Dead or Alive, You're Coming With Me

I’m lucky enough to work in Dublin City Centre. It’s a fabulous place, powered by a charm and wit seldom seen in most modern cities.

I commute to work on public transport and am regularly exposed to a copious amount of interesting sights, hear all types of sounds (a ringtone playing a panpipe version of a Coldplay song, which is surely a contravention of the Geneva Convention) and smells on the bus.

One incident occurred a few years ago. I was on the bus when a young kid of about ten boarded. His arm was in a temporary sling and he was obviously in some pain. I kept a watching brief to ensure he was ok, but kept a distance. This distance was broached rather quickly by the distinctive smell of an impressive volume of vomit. Junior had managed to hurl an entire breakfast (Coco Pops, I believe) a considerable distance across the bus.

I went downstairs to point this out to the driver and he was very helpful, giving me cleaning papers and radioing base. I asked Sir Hurls-a-Lot if he was ok. His response made me shiver.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Sometimes I’m bad!”, he said tearfully. “Oh, fuck”, I thought. “I’m going to end up on a tv programme about battered children.”.

What Pukey Luke actually meant was that he occasionally suffered from travel sickness. He’d fallen down the stairs the previous evening. His mother, a nurse, had brought him to hospital the previous night. She was in work already and he was going to meet her to have the full injury assessed by a consultant.

It didn’t stop me nearly shitting myself.

I’m actually telling you this story in order to tell you another. I once witnessed a high speed Segway cop/Skanger pursuit.

That sentence needs to sit with you a bit. Re-read it. Yes, it does say that.

How did this occur? I’ll tell you, but you may be wondering what a skanger is.

Most cities have a version of this type. In the UK, they’re referred to as chavs. In the US they may have various names. Romantically, they could be classed as a 21st Century Artful Dodger. Ne’er do wells. Petty thieves, pickpockets and general gurriers (a great Dublin word, that). They tend to wear a uniform of very expensive trainers, tracksuits and baseball cap. Their movements tend to be of a jerky, furtive nature, not unlike a pigeon. As a matter of fact, hooking several up to a power grid could power small communities. They refer to people as “bud” or “pal”. Fair warning, they are neither your bud nor your pal. Conversations tend to be about “de Dubs” (Dublin’s gaelic football team), “gear” (drugs), “me oul wan” (mother), “yer man” (someone who isn’t them) or “dat cunt” (someone in who isn’t them whom they don’t like). They’re normally harmless, except during rutting season or on days that have any letter in them.

Anyway, as I said earlier, I commute by bus. In order to make this commute tolerable, I bring an iPod. This is to avoid other peoples taste in music. You know that tinny, high end sound? The one that sounds like a Mexican marching band being launched into a blender? That bugs me. As does people speaking into their mobile phones at a volume that is only acceptable whilst under fire in the Korean War while yelling into a radio that is not far removed from two cans and a piece of string.
“Romeo Foxtrot! This is Charlie Company! Say again! I repeat, say again! What did you think of the game last night?”

The use of an iPod allows me to use my imagination to fill in narratives and dialogue that I can’t hear.

Now for the story…

Recently, the Irish police, an Garda Síochána (Guardians of the Galaxy Peace) acquired Segways to patrol some pedestrianised areas around the main shopping street. These are about as effective as a steel wool vibrator - not comfortable and laughable when turned on. The poor Gardaí on them always seem embarrassed. “Shite”, they think, “I’m going to go on me fuckin’ ear on this piece of shite. It happened to George Bush. And the dozy bollox who owned the company drove one over a cliff. Hope me mates don’t see me. Or me oul wan.”.

Anyway, I’m walking down Grafton Street on the way to work. Approaching me, in a tweaky, furtive manner, is a skanger who has obviously been up to no good. Behind him, a store security guard has called over Robo-Segway Cop and is gesticulating frantically.

At this point, my imagination kicks in. I guess that Tristan (a name I’ll randomly give the ruffian) has pilfered something from the store. The cop sees a moment of heroism in his future. “Stand aside citizen!”, he says, “I am the law!”. He puts his hand/foot down. Tires squeal and smoke somewhere, but not here. Within minutes, the cop has reached half the speed of smell. The stealth pursuit is on.

 The cop approaches Tristan, silently, like a ninja.

 Exactly like a ninja….

 but on a Segway…

 and in Farah slacks.

 He leans in to the wrongdoer and says something.

 In my mind, and to this day, I hope he said “Pull over!”.

Tristan, disturbed from his nefarious ways, tries to put his foot down to get away. He realises he is not in a car. He darts right. He darts left. The cop sticks to his tail in a way only a person on a motorised vehicle following someone on foot can. Tristan pictures himself as Luke Skywalker trying to shake Darth Vader in the Death Star trench.

Unfortunately, he’s actually Biggs. 

The cop makes “bee-baw” noises with his mouth, all the while rehearsing his telling of the story in a bar later. In a cloud of panic, Tristan veers left. He is astonished when his escape route is blocked by the sudden appearance of a 160 year old granite building.

The cop has him now. He pins our scallywag up against the building by reversing and and shooting forward the Segway, presumably making “vroom-vroom” noises.

Real police now appear. They remove the criminal mastermind. The cop trundles off, the theme tune from “Shaft” in his head.

He turns the corner. The music swells.

He drives into fresh hoseshit.

Another tale from the Naked City.

Intolerant? Moi? - Part 2 (or How My Issue Went Transatlantic)

"Anal Leakage" is a odd phrase with which to start a blog entry.

It is also a rather clever way to inform you, dear reader, that, should you be of a sensitive nature, maybe you would be better off reading something else. Nothing immediately springs to mind, but I would suggest reading my preceding blog entry.

Upon starting to write this blog, I showed the first paragraph to my wife. She said "Is this going to involve shitting?".

Yes, it will. It will also involve my mother, the volume level of a TV versus the acoustics of a bathroom, Latin Americans and the curious inability of US toilet doors to correctly fit.

When we last spoke, my intolerance had made its first violent appearance. I did not know the cause of Poomaggedon at that stage and continued eating nuts and having occasional "shit fits". One incident, however, bound cause and effect very clearly.

In June 2006, my mother turned 70. The family all chipped in and bought her a ticket (return) to New York, with an itinerary all organised. My wife, my brother and I went along to act as guides and comic relief (in my case, at least).

I love New York City. It makes me smile. I love its sights, sounds and, oddly, its smells. One particular smell that evokes NYC to me is the roasted nut carts on street corners. For the princely sum of $1, you too can partake of a bag of honey-roasted peanuts in a bag, served to you by someone who believes that hygiene is how you greet a person called Gene.

We landed at JFK and took a cab to downtown Manhattan. Bags were dropped off, rooms assigned and arrangements made. Our first stop was Times Square. Here, tour bus tickets were bought. Then, we had food and beer.

Reading the last paragraph makes me sound all Bill Bryson. Bear with me.

We walked back to the hotel. During our walk, we passed a nut cart. I bought a bag of honey-roasted peanuts and ate. This was the equivalent of John Hurt looking into the egg.

Oh, how I enjoyed that evening, tottering around NYC, family in tow, pointing out the wonderful sights! The Empire State Building looking resplendent! The Chrysler Building, glistening like a 1950s chrome hood ornament. A hooker on Times Square flashing what may have been a penis at a cop car!

We arrived back at the hotel. My mother was deposited in her room and we adjourned to the rather nice bar in the hotel lobby. Beers were had, jokes were cracked, laughs were…laughed. Yet, all the while, trouble was literally brewing below.

The next morning, I awoke, full of the joys of feeling crap. I blamed the flight and the beers. Still, we were all heading on a bus tour of Downtown New York, and I assumed that would help. I even ate breakfast. Little did I know how soon I’d meet it again.

So, off on the tour we went. Mrs PastyFace, being astute, knew something was wrong. Maybe it was the colour of my face (greenish grey), maybe it was the muffled gurgles, creaks and groans issuing from right behind my belly button, maybe it was the beads of sweat on my temples. Personally, I believe it was the copious amounts of poisonous fumes issuing from my ass. 

These were not your common or garden farts. These were the almost burning kind that we’ve all had (haven’t we?). These were the kind banned under various weapon treaties. These were the kind that make people check their shoes.

They were the kind that made me know that both today and I were, pretty much, fucked.

While this Chernobyl in my pants continued, I knew I had to find a bathroom and fast. We stopped at South Street Seaport and went into a bar for lunch. The journey there was and is vague. I know chicken was mentioned and a refreshing beer was offered. I asked for the restrooms. I went in.

Any of you reading this (still) that have been in the US are familiar with the toilets. Firstly, they are quite low. Secondly, they have a very high waterline. They also seem to have a flat bit, slightly above the water, that could be called an inspection shelf. These details are important.

I took a seat and commenced with matters at hand. Once the bomb bay doors were opened, there was no stopping the blitzkrieg. Gallons of…I’m going to say Butterscotch Angel Delight shot out of me at a pace seldom seen in 1980s children’s desserts. This bounced off the inspection shelf and coated my ass cheeks with a burning effluent. What missed the shelf, hit the high water mark causing a parting of the Brown Sea that splashed up my back. 

Not pleasant.

Mercy flush followed mercy flush. Toilet paper did its best, but it was a losing battle. At this point it was merely smearing. I reached over and grabbed some paper towels that were intended for hand drying. They were bigger and perhaps more absorbent. They were! They were also rougher. My poor burning butt was now contending with a sandpaper assault. 

This was not a good day.

At the table, my absence was noted. Mrs PastyFace took it upon herself to knock on the door and enquire as to my wellbeing. My response was along the lines of “Imnotfeelinvurywell”. She said she just wanted to do a bit of shopping and then head back to the hotel. I hosed myself off as best I could and, gingerly, returned to the bosom of my family. 

We ventured over to a mall. There were a number of stores visited quickly. My wife told my brother that I was not feeling 100% (at this point 6% would have been an exaggeration) and we should head back shortly. This was agreed as we should have a rest as my mother would be tired. I knew I needed to lie down.

As this thought struck me, so did a wave of inner mud. I needed a public bathroom and quickly. I walked as fast as a man trying to keep his arse cheeks closed could possibly walk. I found a public convenience.

Another observation about toilets in the US is that the doors have large gaps around them. It is easy to sit inside and look out of the cracks around the door. It’s probably just as easy to do the opposite. This worried me. I closed the ill-fitting door and began leaking sewage. At this point, the tank was almost empty. Now the noisy farts began. It sounded like a mariachi band, which was a pity because just then a group of Latinos entered the restroom. They were talking and laughing but soon stopped when they heard the rolling thunder from cubicle 3.

I exited the cubicle and scoured my hands. I was greeted by silence and muttered phrases that contained phrases like “el diablo”. I left the restroom to a chorus of laughter as one massive cheese cutting fart nearly ripped my trousers. It should be noted that Hurricane Sandy destroyed this area. I think it was Nature scouring those toilet bowls.

I again rejoined our group and got into a cab.

We were at the tip of Manhattan. Our hotel was on 34th Street. New York cabs roll and rock like an Italian cruise liner. You know that scene in “I Am Legend” when Will Smith blasts through New York with no traffic. This cab trip was exactly the same except for every single detail. Traffic was horrendous. My ass was stinging and as I’m sure were the driver’s eyes. This was when you hope that your next fart is not lumpy.

The cab swam and rolled its way to the hotel and stopped. I don’t remember exiting the car. I don’t remember going into the hotel. I remember the elevator trip. Thirty four floors in a metal box with my ass for company is awful. The lift stopped and I bolted for my room. I burst through the door, flinging clothes away and sat on the loo. At this point, it was only air inside me. It had to come out.

The acoustics in that bathroom were some of the finest ever. Warm tones and brown notes were echoing around the room in a manner that Pink Floyd aficionados would love. All I needed was a laser show. My wife entered the hotel room to my loving cry of “DON’T COME IN HERE!!!”. She didn’t. The honking, which now sounded like someone blending a flock of geese, continued unabated and at quite a volume. My wife turned on the TV to drown it out.

My brother then knocked on our room door, concerned at my welfare. My wife did what any loving spouse would do at that point. 

She turned up the volume on the tv.

Love is…