[HM] The Pish : shortstories

I’d bin sent te get me Da.

He’d bin thur all night, drinkin’ like a fuckin’ clown. The only thing ah hated more in me fuckin’ life, oller than gettin’ mesel’ outta me pit to sign on for the brew, was gettin’ me Da from the bar.

He’s a tough aul fucker my Da. I know every wee lad sez thur Da’s a hard man, and that’d he’d bate yer ballix in, but the ‘hing is, my Da fuckin’ would, and worst of all, he’d fuckin’ enjoy it.

In the door of Lonergan’s and the stink of feg smoke hits me harder than this mornin’s comedown, fer I was out onna blues with Steeker n’ Wee Chunger last night n’all.

Aul half-blind Paddy and his doss cunt mate, harelipped Philip O’Hara were in, batin’ back the Harp and talkin’ absolute ballix.

Now, we used te take the clean pish outta these two aul dosser cunts, when they used te rear thur drunkin’ heads round te Clonard fer mornin’ Mass.

Pad-Eye and Phil-lip we used te call them when we went by for Communion. Father Brady had te turf one o’ the bastard’s, cannae ‘member which one, but aye, he fucked one of ‘em out the Chapel cos we wound the poor bastard up til he blew a fuckin’ gasket an’ leapt te his feet an’ hollered, “ONE MORE FUCKIN’ WEE BASTARD CALLS US ANOR NAME AND I’M GONNA SKIN THE FUCKIN’ WEE CUNT ALIVE!!”

Comin’ te think of it, I don’t think the aul dossers have been back since, but then agin naer have I, so what the fuck do I know like?

————————————————————-

There he is. That man, my fuckin’ Da, and he’s fuckin’ langered as usual. I don’t mind him langered, cos he’ll stand us a pint and maybe gee us a fuckin’ squid fer the frooty, Snow White an’ the fuckin’ Seven Tenners, I’ll win ye some day, ye fuckin’ mark me.

It’s when the cunt’s half-noodled ‘ats the problem. ‘At’s when the cunt starts the abuse, starts callin’ me a wee cunt, and tryin’ te bate me bror, and call me Ma names.

Now my Ma maybe onna sick, and she may know fuck all about naffin’, but she doesn’t deserve this aul drunken wanna be Provo cunt layin’ inte her. Me n’ me bror give her enough shite as is, through bein’ laid up by the peelers for nickin’ cars and generally bein’ bad wee bastards.

I’ve just started speakin’ to me Da again after two years. The cunt gave us a fuckin’ hidin’ because we slit the tyres on Aidso Lynch’s son’s motor. Fucker deserved it, but Aidso is a fuckin’ high rankin’ Provo.

Quartermaster of the Belfast Bridgade, one of the RA’s top brass, an’ we cut his cunt son’s tyres up. Now I like Aidso, and every fucker’s scared of the cunt, and too right like, but his son’s a wee cunt who thinks he can do anyhin’ te ye an’ get clean away wey it cos his Da’s a fuckin’ top chuck like.

Aidso an’ his boys ran this here fuckin’ bar, an’ they still do, an’ when me Da’s not skullin’ all the swall in the place, he’s outside menacin’ any cunt that might wanna come in and take a fuckin’ dram themselves.

My Da’s good at bouncin’ like, mainly because he is fuckin’ bouncin’ and ye’d fuckin’ wannae cause no fuss at all like, just so ye didn’t get interrogated and havte smell the bastard.

Anyway, like, I slit the cunt’s tyres and Aidso said I’d done wrong te his son, so he sent me Da like a dog te kick the fuck outta his own son. Wiped a hunner n’ fifty off me Da’s tab fer kickin’ the fuck outta me like, his own fuckin’ son.

I can tell me Da’s in a bad way cos the cunt’s startin’ to sing, leanin’ his bald shaved head backwards and blarin’ out:

Well we put that car in motion

and filled it to the brim,

With guns and bayonets shining which made old Johnson grim,

And Barney hoisted a Sinn Féin flag, and it fluttered like a star,

And we gave three cheers for the I.R.A. and Johnson’s Motor Car

‘Fuck sake Da, yer fuckin’ langered’ I sais te him, reckoning te mesel’ the cunt’s had a feed of pints and a fuckin’ battla whiskey te chase ‘er down his fuckin’ fat neck.

‘Crickey… er… son.. er… watta fuck ye here fur fucks sake’ he said te me, his eyes red as fuckin’ strawberries an’ me recoilin’ from the harsh fuckin’ booze onnis sour breath.

Fuck me, I thought, I was rightfully onna draaa last night, fuckin’ hadda battla buckie and nine beer, and I can still smell the booze on this cunt’s breath.

‘Tell yer fuckin’ Ma te go te fuck… ahm.. fuckin… stayin here lyk, no need te get me, ahm natta fuckin’ chil’ like’.

I look at the cunt, feelin’ me fuckin’ anger risin’, an ah goes te him, ‘yer fuckin poleaxed ye fuckin’ stupid bastard, now fuckin’ Ma toult us te go down here an’ stap ye from drinkin’ away all yer fuckin’ brew an’ te fuckin’ remind ye, lest ye fuckin’ forget that it’s fuckin’ Danno’s anniversary temara, an’ we’re all goin’ te Auntie Niamh’s, so ye best fuckin’ get back home n’ inte yer fuckin’ pit or I’m fuckin’ tellin’ her wur ye fuckin’ staished the fuckin’ 50 bar ye won fromma bookies last week!’

‘Fuck sake wee lad, fuck sure ahl go now, fuckin’ won’t I, no? Ahl fuckin’ go home te yer fuckin’ Ma, no need te go tellin’ her bout the fuckin’ 50 bar lyk… alrite no?’

Takin’ the cunt out’s the hardest part, he’s fuckin’ spark-o’d. This is one ova fullest I’ve err seen the cunt, an’ I’ve seen the bastard some shapes n’ fuckin all.

Aul cunt takes a step forward an’ collapses inte us, like a fuckin’ helpless aul dosser, fuckin’ swings his gorilla arm roun’ n’ knacks Liam McKee’s pint all oer the bar.

Fuckin’ saft wee cunt like Liam’s gonna do fuck all, but still, he’s nat a bad man like, just comes in fer the pints and the football, an’ his fuckin’ daughter’s a fuckin’ ride as well.

I finally get the cunt down Cupar Street and onte the the fuckin’ Springo, when the aul cunt grabs me by the hand an’ squeezes as hard as he fuckin’ can, and spins me roun’ te face him.

‘Son, ahv fuckin’ fucked up, an’ ah never meant te be such a bastard te ye’, he says te me, tears rolling down his cheeks and thick heavy sobs coming from deep inside his gut, as I look down, and notice the pish streamin’ down his jeans an’ onte the dirty street.

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