The Life of the Drum Stig : A Short Story : It's A Rock(y) Road

My story begins in the summer of ’65.  On a balmy July night, after a rather underwhelming spice burger and chip meal on the banks of the Dodder river, in the soft red glow of a half finished Woodbine, my Father (in his words) made sweet sweet mincemeat of my Mother in the back of a Hillman Hunter.  The story of this night has been passed down through our family from my mother to her eldest boy to his second girlfriend to her second son........my Father.
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The car is long since gone to the great lay-by in the sky but the rear seat remains a family heirloom and is the centre piece of my living room today, maintained with loving care and custom-laminated to preserve the claw marks left in the heat of passion by my mother.  On moonlit nights you can still see the shimmer of her nail polish against the red vinyl.....
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I was born ten and a half months later, after a long and bitter battle with the midwife - a large hairy woman from the West of Ireland.  I was determined to remain in the womb to avoid the unseemly gloating which followed England’s World Cup victory, but the midwife had arms which had been developed from push starting tractors and a grip which must have come from milking bullocks.  I didn’t stand a chance – not with my crook knee.....
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The next eighteen years were spent in intensive training.  Every day I honed my body for combat – determined never to be bested by another woman.  I spent many summer days walking the two hundred mile road to Dublin zoo where I was paid to wrestle female gorillas for two shillings and sixpence and a hundred weight of Fyffes best bananas.....
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Finally, at age nineteen, to the delight of my parents and the relief of my teachers, I graduated from primary school with full honours and a June 1978 issue of H&E which I stole from Paddy Carthy’s desk.  I was ready to take my place in the world.....
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It was the summer of 1985 and everyone was buzzing with the excitement of something called Live Aid.  In my small country village it was difficult to get up to date reports of events that were happening millions of miles away in the outside world.  The woman in the post office had heard rumours of war that year, but the town seargent assured us the Germans would never get across the lower field which he had rigged with trip wires and empty soup cans.....
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In the local picture house a new film was opening.  I didn’t realise it at the time but this would be the turning point in my life, my ascent to manhood, my second birth.  It was unexpected, happening without fanfare or ceremony, with no sign or warning.  We arrived at the entrance to the cinema and in a soft loving voice my mother turned to me and said, “Okay Seamus, you’re old enough to go in on your own now…………”.....
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I was stunned.....
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And so, in 1985, I discovered ROCK!.....
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After eight months of searching and hundreds of late night, dark room, poteen fuelled discussions, the hunt for the Y was called off.  ROCK was an epiphany.  The story of a small time boxer, an underdog who got his chance and took it – overcoming his dirt poor upbringing and an horrendous speech impediment, the champion beneath would find his way to glory.  My life was changed forever.  I realised that low IQ and deficiencies in elocution would no longer be barriers on my path to greatness.  I left the cinema a changed man, and for the next two months I roamed the streets of our small town crying “Adrienne” at the top of my voice.....
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So it was that at almost twenty years of age my voice broke and I was asked to retire as an altar boy.  The parish priest wept softly as I said goodbye, but already, even before I had reached the gates of his house on the long gravel path I could feel myself straighten and within days I was walking normally again.....
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ROCK had changed my life and over the next two decades my education would continue with ROCK II, ROCK III, ROCK IV, RETURN OF THE ROCK, THE EMPIRE STRIKES ROCK, PREDATOR vs ROCK, HARRY POTTER AND THE PHILOSOPHER’S ROCK and AVATAR.  ....
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The most important of these lessons however was the story of ROCK when he returned from the army.  He was in some jungle in some country somewhere fighting some little yella fellas in some war probably for some oil, when upon his return to some small American town in some State probably in America somewhere he fell out with the sheriff and had to go commando.  The film was RAMBO, or as I like to call it ROCK FOREVER.
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My life flashed before my eyes – big hairy woman; screaming; blood; punching big hairy woman; more blood; open road; big hairy gorillas; bananas; big hairy teacher; mother; more punching; mass; robes; more screaming; more blood; popcorn; “FOCUS!!!”; sticky palms; ROCK……....
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The road ahead was clear.  The only thing that mattered wasn’t pronunciation, physical exertion, maternal affection, zoological confrontation, religious insertion, cinematic devotion, or automotive conception.  It was ROCK.  The purpose of my life was to become ROCK.  ....
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Then one day I heard that some eccentric English singer, with poor elocution – probably the result of some horrible incident involving a mammal of the Eptescus Fuscus variety, was looking for a pupil.  A disciple to follow in his footsteps, to learn from the Sensei of Rock, to become the Lord of Rock.....
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So I said, “sure I’ll give it a go……..”....
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This is my story....I hope the Beginning

not The End.....

Standing at the crossroads with Lance

They (no idea who "they" are) say, 'the truth will set you free'.

Thinking about Lance and his interview with Oprah (I won't call it a confession because it wasn't) and what the value of it might be.  For him, for Oprah, for cycling, for sport in general, for those who were robbed of glory and reward, for those who suffered the ridicule and derision of a public mesmerized by the messiah.

There will be a certain amount of justice from it and although I do not want any leniency towards him for what he has done, some good will come from it.

The thing is, I too have stood at the crossroads where Lance stood, with the choice to go over to the dark side or to stay on the right path.  So I am hoping that by following the example of the Dark Lord, there might be some redemption for me and a chance to move on with the rest of my life with the weight of the world off my shoulders.

While I did not reach the heights that Lance did, or achieve the fame or reap the rewards; I did not win the Tour de France or even ride in it; I was never invited to the White House with President's Bush, Clinton or Obama; I never nearly married a rock chick icon or inspired a generation of kids to take up sport.  But I did compete in the same amazing sport; won some titles at national level; represented my country; had some great results against excellent competition; and loved every minute of it.  I pushed myself to be as good as I could be.

But there is something that stops me from walking as tall as I should.  And now, even at this point, I am hoping that telling the truth is the right thing to do.  I never considered taking this course of action before, but Lance has shown me that life may be better for doing the right thing.

So I am making this confession to my parents who did so much for me, my sisters who were never aware of what I was doing, my children who look up to me, and may be disappointed for a while but hopefully will see the honour in the course of action I am now taking and all those who were deceived for so long.  I make this confession knowing that there may be no forgiveness, no redemption, no absolution.  There may in fact be anger, acrimony, outrage and disappointment, but it is the right thing to do and hopefully the truth may set me free.

I don't have a tv network with a celebrity friend to broadcast my confession to the world so I will do it here, on facebook .... the people's channel.

I have, in the past, used performance enhancing drumsticks.

After The Storm

It's hurricane season. 
It's a strange phenomenon.  The wind, resting gently on the sea for months, awakens from its sleep as if disturbed by something unseen.  It swirls imperceptibly, gathering strength, moving stealthily on some invisible path.  When it reaches full strength it has the rage and passion of something alive.

Something wild.  Magnificent and powerful.

It seems to have a purpose, like a creature moving on instinct - without reason or consciousness - a phantom moving across the sky - stalking some prey or other - a shark feeding its hunger.  It seems to have a personality, a nature which we recognise, an emotional reality - so we name it.  Maybe we name it because with believe we can humanise it - communicate with it - empathise with it - control it.
The hurricane is not human.  It is not rational.  It has no conscience.  Its purpose is its own force.  It is unsolicited and unapologetic.  It is born - lives for a brief time - and then disappears into whispers and sighs to sleep once more in some secret cave on the ocean.
 
But the fierce passion of its short life - from gentle birth to screaming child, monstrous adult and back to toothless old age - leaves other lives in a dusty cloud of confusion, pain and tears.  The peaceful world is shattered.  The houses where we live, and those we were building, are torn from their foundations and lie strewn across the landscape.  The hurricane has run its course of indifferent destruction, of passionate arrival and dispassionate departure.

Its screams become the laments of innocents left in its wake, its driving rain the tears of fools who did not see it coming, did not want it and could not stop it, its anger the bitterness with which we return to our own powerless lives, and its receding roar the cackling witch that haunts our dreams and taunts us.  Its legacy is the rubble from which we start to build again.

The house that was dreamed of will not be the same.  It will bear the scars of the storm.  Its walls may whisper its mother's given name.  It will carry a shadowy memory of its birth.

But it will be stronger than we had planned.  It will stand defiant against the storms to come and be our safest place.

And it will be home.

I have this idea for a new cooking show .... it's called Dicing with Death.  Gonna be a killer hit !