I’m an old c*nt
Okay. At 34 years old, with the same dishevelled side parting and penchant for brogues that I had at school, I’m not exactly street. It’s just a shock to realise that I’m as slow witted as a tortoise on smack.
This evening I met up with a pleasant fellow, Keith, who edits the Hackney Citizen (and seems to like printing my guff). I had two halves of Leffe and, because I’d omitted supper, decided on my way home to drop into the chipper on Stoke Newington Church Street. Nothing like the combination of beer and chips to summon up the ghosts of my Belgian ancestors, whether Chaudoir or Ghiesbrecht.
As I turned into Church Street, just by the place opposite the Defoe that used to be a Franco-Welsh restaurant (honest), I was listening to Shane and the Popes.
Kahaya! You fuck!
Come Hell or high water
I might have fucked your Missus
But I never fucked your daughter
I was also eyeballing a group of three teenagers on the pavement outside the Auld Shillelagh. The diffidence to slouch ratio fixed them as belonging to the ‘93 or ‘94 vintage. As I walked past, two clustered round me, if such a thing is possible, and one spoke.
Not that I could hear him.
Fol-diddle-dee-ahhh
Fol-diddle-dee-ahhh
Fol-diddle-dee-ahhh
Fol-diddle-dee-ahhh
So I unplugged one earphone.
“What?”
Teenager, huskily: “Is there a shop round here?”
“What?”
“A shop. Is there a shop round here?”
Fucking idiots, you’re standing next to one. I point: “Yes. It’s just there”.
“Thanks mate.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Earphone back in.
As sure as I’m Father Emmett
I’ve a King Dong down me Semmett
As any girl will tell you
From Cavan down to Clare
Back in sweet Virginia
In the toilet with Lavinia
I nearly fucked her brains out
And tore her party dress…
Then, standing in the queue to the chip shop, a moment of realisation and a self-reproach.
“Oh, a shop. If they wanted to buy drugs, why didn’t they just say so.”
I’m an old c*nt sometimes.
Published on 18th November, 2008
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