Broken Birdie Chirpin (3 page)

It
was a fiery Saturday in hell when I slipped into brother's room to pinch a few
bills from his money jar to finance pops with Becky. I’d been nicking him for
years. It was the least he could do for turning me into a paranoid gonk. He
kept the jar behind two piles of jock magazines on the top shelf of his closet.
I clumsily toppled over a stack as I stretched for it. To the devil's delight,
they weren't all about footballers winning the big tournament. Brother had an
enormous collection of dirty magazines. I’d seen it all before of course, but
these lecherous periodicals reaffirmed the worst in me: This is what it was all
about. There weren't any pictures of gents drinking fizzies with these
scrubbers.

I
smuggled brother's magazines across the hall inside my strides and spent
Saturday night pouring over each page. My dreams were like kaleidoscopes filled
with images of swirling blouse bunnies and panty hamsters. Church was no better
on Sunday as a battle for my soul raged in the pew. Becky was the angel sitting
atop my left shoulder. Penelope Paddock, the slag of the month in Naughty
Nympho's October edition, was the devil on my right.

Paddock
looked cracking. Platinum blonde hair. Sparkling blue eyes. Two mountain-sized
gumdrops for norks, and a smile that said "This fanny's all yours,
boss." I had to concentrate on Father Buckminster's sermon to keep from
getting a bloody stonker. Advantage to the antichrist.

The
magazines were returned to their secret location just before brother returned
from his jock retreat. I’d considered holding them for ransom or else setting
them on fire in the bathtub, but brother’s vengeful wrath would’ve been
extraordinary. No matter. My thoughts returned exclusively to Becky and our
upcoming event. The warm feelings that’d been percolating in my guts were being
driven down by anxiety. Regrettably, I knew this had nothing to do with Becky
and everything to do with me being a plonker, but I still wanted to sack it.

Monday
morning came too quickly. Sister Stubbles lectured on the Glorious Revolution
while I fought to suppress a violent coup d'état led by my social inadequacies.
Anxiety had transformed into anger. The anger made me irritable. There was no
acceptable release. No respite. The hands of the clock were spinning faster
than ever. Countless scenarios played out in my bonce as I thrutched about my
seat. Some were much worse than others.

 I
could’ve pissed around during afternoon mathematics to get Sister Muggins
narked. She'd fancy the chance to send me off to detention for a few hours. But
Headmaster Moobs was certain to find out, and he'd telephone mum and dad on
account of my notorious past. Dad would be cheesed off and brother would use it
as an excuse to hurt me.

Feigning
a seizure during late afternoon literature seemed slightly more desirable.
Nurse Wankshaft would have to follow the utmost precautions to ensure my
well-being. Sympathy would replace retribution because everyone loved a victim.
Unless of course everyone knew it was a scam.

Standing
Becky up seemed like a rather sensible approach. She wasn't nearly as dishy as
the tarts in brother's magazines, and it’d probably be decades before she could
even attempt some of Paddock's maneuvers. Plus, the other birds would be even
more desirous when word of my cruelty spread. Hundreds of similar impulses
snapped inside my bonce leaving me constantly on edge. Math passed without
incident, however. Literature too. My lower appendages felt completely numb as
the final school bell rang. Was I going to be a person for a change or continue
being a mysterious fanny fart?

It
was fight or flight as a nearly imperceptible signal shot from brain to limbs.
My legs began shuffling ever so deliberately. The faces and scenery in the hall
floated by as if they were static. The enormous double-doors seemed to swing
open on their own, beckoning me to Hades. I suddenly perceived the crossroads
before me in the schoolyard. One path led homeward. The other to Becky. A
defining moment stood before me and I didn't break stride. A decision had been
made, but I felt disconnected and miles away. My pace quickened. My chest
pounded. My palms sweated. The time for reflection had passed. The dice had
been rolled.

Becky's
smile was as wide as the chink in my armor.

"I
wasn't convinced you'd show up.” She planted a peck on my cheek. “But I'm glad
you did."

"Right.
Of course. Off to Plimmswood's Pops then?" I might’ve stammered on account
of being fully committed to my own undoing.

"Or
we could just snog for an hour or two."

"What?"
I returned to the Milky Way with a thud.

"Snogging.
You haven't forgotten how already have you, slapper?"

"What
about all that bleeding codswallop about your reputation?" I felt deceived
and relieved all at once. "Buggering hell." The angst that’d been
simmering over the previous two days finally surfaced.

"Don't
get shirty. I don't really care much about what others think of me. I just
needed to know that you'd go through with it."

"Sister
Duff tests me. Brother tests me. Dad tests me. You're beastly."

"Belt
up. I'm trying to let you off the hook. If you'd rather we go to Plimmswood's
and chit-chat for an entire hour, then off we go." I was gobsmacked. It
wasn't just what she said, but the way she said it. Becky understood.

Suddenly,
I visualized Penelope Paddock, tart of my dreams, as a school girl. She looked
very much like Becky, but she had braces and pimples. Her platinum blonde hair
was brown and shabby. She was flat as a board. Her crooked smile said
"we've all got to start somewhere, arsehole." Little Paddock snorted
once or twice, and poof…she was gone. Her weight had been lifted.

"Snog.
Plimmswood's. Whatever. It's up to you, gorgeous.” Twas a brief moment of
clarity.

Skeffington
was a jock. He wasn't an oafish jock like brother, but more of a Grecian sort.
I knew him only by reputation: Slags adored Skeffington, and Skeffington adored
slags.

I
was burning through the outro of a reggae number entitled "Penny Please
Budge Up" when I noticed Skeffington toe-tapping at the back of the crowd.
He was surrounded by a handful of posh scrubbers the likes of which I had never
seen at one of my shows. These bints were there for Skeffington, but why was
Skeffington there? It all seemed very odd because I'd rather do porridge than
go to a football match.

A
few days later Skeffington and his mates burst into the locker room. I was
kicking off my pumps following an awful gym class badminton performance versus
Pete Ramsden. Coach Shitehawk accused me of being scared of the shuttlecock and
sent me to the showers mid-match. The obligatory "why can't you be more
like your brother?" blasted forth as I exited the gymnasium.

Skeffington
and the other toe heads didn't notice me at first. They were arse over tit chin
wagging about one big game or another. But there was blood in the water, and
one of Skeffington's mates needed to flex his John Thomas. "Hey, wanker,
why aren't you playing badminton with all of the other wankers?"

"I'm
scared of the shuttlecock. Haven't you heard?"

"Oh,
you're a cheeky wanker." He took a step towards me, presumably to escalate
our little one-sided row.

 "He's
alright, Lamport, let him be." Skeffington chimed in.

"Skeff,
let's just dunk his head in the bog and be done with it."

"No.
No. Come on." Skeffington grabbed Lamport's arm and pulled him away.
"We've got to get on the field before the bell." They walked off
without further fanfare, and their conversation returned immediately to
football. I’d been spared considerable humiliation. My bonce swam. Why had
Skeffington come to my aid? He hadn’t been within ten meters of me in the past
two years and suddenly he was pissing around at my shows and preventing me from
getting snookered.

Becky
was supposed to meet me behind the gymnasium that afternoon for small talk and
snogging. Disappointment struck, however, when her mate, Rita Brown, informed
me that she’d been beastly during geography and had to do porridge with Sister
Gobshite instead. Becky must've been really brassed off to act up and blow our
session. Rita wouldn’t have been a horrible substitute but for her enormous
konk.

My
glorious afternoon had fallen into chaos. It was too early to go home and
subject myself to brother. I decided to window gaze over at Tremaine’s Guitar
Shop on Highgate Street. Their wares were a bit too posh for my empty trouser
pockets, but I could easily murder an hour or two foaming over some cracking
electric guitars and amplifiers.

I
hadn’t even reached the end of the schoolyard when a somewhat familiar voice
rang out. "Wait up, mate...” Bloody hell. I was being stalked by the
golden boy of St. Thomas’ School for Blighters.

Skeffington
stood before me in full football regalia. He appeared nervous, which only added
to my own anxiety and confusion. “You got a minute to talk, mate? It’s sort of
personal, and I don’t want this getting around just yet.”

“Right.
Sure.” What in the bloody hell was Skeffington doing confiding in me about
anything? This felt horribly awkward.

“So,
I’ve got your word then? You won’t say anything to anyone, not even your
brother?” He had no worries there. I wouldn’t initiate conversation with
brother if brother’s loaf caught on fire.

“No
worries.” I was about to find out what all this dodgy shite had been about.

“Listen,
I like football just fine. I toe tap the black and white into the net and the
birds go arse over elbow. Right fit ones too. Dad gets to chin wag about this
match or that at the pub. The Headmaster thinks I’m the dog’s bullocks. I’ve
got a ton of mates. But football is just a hobby really. I don’t love it. You
follow?”

“Right.”
I was beginning to connect a dot or two. But it still sounded mostly like
codswallop.

“I
heard about you and your shows. I asked around a bit. My mates thought you were
a poof, but some of the birds thought you were alright. So I swung by one of
your shows the other day. I thought you were really good, mate.” It was good to
know that my music transcended the ranks of barely-pubescent slags who
frequented my performances.

Skeffington
paused for a moment. He looked even more nervous than before as he inched
towards the big reveal. “I’ve got a bit of the rock n’ roller in me too, mate.”
I could tell from Skeffington’s expression that this wasn’t easy for him to say
aloud. It was like he’d let down the side or something. The puzzle continued to
come together, but it wasn’t complete. I tried to figure out something topical
to say. I hadn’t any idea really.

“Blimey.
There’s plenty of room for rock n’ rollers.” It was gibberish but it seemed to
put Skeffington at ease. He told me about the dozens of songs he’d composed
over the past year. He didn’t play any instruments, so all the melodies were in
his bonce. He scribbled his lyrics in a notebook that he hid under his athletic
supporters, and sang them aloud in the loo. Skeffington never told anyone about
his passion. He was Skeffington the jock after all. I didn’t say much, but
listened closely. I recognized the rock n’ roller in him. He’d been suffering
for his art after all. I also began to anticipate a certain question. This was
all getting terribly serious, and one thought kept crashing through me like
bubble and squeak: Being Skeffington’s mate would have its perks.

“Can
you help me finish my songs, mate?” There it was.

Becky
laughed so hard she nearly snorted. “All of his songs are probably about
trainers and carbohydrates.”

Skeffington’s
songs were likely rubbish. It’d be bloody disastrous if I tossed on trainers
and pranced around the football field like Ribs McGibbs after all. But I wasn’t
in this for the sake of art. It was about the bristols. “Horses for courses.
Besides Skeffington’s alright for a high flyer.”

“Well,
it’s awfully nice of you to help him out, slapper. But you’re still a nutter.”
Becky and I snogged for a bit. I’d completely lost myself in her gob as always.
She remained preoccupied, however, and as perceptive as ever. “I suppose
Skeffington is going to have off with some of our afternoons then?”

“Don’t
get your jim-jams in a bunch. There’ll be plenty of time for snogging. Besides,
you’re the jacksie that spends your afternoons with Sister Gobshite.” It
crossed my mind that I’d embarked on a potentially perilous course even though
I was happiest with Becky. The grass was always greener on Skeffington Avenue.

Dad
was under the family jam-jar when I arrived home. He fancied himself an amateur
mechanic, but wasn’t good for anything more than a budge job. I’d be stuck
fetching him spanners and drain pans until supper if he spotted me creeping
across the garden. It also took hours under the tap to get tidy after sorting
out the old banger. I shuffled cautiously up the walkway. The door was nearly
within reach and dad was focused. I’d become a right skiver because of my lot,
but alas the fates were cruel. The front door swung open violently. Brother
stood before me with a wide grin on his arse-face. Cicero was in the living
room laughing like a plank.

“Dad,
I was just about to see if you needed any help but it looks like baby brother
beat me to it.” Brother looked at Cicero and cracked up. “Toodle pip, poofter,”
brother whispered to my face before slamming the door. Dad’s grease-covered
face peaked out from the belly of the banger and the next two hours of my life
were lost.

It
became nearly impossible to sit across from brother at supper. I wanted to
reach across the table with my black hands and rip his face off. It wasn’t just
his cruelty that cheesed me off. Brother found it necessary to sell me out for
Cicero’s benefit even though Cicero couldn’t find his way out of a five-sided
box. Brother was an enormous fanny fart. He was thoroughly disappointing. I
angrily stuffed fairy cakes down my throat as thoughts of revenge swam through
my bonce. To add insult to injury, it was my night to clear the table. Dad and
brother slipped into the lounge to catch “Captain Godolphin’s Comedy Hour” on
the telly. Their idiotic laughter filled the house for the next hour. Mum
stayed behind to wash the dishes. We worked in silence for a moment or two, but
Mum sensed my sorrow.

“Everything
alright, me duckie?” Her question alone made me feel better. “You can tell me
if something is troubling you. You know that, right?” I sort of knew, but it
didn’t matter.

“Never
better.” Mum knew otherwise as she threw a purposeful glance at my hands.

“I
know what’ll make you crease up.” Blimey! Mum was such a clever bird. She
uncorked the latest yarn about her Aunt Evie McQuillen. Aunt Evie was a geezer
and barmy to boot. Her days were spent seducing the randy dandies in “The
Littleborough Home for Duffers.” She was customarily fit as a fiddle for an old
heel, but five Sundays before she limped into the infirmary and snaffled a
walker. She hobbled around all day like a wounded dinosaur. Perhaps she flopped
in the lavy or rolled off her kip. Maybe she’d already telephoned her solicitor
to report this alleged incident. White coats from all corners of the home were
sweating over the possibilities until Monday morning when Aunt Evie strutted
back into the infirmary, dropped off the walker, and strutted right back out.
She appeared right as rain.

The
white coats were once again baffled, however, because her routine remained
precisely the same for each Sunday that followed. They poured over her charts,
but nothing seemed amiss. They poked around, but nobody was snitching. What
were they missing amidst all this chaos? One of the staffers, who’d been mostly
knowledgeable about all things Aunt Evie, finally solved it as he sorted out
the weekly social calendar. It was precisely five Saturdays before that “The
Littleborough Home for Duffers” kicked off its “Dinner with Her Majesty's Armed
Forces” program. Turns out they sacked it immediately on account of the lechery
it inspired.

Mum
and I had a chuckle despite my best efforts, and my thoughts returned to more
pleasant pursuits. I was going to knock off a song or two with Skeffington the
following day. He’d be mesmerized and outmatched. But I felt determined to drag
Skeffington’s tortured soul across the goal line like a rock n’ roll version of
Coach Shitehawk.