Mrs Doyle

I think it's time I wrote about my mother. This post won't have many jokes.

....no, she's not dead.

My mum has always been a force of fucking nature. This woman started out as a nurse in the 1960s. Ever meet a nurse from the 1960s? You do not fuck with them. She worked her ass off for years, only to step aside and spend 20 odd years raising kids- and having been one of those kids I can safely say that she never got an easy day. Eventually she didn't need to hit us with the wooden spoon when we were little shits, just threaten us with a glance at the drawer in which it was kept. We knew. Then when we grew brave enough to challenge her further, the dreaded muscle flex. She was one strong bloody woman. One time my childhood dickishness led to me sprinting to the garden at the sight of her bicep, only for her to give chase and pull the garden swing out of the damn ground as I sought to shield myself behind it. There was no escape from her justice.

Hell, when she wasn't busy looking after us, she had her hands full taking care of my often sick father. Find an obscure, life-threatening illness and that man would find a way to pick it up. Nice work, Deirdre.

So what does she do once her kids are all getting old enough to look after themselves (in principle at least, cos I'm still struggling here)? She goes back to nursing. Force of fucking nature.

The first time I brought a girl home to meet my parents was in 2005, I was petrified. I was sure that my dad would say something inappropriate and create one hell of an uneasy atmosphere (Irish man of a certain age). He didn't disappoint. Casual racism within 30 odd seconds of meeting the girl. No such fears about my mum though. She was out celebrating winning a regional badminton title or some such thing. When she got home a bit later, she stormed in to meet this girl in her house.

"Hello. I've got new boots. Do you like my new boots? I'm not drunk."

And then she was gone. A whimsical tornado had ripped through the room and left us confused and laughing. She knew how to break tension.

The second time I brought a girl home was earlier this year. I was petrified. This time I knew without a doubt my dad would say something inappropriate. Of course he did. Called her that first girl's name. Nice one dad.

That wasn't why I was scared. My dad's deadly.

All the fears were about my mum.

There's a story arc in Buffy the Vampire Slayer (it was formative viewing, OK?) where a military initiative decide to build a supersoldier. They get the best parts of a variety of beasts and men, mix 'em all up in a pot and create Adam. Well, the universe took a look at my mother, decided she was already a supersoldier and sought to Frankenstein something else together instead.

"Parkinsons? Nah, we need something worse. Dementia? Brilliant! Let's combine them!"

My mum suffers from Lewy Body Dementia. It's basically Parkinsons and Dementia combined like a really shitty Transformer. Hey, Universe- Fuck. You.

Things started to go wrong about 5 or 6 years ago, as far as we noticed. Still, the specialists would continue to tell us it was just Parkinsons. Any lapses in memory, were just signs of confusion, temporary spells brought on by her medication. Nothing to worry about.

"Her next appointment is in nine months. If you need me before then just call and we will arrange something."

Nine months would go by with countless phone calls unreturned. Messages were taken by assistants, but no calls came back. Appointment time rolls around and again we're told that it's just Parkinsons. No, she hasn't had a stroke, and no there's nothing wrong with her mind. One night, she had no idea where she was, or who the fuck we were. Two weeks in hospital later and "oh, maybe she does have something else."

You fucking think so!?

I spent a couple of years, still living at home, dealing with the late night rambling, irritability and confusion of my mother before I couldn't deal with it anymore. I live in Scotland now. It wasn't the sole reason, but it did play a part. She still waits for me to come for dinner from my job at the bank sometimes. Other times she asks me where her long dead mother is. It's grim.

My dad has looked after her every day. I can't describe how great that man is. My dad is the best. My sister, her husband and even their three little kids are so heavily involved in looking after this formerly wonderful woman. Not just them, but still my dad has to face more than anyone and he keeps going. It's so hard, but he keeps going.

He rang me on Wednesday night.

"Your mum's been taken to hospital. Well, technically she's been arrested and taken to hospital."

So, apparently my mum woke up on Wednesday and had no fucking clue who these people in her house were. She was probably terrified. She punched, she kicked, and she fought for all she was worth until my family had to have her sectioned. I don't know when she might be able to come home.

I'm not asking Argentina for its tears.

She met my girlfriend again a couple of weeks ago. She made a few jokes. I don't think I stopped smiling for days. She was my mum. Maybe only for an hour or so. But she was there. I'd forgotten what that felt like.

I miss her every time I see her.


Update
Walls

Freedom?

The morning after.

In a world of hyperbole, where the term "historic" is thrown about far too often about sandwiches and handjobs, yesterday stands out as one truly befitting the designation. Scotland's voice reverberated through the UK, and even the rest of the world, as it sought to decide its future. Freedom, or....a lesser kind of freedom?

And today it wakes to the collective hangover, both physical and political. The "Yes" camp fought their corner and gained some ground, but in the end Scotland's people chose to remain a part of the United Kingdom. Rest assured though, that this will not be the same United Kingdom that we woke up in yesterday. Progress has been made, and this "No" was not the end of the conversation. It was merely the beginning of a much larger one. There can be hope felt on both sides, even if those dreaming of independence may have to look a littler harder to find the positives today.

The important thing is to not get dragged down in the bitterness, and the recriminations.

"Voting "No" means you're not a true Scot."

"Anybody who voted "No" is a coward."

"A vote against independence is a vote against Scotland."

You're hurting. You're broken-hearted. I get it, I do, but shut the fuck up. Too much of the debate surrounding this referendum has been focused on personal attacks. Voting "Yes" or "No" was not the same as voting "Right" or "Wrong".This was one of those occasions where yes may not have been a positive and no not necessarily a negative.

I've spoken to English people living here in Edinburgh who have taken on the role of startled children during their parents divorce. If Scotland leaves the United Kingdom, buys a new sports car and starts sleeping with sexy, sexy Norway, it doesn't mean it loves you any less. It's not personal. Scotland and England just don't love each other like that anymore. They still care about you deeply. And Scotland will always be a part of your life. It's not your fault, and it's not a rejection of you.

If I may mix my relationship metaphors for just a moment, these countries are back together after a trial separation. They were on a break, and now they're giving it one last shot. England is sorry they didn't pay you enough attention, Scotland. They're sorry they didn't notice your new hair, or listen to you talk about your stressful day. They can change. The lead up to the reunion has been full of drunken late night voicemails, and "WHY WON'T YOU LOVE ME!?", and maybe they can. Maybe this time they'll stop getting drunk with Wales and actually bring you out for dinner like they always promise. The problem is, you know these problems will only be brushed under the rug (metaphor within a metaphor....boomtown!). Once you get back together in these kind of relationships, it is likely only a matter of time before the promises wear thin and old habits creep back in. Scotland is giving it another shot, and now it needs to work out whether it's doing it because it really does want this to work out or if it's just scared of being single. We've all been there. It's scary. And why is Wales passed out naked on the couch again!?

I'm not Scottish, but I am genuinely honoured that this country allowed me the opportunity to have a say in its future. Edinburgh is home these days. It's where I hang my hat....multiple hats. It's where I house my hat-rack. I voted yesterday, for the second time in my life. The first time since I was 18. The first time I've felt my vote mattered. And it's remarkable that so many people felt the same power last night. Scotland chose its own destiny through democratic means. That is a beautiful fact. When I look at how my own nation fought for its independence less than 100 years ago, it's quite a startling difference. Ireland still bears the scars. Quite literally, when you see the bullet holes in the GPO in Dublin. And that's something that Scotland should be incredibly proud of. It might not have led to independence today, but it will. Scotland's independence is inevitable, and I cannot foresee a long wait until the next time this issue is raised constructively. If nothing else, this has got the people talking, and feeling that they can speak to their friends, their family, and even strangers in the street about an important topic.

Just don't let this bluR the lines between loving one's country and inciting hatred. Whatever else, the fact remains that the majority of people in Scotland have voted to remain in the United Kingdom. That they did so is not necessarily down to cowardice, foolishness or disloyalty to Scotland. People had their reasons, and they will be as well or as poorly thought out as anything on the losing side of this particular referendum. The fact is, there were myriad reasons not to vote for an independent Scotland. Early indications suggest that the uncertainty surrounding the next national currency played a significant part in turning people away from the "Yes" vote. And that is easy to understand. Irn Bru may not have worked as a valid form of payment.

Furthermore, people got understandably swept up in a tide of emotion. That does not necessarily lead to objective thought. This was an issue close to people's hearts. It can be difficult to separate yourself from that. The feeling that new is better does not always ring true. An independent Scotland would have been much like a system reboot at Jurassic Park: Alex Salmond tells us to "hold onto your butts", and then *click* darkness. No power, save for a blinking light on a screen. It worked. A fresh start. Someone just needs to go to the maintenance shed to complete the job (no, I'm not sure where the maintenance shed is in this comparison). Nonetheless, the power might eventually come back to Scotland, but there's always the threat of those damn raptors. Salmond would likely be first to get eaten ("pity" that), but someone else could get the job done and get Scotland on the right path. Of course, England would need to be wary that when its spending all its time focused on Scotland in front of it, that Wales doesn't attack from the side. Clever girl.

Of course the analogy that spoke most to me about this debate, was a football based one. A man passionately in favour of independence told me that the whole process, for him, was a lot like watching Scotland try to qualify for the World Cup. The odds were against it, but they were going to give it their best shot. If they didn't qualify, he'd be gutted, but so long as they didn't embarrass themselves there were positives to be taken. And then they'd dust themselves off and try again.

Scotland will always be shit at football, but....

Remember, they can never take your freedom.

For the record, I voted "Yes".

Just A Girl

I write personal stories that I find to have been amusing in some way. People read those stories and hopefully agree more often than not. This post is not about humour. Here's a story.

I have a vivid memory of walking down the street outside my home in Dublin one night. I remember the lighting, the minute breeze and the clothes I was wearing. I don't, however, remember how long ago this was exactly. It was likely 10 years ago, but may have been less. Why I remember the other details, is because they were important to the event.

I was walking to my friend's house, maybe a three minute walk from my own. A little bit in front of me on the path, I spotted a small woman who, even in the darkness, I recognised as a lady from a few doors down who I'd known my whole life. I'd been friends with her son growing up. And knowing that she was friendly with my friend's parents, I was confident that she was likely walking to the same location as I was. She looked briefly over her shoulder in my direction as we both walked that path, and then she crossed the road. Guess I was wrong. Just before I reached my destination, she crossed back again to my side, and we had a brief chat before both going inside. Even as we were talking, I was running through what had just happened in my mind.

Why had she crossed the road?

She saw behind her a figure, shrouded in shadow, and thought it wise to create some separation. She was scared I could have attacked her. I was stung, hurt even. I'm a relatively tall guy at just over 6 feet, sure, but few who know me would consider my as anything other than a docile and gentle guy. How dare she make such an assumption just because she saw a tall figure walking behind her? She was a fool to react so defensively without reason. I remember that night, and my feelings, but have never actually considered it in any depth until today.

I believed that her doing as she did was an implied insult to me. How dare she think I'd attack her, with no reason for her to jump to such a conclusion? Small town, not that late at night, and I'm just a guy who happens to be kinda tall. What reason did she have to think so ill of me?

She had every reason in the world. This is the world we live in. Women are fearful of men, and how could they not be? People are fearful of people, for threats perceived and actual, and that is kind of something that is impossible to escape. Yet, women have more to fear on a daily basis than I likely ever will. And that disgusts me.

I've spent a lot of time this weekend trawling through coverage of the events in Santa Barbara. A young man, well off and seemingly somewhat educated, killed several people and injured many others in a truly horrifying attack. As usual, recriminations and musings have been immediate, constant and prone to wild sweeping statements. It is not a simple matter to determine why this person did what they did. He was not well, and people need to realise that no one aspect of his person can necessarily be identified as the sole reason for this crime. That said, it has highlighted for me the state of modern misogyny, and it is truly distressing to behold.

A couple of weeks ago, I came across a post on Facebook talking about the "not all men" attitude towards sexism and abuse of women. I checked out the link, and was unimpressed by the article. It had, for my money, strayed beyond a reasonable point of view and into a "look how stupid all men are" stance that should surely be at odds with a piece trying to highlight gender inequality. I took particular umbrage with the term "reverse sexism" and argued this point with the poster of the link. Happily, I believe she viewed such a term similarly. All sexism is sexism. Still, that said, not all sexism is created equal, if you'll grant me such a statement. Men do face issues, and abuse of men is often treated in a terribly off-hand way, but we have it so easy by comparison that it is impossible to truly comprehend.

In light, of the crimes perpetrated in Santa Barbara, a Twitter hashtag of #YesAllWomen has sprung up and trended. It is both eye-opening and heartbreaking, and I invite you to check it out yourself. The fact is that women are treated in a disgraceful manner on a daily basis. I'm not talking necessarily about rape or such grave instances as the tragedy presently in the news, but just "the little things". The way that women voicing their experiences or opinions are so mercilessly shot down in degrading ways. The way that men voicing support are derided and abused for some perceived slight to their own gender. The sheer hatred that voicing any opinion can bring.

There is a feeling that anything said or done online is exempt from consideration as a real world topic. A comment on the internet is not necessarily a tree falling in a wood, even if it can often seem so. The internet is still part of the real world. Hiding behind a keyboard does not grant people the right to say or do anything they see fit. Your online self is just an extension of your "real self". It is a means to express an opinion. It does reflect the views or mentality of the person behind the typing. People often excuse such people by referring to them as merely being a "troll". They're just seeking a reaction, and this is not necessarily how they view a topic. Does this not also suggest a person with a problematic view on the world though? Sure, they're only saying it to elicit a response, but who does that? The post that I read that originally directed me to Twitter (which you may know I happily avoid at all costs) featured a comment that really got under my skin. Uncharacteristically, I felt the need to reply.

Internet Commenter: LOL is this the only way these sloots can make themselves relevant, by using some mentally ill aspies shooting spree as a vehicle for their own agenda?

Also, lol at reading those tweets, the collective IQ of all the participants wouldn’t add up to 140 characters, where do these sloots think they live? All of that imaginary fear and victimhood from wealthy white, educated( only moderately,obviously) sloots is pretty sad when you consider the lot of women in poor countries and these sloots have to invent problems to give themselves validation.

Deebs: I know you’re either a troll, or an insufferable idiot, or (to be more accurate) both, and so replying to this is merely feeding your desire for attention, but here I am regardless.

I’m not going to waste my time making coherent or revelatory points about how shitty a human being this post suggests you to be. What would be the point? I’m just going to tell you to stay silent if you don’t have anything interesting or important to say. Step away from your keyboard and do something, anything to better yourself today.

Internet Commenter: I dont have a desire for attention, brah, I’m merely bringing some honesty to a site where it has been sorely lacking for some time. I’m not going to subscribe the sheeple groupthink posted above, which you obviously subscribe to, seeing as how feminist buzzwords from the 70′s, repackaged for shallow empty headed sloots on twitter, is characterised by you as “important” “coherant and revelatory”. If you got anything other than mirth out of the tweets above, you need to reevaluate your life, education and consider re/enrolling in university brah.

I better myself everyday brah, how much do you squat?

Deebs: I never stated my opinion on this post, as it happens. I just stated my opinion on your comment. Too often people wonder whether someone is stupid, or “just a troll”, and I want it said that there is no difference there. You, sir, are not happy. I am sorry for you, and anyone who has to suffer you.

I had spent a good deal of time reading into the Santa Barbara events on Saturday by the time my girlfriend arrived to my flat in the wee hours of the morning, impressively drunk and soaking from the rain. Once dried off and comfortable, she related to me the story of how she had been groped in a bar that night and had spoken up in order to put the guy responsible in his place. The fact that she did so seems entirely out of character for such a quiet girl, and I am very happy that she called him on it. It is never acceptable to do that. It is a form of sexual assault which is too readily brushed off with an "ah it happens". I don't know any woman who hasn't had a guy touch her up without her consent. Not one. How the fuck is that something that I can say? How do we live in world where me expressing my horror and revulsion at a guy groping someone is met with "you're one of the good ones"? How is that seen as a rare trait?

I was speaking to a female friend of mine a few days ago, who told me she was happy with how things were going with a new man in her life and how considerate he had been. And, yes, from what I've heard he has been quite lovely in such a regard. Still, one thing she said greatly upset me, as seen in the following exchange.

Friend: "I didn't know men like this actually existed. Like, I thought he had taken a photo of my ass, but he got offended and denied it. Then he said if he wanted to he would have asked. He would have ASKED! Imagine that?!"

Deebs: "Er....is that not just regular man behaviour? NOT being a pervy fucker?"

Friend: "Nope. He's opening my eyes to a lot of shit I've put up with."

I am not for one second calling myself perfect. I have done many things I am not proud of. I am not a person who should be held up as an exceptional case of being a "good guy". Yet, I have often been told this. I have often been told that my basic manners, politeness and willingness to treat women as people are really positive characteristics. I am not now, nor have I ever been, able to get my head around that. How are such simple things seen as an unexpected quirk of character? I have never groped a woman. I refuse to treat women as though they are pieces of meat, or second class citizens. I would not say I was raised in any way that saw extraordinary emphasis on how to correctly treat a lady. I just always thought this was the way that it should be. I wouldn't want to be abused, assaulted or talked down to, so why would I deem it right to do so to another person? That I continue to be shocked upon hearing that such behaviour is rare, is largely down to the fact that I have so few friends who would behave in any way different to myself. In a conversation just moments ago with my flatmate, we shared notes on how women have spoken to us about being abused or touched inappropriately on a day to day basis, and neither of us could think of guys we know who we could see doing such things. It's just how our social spheres are. Yet, I've come to realise how unusual it is for girls to be treated fairly.

Women fear men almost constantly. My girlfriend calls me any time she is on her way home and has to walk through a particularly dark patch of street near her flat, just in case.

Men complain about being placed in the "friend zone". I get it, I do. It can be heartbreaking to fall for someone who doesn't feel the same way about you. That doesn't make it their fault. When I've liked girls who have not felt the same about me, I've usually accepted it. When I've not, I've accepted that it's because there is an aspect of myself that is the reason they're not interested. If this was not something I could change, I've moved the fuck on. I have no entitlement to anything else. If I say "no", it does not mean I'm playing hard to get, or denying someone out of spite something that they deserve. It's my choice who I have any kind of sexual contact with, just as it is everybody else's decision who they allow close to them.

Every girl I know has been sexually assaulted in some way, even if in a manner societally deemed as an everyday kind of thing.

How is this acceptable?

Cheer

Behold a cautionary tale. This is what is to be expected when people make common or garden variety requests of me. As always, some names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Marion: "Can you say something to cheer me up please? I've had a bad day."

And so it began. Really, what followed should not have been a surprise to anyone.

Deebs: "Aww. Well, somewhere, right now a puppy is possibly gently nuzzling a fluffy rabbit while happy children frolic in the vicinity.

More than likely these pets were bought by an absentee father, trying to sway their affection from their mother after a bitter divorce, but still....

Maybe there were kittens somewhere, bought by the mother's new boyfriend, Steve. Steve is a jerk and has been giving lingering looks at Janet, the daughter. Still, he maybe bought kittens, and that was nice.

Absentee dad always buys the best ice-cream, when he shows up. Still, he smells faintly of rum and regret. He cries at exactly 8.13pm every Sunday. He misses his youth. He claims to have been so handsome.

The rabbit is so fluffy that you could almost lose a hand in his coat. This is an unwelcome reminder for young Tommy, who lost his hand in an industrial accident last year. He resents the rabbit. He has been tearing the wings off flies, and burning Barbie dolls.

Soon, he will be ready to kill Mr Fluffle Mittens.

The mother, Tracy, or Trace to her friends (of which there are few remaining since Absentee Dad turned their friends against her in the aftermath of the divorce) , left A.D. after he hit her in an argument over the correct pronunciation of the word "socks". She was correct, of course; nobody in their right mind believes that the first 's' is silent. She could not carry on in that sham of marriage any more after that straw broke the camel's back.

Now, it's sadly ironic that she can't get off unless Steve slaps her (open hand, never closed fist, cos she's not a masochist). Steve struggles with erectile dysfunction, except when he's around Janet. Steve is a creepy man. Now, the sound of their mother being slapped as she screams in apparent agony is what makes the children cry at night.

The bunny's cage was open this morning. There are fliers up all around town looking for Mr Fluffle Mittens. Janet is distraught. Tommy itches his stump shiftily.

Think of how cute a puppy nuzzling that fluffy rabbit would have been."

Marion: "Aww poor Fluffle Mittens. Can you buy me a bunny?"

Deebs: "That's MR Fluffle Mittens."

Marion: "Can you buy me a bunny, Mr Fluffle Mittens?"

Yeah, I'm pretty sure I'm the best cheerer upper in the business right now.

Once, Twice, Thrice and Force

The good fortune to be grromsman at an upstanding action figure's 8-bit wedding, Captain Morgan's as part of balanced breakfast and an opportunity to introduce a neat lady to my folks into the bargain pretty well encapsulates a grand time in Dublin last month. Still, a 22 hour day for that there wedding day saw my own temper fray and splinter like a frozen knot about the 20th of those hours.

"You're a great writer. You have so much talent. I love everything you write. You're wasting your life. Seriously, what are you doing with your life?"

I dunno, kid. Would a great writer misspell "groomsman" three times, then leave the third mistake there (above) just so he could question your assertion (while publicising it cos it's still a sweet thing to hear)? This one would. Still, that got to me. Nothing I've tried to write since has seemed worthy of anyone holding such high opinions of my ability to piece syllables together.

As much as that stung me then, even I was surprised by the anger it brought about in me. At least I didn't threaten you with any meagre manner of violence. Hell, I'd never threaten a woman....ok, I'd rarely threaten a woman. She almost had it coming, so, sorry Emma, for you did not. This one goes out to you. Boom, name-check city!

I have threatened people. Me. Really. No foolin'. Four of 'em. It's chronology time!

Incident the first: Dublin Bus, circa 2009

Picture the scene with my word pictures- sitting on a bus, making my way from my sprawling, and opulently palatial Dublin residence (author may be using exaggeration) to the other side of my fair city. Beside me sat a girl I was sweet on (fun fact: I grew up in the 1950s) and courting and we were simply negotiating the journey from mine to hers. Then piped up a dude a-fissin' and a fussin', spoilin' and agitatin' for a fight.

"You look like a rooster."

Oh yeah, I had a shitty mohawk going on. That much may have been my bad.

"That yer mam with ya?"

Quick to anger and straight to malice, yet always aware that a raised voice or betrayal of ire would lose me the fight before it had begun, I turned slowly to the voice, and in a calm, measured tone spoke to it with eyes locked on those of its owner:

"Insult her again, I'll break your fucking nose."

I turned back to my own business as if not one harsh word had been uttered. I have abhorred ill words being spoken of any lady in my company, much less one with whom I was in some manner of love. I'd never threaten a woman (ok, we'll get to that).

"Will you? I'm a boxer. Do you really want to try it?"

He was a culchie, and looked the sort. Shit. Hurriedly that hatchet was buried by me, at least partially in accord with the insistence of the supposedly wronged "damsel". Also, I imagine the severity of my own words had likely dawned on me. The fuck was I gonna do? Punch out a guy on the bus for a quip about my hair and an inconsequential insult of my girlfriend? She was no more Adrian than I Rocky. You're damn right I backed the fuck down. Impetuous but not fucking stupid.

THREAT #1: Defending then girlfriend's honour.

NOBILITY SCALE: 7ish.

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Incident the second: The Czech Inn, February 2010

In the midst of the Jameson Dublin International Film Festival, and the post shift drinking that it provides a showcase for perhaps even better than it does the films themselves, arose an uncomfortable air. A man with whom I and many others out that night were rather well acquainted seemed intent on burning even the smouldering embers of the bridges that once tied us all together in friendship. He had made his distaste known for us in a form even below that of a teenage girl, and thus far beneath the station of a man in the neck of his 30th year. None of us could fathom why his grudges had been fostered and festered, nor why he continued to come out to the pub solely to be near us and yet to ignore any attempt to engage him in polite conversation. It was clear he was trying to make it clear that he was sulking by obstinately refusing to acknowledge anyone other than his girlfriend and....*ahem* other female "friend".

For the purposes of this retread, I will provide aliases as appropriate/

"Hey, Mia, how are you? Deadly. Soon Yi? You good? And hey to you too, Woody."

Upon hearing his name, Woody switched from ignoring my presence to actively displaying his ignorance by turning to face the wall rather than acknowledge me. I wished him luck with that, met the embarrassed looks of the women and retreated to my table. Moments later he did the same to a female acquaintance of mine. That would not stand.

I waited for him to leave his seat, and head to the bathroom. I lay in wait outside.

"Hey, Woody. Listen, you can ignore and disrespect me all you want, but if you ever treat a friend of mine like that again I'll kick your teeth down your fucking throat."

That got his attention, and a response. Further fighting words were exchanged through gritted teeth approximating smiles as we made our way back to our respective tables. Maybe ten minutes later he made to leave. I offered a toothy smile and broad wave.

"Bye, Woody."

He didn't like that. Not. One. Bit. Head to head, ego to ego, we squared up.

"Let's step outside then, Deebs. Come on.."

"Nah, Woody. You've got your women to think of. You're not worth my time tonight."

Thing is, I could have taken Woody. Dude resembled a less in shape version of a veteran film director who was more than twice his age, and man, did I want to follow through on that one. Strangely enough, I was asked for a report the following day from one of my festival superiors who had it that I did just that. The rumour mill was founded on Chinese Whispers and they had mangled the night's events beyond recognition.

"Deebs threatened Woody."

"Deebs and Woody fought."

"Deebs hit Woody over the head with a chair and now Woody's in a coma."

"I hear Deebs and Woody fighting is this year's surprise film."

THREAT #2: Defending then friend's honour....partly.

NOBILITY SCALE: 6 maybe.

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Incident the third: Rick's Burgers, February 2010

So, my hackles were up. Where would one usually find their hackles? Low down, I suppose. Feet? Well, my hackles were up around my shins at the very least. Only one day had passed since the second threat on my resume, and I had a craving for meat. Thus, Rick's glorious burgers were in demand.

"Oooh Justin Timberlake."

Yes, I was wearing a hat. Of course I was wearing a hat. Not a hat I was a particular fan of, but a hat nonetheless. Nobody mocks my hats, nor compares me to any other person who may choose to wear hats. I sauntered down to the culprit, never blinking.

"You better watch yourself. Better watch what you say to me."

So, maybe getting called Justin Timberlake is not the most insulting comparison I can imagine. It was the principle of it, though....or whatever. Testosterone was coursing through my veins, OK?

THREAT #3: Defending my hat's honour.

NOBILITY SCALE: 1 (I didn't even like the hat)

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Incident the last: McEwan Hall, August 2013

I'd tamed the beast of my threatening behaviours, kept it locked down for three and a half years and left for a new country. It couldn't find me here, in Edinburgh, during Fringe, at Hot Dub Time Machine.

Ah Hot Dub Time Machine. They called it the "Best Party Ever". I knew we were onto a loser when I saw the queues of the several hundred people heavily populated by messes of folk throwing up in between gulps of their vodka heavy 2 litre bottles of Irn bru. Late night Fringe events are often those to be feared in my experience.

You may have noticed that my trigger for threats had grown more sensitive and less noble in intent over time. I defended a girlfriend, not one I stayed with for a whole lot longer. I defended a friend, who I wasn't so friendly with truly. I defended a....hat. A hat I did not like.

This time, it was far more important and personal. Let me walk you through it, dear reader.

A drunk dude, far bigger, and far sweatier than I, had been knocking up against a female amigo for some time when she finally snapped and pushed him away. Hey, these things happen at gigs.

He turned and made to swing for her. I jumped in between them.

"Woah, woah, woah. Dude, you do not hit a woman. Back away."

You may notice that this was not a threat. There was nothing to be gained from threatening this guy at this time. The night continued.

We danced a circle about a collection of bags at our feet. This had attracted the ire of our drunken ape man and his mate, still sore at the events from earlier. I eyed them suspiciously.

"Dude, walk through them and kick their shit about. Do it."

He turned and made to carry through on his cohort's words. I jumped in between them.

"I know you're angry. I get it. This won't help. You'd just piss off a bunch of people. Walk away."

Again, no threat. We're getting there. The female amigo from the original altercation caught my attention.

"They're staring a hole through your back, Deebs. I don't know what they're planning but watch out."

I heard them talk behind me of "fucking me up". I turned.

"It's not worth it. I'm not here to fight you man."

"Where are you from?"

"Dublin, man."

He smiled a partly toothless smile, shook my hand and shuffled off into the sunset. It was crystal that my origins were key. Had I said Glasgow I'd have been a stain on his shoe. We Irish are adorable. Sweet Child Of Mine filled the air. Suddenly I was hatless.

Oh, yeah. I was previously wearing a top hat to go with my shirt, tie and....er....shorts. Throw that in with the image of all that went before. Poor toothless, sweatmonger must have thought his conscience was being represented by a Victorian gentleman.

I scanned about my immediate horizon. A top hat disappeared quickly out of view amidst a nearby circle of revellers. I approached, got right up close with eyes locked and spoke in my same measured tone, with voice moderated to reflect my displeasure.

"If you touch my hat again, I will FUCKING END YOU!"

She was a girl of no more than 21 or 22 years. Her mouth remained agape as I backed away with eyes still locked in rage.

You never hit a woman. You never threaten a girl....unless she tries to steal your top hat.

THREAT #4: Defending top hat from criminal mastermind.

NOBILITY SCALE: 10 or I will fucking end you....ALL OF YOU.


Disclaimer: No women were harmed in the writing of this piece. A hat was slightly damaged.

Novel Approach

A surprising number of people have been spending an equally surprising number of years trying to get me to write a book. So, here are some tentative steps in that direction. I present to you the following excerpts from some literary irons I've got in the fire....of words. Yep, words can be  fire, forging stuff, junk, and whatnot....OK, maybe not in this instance. Still, try to enjoy.

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Story I: Clear

Blurred images faded into focus, softly at first, but then with a jarring intensity that shook him from his lethargy.

"Hel....hello? Can you....what's....come back!"

Drowsiness gave way to consciousness, as terror sprung from his confusion. Stretching out a tentative foot from his bed, Jim attempted to follow her out. He could not know of the weakness in his legs, as his balance would desert him immediately. The force with which his head struck the cold floor threw him once more into the darkness. This time, only for moments, although how long was anyone's guess. She was there again.

Watching.

"What is going on!? For fuck's sake would you answer me!? LOOK AT ME!"

She stumbled from the room, as he tried desperately, almost forlornly, to catch her eye. Jim clambered uncomfortably to his knees and crawled after her, his plaintive cries bouncing back at him through the echoes of the empty halls that greeted him. Vast nothingness. Desolate, yet maintained. Silent yet clearly not abandoned.

A hospital. Where, was everybody?

He crawled further, struggling, straining,  battling to his feet. He couldn't support his own weight easily and his legs were little help in that regard. He clutched awkwardly at, and lunged from every surface he could reach as he fought his way round the corner. There were people everywhere but who were they? They looked not like doctors, nor nurses. All were dishevelled, unkempt and shuffling awkwardly with heads lowered at uncomfortable angles. It was as if nobody was aware of the world around them. He muttered to himself, and moistened his lips to ask for some kind of assistance when....

Dragged backwards through an open doorway, his weak body offering little resistance as the hand tightly clasped his lips, only his eyes could scream. He relaxed into his fate. There was no energy to fight for his life. When had he last been at rest? Release.

"Are you mad!? You don't talk to them. Idiot!"

This man's words, shouted in a whisper were those of a man frightened.

"Why? The fuck is happening!?" What's wrong with them?"

"Coma?"

"What? What do you mean, "coma"? They're in comas?"

"Ha! No, you. You were in a coma, I think. Makes sense I suppose. Can you walk?"

The stairs. Memories from the vacuum. He could remember tripping. That damn football! Still, a coma? How did that explain this? Any of this?

"Wait....what the fuck is going on!?"

"Jesus. How long were you out? What day is it in your world, mate?"

"June, June, I think. 27th? Yeah, the 27th, I guess."

"Oh man, you have no clue. Should have known by how you were gonna fucking speak to them. Those freaks. They're barely people, not anymore. Why the fuck did you think there was nobody willing to look at you? Come on, man, you were invisible to them."

"What? Fucking zombies or some bullshit? Come on!"

"You're not a total horror cliche, you fuckwit. Zombies? Well....actually, I guess you could say so. You've been out for almost six months. Happy Christmas. Those....those THINGS out there? They're not like us, but they're not your Romero-type zombies. They won't hurt anyone. You though. You are the danger to them. Fuck, man! The shock of acknowledgement could have killed them."

"Could you please stop farting about and tell me what this is already!? Why is everyone out there shuffling around, staring at their feet? Why are they all so scared to look at anyone or talk? They haven't washed in....WHAT HAPPENED?"

"The church was first to fall. Religion could only hold up against so much. Then the government. Then it trickled down. Nobody was safe. Everyone living in their own bubbles now. Looking at someone else after that? No chance. Not for most." 

It had been five months since everybody's internet browser history had been made public.

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Future Reviews:

"Utterly devastating. You won't sleep for days." The Guardian

"Redefines fear for the modern age." The List

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Story II: Tickets to Paradise

So there I was, marooned in this shitty little life. My parents? Divorced. Friends? Non-existent. Love life? Made it to second base once....if we're counting the imaginary girl from two towns over I hooked up with last summer when I was in my room playing games. Academically, though? Academically, I was set. Still, with dad's wallet stretched to breaking to keep my future stepmom's legs doing the same, and with mom having to work two dead-end jobs just to keep our heads above water, I didn't like my chances of getting to college. Maybe a summer job could help. I could get some money put away in my savings account and maybe even get out of the house for a bit. My home-life was not so conducive to happiness, after all.

I got a job working box office at some theatre downtown. Mr Shortly, the owner, was known to run a breakdancing masterclass out the back. Didn't seem likely to be the toughest job. I'd sit on my ass all day, see some shows maybe and get one step closer to my dream bank balance for the year. Easy.

I had no idea how that summer would change everything.

"Hey, new kid."

"Er....hi."

"Ever, notice how whenever you try to say 'no bother' to a customer you somehow manage to pronounce it as 'no butter'? Weird that. Anyway, you can probably stop staring at her ass now."

"What? I....I wasn't. I didn't mean to...."

She was the most beautiful creature I had ever laid eyes on. She had this long blonde hair that just boggled the mind. How were people this pretty in real life? And the smile? That smile just....wait, where was I?

"It's OK, little buddy. Maybe she'll even give you a shot. Hell, she's slept with everyone here."

"Um....huh?"

"Cobo, man. That's Cobo."

"Why do you....call her Cobo?"

"Ha! Well, because anyone with a credit card can pick her up at this box office! Come to the party at my parents' beach house next weekend, She'll be there. It's like an annual event, It's the Batch Print Party, bro."

"The....Batch Pr...."

"An orgy of tickets....only we'll be the tickets, little man."
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Future Reviews:

"A sassy, spicy coming of age romp. Everyone has their defining summer in this feel good hit." The Sun
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Story III: Vamp

She shifted in her bed. The sheets fell free, yet she had not backed away. She was at ease. No fear.

"You know what I am. You've always known. The reasons I am as I am around you. Lingering in the shadows. You've always felt it. The looks, longing, fearful. You know why I am here. " his eyes implored her to speak.

"Since I first saw you. You're a vampire." came her reply, with her words never causing her gaze to break from his.

"Yes, but...."

"You don't need to say it, Thomas." she interjected softly, "I understand. I sensed it from the first moment. This attraction. It must be difficult for you. I'm 17 and you're....?"

"164, but Stephanie let me...."

She pressed her finger to his lips.

"It's okay. I want this. I don't care what it takes. I want us to be together."

"What? Fuck, Stephanie! Really? You picked up that I'm a vampire but....? Come on! I'm old enough to be your great grandfather's creepy elderly neighbour who never leaves his house in the daytime. And yet, I look like....this? Do you have any idea how much time and effort it takes to look this good, without a reflection? And you think I'd do that just to skulk around some teenage girl's bedroom? I'm gay, you cretin!"

"But....but....the looks. The....why are you here if not to declare your undead love for me?"

"Er....hey, quick joke. How do you kill a circus?"

"Huh? I...."

And with that, he lunged for her exposed neck and tore open her jugular, killing her almost before she knew.

"You go for the juggler. Kids today. 'Undead love'!? I was just hungry."
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Future reviews:

"When i saw this book, I felt that we finally had our 'Twilight'. That was, until I read it. The author is sick." ScotsGay magazine.

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Story IV: Cretaceous Land

"Welcome to Cretaceous Land. We spent a lot of money."

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Future reviews:

"Cease and desist." The Estate of Michael Crichton

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So these are the ideas I'm hoping to flesh out into best-selling, multiple award winning novels. I'm not sure on the film rights just yet though.