Belfast Blind Date

There was I, feeling old enough to be my father, holding on to the limpest bunch of yellow chrysanthemums in one hand and a carrier bag emblazoned with large red day glow love heart that included the words,

Love r Us. 

‘Now don't you worry yourself for a minute’, says the Love r Us dating agency. ‘It’s natural to feel a little trepidation, especially the very first time, besides our carrier bag helps’. You see, they explained, ‘as well as being a beacon of love it carries a subliminal message of desire, and of course our telephone number in case of emergencies’.

I'd been standing in the pouring rain for well over half an hour, having missed the bus down from the Creggan. Impatience and frustration was getting the better of me as I repeatedly checked my wrist, my watch having been left hanging on a nail on the back of the bathroom door from earlier that afternoon. By the time half past five came around I was soaked to the skin, wetter than taxi driver's armpit so I was. I watched an endless stream of humanity rushing for trains, and buses, the lucky ones spreading their fat arses across bar stools in the city lounges, and not one of them without an umbrella by the way.

The day was getting on and by the time I had been pacing up and down Dizzy Corner for over an hour I was sick as the proverbial parrot. The whole world and his wife were leaving work, except that is, Bubbly from Ballamena, her with the shock of auburn hair and in need of tender loving care. Suddenly catching a glimpse of myself in Boot's shop window I let out an audible cry of panic.

 ‘Oh no’!

‘What an idiot’.

 To my horror, I had noticed the tell tale signs of hair dye. It was running out of my gel spiky locks, streaking my face and shirt to the colouring of delicate aubergine.

That's it, says I, ‘I'm offski’, and hadn't I no sooner moved off the spot when a double decker bus ploughing through a puddle in the road, easily the size of the Sea of Galilee, sent up a great plume of dirty water, and didn't the deluge come down covering me from head to foot in cigarette ends and empty crisp packets, leaving me soaked to the skin and stinking like old diesel engine.

As my carrier bag, was, by now almost full of water and fag ends, I thought it was by far the best place to keep the chrysanthemums, many of which by now had lost their heads and a great deal of their petals due to the force of the inundation.

Foul smelling water was now running freely from every orifice, every layer of clothing, every nook and cranny.

The one clear advantage of being struck by this tidal wave was that the purple stain of the hair dye had blended with the effluent, leaving me glowing in rainbow effervescence. Then just as I thought things couldn't get worse, I became aware of something or someone tugging at my arm, I turned around to see the most gigantic woman I have ever clapped eyes upon, and by the look of her she had forgotten to put her teeth in.

‘It’s myself, she hollered, holding aloft a carrier bag and pointing excitedly to the Love r Us  and day glow red love heart logo upon the front of it.

Pushing aside, with uncanny ease, three Hoodies who were otherwise engaged in their endeavors to beat the liver and lites out of a passing Japanese tourist, who they alleged had looked at them 'funny’, she tightened hold of her grip on my arm and pulled my face close to hers.

'Are you’s Debonair from Dalpenny,' she whispered hoarsely. 

I nodded meekly, as water, much warmer than before began trickling down the insides of my trouser legs.

Now, I've seen big women in my day, sure wasn't my Aunt Flanna a big fit party, and for that matter so was old Grannie Driscoll down at the Post Office at Tippy Baldenny, but nothing on God's earth could have prepared me for the likes of this.

Puddles pooled at my feet as we stood beside another on the bus that was to take us further into town to the Classic cinema which was our destination. A venue enthusiastically chosen by my date, she was, as her dossier had disclosed a bit of a filmgoer aficionado. Sitting immediately behind me she said, that she had travelled to town on the 135 bus and had clocked me standing in the street or to be more exact it had been my carrier bag she'd seen, the signal of recognition devised by the dating agency.

'But only for a second', she reaffirmed.

‘The very next moment, said she, we splashed through a massive great puddle and when I looked again you’s were away’!

She continued to chatter between mouthfuls of broken cinder toffee and a packet of victory V lozenges.

She told me, although her words were almost undecipherable due to the vast amounts of toffee in her mouth, that her name was Orla, Orla Knox.

 ‘Orla means 'pure gold' in the Gaelic’, says she.

 Mind you, I'm sure if her Mammy and Daddy knew that their little nugget was going grow into quite that much pure gold they would have been as well naming her Fort.

Staggering under the weight of chili hot dogs, Pepsi cooler, and a bucket of buttered pop corn that Bob Geldolf would have been more than happy to drop as a food parcel for the starving masses of a the third world, we made our way down the aisle of the darkened cinema. For myself I was thankful to be out from under the bright lights of the foyer so I was. My hair had dried to a crisp, matted, muddy grey, whilst the rest of me had begun to gently steam so that every time I moved or coughed I gave off wee clouds of odious condensation. Despite the amplitude of Orla's derrière she slipped into the seat remarkably easily, and had immediately set about eating her way through the huge assortment of consumables that she had arranged on the spare seat next to her.

I was thankful just to sit myself down, and taking full advantage of the darkness, I slipped out of my soaking trousers pulling my overcoat around me to hide my modesty I dropped them into my soggy carrier bag. I then quietly took off my shoes and socks and began quietly wringing water from the latter until they were able to be hung over the back of the seat in front.

The main feature, 'The Adventures of an Amorous Anthropologist’ hadn’t started as yet, it sounded right up my street, I love nature films.  Do you remember that David… now

What’s his name?

You know him off the tele?

Oh go on, you know who I mean, it’s himself who was sat with that family of gorillas, you must remember, that was a film and a half so it was.

At long last I was beginning to relax and look forward to the film. The cinema seats were slowly becoming occupied; strangely there were few women in the place mainly men in trench coats and long brown mackintoshes, well it was a wet night and still hammering it down outside.

I turned to Orla whispering as loudly as I could over the constant crunch and grinding yellow teeth and pop corn.

 ‘I love these sorts of movies, it's truly amazing how they can get those really detailed close ups without disturbing them when their about their business, do you know what I mean?

Orla’s reaction was to choke and cough out enough pop corn to roughcast a side gable wall.

‘You’re a saucebox so you are and no mistake,' she said wiping the butter off her chin and pinching my cheek with her greasy fingers.

Taken aback a little I nodded shyly, and then continued.

 'Oh, I love any films like this one; I never get sick of watching birds, marvelous, marvelous creatures so they are to’.

‘Do you know’?  Whispering as close to Orla's ear as I dared.

'I’ve even seen a close up of a cock bird’,

Orla began to dribble.

‘Was it one of they lady boys’,” she grunted

‘Well now you’re asking me’ I said slightly perplexed.

 I’m not at all sure, you could be right there, but I do remember he was black and shiny.

 ‘Right up inside the nest itself and wasn't he cock of the walk all puffed up and twice the size, mind you he was just showing off I expect.

‘Up and down and in and out of that nest he went, God love him he was at for hours so he was, and wasn’t it himself that was sporting the biggest…

I was interrupted by long soft moan stanched only by Orla pushing endless fistfuls of popcorn into her slavering chops.

…wiggly worm you'd ever hope to see…

Orla turned to me; her eyes were glazed over and white as organ stops, her laboured hot breath rancid with butter and chili. Drawing herself up closer to me as I continued.

…and didn't she, says I, the little bird, what am I saying little bird, more like a big floozy’ I mused.

 I was momentarily distracted as I watched a bead of perspiration forming on Orla’s nose whilst her face wide and flaccid stared up at me like a great drum of cheese.

‘What happened next’? She said, hoarsely.

‘Well, says I, didn’t that little bird just open up her gob as wide as she could, so that he, could drop the whole thing right down her throat’.

Orla’s lips and chins had begun trembling, a frankfurter sausage in the chili hotdog which she had been grasping tightly in her left hand shot out of the bread roll like a rocket.

Unfortunately the full force of the sausage hit a very elderly usherette on the other side of the cinema who was busy selling inhalers and boxes of Kleenex to a crowd of old gentlemen who were huddled around her in dirty raincoats.

'God you’s a terrible man, what are you like, whispered Orla, noisily unwrapping a chocolate bar.

As the house lights began to fade, I noticed that Orla was dribbling and that her great moon of a face was glistening like a fish just out of the water, as she placed her plump hand heavily on my coat covered thigh.

'Holy Mother’, she exclaimed, and her hand jumped just as it might have if she’d just picked up a dog turd. 

‘God love you, you’re soaking wet…

 I said nothing,

…tell me you haven’t’.

‘No! I have not’! I hissed emphatically.

After a few minutes the lights went down and film had started to roll and in no time at all the cinema was filled with the sounds of grunts and moans and the occasional fit of coughing.

‘Holy Mary, Mother of…

‘For the love of all that’s holy…

My audible cries to our lady was interrupted on the big screen by two or three naked young woman acting out what can only be described as some sort of wrestling match who in turn were interrupted by a naked man who’s genitalia was like a babby’s arm holding onto a Bramley apple.

I had never seen the likes of anything like this since my cousin Flanna’s holiday snaps were sent to the Garda by Boots the Chemist.   I’ll tell you something else, if it wasn't for the fact that I wasn’t wearing any trousers, shoes or socks I would have been out of that cinema right there and then and been happy to abandon the great fat strumpet that I'd come in with who was sat masticating and mesmerized glued to her seat. I was utterly disgusted and felt disappointed with it all so I did.

For didn’t it turn out to be one of they Swedish pornographic films, all bums and bits, with not so much as a gorilla or a twitcher in sight not a trace of that David whatsit, more like his brother Dickie whatsit thought I.  Meanwhile Orla was finding the porno film of great interest and at one point became very breathless and animated but after a loud gurgle and extremely unpleasant but silent flatulent episode took up her bucket increasing her rate of pop corn consumption to a blur. At some point throughout the proceedings my steaming socks had fallen into Orla’s bucket, alas, never to be seen again, so I decided to put my feet into my cold wet shoes to ensure that they didn’t meet the same buttery end.

A few minutes later didn’t I meet Father Dermott Catt in the gent’s lavvies, queuing for a cubicle. His attendance at the Classic cinema was purely ecumenical, he explained.  He was researching a new slant on local entertainment on behalf of the Roman Catholic monthly. After blessing me and borrowing a tenner he told me to put on my trousers at once and told me to make sure I didn’t miss his confessional at St Paulinus this coming Wednesday night.

I returned to my seat sneaked surreptitiously into my very damp trousers, placing the dead chrysanthemums in Orla’s popcorn bucket.

Well, not before time the film at an end, I decided it was best to leave Orla who was fast asleep and snoring like a pig, her head buried among the green stalks and she blew the last remaining yellow petals out into the cinema auditorium 

Once outside the cinema, the rain was still bouncing off the street when I spotted a bus emblazoned by the familiar red love heart  advertising Love r Us, Satisfaction Guaranteed, The Woman of your Dreams Awaits You.

‘That’ll be right’, says I, raging my fist at the approaching bus.

 Just you wait till you’s open tomorrow, I thought.

That big brassy bitch on reception is going to be the first to get a piece of my…

The very next minute a gigantic wall of water rose up from the now passing bus and I was once more engulfed me in a tsunami of street detritus.

For a moment I just stood there shivering, my clothes were clinging to me like a bad debt; there I was wetter than a fish taking a bath.

For moment I contemplated throwing myself under the next bus that came along.

Now just minute, catch yourself on, says I, am I not being a bit hasty, I’m not going on an empty stomach. I stood watching the bus until it was lost in the rain and the traffic, I pulled my coat collar up around me and headed for the nearest chippie, tomorrow was another day and it couldn’t come soon enough.

But it passed, the bus and the thought, instead I squelched my way up the street, my shoes making the sort of noises you’d expect from a couple of washed up jelly fish.

The night pressed in, thickening misty stingle, the glistening glow of the lamplight reflecting psychedelic patterns in wavering puddles.

I pressed on, head down, each step carrying a shoeful of rainwater, conscience heavy the acrid taste of diesel and dead petals. All the while, the neon echo of Love r Us haunted me, flickering red in the corners of my vision. I tried to shake it, tried to convince myself that tomorrow would be different, that I wouldn’t go near that blasted place, not for all the satisfaction guaranteed in the world.

Still, as I reached the corner and slipped into the sodium gloom of a side street, I couldn’t help but wonder what reception awaited me: brassy or otherwise, love or something like it, always seemed just out of reach, bobbing on the surface of the wet city night, never quite close enough to grasp.

The city streets had a way of following you, like the damp that echos, seeping through your bones, settling deep down into the marrow finally working its way down into my scuds trickling down into my darkest crevices. I passed wet gleaming streets all with their shuttered shops with peeling paint, the promise of closing-down bargains glimmering from behind fogged up window panes. Appearing out of the dank gloom like a golden mirage a yellow light , the unmistakable waft of hot grease and vinegar sharp enough to bring tears to your eyes, raucous rude voices from the queue inside the chippie sounded like old radios tuned to static.

I stepped in, the bell jangling overhead like a warning. The heat hit me, thick as my Ma’s custard. The woman behind the counter gave me a strange look that managed to be both pitying and unimpressed, as if sodden punters were just part of the evening’s menu, her waxy face suddenly lit up into a wide grin.

‘’You’s bin in the Lagen all night fella, If you’s was any wetter you’d be a feckin fish, she said  hissing over the boiling oil.

‘’I’ll have one of they battered sausages says I,  the woman’s eyes rolled to ceiling , with a regular chips, and scraps’’’

I pocketed my change, clutching the bag close, the paper already growing translucent in my wet hands. Outside, the rain was relentless, but the chips were warm, and each bite felt like a small victory, a reminder that tomorrow, for all its threats and promises, hadn’t arrived just yet.

I found a rickety old chair in the corner of the chippie, the red plastic upholstery peeling like sunburnt skin. Rainwater dripped from my cuffs pooling at my feet; every so often, someone glanced over and then looked away quickly as if what I carried might be contagious. The chippies yellow light felt sacred and safe almost holy, the sort of benediction meted out to the pious and the rain-soaked alike, and I let myself thaw for a moment, hands curled around a bottle of watered down vinegar sticky with thumbprints.

Somewhere near the fryer, a radio buzzed, the static half-drowned by the hiss sizzle of fish frying.

Chewing, I bit through my hot sausage watching condensation run down the windows in rivulets, tracing the same patterns as the night’s regrets. The city could press all it liked; the world outside could glow with neon despair and sodium ghosts. During these few blessed minutes, with salt nippy sweet on my tongue and hot batter anchoring me to the present, I could almost pretend I was dry, safe, and wanted. The hush, the heat, the endless ordinary miracles of a noisy fish and chip shop at closing time, sometimes, that was enough.