Talking head-case

Talking head-case.

If I ever get out of here, I promise I’ll believe in you. What’s that you say? I have to subscribe to a faith. Well – I’d like to be a lapsed catholic. What’s that? You can’t just become a lapsed catholic; the lapsed part has to be earned? Oh dear. The thing is, I want my church, high, but I don’t want to be going to mass every two minutes. Well yes, I suppose I do want my cake and eat it. Maybe I need to lower my sights.

My bloody head hurts; last night’s vodka, or where the steering wheel jumped up and gave me a seeing to? A bit of each I reckon.

I can hear voices - like tape running backwards. It sounds like The Godfather; and here he is! Da-darrrr: Marlon Brando with a mouth full of cotton wool. I had white stuff in my mouth, too - all splintered and broken. So I spat - and my teeth landed in my lap. At least I didn’t hoover them into my lungs; that would have really topped off an already bad day.

My leg’s killing me. I don’t think it was last night’s antics, more likely my (crushed can) of a car hold me in; refusing to give me up. I’ll tell you what, if I get out of here in one piece, I promise I won’t drink again. What d’ya mean: Yeah right, until the next time – I’m serious!

I’m looking through a hole, where the windscreen used to be, and I’m watching the seagulls play rugby. One gull has a crust, but he drops it and the one behind snatches it from mid air and runs forward, but just before he can score, a third gull tackles. This time, the crust is sent tumbling from the sky; out of play. And that made me think about my life: feeding from the crumbs of others’ existence; always in the hands of fate, never creating my own destiny. Like going bird watching because Dave wanted to go. I could’ve been in a band by now if I’d carried on with my guitar lessons. But I just wanted to be Eric Clapton – without all the hard work; and from the safety of my sofa.

Bird watching: I remember now, that’s where I was going. I went last week, and some crane necked gobshite told me to be quiet; to stop scrunching my sweet wrappers. I don’t know why he needs all that gear; and the size of that lens: bloody ridiculous. Pretentious prick!

I look out of the side window and there’s this guy singing. No pop no style, I strictly roots. Now, my first reaction is: how can you sing when I’m banged up in here? I try to get really angry about it, but I can’t; and then I’m grateful to him for taking my mind of my predicament. He keeps on: See me in my ‘alter back, see me give you ‘art attack; and then I’m smiling – a big toothless smile. He’s put that ring-necked fuckwit at the bird sanctuary, right out of my mind.

I can hear those backward voices again, but I can get snippets of sense. One voice says he’s Pete. Someone else is talking to him: Get a move on and we can save this leg. But the tape’s running backwards again: It’s Don Corleone. Growl, growl, growl. No, it’s Pete. Shhh! This guy’s still conscious. Growl, growl, growl. Severe concussion though.