For those of you who have faithfully followed this blog I
apologise as the story seems to be coming out in flashback form either that or
my Tourette’s is coming back. However,
there’s no great problem. We are now at
my point in my training to become the greatest Master Candle Maker, ever and
the King of Ireland, where I have been expelled from Violent Hell, lived with
some priests, become proficient in hand to hand combat from the streets of
Belfast to the handball courts at Violent Hell and still have the loveliest
legs in Ireland.
My parents were distraught.
I was the worst thing that had ever happened to their families. I was shame personified. Had they known that the uncle priest would
eventually be known as the biggest paedophile in Ireland they would probably
have said that at least he was never expelled from Violent Hell and he was also
the best in his field. There was a huge
age different between myself at my parents, they were mid-fifties when they got
me so by the time I was entering my teens they were mid-sixties and way out of
their depth when it came to youth culture.
They ended up buying a house in Warrenpoint and having hardly
ever spent time with me, as I was either locked up at Violent Hell or dancing
away in Irish at the Gaeltacht the experience of having a hormonally challenged
teenager rampaging through their house was quite an effort for all of us. My maternal grandmother was elderly and frail
and came to live with us, however this meant that the uncle priest would come
and celebrate mass in our front room which I would have to attend.
Normally I would have left the house to go to mass but would
never make it that far. I would be at
the dock wall watching boats and ships and later in pubs and clubs. But there was one problem, as they would
say, the white elephant in the room. The
uncles put pressure on Violent Hell and it was agreed that I could return,
however as we now lived only ten miles away I would only be allowed back as a
day pupil and only on the condition that I attended a certain number of
sessions with a child physiologist.
The school was probably hoping that I would be categorised as
deranged and let them off the hook and my parents probably hoped that there
would be medication to correct my behaviour.
I on the other hand didn’t really care what they thought.
I wasn’t aware but for my final meeting with the psychologist
they were all there. I walked in to the
consulting room to see the school president, the dean, the pervert uncle, mum,
dad and the psychologist. The head
shrink then detailed his findings and announced that I was quite normal and
sane and that if I should ever feel tension I should go into the garage find a
plank of wood and hammer some nails into it.
They all stormed off as none of them got the result they
wanted and I was allowed to walk home as they each thought the other would take
me in their car. But the one thing that
I was certain off was that there would not be enough nails in the world.
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