CC 77: That Tin

My head was getting around the arcane nature of Francis and his home by the time Emer and Paidi arrived, carrying with them more untouched bottles from the book launch, and a tin of biscuits. 

‘Got some vino, and bourbon creams, if you fancy that,’ said Paidi.

‘I fancy that,’ said Serena. 

The biscuit tin was just like the one Emer and I kept the bills in at home – a silver steel tub with a picture of an opulent palace on the top and ‘Biscuits’ written in a classic style.

Gas and electricity, bank statements, assorted documents of domesticity. 

That tin used to be a source of worry for me, but now I thought I wouldn’t mind having that worry again – whatever hardships had come about as a result of the old mail inside, we’d cleaned them up together, so we were linked forever in the letters, even though the printed content mattered little anymore.  They saw better days, though at the time of receiving them, yes, they were a definite pain in the arse for the both of us.   

That tin sat now at home on top of the fridge next to John Carroll’s shoebox.  Histories and futures locked away from the present, getting more and more lost in the dust. 

‘Just bourbon creams in there?’ asked Geary.

Emer had a look. 

‘No, there’s some custard creams, and jammy dodgers too.’

‘Digestives?’ 

‘No.’

‘Well, fuck it anyway.’

‘Would you like one?’ Emer asked, offering me the tin. 

I wondered if she made the same connection with the tin here and the tin with the bills in it back home.  Probably not.

‘No, I’m fine, Emer, cheers.’ 

Everyone began to settle in the living room with their biscuits and their beers.  I sunk into the sofa and flicked through the Yeats book, a cool indifference about me, I hoped, but maybe not, as Francis swooped onto the armrest to my left, nodding along to Marvin Gaye’s Sexual Healing.  Two enormous Wharfedale speakers grew out of the floor in the corner of the room, and whirring away between them, plush and expensive-looking Hi-Fi separates piled up on a strong oak table, ably providing our sonic apperitifs.  Over Francis’s shoulder, there was a cabinet filled with CD’s and some vinyl lined up along the bottom shelf.  A quick scan of the goods on offer took in the names Jimi Hendrix, Yes, Bert Jansch, Black Sabbath, Deicide (loved having a nosey at someone’s collection).    

‘Francie, put that pig song on,’ Paidi shouted. 

‘Certainly, my man,’ and Francis went to the shelves to please his guest.   

After some shuffling about, and the crackling and clicking of the system changing, a song began to play. 

‘Yes,’ cheered Paidi.  ‘Good man, Francie.’

‘What’s this?’ asked Serena.

‘Pig just Sleep and Eat.  The Blameless Bulls.  Mad song.’

Oh little pig   – Paidi sang along.

Why do you just

Sleep and eat

I want to sleep and eat

Like you

Just like you do

The words were childlike – absurd – but the music was startlingly original; big stone age drums, and screeching guitars, and a voice that was familiar.  A sound rose up from the past and swept through me like wildfire, cooing and wooing over the pounding phonics, as it wailed on about farmyard torpor. 

 I asked Francis to show me the CD case and after some more rummaging around, he handed it to me.

The Blameless Bulls.  The album was called Raid in the Lashing Rain.  There was a bull in a field looking up at a dull sky on the cover and on the back, the same field, but the bull was gone and it was raining heavily.  There was a track-listing, but underneath, a list of the band members, which my eyes immediately broke for.

Drums:  Thaddeus Horsebox Gordon

Bass/Banjo:  Proinsias Malamute

Flute: Anthony ‘Phool’ O’Toole

Guitar:  Dander Flanagan

Keyboards: Harry McJackson

Vocals: Coral Express.