knew that a career in the entertainment industry was my destiny. But what could I play? The grandfather was something of a tin whistle player, but that seemed like too much hard work. I didn’t see any point in swapping one bloody awful slog of work for another. I could sing? The grandmother was always saying that I had the gift of the voice, passed on from the tradition of storytelling in the family. But that too appeared to be hard work, what with all that music to learn, and remembering the lyrics, and then it was only oulwans that wanted to be listening to the stories right enough. It was wans that I wanted to be pulling as a fringe benefit of the job, not oul oulwans. The singing was out as a career choice. I had to be in a band.
The music industry was the thing for me all right. The fact that I knew nothing about the industry, or had virtually no skills did not put me off atall. Shur how hard could it be to learn a few tunes and jump about an oul stage like an eejit. I would need to get experience if I was to have any hope of making it as a musician. Around then I started to take an interest in a nearby townland called Glory. That place close to our homestead that was reported to be the place to go for things cultural. Glory was what they called around our parts a cultural magnet. I didn’t really know what culture was, but I knew bands were part of culture. There had to be opportunities in Glory I guessed. Culture was treated with great mistrust and suspicion where I came from. But not in Glory. They loved the culture in Glory.Word had it that down in Glory they were nearly more interested in culture than they were making a living. That sounded fine to me. Getting far away from anything that passed as a class of work was surely a good thing. Glory was by all accounts a place where people could get a bit of culture away from having to go all the way up to the capital. Glory was full of a better class of people I was told. Positively overrun with professional types, literally falling over themselves to outdo each other in cultural appreciation and knowledge. This was would start my search for the future .I would join a band, learn to be a musician and make my mistakes in Glory before heading over to the West. I was told that in Gaelic they said Galway was the place of Ceol, craic agus Caint. MC Carthy translated to English this as being wine, women and song. Aside from myself, Mc Carthy was the closest thing that we had to a scholar up our way. Who was I to argue with him. A place that advertised its importance to the world by reference to having a good time must be a sign that this was important to me. For my destiny. Glory would be a good training ground for my future if all they were interested in doing there was having fun.
I began hitching down the mountain to Glory as often as I could. I was soon feeling like the proper mucker around Glory I can tell you. Just by the look of them down around there you knew what they thought of a chap from the hills like me. To those of the cultural elite in Glory I was from an inferior hill tribe. A bog smelly mucker .A lower form of life .They barely looked at me, and if they did, they glanced at me like I was roadkill. Obviously they could tell that I was not in the slightest bit cultured. It was like they could smell the lack of culture offa me. They even dressed different, all the wans walked around with the look of the city on them. I was a peasant badly dressed by comparison. The relative proximity to Dublin rubbed off on the youthful citizens of cosmopolitan Glory. However, despite all the airs and graces on the lot of them down there it was little enough of culture that I found floating around the streets I was confused, but there was little enough that gave me a clue to what was expected of a body to be well and truly accepted as a member of the cultural elite in Glory.
Excursion after excursion I made my way down to Glory, in the hope of finding where all the culture was happening. I was singularly disappointed with the result of my excursions down to Glory.I was finding no more cultural inspiration there than I was beyond at the top of the mountain.After a number of solo journeys I dragged McCarthy along to help me locate the epicentre of culture. McCarthy was always open to new experiences, though unlike myself, he had no desire to leave the raggy rock. He was a home bird, and happy at it.
Young Mc Carthy was becoming a good ally in a search for an alternative to a life of misery and toil on the farm. He too had an inkling for the creative talent so that it was easy to persuade him to come along and in no time I had an inseparable ally on my trip’s to Glory. Both McCarthy and myself quickly recognised that we would have to acquire the correct attire to impress these lads down in Glory if we were going to make any progress. Even with the right clobber the next few months of excursions down the mountain didn't appear to be getting us anywhere any quicker than I had got on me own , even though we had made a bit of an effort to at least dress like them. Despite trying to hangout in all the right places, the lads from the arty circles were having none of us. And worse, they had some fine wans in their harem, I can tell you. It was also far from sharing them with us they appeared to be. We listened in to their conversations as best we could and made notes of the things they were talking about. We could barely understand a word of what they were saying. It was all very confusing, but we were determined to figure out how it was that we should act and behave. When we went home we practised talking like them no matter how ridiculous we may have sounded to each other. We spent a lot of time swotting up in the encyclopaedia trying to get the general gise of their interests. Alas, it appeared that their knowledge base was so deep that their subject matter wasn` t even covered in the most advanced text books. We did pick up on a few pieces of their slang however, and got what mileage we could out of that.
Finally we got a break and picked some information on their interests. They spent a lot of time talking about Rolling Numbers. A band? Like the Rolling Stones ? We also heard them talk about a game called blow. A strange sport that I couldn't fathom atall. It was some time before we realised that they were talking about pot. That was what they were interested in - smoking pot! Shur when we heard that lots of their behaviour became understandable to us. That was devastating news to us. They were just a bunch of potheads. We would have to give up entirely on the prospect of becoming truly Arty types. It was far from becoming drug addicts that we were raised. So it was that we decided temporarily to give up altogether trying to become arty types.We would for the time being concentrate on chasing girls again until we could figure out what kind of image we wanted to give out to the world. To tell you the truth we were both secretly relieved that we had come to a decision regarding the artiness. It was a lot of hard work trying to keep up with all that highfluttin chitterchatter about nothing in particular. Yandering Ill grant you, but a different type of Yandering to that which we were used to.
As the year was dragging on it was becoming high time that we went back to concentrating on getting an oul shag from some quarter again. And we were learning lots about sex. It was fast becoming only a matter of time before the next natural stage was to try the whole process out in real life. At the end of the day, hearing about it second hand was ultimately a poor substitute for the real thing. Our only problem was hat we needed to find our selves a female partner first. When we rationalised about our situation we realised that we had been waiting for many long months at this stage to have a go at a shag. Despite all our best efforts and not counting the brief episode with Alice Maher, we were basically getting nowhere. And the end result of all the waiting for the shags that never came was that the waiting was causing us no amount of frustration.
Brother Declan in the school had taken to giving us advanced lessons on keeping the frustration at bay. That had all started when Francis Maguire had been caught with a book Brother Declan described as the devils work. That of course meant we all wanted to have a look. Brother Declan was in no mood for passing the offending article around.We tried to reason with him that we needed to have a look at the book so as we might be able to recognise the devils handiwork the next time that it passed through our hands. All was not lost however. Fortunately McCarthys older brother had a few samples of such filth. There was some lineout to have a look at it I can tell you. The wan`s in it displayed parts of the body that us poor gombeens could only dream about. No doubt about it. We still had a lot to learn.Brother Declan said we had to be especially careful in our weaker moments . That of course meant to my mind all the time. My life back then was one weak moment after another. But the dead of night was the place that the weaker moments really got the run of themselves and that was when we had to be at our most aware praying to ward off the frustration said Brother Declan. Brother Declan also said that a problem shared is a problem halved , so I tried again to enlist the help of Alice Maher to relieve the frustration. She was having none of it though. She’d become the right proper little bitch who would hardly talk to me by this time, having found herself an older fellow. A more mature fellow as she called him. A buckin eejit I called him.
The long and the short of it was that Alice was going to be no help with the frustration. Things had got so bad that the frustration was keeping me up half the night. I was away with the fairies and beside myself trying to keep the frustration at bay. I knew and recited every prayer in the little book for school boys that Brother Declan said would save us all from the Hell that surely awaited us when we met our maker if we didn't try to live pure lives. I wasn't entirely sure what a pure life was. I did know that it had nothing to do with having thoughts about the frustration all the time. I knew the releasing of the frustration was itself an impure act. I got to the stage where I was praying for upwards of four hours a night to ward off the frustration and feeling constantly exhausted as a result. However, one night I received divine inspiration and the frustration released itself. In one great moment of release in the front of my pants God saved me from myself. It was just like the time when Alice Maher had released the frustration accidentally, only this time, it was Gods work. It had to be a miracle. I was chosen by the almighty for special treatment. I was surely blessed. The recipient of a minor miracle. I knew what the reason for the spontaneous release of the frustration was because I had been praying in a manner of speaking at the time. I had been glancing at a prayer for the safety of livestock in preparation for an upcoming harvest mass at the school.That was the trigger I realised when I recounted my steps. I began to realise that the spontaneous release of the frustration was my reward for seeking the righteous path.
God’s gift for the pure manner in which I had attempted to control my unnatural urges was rewarded with a unique sinless cure for the frustration. I alone among my peers had not succumbed to the base instincts of manual intervention that was popular among my fellows. There was no doubt in my mind that divine intervention was probably the reward for my pious disposition. No doubt about it, atall, atall. From that evening on I spent inordinate amounts of my spare time reciting the prayer for the safety of livestock. The lads from the school couldn't believe it until I was persuaded to give a few demonstrations. Sure enough, and right on cue, the frustration released itself somewhere around the middle of the prayer for the protection of livestock. Dar reader , I do have to confess that Sometimes a little visual help was required from McCarthy`s brothers filthy books. Other times, I had only to start reciting the prayer, and all Hell broke loose. It was mad altogether. All the boys in the school suddenly took such an interest in the prayer to livestock. Fellows could be heard at all hours of the day reciting it in locations as diverse as the cloakroom and the science labs. But noone had the same manner of spontaneous reaction that I had , of course, I being the chosen one, Gods special little helper as I liked to think of myself. The other fellows were using what could only be described as impure methods -though they were trying hard to seek the pure and unassisted release from their frustrated anguish. Their lack of divine intervention made me all the more convinced that I was chosen by God for special work. God had provided me with a manner in which to beat the system and find a way around the frustration without necessarily committing a sin.I was a living miracle.
As time went on the divine inspiration got so intense that every time I passed a religious artifact of any description or from any religious persuasion I got a fit of the frustration. Fortunately could recite the prayer for the protection of livestock - and release the frustration. While the other lads had to make do with dirty books, mostly supplied by McCarthy`s brother, I was getting excited from a higher calling, which I did start to think was a little odd in itself. However, I could find in no interest in the filthy erotic magazines. But the mere thought of a religious artifact was enough to give me a blast of the frustration. Which could only be released by reciting the prayer for the protection of livestock. I was becoming embroiled in a vicious circle. Was I being punished and divinely blessed at the same time. Was this a test of my purity . I was tempted to ask Brother Declan but he was inapproachable at the best of times with minor matters. I couldn’t go to him about something of such magnitude.
This became a pressing issue for me, and in time it dawned on me that there was something seriously wrong with getting off by seeing a religious statue. No matter how pure I may have thought it to be at first. I was becoming a queer sort allright , and if I didn't find a way to become normal then I had no hope atall. I got to thinking that I had become really right peculiar altogether.I just hoped that I hadn't messed myself up by using the prayer for the protection of livestock, and I was now not normal. There was always a chance that God was punishing me for using prayer in a fashion that it was never intended to be used, no matter how well meaning my objectives might have been. I didn't know which way to turn.The more I thought about it the more that I realised that I could only arouse the frustration when I laid eyes on Holy artifacts and symbols. Holy crosses could do it for me. Equally, statues of all manner and sorts, and by God wasn't every home and public building full of them at that time .Every spare inch of shelf and pedestal in every home and building was positively adorned with religious artifacts.Not to mention the streets .Even cars and buses carried all manner of religious item`s, so it was that for many a long month I went about in a permanent state of frustration. I was as near permanently frustrated as made no difference ,and only waiting for the opportunity to recite the prayer for the protection of livestock and relieve the frustration. By this time I had a band of followers who clung on to my every word of wisdom in the matter of the spontaneous release of the frustration. They were pure and searching souls who though they too could chart a course somewhere between the line taken by Brother Declan and McConville`s brother. I was less than happy to be constantly called upon to give demonstrations but I felt it was my duty. Around that time my followers began to gather in the ancient and magical fairy fort high up over the hills at Dun-na-nob. We could positively feel the magic of ancient Druids as we offered up devotion to the Sheilla- na- gig , the ancient God of fertility. There was a stone head bust of her above the spot where the altar used to be.
We had hoped some of the senior girls from the convent even might make their way into our circle. We sounded out a few of them about our special devotion but they almost recoiled at the very thought of joining our special group. God forgive me for saying it, but the nun`s had them ruined. Those convent girls were fit for nothing but making babies within the sanctity of holy matrimony. Accepting that we were on our own we got on with the job of trying to get other members of the group reach the peak of spiritual enlightenment through spontaneous eruption. After a time some of the followers managed to achieve the same manner of divine inspiration that I had originally been blessed with. Encouraged by the spread of the gift of spontaneous eruption we began to meet more and more regularly at our secret location to worship in our own special way. I of course, being the first to receive the blessed gift of spontaneous eruption always had a stronger sense of purity and moral superiority than the rest of the group. Soon the numbers of our group had reached a hundred .They appeared to look to me as their leader though I preferred to think of myself more as just a fellow traveller. I resisted as much as I could the temptation to be drawn in to the leadership role, but slowly I acquired the status of leader by default . My own spiritual growth began to take over my every waking hour as the proliferation of religious artefacts scattered throughout the country side left me understandably enough in a constant state of frustration. .
As the months rolled on I began to think that I would have to move to somewhere Godless if I was ever to have a normal life without all the bother of a constant and often painfully embarrassing dose of the frustrations from one end of the day to another. How, I wondered would I ever even get a job if I could not even concentrate on anything but the constant frustration. I would be basically unemployable, incapable of doing anything but dealing with the frustration on a full time basis. Was I doomed to spend my life thus ? Forever frustrated? What about my plans to go to the West? Was there as much religion over there ?

Chapter 3
If I was ever to have any hope of living a normal life I would have to move to somewhere Godless when I grew up. England perhaps. That was a place I had often heard was full of heathens. Anyway, while the frustration was a daily affliction I was condemned to a life of religiosity. I was at least glad to note that my disease, as I now had to consider it, was not confined to any one religion and I was as likely to be frustrated at the sight of a dirty black Protestant place of worship as soon as one of our own holy temples of divine Catholic inspiration and light, basking In the glory of the one true God incarnate. That at least gave me some hope that once I found a Godless place to live all would be ok. I hoped that Galway was godless. But it was in Ireland so maybe I would have to cancel my destiny and go to England instead if the frustration didn’t cure itself. Or God didn’t release me from my extalted position. It was around that time that people started to call our little gathering a cult. I was at pains to point to any and all who would listen that we were in fact a sect , and not a cult.I can assure you dear reader that we`d have no truck whatsoever with any brand of cult carry-ons. We were a legitimate group that had as our worshipping focus the ancient Celtic fertility God Sheila-na-Gig. That dear reader may have made us a little odd, but it did not make us a cult. Ok, so we may have activated our special spontaneous eruption through the intervention of the Holy Spirit, but you must always remember dear reader that we only started our group after exhaustive attempts to eliminate our frustration by means that did conform to the teachings of the church.As far as we were concerned our special group was taking a righteous and holy path. However , some of the Parents eventually got word of our activities. They had apparently been spying on us for upwards of a week before all Hell let loose. Father Mac was seen charging up the Old Monastic ruin towards us with a bunch of Police just as we were reaching a peak moment in our spiritual devotion. We were a sight alright I can tell you. I can understand what they must have thought when they beheld the vista of over seventy of our number with pants dropped and in various stages of the relieving the frustration. We were going to have some amount of talking to convince them that we weren't a bunch of weirdos. Or rather, I was going to have a lot of explaining to do, since I appeared to have been targeted as the leader of the pack. I was at odds to tell the priest that I was by no means the leader of any of the whole carryon.
I pleaded with them to understand that our service was a genuine spiritual experience, despite looks to the contrary. From the look on the faces of all the gathered forces of civility and moral order I gathered that they didn't think too much of our devotion’s. Their eye’s had a look that suggested there would be all Hell to pay. I started to explain to them about the spontaneous eruption, but soon tapered off with my own defence when Father Mac began to scream hysterically that there would be all Hell to pay for the evil and debauched activities that we were involved in. I thought he was going a bit far myself. Our intentions were the purest I can assure you. He said no amount of excuses would explain the sickest carryon he said he had ever seen.
There was holy murder when we arrive back to the town, hauled in by the scruff of the neck by the local police and a few half baked curates intent on showing that they were a force to be reckoned with.The oulwans were gobsmacked. Nobody could understand the purity of our actions no matter how much we tried to explain to them. They all though that we were sick. Insane they said they hoped, rather than possessed.I tried to explain to them that we were only following the advice of people in the know like Brother Declan.We pursued our devotions in a pure manner without sinning. Aside from the unhygienic nature of our devotions I could see no reason whatsoever for the entire bad attitude.
Horny perverted bollixes I heard Father Mac refer to us. There was no need atall for that kind of attitude. That was fine language to be coming from a priest. I could see no reason for the involvement of the police or the church, but as usual they wanted to poke their hand in everything. They didn't like my attitude one little bit they told me.I was far too cocky for my own good they said. They made it very clear to me that there were some very hard times ahead and that I had a lot of explaining to do. Things in the town were considered so bad that the Missions were brought in to blast the Devil out of our lives. One good point however is that Brother Declan was taken to task over his inability to present his thoughts in a manner likely to be misconstrued by our young and impressionable bogsoaked minds. He even got it in the neck by being singularly considered to blame for my own peculiar affliction through his misguided teaching on the subject of impure act’s. When they had finished with Brother Declan, it was only a matter of time before they got round to me.
Sure enough, I didn't have long to wait and I was quickly let know that I was the one who was considered the baddest apple in the whole rotten barrel of bad apples. I was also let know in no uncertain terms that what we had considered a sect was what they all thought to be an evil cult. I was duly dragged down to the local police station for my debriefing as they called it.. They were a right fucking bunch of professional’s altogether. They had been working busily behind my back and after many investigations they decided among themselves that I was the one that needed to be dealt with as the brains behind the cult, and sorted out accordingly. I was marked out in report after report as an individual that needed to be looked at most closely in case I poisoned the whole youth of the area. They had come to the opinion that it was essential to stamp out the Cult of Eroticism, as they had come to call it. The first step in that process was to cull my power over others of weaker moral persuasion.
There was no telling them that as good Catholics we had acted according to what Brother Declan had thought us .We had, I insisted, found a way around the sinning aspect of relieving the frustration wrought on by the impure thoughts.I was bull headed about defending our position, insisting that we had broken no commandments nor committed any sins. Unfortunately, the few black protestants that had made their way into our group didn't help our cause despite my proffering an ecumenical focus to our devotion’s. They equally found it difficult to justify the presence of numerous erotic books as an acceptable accompaniment to our prayer meetings. I could have probably still have gotten away with the purity argument, but a few of the less than wholesome members of what was now being called `the Cult of the Erotic`s` were seen to be using the prayer meetings as a place to carry on with their own obscene and thwarted interpretation of the devotions, using , to the majority of our group ,unacceptable and impure manual practices. I immediately asked to know exactly who these individuals were so as I could personally deal with them myself as soon as I had a spare moment, and restore the group to its pure and well meaning origins. I was left in no doubt by a deluge of verbal abuse what the future of my group of"Dirty fuckin little wankers group " was likely to be. I was to be re-educated I was told.
That confused me.I was of the view that I knew little enough for all the years I was already in school. How they were going to re-educate a mind that to date had resisted any and all attempts at education ? However, I was unlikely to have any say in the matter. The future had been decided by those who thought that they knew better than me. I was told that I was to be taken in hand by a team of what were ominously referred to as "the best professionals in their fields”. To my uneducated bogarse mind I initially took this to mean a bunch of farmers. I was soon put right as to who they were when they sat around for a few hours discussing me as if I was an alien from another planet. This initial meeting of d`expert`s was, I could already see, the start of a process that I could feel in my bones was going to be long and painful. Long for them and painful for me. The upside of the committee of professionals dealing with what they called my case was that only for the fact that I was considered an interesting cases I`d have found myself up in the local institution for the insane. Now that shocked me no end. It was far from considering being insane I was reared. God almighty but I was just a poor misdirected country boy in want of a bit of guidance in a confusing and hostile world. So began the long period of professionals interfering with me in order to sculpt what they considered my warped personality into a stereotypical young God fearing patriot .A normal chap.
I was to become like everyone else, that was the job they had been bought in to do. I was subjected to battery after battery of derangement tests. Reader, they wanted to prove me mad as a hatter before they broke me to rebuild me. Many of the tests were apparently designed to ascertain if there was indeed any hope of saving me atall. What they were going to do if there was no hope of saving me was never said. I feared for the worst. Thankfully the assorted bunches of professionals eventually decided I was indeed just a thick country class of an eejit, and not the demonic leader of a cult. They even started to see the leadership qualities that I possessed. They had over the days of my inquisition come to have some understanding of the focus of our devotions, the Sheila na-gig. I was adamant that the Shelia-na-gigs were not pagan, but Christian as well. This was the thrust of my defence. I had some small success in convincing them that I was correct in my assertions. They viewed my thought’s sceptically, though they checked up a few books and eventually decided that there may indeed have been some merit in my words. They sent off word to the Bishops office that all our activities may not be as sick and demonic as they had first thought. The ancient Celtic fertility Goddess was starting to be seen by the priest`s and other do gooders on the inquisition panel as a potentially new way of attracting the younger generation to the church. Even back in those days, the church was already beginning to be seen as something of a senior citizen`s club. By the time of the next inquisition board one of the priests even started to probe me quietly to see did I have any interest in the priesthood. I told him in no uncertain words that I had no interest. He wouldn't give up though as he said the adoration of the Sheila na- Gigs had indeed proved to be not as dark, weird and against the teaching of the church as they had first thought. That apparently was the word from byond in the Bishop`s office. Unorthodox though it would appear to be, technically there was, apparently, nothing wrong with venerating the Sheila-na-Gigs. Anyways I even heard the Bishop`s representative say that he saw great possibilities for bringing Young fellows like myself back into the fold of the church, if the thing was approached in the correct way.
The Bishop`s man came to me privately a few day’s later to sound me out about my view`s on the mainstream church .He even asked would I be willing to join in some kind of new group for young men that would have the sheila na gig as it’s devotional focus? He did make the point however that the carry on with the spontaneous eruptions would have to stop.He couldn't have a religious ceremony based around a bunch of lads spontaneously jerking off .At least that was how he put it. He thought I`d jump at the chance to legitimise my rather dubious spiritual group. I was, however, having none of it as I`d already said and his attitude turned a dark shade of sour when he didn't get what he wanted. That was priests for you. They were all very pally when they wanted something. But sure enough as soon as you didn't do what they wanted it was a different story. As soon as yerman discovered I was no more likely to become a religious fanatic he became a little testy. Oh boy, but he went straight back to the rest of my inquisitors and said I was the right little bollix that they had first suspected and that I deserved to have the book thrown at me. That was enough to start the whole new debate among all the professionals as to how best to deal with " my situation."
There were somewhere in the region of sixteen gobshittes sitting up at the high table with the self appointed authority to plan my life more than I did myself. Experts and professionals. What a sorry bunch altogether. I had little or no confidence in them.They appeared incapable of doing little more then bickering and fighting, and it appeared that they hadn't a bloody clue what to do with me. The result was that I sat there day after day while they came up with one madcap scheme after another to cure my affliction. They would just end up fighting and end up deciding on a plan of action that only a few of all present parties could agree to. Next day a different bunch of them would have formulated a counter plan. This plan would be trussed up by one faction. Then rejected by another. Day after, it would all start again. What was agreeable to one group of professionals was derided by another. The end result was that nothing happened. Only the psychologists made any real progress. They were able to offer a variety of obsessions that I might like to replace my current fixation with. The priests could , of course , not go along with any suggestion that they should merely replace my current obsession with a normal focus for someone of my years. I took this to mean manipulation to relieve the frustration, and other impure act’s .The priest reared up that he could not go along with the perverted idea of the psychologist. His duty he said forbad him from allowing any member of the one true church to be knowingly put in a position of sinning.
This of course started the sociologists off. They were having none of it and accused the priest of being part of an organisation that was only capable of controlling their members through sexual repression. Further he insisted, it was indeed perfectly normal for a young lad my age to be amusing myself in a manner appropriate to my age group. The priest didn't like being told by the sociologists to keep his repressive opinions to himself. The Protestant minister was delighted at this of course having some opinions himself on the matter of sexual repression by the Catholic Church. He proffered a solution that would allow me to act as a normal lad my age within his church. He thought I might like to join his church if I didn't want to go back to the repressive and domineering ways of the Catholic faith. This started the Priest off something terrible and it wasn't long before the two of them were embroiled in a dispute that looked like it was going to become a physical affair. Just as their bit of verbal was getting interesting the Police Commissioner stepped in and said he`d arrest the both of them if they didn't sit down and behave themselves.
Well Jaysus this set the bloody lot of them off to the effect that the Commissioner was overstepping his authority,and started a course of confrontation that went on for two whole days, and all the time the school year dragging on and the me up in the police station with the professionals.This lot were some bunch to be deciding how it was I was supposed to proceed with my life. They couldn't even control themselves-let alone control me. They eventually" reconvened" as they called it and said they had come up with a solution. They asked would I mind terribly if they replaced my current obsession with something that they could all agree on was acceptable to them .An obsession that would be a replacement for my current focus and likely to be inoffensive to my fellow citizens.That was great, they said, when I replied I didn't see that I was being given very much of a choice in the matter. Could I at least have a choice of obsession to pick from I asked? No problem atall they replied. That would be great all together and all I had to do was pick the sport I wanted and leave the rest up to the shrinks and a few brands of therapy.
I didn't want to become obsessed with a sport I told them. I hated sport I said. Ah Shur how can you hate sport they all wanted to know? Shur you'll love the sport they said. What about some manner of a team game they asked. What about the Gaelic Football they asked? Surely I must love the Gaelic football. No bloody chance I replied. But the GAA is a great outfit altogether they said. If I was in the GAA it would give me something to talk about in the pub later on. And I`d probably even meet a nice young wan that I could marry at a later date and settle down. There were loads of GAA groupies I was informed. They joked that I`d even be able to drunk drive when I was older, and get away with it because half the cops were more interested in playing the game than doing their jobs. They made it abundantly clear that a major benefit of being in the GAA was that the cops would tear up any amount of summonses for traffic offences if I was one of the lads who was as passionate about the game as they were ,wha ? The commissioner had a right go at the Priest over that remark. He said that wasn't true atall. Nobody was above the law on the great little island, and to imply that the Garda were in any way responsible for perverting the law was not just irresponsible, but down right slander.
Jaysus the bloody lot of them to a professional broke into a derisory cackle of laughter that I took to mean they all knew better. The protestant minister offered the suggestion that hockey was a good alternative to the GAA, which he said was only a sport fit for thugs and yobs. Hockey was more than likely to inspire me towards a higher level of social responsibility, unlike the GAA .The GAA only bred a bunch of thugs, on and off, the pitch he said. The hockey was a civilised game he said. A gentleman’s game. Wouldn't I like that much better ?I repeatedly told them that I had no interest in the sports atall. What about music I asked, couldn't they fix it for me to become a musician ? Could they not give me a fixation for the music just as handy as for sport I asked them?
I saw a mighty opportunity to develop some musical talent where none currently existed. At least that way I could waggle my way into a job byond in Galqway. Jaysus they were having none of it though.
To a Professional they said there were enough high flautin Arty types knocking around the country without trying to become one myself.The Commissioner was particularly disinterested in helping me become one of them "fucking Arty types" as he called them. He frothed a little around the mouth when he spoke about the arty set. "There`s no controlling that fucking bunch atall, that lot are just a bunch of commie`s and anarchist’s" he said. The rest of the professionals were in complete agreement with him.It wouldn't be long before the country would be overrun with bloody artists and musicians and a whole range of other deviant types that were not willing to be put under any brand of control.The local councillor put his bit in on the subject of arty types. "There was no accounting for the kind of mood that was sweeping the country and it was all down to the fucking Arty types telling people they had rights and they could stand up for them and fight if they wanted" he said with a touch of anger in his voice. This was not the kind of thinking that the Government wanted to encourage in the people he said, and with what appeared to be my natural leadership ability, the last thing that they wanted to do was to encourage me to infect a whole generation coming up behind me.
No, he said with all the expense the re-programming was going to be costing the state the last thing he needed was to be involved in creating another bloody freethinking gobshitte. On the contrary he said, all those artists were a bloody bunch that should be kept tightly under control and if he had his way he’d have the whole bloody bunch of them rounded up and shot. He could not stand by and let the taxpayer pay for the making of an individual that might well turn around and inspire the citizens to go around fighting for their rights and upsetting the apple cart. They all agreed and said the country was ruined with the mood of Democracy. They were all agreed at least that the last thing I was allowed to become was an Artist of some sort. That made up my mind for me. I decided then and there that some brand of an Artist was exactly what I must set about becoming. Even in the tenderness of my years I could see that this bunch and their likes needed a close eye kept on them if you don't mind. To my mind, if all the Arty types were such a thorn in their side then that was good reason enough to become one of them. As I was never again likely to have the opportunity to become reprogrammed, I figured that I better use the opportunity to fulfil my own desires.
Well, I insisted on having what they called my misdirected and antisocial compulsion directed in a manner that was surely going to be suiting my needs and not theirs. Not that any of them were listening to me. The Druid on the panel of professionals suggested that I might like to develop of fixation on trees. Over the next few hours as the bloody lot of them continued to fight over who was going to decide on what was best for me.
They were incapable of coming to a decision, and more and more began to think that locking me up was the only was to proceed. All the time I was thinking myself that if I didn't come up with some desire of my own they'd have me ruined for life between them. I decided that there was no way I was going to let this bunch of wankers have control over my life and that sometime around that middle of sixth day that the best course of action for me was to get going back to the craggy hillock of a mountain that we called home. I told them in no uncertain terms that I would let them know in due course what I had decided my fixation would be. Well to a professional they were up and screaming blue bloody murder . I had no right to be telling them what to do. They would call the shots they made no bones about telling me. The bloody cheek of me. Who, they wanted to know, did I think I was? That said, they got back to the serious business of fighting among themselves about what was the best thing for me. Curses were flying and the issued threats were scuttling back and forth as they continued to fight among themselves as to who was going to have the authority to impose a fixation on my sick and twisted mind.
While they were huddled in a group among themselves I took the initiative and slowly walked out the door. They were so busy deciding my future that they didn't notice. I hurried out and in no time atall I was making my way out from the town and off beyond into the countryside. I couldn't believe my luck. Though this many long months I had planned my escape from the rocky outcrop that I called home, now was not the time and all I could think of was getting back to the hilly outcrop. At least for the time being. I was a long way from the scraggy rock that gave us our living and the road was long. Drizzle became a down pour as I made my way to the mountain which I could see in the distance. The rain was warm to the touch and though I was becoming increasingly soaked I didn't care.I was at one with the elements .I was invigorated from warm drops of rainwater that fell about and down my face. A sheet of cleansing and holy water. I felt as though I had been reborn a clean and refreshed spirit. In the distance I could see my mountain stand proud. Proud and stubborn, just like its people. Singular in its isolation from the landscape. Vainglorious.It looked through the drizzle and light wind resting on its peak were almost hanging in mid air. Magical mountain. My mountain, I had only to reach it and safety was assured. Walking ever faster into the rain towards the mountain I never heard the siren of the paddy wagon come up behind me. As the paddy wagon ground to a halt the burly sergeant got out and ordered me in. They headed back to the town at the same breakneck speed that they had come upon me with.
As the paddy wagon came upon a particularly tight bend, I realised that the door had not been locked. As the van slowed I made a rush for the door and threw myself to the grass verge with all the might and courage I could muster. Though somewhat shaken upon hitting the ground, I was in good shape overall and didn't appear to have suffered unduly from my escape bid. Like a homing pigeon I instinctively took towards the hills hoping that my youth was going to be an advantage over the desk bound coppers across open ground. Though they started to give chase they quickly gave up and ran back to the van and drove back towards Glory, no doubt to get a posse up to come after me. That didn't worry me unduly, for I knew that the closer I got to the mountain, the greater the chance I would have to make good my escape. I was now a wanted man, a fugitive. In a strange way I felt good about that, proud even. I had little hope of leading a normal life again. At least I was a free man.For now. I planned to stay so. They'd have little hope of recapturing me if I could make it back to the hill. Back there I knew many a safe hideout. I could forage for food, and this time of year, the living would be easy enough on the mountain, for spring was in the air, and the opportunities for hunting and gathering were improving, literally by the day. I was sure that I could survive deep in the bosom of the mountain until I could sort out a permanent escape that would get me to the West.
The fog of sorts descended from the hill to the lowlands and protected me as I walked.I was foot sure even though my I visibility was greatly reduced. The fog that descended from the mountain was to me almost a veil of love, a returning to the womb of the land that had conceived me, sheltered and protected me through years of my childhood. I was just a chap, but nonetheless now a fugitive from justice. I had been cast into the role of criminal, and would forever now be treated as an adult. Somehow, the veil of fog was as a last protection that the mountain had to offer to me before I was cast abroad in the role of desperate criminal. My childhood was over, I was now a man. I had arrived at the door of adult life by default. There was no turning back. My destiny had begun. I had no choice but to follow the path that the Gods had laid out for me. I was as a leaf in the wind of chance. I could only make slow progress in the deep fog and eventually I decided to call it a day. I found a wee bit of a hide out and went to ground, cold and hungry, but free and happy and decided that I could go no further for a few days until I could contact my buddies to get me food and fresh clothes. That first night went slowly. By the second and third days the Police were active going hither and thither in a vain search for me. I could see them driving around the mountain from my vantage point but I knew that they would lose interest quickly enough and hurry back to the comfort of policing from their desks. They made a point of disturbing the whole populace of the hill that I called home and warned of severe penalties for anybody suspected of harbouring me. Not that threats from a bunch of lowlanders was going to cut ice up the hill. Some days afterwards I spotted some of my previous disciples on the hill. Though I was no longer their high priest they did not shy away and appeared delighted to see me. My followers were if nothing else loyal. My followers bought with them a small supply of food and promised to get more substantial supplies to me as soon as the cops had winded down their search. They were combing the area, but they had no success, and more importantly, the locals had closed ranks. Even those who thought I was mad as a crow recognised that I was one of their own,. They would have no truck with the lowlander police whom they despised.I was particularly delighted to see that Mc Carthy was among the group. He was turning out to be the right champion altogether. Fair man he was indeed. He filled me in on the entire goings on concerning my flight from Justice. Their justice. My escape had caused had caused no end of excitement. Even outlying districts had heard. It appeared that there was plenty of sympathy for me. All and sundry up the hill were of the opinion that the assorted professionals had no business what so ever trying to reprogram my mind. There was no love of interfering professionals up our district, nor indeed at any of the outlying districts .The public mood was on my side. It appears that people had forgiven me the outlandish behaviour of the cult thing. The local populace had decided that it was, after all only youthful foolishness, and not quiet as demonic as they might have first suspected.
The wave of sympathy for my cause was gratifying and kept my spirits high during the hard and cold nights that I spent up on the hill. I was never short of company after those first few days. It appears that I was becoming some sort of a hero. I even found myself signing autographs for some of my followers. Over the next few days so many of my former disciples came to visit that I had to insist that they stop for fear that they give the game away. Many bought offerings of food and flasks of tea. During the day the lowlander’s police force made a great show of combing the mountain side to flush me out. At nigh , the uplands belonged to me. Eventually, the whole district got sick and tired of them tearing up and down the mountain hither and thither. The lowlanders however appeared reluctant to let the matter drop. Father Mac eventually complained about the carry on of the guards to their superintendent. They got all thick about the whole matter. They were determined to throw the book at me. Something about wounded pride I believe. Father Mac went to the Bishop who made his own approaches to the Superintendent to see if they would call it a day and just let the whole matter slip quietly without anyone having to lose face. Well, they took further exception to the Bishop getting involved and quietly made it clear that they wanted to give me a good kick up the backside for having the temerity to escape and make them look fools.
They said that they wanted to sort me out or words to that effect. They continued their intensive searching for a number of days after that, just to make the point that no one was going to be telling them what to do. But as time went on they realised that they were never going to break the spirit of the highlanders, until gradually they searched less and less. McCarthy heard that the lowlanders were sick and tired running around the mountain and were all but ready to forget the whole thing . just as long as they didn't see light nor sight of me down in Glory for a month of Sundays to come. One day they stopped coming altogether and I could finally move about and start in earnest making my plans to escape West, where I knew my destiny to be. The oulwan got to hear that I was going to escape over to the West. She was having none of it though. She told McCarthy to tell me to get the Hell home or she’d come up the mountain to take me back home by the scruff of the neck. Well you couldn't argue with that kind of logic could you? The thought of the oulwan put the fear of God in me- more than the lowlander cops ever could. It looked as if I was not going to be escaping over to the west for a while. Perhaps it was just as well. The West wasn't going anywhere. That much I knew.
Before I knew it I was away back at my books and homework. Heading on towards doing the leaving certificate for the third time. That was some come down from the life of high adventure that I had been living. I would be struck to hanging around the highlands, for the lowland cops would have some manner of attitude towards me, that much I did know. No matter how forgiving they might publicly claim to be, they would be waiting to have a go at me at the earliest opportunity. I would have to watch my back from some considerable time to come. Soon enough, despite my worst fears life had returned to normal. Indeed, it wasn't long before I could barely remember my time away on the mountain. The upside of it all was that far from getting a right oul slagging the carryon was more to treat me as some brand of a hero. Well, Alice Maher started to take a bit of an interest in me again can you believe? By all accounts, they had all heard about the Cult of the Horn as they were now calling it locally. The long and short of the whole Cult thing is that is that it did me no harm whatsoever among the local young wans. The affair had raised my profile down in Glory and a few offers to social gatherings from the Arty set finally came my direction. All the arty set would no doubt delight in the rebellious nature of my recent past and the outlaw tag didn't hurt one little bit
Needless to say I was delighted with myself, and despite the dangers of the police getting hold of me I decided that it was foolish not to get down to Glory to bask in the ...well, Glory , that was apparently waiting for me. McCarthy came along as my trusted lieutenant when we made our first few tentative excursions down to the arty circles. I felt it only right that McCarthy should be there, a reward for his unswerving service during the crisis that was the cult incident. We were celebs of a sort now down in Glory, though we had to be careful that we didn't get caught by the local cop’s. They would not be long finding some way of making life difficult for us. They would be a long time forgetting the fool’s they had been made to look. I made it known to the Arty set that I had a wish to be a musician, for I felt that to stay in tune with this lot I had to be seen to engage in some sort of creative activity. I had no musical skills to speak of, but I did not see this as a great problem. I was sure that I could bash a few beats on an ould bodhran. It was a simple enough looking drum that I didn’t think would take too much skill to play. As luck would have it, through the people that I met I was offered an opportunity to practice with the local trad band.I was delighted. Finally I appeared to have cracked the inner circle of the Arty set in Glory, and finally I had been given the opportunity to prove my worth as a member of the creative community down. I duly went along a few time’s for a practice session with the band, and they were so impressed with my natural ability that they weren't long about letting me know that there would be a place for me in the band once I had developed my skills to a sufficient level. I was delighted with myself as you can imagine, for I had already decided to make music my life and I needed as much practice as I could possibly get before making my way over West. On a more serious note, I was sure that it would not be long now before my status as a cult leader and band member would get me shagged. Having said that, I had still singularly had little or no success to talk about. Less no success than little if the truth was told.
I adopted a sulky attitude and went around trying to be dark and mysterious projecting myself as some manner of a rebel type. The girls loved a rebel musician by all accounts. And with Alice Maher floating around again, perhaps she might just be the one to oblige in the love department. I spent many hours wandering the streets of Glory trying to accidentally bump into suitable shagging prospects. Even though this was precious time I should have been using to practice my music, I had no doubt but that I had a natural affinity for percussion instruments meant that I didn’t need to rehearse. Well, having replaced one spiritual experience for another in the form of music there was little doubt that the gift of the music was my true disposition. I could play all manner of percussion implements with little or no practice. I had recently started bashing away on a drum kit. I found that I had a natural affinity to play. Not that well, I must confess. But I did have the makings of a very fine player . I just needed to get out on stage and learn that way. I must admit I was enjoying my new obsession. Playing a musical instrument was vastly preferable to running around the side of the hills chanting the prayer for the protection of livestock. God works in mysterious ways, wha?
The playing of the Bodhran anther fine replacement for the sexual frustration that had once dominated my every waking hour. It was surely a much more healthy activity.I did have to practise that . The traditional goatskin instrument was much more difficult that the drums. It took some mastery to get the hang of the difficult instrument. Hour after hour I would practice up in my bedroom until the oulwan got sick and bloody tired of it. I was then banished to the barn. Well I thumped the living shitte outta that poor instrument, all but knackering myself into the bargain .There was no end of quality in my playing I was happy to note. I was confident that I would make a valuable contribution to the band once they had signed me up permanently to work the lucrative pub and club circuit. There was however an obstacle in my way. The path was not clear. The band already had a bodhran player and they didn’t need anybody on drums. I had been allowed to sit in on rehearsals because the main Bodhran player was away on his holidays .Having done a few rehearsals with the band I had hoped that with my reputation as something of a local cult figure that the sheer force of my charisma and quality of my Bodhran playing would make the band see sense and drop the other fellow and take me on instead. I was surprised when they made it clear that once the other fellow was back I would not even be getting invited to practice at the renersals. One bodhran was nearly one too many a few of them said to me. Well that was a fine attitude.
Me mind got to working and I took the decision that I would have to open the way for myself. I was a hill tribes person, and when things got in our way there was only one solution, and that was to get rid of the competition. I know that might sound a little harsh, but there was nothing else for it, and at the end of the day, the whole region considered our lot up the mountain to be an immoral bunch anyway, so nothing we would do would surprise them atall. I was destined to be a musician, of that I was sure. I could not allow anyone, or anything to stand in my way. That much I did know. Thick we may be from where I come, but stupid we are not.
I thought long and hard about the alternatives that were open to me to secure my position in the band. I decided the best course of action was to sneak up behind that fellow who had my job and attack him, and hopefully injure him enough that his days of playing the happy drummer were going to be over. I’m sure that we could open our doors for him on occasion to come back now and again for a tribute performance and for a brief appearance on special occasions , like the anniversary of the night he was attached and lost the use of his stick playing arm. Or Christmas. That sort of thing. Now and again in other words. More again than now if I had any say in the matter. The fact that he would by then be disabled would be a good thing for the band as we could benefit from being seen for our obvious charity towards the weak and disabled. I`d have to make sure that he was taken out of the game for good, for it was no use having him looking to get back into the band in a few months time.
A few thumps on his Bodhran playing arm would do the job and keep him out of the game. I had not decided how exactly I was goi