“She hates her life,

and what she’s done to it”

Rockin in the Free World

Neil Young

The rain of the last few days has been interminable. Apocalyptic even. I read a prophesy that before the end of the world Ireland would be under water for seven days.

The fantastical and tragic truth of a Garda washed away as he tried to help people. The film Se7en featured incessant rain as a background. As the perpetrator carried out murders in the form of the seven deadly sins the background theme was rain and more rain. In Insomnia the Al Pacino becomes increasingly disoriented and confused as his lack of sleep starts to take a toll.

For the last three weeks I seem to have entered a tunnel period in my life where there is a consistent stream of challenging news. At one stage it necessitated repeated trips to hospital in Derry and back to visit my mother who was suffering a chronic stomach ailment. The drives seem to be conducted entirely in the rain and the dark or both. My memory of the visits is wet feet crossing the highly unsatisfactory car parks at Altnagelvin and sitting talking to my mother feeling damp.

The apocalyptic weather and the disruptive interruption to my daily routine meant that at a time when I was building a seam of work I had to continually step away to carry out other duties. To the detriment of both I would add. It was highly frustrating. Even trying to describe this I can’t articulate what I mean.

I will start again elsewhere.

Students.

When I returned to Queen’s at the start of second year, my mother brought me and my gear down to Belfast. Myself and four other lads had rented a house down near the bottom of Dunluce Avenue. It was an awful place. Damp and fairly cold. Last year I had a series of dreams in which I was back in the house, it was awful, I could still smell the damp and feel the coldness upstairs.

When my mother dropped me off she came into the house and had a look around. It was the last time she ever set foot in a rented house I lived in. I think she fully realised the sorts of shit holes we inhabited. Then the landlords were probably as unscrupulous towards students as they are nowadays. Certainly they provided the bare minimum of comfort, the sofas were typically decrepit affairs, saggy and stinking from years of students’ arses perched on them and god knows what else.

As for the beds and mattresses in particular. Well. When I think about that my stomach churns, in each rented room the surface tapestry on show revealing scenes of emissions, no doubt accompanied and unaccompanied, night-time drooling, alcohol fuelled incontinence. Disgusting it was. They should each have been incinerated at the end of a year’s action. There’s only so much one can absorb impact and otherwise.

Around that time Dolmio came on the market. It may already have been on the market but it became known to us. We would prepare huge hulges of spaghetti Bolognese accompanied by loaves of garlic bread. The whole affair would be washed down with cheap wine, usually Bulgarian if I remember correctly. Then, after sinking a load of tins of cheap beer off we would go seeking a bit of what passed for debauchery in the Students’ Union, the Elms and wherever else we might roam.

One of the boys made a girl physically sick one night in the Union when talking to her. The reek of garlic off him after our spaghetti fest was too much and she turned away to vomit nauseated by the stench. The same fella had a regular handy tackle up the top of the street with whom he pursued an interesting relationship. He couldn’t pass the front door without calling and eventually became quite attached to the same girl. For a while anyway.

We once had a visit from the Police on behalf of the neighbours to complain about noise. This was before wardens and vans with CCTV on board such as they have now. The message was simple.

The big RUC man stood in the living room and calmly told us that our neighbour had told him if we didn’t keep the noise down they knew people who would make us keep it down. When I politely asked were these ‘people’ the police or some other anonymous grouping he told me to shut up and stop being smart. The previous year a student house had been petrol bombed. Point taken.

The lad in our downstairs front room thereafter kept a bucket of water in his room just to be safe. Occasionally we would come in full drunk and trip over it. I think he may have changed to sand when we pointed out water wasn’t the right job for petrol. This was in 1987 when the lower side off the Lisburn road wasn’t the trendy suburban thoroughfare with fancy shops that it has become. It was dark, unfriendly, too close to the Village for comfort, yet we came and went oblivious to any danger. The most threatening encounter was this visit by the law.

But then in those days the RUC played a wearisome game of cat and mouse with students. Regularly shutting down parties. A few years later, a big peeler said to me one night after he raided a house in which we were playing guitar ‘Not you again.’ He despatched me home, guitar and all with a laugh about it all. Wasn’t always the case. Once they arrived at a friends house after a front door pane of glass was broken. The rookie in the squad confidently announced that the glass had been broken from the inside to which was heard the response from one of the wits from Lurgan “Aye right Sherlock!” accompanied by school boy sniggers. The crime remains unsolved.

The house in Dunluce deteriorated further over the course of the year. We had a house rule about dinner plates. To stop boys using other people’s plates the rule was you were responsible for your own plate and, if you should have food prepared and some other lad was using the plate, you were entitled to empty his dinner off on to another plate so as you could use your own. How we managed to live in that wonderful squalor remains a mystery.

Our premises were no better than any others and in fact I can think of several that were much worse. Our final year wasn’t much better but that’s a story for another day.

Today’s list…

Recession horse riding, the girls strapped a large fluffy horse onto the back of a golf trolley and are taking turns going on it. Cáit coined the term recession horse riding.

Got an email from someone in response to something I wrote. It happens occasionally. In this particular instance it meant a lot. Compared to some of the randomers that you run into.

The Armagh camogie team won their All Ireland at the weekend. Fair play to them. Their shirts look absolutely horrendous though.

Spent Saturday evening attending a birthday party for my brother in law. Spent the latter part of the evening with my other brother in law and another fella hoovering all the remaining whiskey in the house. Not a good idea. Created plenty space in the cupboards but wreaked havoc with the head. Sunday Morning Coming Down.

Isn’t it funny how even years later your opinion of someone is confirmed? There’s a fella I knew years ago was a bit of a tool, and having crossed his path again recently it’s good to know that I was right the first time. Once a tool, always a tool.

Also, Jim Allen who I worked with at the University died on Saturday. He was my boss. He enjoyed a smoke and a jar or two and had a great eye for good lookin’ women. One of the good guys, sorry to hear he’s gone from us.

Our Leo’s away off to school without his school bag. They rang me up to bring it down to him. That’s what I love about that school. Maybe get that sorted later.

I thoroughly enjoyed the four minutes of the rugby I watched yesterday.

I didn’t enjoy the many minutes of the X Factor I watched. Load of old cock most of it. Hopefully Janet Devlin will prevail but I wouldn’t bet upon it.

I attended Karen Coyles funeral last Friday. Very poignant. When I worked in the Uni she and I regularly crossed each other’s paths. Once we were part of a Uni delegation that travelled to Boston for an honorary graduation ceremony. Amidst a series of serious nightime sessions we had some great craic. On our day off Karen and I went out from Boston Aquarium to go whale watching. It was a great day out.

Yesterday, Millar Leon a guy I knew through work walked into the bar and tapped me on the shoulder. Haven’t seen him in 11 or so years. Great surprise, really good guy. Funny how sometimes you just get a blast from the past and it puts you in great form altogether.