My Dad calls them Gurriers. My Sister calls them Knackbags. A friend likes to refer to them as Skobies. I'm sure even the Pope has a name for them. Anyway, whatever you want to call them, Northsiders are pretty dodgy human beings.
Last night I was in the dropzone for a screening of 'In Bruges's (which is an excellent movie by the way). On my way to the cinema, there was the usual compliment of skangers on Henry St, all dancing their little jigs and rattling cups of change in peoples faces. The smell of heroin hung in the air as limped yokels in buttoned up shirts urinated against passing shoppers. Old women, whistled to each other like weird unemployed birds and the soft lilt of 'Johno!! JOHNOO!!!' floated in and out of the early evening sky. I caught snatches of conversation as I briskly passed little groups of them as they sat around warming their hands on a can of Dutch Gold. "Celtic" "Christy Dignams a bleedin' ledge" "D'ya wanta buy a three legged dog?" "I fookin jabbed the screwdriver into both their mutton heads". All manner of topics, nothing off limits.
Anyway, I eventually arrived safely and watched the movie. I had met a mate who decided to cycle to the cinema. I remarked that he was mad to bring his bike over to this side of town, but he just winked in that 'I've got a plan that will end up with a skobie losing his front teeth' way so I left him to it. Sure enough, after we left the cinema, the bike was gone. No surprise as he didn't even lock it (seriously) but this was all part of the plan. The bike itself was a truly remarkable concoction. It was at least 30 years old. It was missing a number of vital components that you would normally expect of a bike. It had no brakes. The saddle looked like it had been knawed at by a tiger. The axel was broken and you had to stand up on one leg, and sit down on the other to ride it. The handlebars were completely separated from the rest of the bike and you had to lean on them in a certain way or they'd come off in your hands. It had one and a half peddles. The bell also didn't work. Yet, it was still stolen.
Last night I was in the dropzone for a screening of 'In Bruges's (which is an excellent movie by the way). On my way to the cinema, there was the usual compliment of skangers on Henry St, all dancing their little jigs and rattling cups of change in peoples faces. The smell of heroin hung in the air as limped yokels in buttoned up shirts urinated against passing shoppers. Old women, whistled to each other like weird unemployed birds and the soft lilt of 'Johno!! JOHNOO!!!' floated in and out of the early evening sky. I caught snatches of conversation as I briskly passed little groups of them as they sat around warming their hands on a can of Dutch Gold. "Celtic" "Christy Dignams a bleedin' ledge" "D'ya wanta buy a three legged dog?" "I fookin jabbed the screwdriver into both their mutton heads". All manner of topics, nothing off limits.
Anyway, I eventually arrived safely and watched the movie. I had met a mate who decided to cycle to the cinema. I remarked that he was mad to bring his bike over to this side of town, but he just winked in that 'I've got a plan that will end up with a skobie losing his front teeth' way so I left him to it. Sure enough, after we left the cinema, the bike was gone. No surprise as he didn't even lock it (seriously) but this was all part of the plan. The bike itself was a truly remarkable concoction. It was at least 30 years old. It was missing a number of vital components that you would normally expect of a bike. It had no brakes. The saddle looked like it had been knawed at by a tiger. The axel was broken and you had to stand up on one leg, and sit down on the other to ride it. The handlebars were completely separated from the rest of the bike and you had to lean on them in a certain way or they'd come off in your hands. It had one and a half peddles. The bell also didn't work. Yet, it was still stolen.
And it was then, that the evil and cunning of my friends plan was revealed. As we sat back and scoffed and chortled to the image of a hoodied skobatron lying on the M50 with his teeth scattered all over the road and one of his arms where his leg should be and a handlebar up his arse, he simply turned to me and said "one down, 2 or so million to go"...
We're gonna need a lot more bicycles
*You do GET the title, right?
