Look at the cracks in our family crest the dent in the shield, and the smirk on the lion’s face. I was fifteen when we played cricket at the resevoir, my younger brother hit the ball into oncoming traffic, and I think that story made his name shine a little – we were the kids your parents warned you about, swinging goat skulls and skateboards in the street. Our ancestors would have been proud had they stuck around long enough to help us scream hello into the sun.
My father’s past was always bound to stories of his father joining the IRA, or shanking people in Acton, or his violence violence violent friends. Ball to bat to traffic, an excuse to show that he could bash a guy’s brains in as part of a botched robbery if our demons needed him to. Could you unearth your darkest fears and swing them in the town centre if your family needed you to? Can you fight fire with fire for approval?
Our shadows were drawn in the back of a notepad inked in the tones of house fires.
I ran into traffic singing homecoming songs as I lost 1989 forever.
– Aaron Kent
A needle in the vein of nostalgia.
Don’t get stuck – my advice to you.
There be head-fucks.
Did I mention my grandfather was fishmonger to the Kray twins?
Our crest boasted three scimitars which is fine if you are a violent family. It fell on the cat more than once after a wall got punched. Those lazy summer evenings when we played hangman in the garden. That crunchy nose-nutting in year 10 from ‘Bloodbath’ Dawson. Just kids’ stuff really. Not organised yet not exactly, as per Bacon, what I’d call ‘wild justice’. A simple 16-year-old who needed to swing the swede as I was walking past. No rancour flaming in the gut for decades.
A proposito, fighting fire with fire has always left me tepid. It’s just, like, more fire, no? At what point do you declare a winner from the inferno? How can you tell whose flames are biggest? How do you separate the ashes out?
Asbestos. That’s where it’s at. Deadly as approval.
(The web page I am currently streaming cricket from offers a link to ‘7 mistakes people make while choosing a basketball’. Surely this should be ‘when’.)
My family has needed nothing from me in years. As for the deracination, the hauling to the surface of the rucksack of ruin, the pendulous parade of horrors, the HD quality of the darkness, the gawping remonstration from the few, the couldn’t give a monkey’s cunt from the many; daily out-in-the-open rituals where I come from, each and every one. You should visit.
I see the way through this and though I’m no expert I’d hazard it’s less Joe Pesci with a baseball bat and more trying to get the last grain of sugar out the packet with a fingernail because not many people have ever managed that. We’re different, as you’ll see. There now. Adieu, adieu, remember me.
– Daniel Roy Connelly