WordSmith: On target for a long-warm summer
It’s Wednesday afternoon and the sun is shining; yet I’m stuck inside watching a lad play a computer game wherein he controls an action figure running around a city estate, shooting people and things.
I wander back to the time I was shot, like really – SHOT! Let me tell you of my shooting incident. But before that, a little context. It was the summer of 1976 and the council estate on which we lived was on fire, literally. We sweated under a relentless sun with temperatures soaring, daily.
It was a novelty at first; when school broke for the holidays we basked under blue skies and laughed at people spending money to fly to Spanish beaches when we had Blackpool on our doorstep.
My friends and I hung around sweltering streets indulging in the latest toy-crazes, like ‘Clackers’. These were two acrylic balls on either end of a piece of string with a holder in the middle. The aim was to create a rhythm wherein they banged off each other, eventually building momentum until they hit off each other above and below your hand, making a clacking sound that gave them their name. I became an expert clacker.
However, as searing heat soared on, we began to tire and get tetchy. When the water-ban was imposed tempers rose higher than the temperatures. Sadly, the clacker became a weapon as fights broke out with kids using them as sling-shots against heat-addled adversaries.
I withdrew indoors from the mounting tensions; and besides, being a pasty Irish kid I suffered under that sun. No matter how much I covered up, its rays would find an exposed piece of flesh and fry it in minutes. I took to the cool of our flat, which was forever autumn thanks to our fashionably-fitted carpet: Autumn Leaves.
That’s when I became aware of another craze, a more grown up one – guns! And while I’d abandoned my clackers, my brother embraced the gun-craze. Pellet-guns were a must-have for the street-wise teenage lad. ‘Plinking’ was the thing. This involved informal target shooting, usually tin cans; and that summer the sound of competitive plinking could be heard all over the estate. And while I was a retired clacker, my brother was an active plinker.
The bro had a part-time job, so he was always in the money. One evening he arrived home with his latest purchase. He showed it to me with pride, but alas I had little enthusiasm and couldn’t even feign interest in his new hot-shot-shooter. I settled in to watch Saturday evening TV when the bro asked, “Our kid, do you want to earn a quid?”
I looked round to see him brandishing his gun. “What for?” I replied. He smiled, “Let me shoot you in the a**e, and I’ll give you a quid!” Now, a pound was a lot of money, it would buy me a fair few Marvel-Comics; so I didn’t immediately dismiss the idea, “Will it hurt?” I asked, naively. “Naaahh,” said the bro, confidently.
I didn’t think to ask why he wanted to progress from plinking tin cans to sinking a lead pellet in his kid brother’s backside; for the lure of that pound was strong, and besides, the bro said it wouldn’t hurt. Thus, I agreed to allow my buttock be human target-practice for the bro.
Our flat had a long hallway from the front door into the living room. And so, under instruction, I walked to the door. I stopped, bent forward and stuck my derriere in the air. I didn’t have time to brace as the lead bullet blasted the middle of my right buttock, hurling me ceiling bound with a screech that alerted the neighbours.
I writhed on the floor clutching my backside as my brother doubled up with laughter. His mirth enraged me and I got to my feet, “You said it wouldn’t hurt, I’m telling Mam you shot me!” That wiped the smile off his face, “No, our kid, please say nowt – I’ll give you two quid!” The pain ebbed into a low-level sting and I bartered, “Make it three and I’ll say nothing.”
I took a bullet in the a**e for three quid – I was a cheap shot!
Now, back to today in Cavan, apparently we’re on target for a warmer than average summer; the bro arrives home soon – I’m looking forward to us shooting the breeze.