Tuesday, 11 September 2012


“Did yous hear a bou Benji Franco? He’s got a burd now!”

Pure fucken Cheshire cat grin on his face as he recounts this. We are in Sickie’s place, a dark dank mancave with Guns N Roses posters on the wall, a Playstation 2 hooked up with a game and multi tap, and that dead smoky smell that permeates every item of clothing. It was a typical Omega male bedroom. It was when we all had long hair. It was when my self loathing was at its peak. I was sixteen.

“Is she fine?” I reply.

“Nah mate, she’s a bit of a fucken moonpig like, fucken more hairs on the chin than I do.  Tranny fuckeney shit yeyo. In fact, ahd say she looks like fucking that cunt off the telly with the big moustache. What's es face?”

“Marty Whelan?”

“Fucken cunt!”

He slams his fist down on the table. 

“Let’s get a bit of the game in Franco! Just you and me kiddd…”

“He’s not coming no?”

"No. He's got ple-annnnnnnnnssss!"

He was supposed to come over that day and join us. Later on, we were going to go to the cinema and go to the old lad shop where the guy sells cigarettes, no questions asked en all, and we called round to his house, get the drink on. Wouldn’t come out. Said he was busy. 

“This is bullshit. He’s never busy. All he does is sit around and watch Family Guy and smoke hash. He never studies. He’s as fat and as constipated as a hedgehog, so what the fuck is e upta?”

We were about to learn, at that very moment, a pivotal lesson in life. The mere whiff of pussy will destroy and obliterate the strongest links of men; leading a desperate, horny, twatty turd into the clutches of a post op tranny, ruining him, like leading a mouse to cheese, it was THAT easy, culminating in the fall and decline of a cherished friendship.  We nicknamed her “Fatchops”

Time went on. Our dear friend Benji was in the clutches of a vociferous shebeast. There was nothing we could do.

Maybe Thursday?

Mate’s party.

Fuck yourself gay.


Hanging out became more and more sporadic as time elapsed. We got a surrogate friend to replace Benji, but after a while, the sagacious bastard realised that Sicko, myself were socially poisonous. So he stopped. I don’t blame him. 

Another month passed. Sicko and I were making a pass round the area, when lo and behold, Benji has his arms wrapped around the female Grendel.  

“Mate what the fuck? You said you and your parents were headen back West!”

He looks dully at us. 

“Yeah, well, Amanda here said she wanted me to help her with her party, so I’m heading there now like”

“Jesus!” I exploded. “For fucks sake, we’re your mates, and you don’t even go near us anymore. You’re just wrapped up with this fat idiot loser!”

“Yer a sad case Franco, always thought so. You’re just jealous because I’ve a fucking girlfriend and you’re stuck with a pillow. You and Sicko, nuthin bu a buncha bitter virgins.” 

He was probably right. 

“For fucks sake, it’s nothing to do with dat! We’re mates, you’re happy, that’s cool in all fairness like. But mate, this girl badmouths you all the fucking time. She’s always talking shit about you tae her harpy friends, ah mean, all that fucken small knob Benji stuff that’s in the school, and how you’ve begged her for the meet…and the bebo pictures of her at dat wedding…aint that the story Sickie..”

I’ve never seen a face more tomato like. Squashy, like somebody had sat on it and farted. Fatchops looked on rather bemused. I had hit a nerve. He turned his head to her, no expression. He then turned to me, took a deep breath, and swung. Like a drug addled tinker’s son, I sought shelter in the grass. CRACKKKKK.  Poor wee Francis is a tallish, ectomorph-e gangly fucker who has looked like a stick with legs, for nigh on his whole existence, not exactly built to fight like, while Benji is a big fat bastard, the kind of guy who would play prop for Leinster rugby club if he ever got off his backside and stopped smoking hash. There was no chance in hell. I caved in, and hit the pavement, blood pumping from the smeller, struggling to breathe. When I got back up, helped up by Sickie, Benji and Fatchops are heading off, his back to me. I watch her plant a kiss on his cheek, as they melt into the cloudy humid Irish summer.

“C’mon Franco. Take you home, kid….”

“Right so.”

Three weeks later, they broke up.

Fast forward to the present year. It’s one of them family barbecue things. The grass has just been cut, the fresh smell lingering in everyone’s nostrils after an abysmal summer weather-wise, the corn has finally been harvested, the crop has been saved, and everyone is convivial, passing beers around, eating burgers and listening to shite talk. Me Dad’s mate has turned up from up the country, and he’s telling stories about how he and my old man spent a big portion of their childhood sneaking intae gardens and stealing apples from orchards. I smile, and I look on. More than two score years roysh, and they’re still taking the mickey out of each other. Fucken hell. I actually saw my mate recently btw. He’s completely obese now, working in Mac-e-ds and now engaged to this moonpig called Samsa. Not that I’m particularly bitter or anything. Benji taught me two important lessons in life, and for that I am eternally grateful. First, he realised that myself, Sicko and the rest of us were poison, were pieces of shite on a boot, were losers, and loserdom, of course, breeds loserdom. Granted, he went from being a grade F loser to a grade D one, but even so, beggars cannae be chooses. The second thing he thought me is this:

Women come and women go, but mates that last well into the decades are the most invaluable thing you have, and no matter how intoxicating her pussy, no matter how hot she is, you should never, ever trade in clunge for mates. She is the extra sparkle of the sun, the iridescence of the pretty rainbow. If you cannot appreciate these things by themselves, then a lot of dat soul searching shite needs to be done.Look hard, look well, look closer.

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