Tuesday, March 17, 2009

I can teach you, but I'd have to charge

Tuesday, March 17, 2009
So here I am fixing it home after an hour out of my comfort zone, inspiring fatties in a whole other postcode.

'How did you find it?'

'It was very different.'

'I fucking hope so dude, because the shit I watched you do last week is going to improve your fitness not one jot, while still severely fucking up your knees. You want to walk when you're fifty? Petition for my permanence.'

I'm coming through the Valley of the Flats on Amien Street and both sides of the road are populated by kids too young to still be out, non-school night or no. I pick up the pace, for as funny as dead baby jokes are to ten year olds even funnier is a face splattered cyclist. Up the hill I hammer and as I crest the top I see ahead of me a couple separated from their peers so that they might privately, yet publicly, eat the faces off of each other. I swear to fuck folks, these mutual Z War veterans cannot be more than ten years of age. Certainly they are no taller than my Riker and she, to my eternal shame, is no longer all that tall for her age.

So far so sweet then. I talk toss, of course. Four year olds perhaps, in one of those shitty Athena posters, leaning in for a posed peck, may well have an element of the cute. But these are not four year olds. Nor are they even adolescent. They are driven to this public display of affection by our fucked up culture of you must be sexy from the moment of your birth. There is worse to come however. As I near, his hands slip down to her non-existent tracksuited ass. So I:

Slowly slow, dismount frontally and approach, coughing to gain their attention, before launching into a reasoned and calm lecture on The Man and how his desire to be always richer and more powerful is robbing them of their innocence. They nod, instantly understanding, and go back to thinking that boys are smelly and girls are stupid. He even pulls her pigtail as they walk away.

Screech to a halt, leap from Jesus Killer, and grab the fucker by the scruff of the neck, propel him towards the canal. 'Get your hands, your filthy fucking hands, off my darling could be daughter or I will cut the fuckers off before I drown you in the drudge of the Royal Dublin.' He moans his remorse, reeking of his reconversion to childhood. A voice from behind me shrills 'Thank you, surrogate cycling Daddy!'

Spin on, descending and dreading what is to come when it is my real daughter and I am equally powerless.

6 Johns and Janes for the comment whore:

Conan Drumm said...

You may have to spend a few years behind a newspaper, affecting disinterest and mumbling "Ask your Mother" at appropriate times.

The day you find yourself about to say, "You're not going out in that!" is the day to take up the newspaper.

Or you could get into the whole discuss it reasonably/roaring conflict thing. The worst of it is that what works for one could be completely wrong for the other.

Red Leeroy said...

Gimme, you managed to get bicycles, rage and kids into one post. Well done, has this been achieved before ?

Medbh said...

My father caught my older sister having sex when she was 18. He dragged the dude into the alley and beat the fuck out of him.
Don't follow that example.

gimme a minute said...

Sigh, Conan, sigh.

I'm not sure that it has, Red. But I doubt that it'll be the last time.

I bet that showed him, Medbh. I am a man of peace, though. Peace and cowardice.

stipes said...

As a man of peace, it was the third option, wasn't it. Agree with Conan on the newspaper thing, but don't use a tabloid

Sarah Gostrangely said...


◄Design by Pocket