Yarn 12 | Chancin’ me arm

Drinkin’, workin’, emigratin’ and boilin’ spuds in hot tar. The life of a chancer.
Performed by Lorcan Cranitch.
Listen to more stories at www.yarnpodcast.com


I’ve been off the drink now going
on 3 months. Not a drop. Not since
my health scare.
The son is still mad for it a
course. The fridge was always full
of cans. My Carling black label and
his Carlsberg. Just so there
wouldn’t be any confusion. He’s
since gone through whatever was
left of mine though.
He’s been bringing them off with
him when he goes on his course.
For his lunch break.They’re making him do a reading
course. Can you believe that?
The fecker goes through about 5
books a week but they don’t know
that. That sci fi shite.
His head is constantly stuck in a
book. Gets a new bunch out every
Tuesday from the Library in town.
I prefer reading about the real
world myself. I read the paper from
cover to cover every morning with a
cup of coffee. Black. That sets me
up for the day.
They’re making him do the reading
course because he wasn’t doing a
tap on the computer course.
He’d just sit and look at the
screen.
They says:(In a voice imitating authority)
“You have to at least try or
we’ll report you.”
He says:(In a voice imitating his son)
‘I can’t read! So learning computers
is pointless”.
He thought he was being a right clever
cunt...
Until a letter comes through the door
saying he’s been signed up for
(In a posh voice)
‘an adult literacy course’.
So now he’s back learning his ABCs with
a bunch of thick cunts and foreigners.
That makes me laugh. Siting there all
morning pretending he can’t
read and he dying to get home and
crack into one of his space books.
Oh he’s well able to crack into my
cans at his 11 o’clock break
though.
The teacher used to give out to him
but now she just leaves him off.
It’s not worth the hassle I’d say.
To tell you the truth, I’d be
worrying about him somethings.
Friday he goes down the pub.
Walshes in town. The thing is, you
couldn’t trust him walking home. He
goes a bit wobbly on his feet after
a few.
The feckin Guards brought him home one night.He was after falling asleep in the
flower bed in middle of the
roundabout.
The next day he says:
(In a voice imitating his son)
“That was well handy. Free taxi.”He was lucky they didn’t throw him
in the drunk tank for the night or
god forbid, if a car hit him stone
dead...
I says to him that if that happens
again he could wake up to Bridie
Murphy or one of her Tidy Towns
crowd picking litter around him at
6 in the mornin’.
That made him think twice alright.His mother was always worrying
after him. That much good it did
him.
I met herself over in Leeds. In a,
god what was it? ‘68 or ‘70 I
suppose.
Beautiful she was. A yank.I went over for work with a load of
the lads.
And we did some savage work over
there. Diggin’ drains, building
walls, knockin’ walls... laying
asphalt...
Dirty job that one. And you’d just
follow the truck so you could end
up way out the road, in the middle
of nowhere. Me and the boys used to
start bringin’ a few spuds with us.
And then at the break we’d lob the
spuds, skin n’ all, into the vat a
hot tar and let em boil. Then we’d
fish em out, break em open, and eat
em off of our shovels. The tar
stuck right to the skin. So the
inside bit was lovely so it was.
Anyway... I went through a fair few
jobs over there. I’d get board
after a few weeks. Go on a bit of a
session and then start thinking
about gettin’ a new job. That’s
where I met the yank girl. She was
workin’ in the office. Getting
terrible hassle from the boss..
So I says to her:“Feck him and these shower a cunts.
Let’s get the feck outta here.”
And she came off with me. We moved
around England for a bit. She was
mad to live in London. But no
sooner as we were there and she
gets terrible home sick for
America. She gets on to her father
and he offers to fly us over. Both
of us.
Did I hesitate? I did in me fuck.
So off to the U.S.A I went...
Scottsdale, Arizona it was.
But livin’ with her family almost
did us in. The father didn’t think
much of me. It was hard for him to
do much thinking, with his head so
far up his own arse.
An sur then didn’t herself get
pregnant. Oh fuck, I was stuck
then. We got married anyway and had
the little fella. The same fella
doin the readin course now. I like
to remind him every so often that
he was born in America.
“Why don’t you get up off your arse
and run for president” I says to
him.
Well anyway, a few months after
he’s born, I‘m was still out in the
pub celebrating and I get into a
bit of an altercation over a game
of pool, with a big black fella.
I was scared out of me shit so I
hit him a slap, before he had a
chance to land one on me.
Didn’t he go down like a sack of
spuds. Then the cops come and lock
me up.
When I was out on bail, I thought,
feck this, I’m not going to one of
those American prisons. They’re
full of riots and quare lads. So I
skipped out. Got a flight back to
Ireland and says to myself:
“That’s the last Uncle Sam will
ever hear from me”.
The wife was distraught a course.
She thought I’d run out on her too.
Not at all.
I phoned back and I say that I’ll
get everything set up over here
first. I’ll find a nice house and
then she can move over with the
young fella. I just needed a few
quid up front for the house.
Her father wires over some money
and... and to be honest with ya,
I ended up going on the lash for a
few months.
I buy a bit of land from Billy Ryan
to build on instead. It’s a start.
I was well able to build a house
meself anyway so we could have it
exactly how we wanted it. The plot
was right next to Billy Ryan’s farm
and he says we can stay in the
caravan in his yard until the house
is ready. Grand job. Sound man
Billy.
Well when the wife moves over with
the young lad she’s not happy with
the situation.
She starts saying:
“A farm yard is no place for a
baby. It’s dirty. There’s a mound
of manure 5 yards from our door.
We’ve no running water.”
I tell her to be patient but that
just sets her off again.
I was under a fair bit of stress.
One morning I woke up... and ah... she
was gone. She left a note. She went
back to America with the young
lad.... So...
Then I met Sheila. An English wan.
Well, she says she’s Irish but she
grew up her whole life in Sheffield
so she’s a fair strong English
accent on her. Her mother was from
down the road alright. She’s an
only child, not counting her twin
sister that died when they were
born.
When Sheila’s mother died she got
left a house and an inheritance. So
I took her on a round the world
trip. We went feckin everywhere.
Stayed in the best hotels. Europe,
South America, feckin China, Egypt...
Morocco. Jaysus the lads loved
Sheila there.
I used to say to them
“What kind of a dowry would ye have
and then we’ll talk.”
Ah she’s not much of a looker now,
Sheila. The Ogre, I calls her.
But she’s grand. Looks aren’t
everything.
Back in the day, in Leeds, I
brought a lovely young wan out to a
dinner dance one night. None of the
lads could take their eyes off of
her, wondering how the feck did I
get her. She fancied herself as a
bit of a singer so I kept at her to
get up and sing a song.
So she did. Well, fuck me. It was
terrible. Like a cat drownin.
Suddenly all the loveliness in her
fell away. I couldn’t stand her.
Screachin away up there. So I left.
I just left her there. Fecked off
home so I did. Yeah...
No fear of that with Sheila. She
barely has a tooth in her head, let
alone a note.
Anyway, so while we’re in Morocco.
We’re havin’ dinner out on the
balcony when Sheila just slumps
forward. Her face planted in her
pasta.
I’m laughing at first.“Ah jaysus Shelia, it’s not a
trough you’re eatin outa. Come up
out of it.”
But she doesn’t move...
(In a low voice)
Turns out she was after havin’ a
stroke.
She was never right again after
that. A bit touched ya know, even
more than she was originally.
She puts it on too though, when it
suits her.
“Where’s that tenner I left on the
table”. I’d say.
(Imitating Shelia's English accent)“Oh I thought that was mine.” She
says
“I got confused hon.”
Confused me arse. Sur now her
inheritance is gone so she’d be
after my pension. You couldn’t
leave any money around the house or
she’d have it gone.
And she’s still driving...Still driving, even though she’s no
tax or insurance. Doesn’t give a
fuck. I might dob her in one day
and get her locked up. I’d have a
couple a nights peace out of it.
I’ve no need for a car meself. I
don’t go anywhere. You’re better
off letting people come to you at
my age. And I haven’t been to the
pub since I gave up the drink so...I’ll start to miss it now at
Christmas though. The drink.
The ex wife comes over from the
states with her husband. To see the
young fella she says.
They stay here. We have great
craic. The husband is a yank like
herself. Ex military. He brings
over a few bottles a bourbon and I
sort out the potcheen. I get it
from the barman in Walshes. Gives
it out in wine bottles at Christmas
to a few of the regulars.
The ex wife’s husband is mad for
the stuff and we have to finish it
while he’s here because he’s afraid
to take it back with him.
He can’t hold his drink at all. I
thought holding your drink would be
a requirement in the Army.
He says:
(Imitates an American accent)“No, that’s the Navy you’re think
of.”
You’d know he was a solider though
all the same. He has scars all over
him and he’s missing bits of ears
and a bit off his leg. Fuck me. I
don’t know how he’s still standing.
Last year, Christmas eve, we went
through the whole of the potcheen
and the bourbon. The army man
doesn’t drink cans, so as not to be
left behind, he takes Sheila’s old
high Nelly out to look for an off-
license.
A few hours pass and there’s no
sign of him.
The ex-wife is ringing him and
there’s no answer... until there
is.
But it’s a nurse in the hospital
who answers. Wasn’t he after
getting knocked off the bike by a
van down at the roundabout.
Sheila brings us all to the
hospital.
(Whispers)
I’m hopin’ to god no one stops us.
We make it there anyway and the
doctor says it’s serious.
(Imitates an autorititive voice)
“No response to stimuli.”
He says. After they shining a light
in his eye.
Feck, he’s in a coma. That’s him
turned into a vegetable for the
rest of his days.
But then the ex-wife asks:
(Imitates an American accent)
“Which eye did you check? Did you
check both?”
I’m thinking. Has she gone mad or
what?
(Imitates an American accent)
“He’s got a glass eye.” She says.
"Lost it years ago in Iraq."I’ve never seen a doctor go as
white.
They were shining a light on the
glass eye.
He was grand. Out the next day. In
time for Christmas dinner...
You don’t celebrate Christmas do
ye? Too pagan for ye?
Do ye Jehovahs have any craic at
all?
Listen you may move on. I don’t
have time to be talking here all
day.
I’ll tell ye what, head four doors
down there to Bridie Murphy.
She could use some tormenting.
Good bye. God bless.

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