An Origin Story

Anyone who has read my book White Mexicans (I’ve been reliably informed there are at least three people) will have read the short story Heroes of Hollywood Boulevard and have gotten an insight into my love of all things cape, mask, and underpants outside of trouser-related.

Since writing that short, almost two years ago, I’ve been working on an expanded narrative that builds on the mess that Stu Hogan and co have made of their lives.  It has launched with Kindle Scout and is now available to vote for [here].  What does voting for HoHB mean?  Well, for one a five year deal with Amazon’s publishing wing and a $1500 advance.  The other (and probably less interesting) is my undying appreciation.

Long before my first trip to Los Angeles where I witnessed a bout of fisty-cuffs between Batman and Spongebob Squarepants, before Superman was carted off by the five-0 the foundations of Heroes of Hollywood Boulevard were laid.  As a kid I had a Spider-Man bike, Superman figures and just about Batman everything.  When I played with them I told stories, but it wasn’t the stories you’d find between the pages of DC and Marvel.  They were altogether different tales that just so happened to feature the Gamma green giant Hulk, the Caped Crusader and Web-Head.

Years later I wouldn’t even recall them, but they were there… waiting.  Then on a trip to LA I found myself leaning towards the Boulevard and the stories these men and women dressed in the cloth of legends had to tell.  For the most part their stories were that of the origins of the American Dream – they were fighting over territory.  Smaller than States, certainly, but all the same they were willing to go toe-to-toe with one another over a patch of concrete that could make or break rent day.  It was in that instant that I knew I wanted to write “something” about these heroes of Hollywood Boulevard… but what?  My first thought was their story, but after reaching out to a couple of performers it became apparent that help would be un-forthcoming unless I was able to shake loose a few greenbacks.

Back at the drawing board their single biggest truth kept ringing in my mind.  All the on-street conflict boiled down to territory.  Public land as private property; the idea that to occupy is to own and that it was the ownership of a particular section of street that was the difference between feeding their kids and not.

It is that truth, even now after countless tweaks, changes and revisions that appears on every page of the final novel.  In addition to that, two DC-Marvel crossover covers were kept at the forefront of my mind while writing.  Both are from 1981 (the year I was born), with the Batman vs Incredible Hulk book released in September of that year, the very month I was born.

Previously, I have found myself writing about incredibly personal issues.  Things that, to this day, make it uncomfortable to know someone I know has picked up a copy of Lost Angeles or Bone Idol [bohn ahyd-l] but in many ways Heroes of Hollywood Boulevard is the most personal read of them all, as it has been forming for as long as I’ve been able to hold an action figure or turn a comic page.

Henry Roscoe: Detective, Sort of

At a recent writer’s event in London I was given two pieces of advice by Rob Thorogood, the creator of BBC 1’s Death in Paradise; 

1. Don’t be working on the same project after a year. 

2. If it doesn’t sell, don’t take it personally.  You delivered.  You completed your side of the arrangement.

By default, I’ve found myself breaking the first rule as I’ve been working on a Noir set in Belfast for the guts of 18 months and change but it was only last May when the project really started taking shape.  Originally, Henry Roscoe: Detective, Sort of was envisioned as a manuscript.  A novel, something that might actually stand a chance of selling (if you’ve seen my royalties you’d understand) but it wasn’t until I’d pushed out a first draft that I had a conversation with a filmmaker friend who was keen on the idea of moving a movie out of it.  Equally interested, I started on the tricky job of adapting the relatively short manuscript (60,000 words) into a spec film script.  The first draft came in at 210 pages/minutes… really?  How is it a slip of a book makes a 3 hour movie?  It’s the age-old trap of trying to edit your own work.

He moved on to another project, the movie idea cooled and I got to thinking maybe it would make a better TV series.  I write a film blog [here] but I’ve been hooked on the Third Golden Age of television since the early days of Tony Soprano, Jack Bauer and co.  I scripted a pilot episode and, on a whim, pitched it to Northern Ireland Screen (NI Screen) who offer Independent Writer Awards to projects they think are worthwhile and, most importantly, commercially viable.

Amazingly, Henry Roscoe – 1.01 “Pilot” made it through to the funding stage without any hitches.  The money hit the bank pretty promptly and since then I’ve been writing, re-writing, adapting, culling, experimenting with non-linear narrative while at the same time adhering to the codes and conventions of Noir (and in particular, the loyal lens).

What I’ve handed in today is, in my own modest opinion, infinitely better than what it had been at manuscript stage, film spec script stage, and the first television draft.  I’ve delivered.  Based on what Rob said I’ve succeeded, though that’s not to say I’m not hoping that my counterparts at NI Screen also make good on their end and line up a production company or channel to bring it to life.  I’d very much like that, but at the moment I’m just content that this challenging, exhausting experience, which has been nothing short of brilliant, has concluded and I haven’t fucked it up. 

I don’t often buy in for validation, praise, or positive reinforcement.  Like many, I tend to put more stock in the first star reviews (which I’ve thankfully avoided until now) than the five star reviews but there’s something undeniably reaffirming about someone giving you money (with a side order of faith).  It’s been a B-12 shot to the soul.

I’m going to take some time off now.  Not long, maybe a week or so, but it’s needed.  I’ve been living with these characters now for a year and a half in which time I’ve bought a house, got married in Las Vegas, and spent an uncountable number of man hours in front of the laptop trying to make the best six episodes of television I possibly can.  I’m not even sure why I’m blogging this.  I think it’s more for me than anyone else reading it.  At best, it’s closing the door on the first stage of development and worst -a goodbye to an unmade project that I might stumble upon in years to come and wonder how I could have forgotten it.

For anyone interested, here’s the show details and logline:

Henry Roscoe: Detective, Sort of

Noir/Comedy

"Logline" In an effort to keep up with the mortgage, Henry O’Toole takes to the streets of Belfast as a gumshoe for hire. As he balances the demands of his new job, his ex-wife, his weekly pub quiz and alcohol addiction it doesn’t take long for him to learn, not all questions come with multiple choice answers.

If you're looking a screenwriter I can be found on Stage 32 or email [here] otherwise, I'll see you soon.

"Synopsis" Set in modern day Belfast, against the competitive world of Pub Quizzes, HR:DSO tells the tale of Henry Roscoe O'Toole, a high functioning alcoholic with acute self awareness and an unmanageable mortgage.  With a dead marriage and a lost job behind him, Henry sets himself up as a Private Detective (sort of) in order to pay the bills; but it's not long before he discovers that what lies in the chiaroscuro shadows of Belfast's streets can cost you more than money.

Advice From A Dog

My phone rang and when I answered it was a man on the other end of the line.  He sounded tall, angry and spoke of things that weren’t particularly nice and that were about to happen to me, imminently.

            ‘Wait a fucking minute!’ I shouted ‘Who the fuck is this?!’

            ‘I’m Maria’s brother.’

            Ah right.  Things had ended badly with her, she was cock crazed, needy and apparently, willing to set her brother on me.  He was in the military but one night over drinks she told me that he wasn’t even a soldier, he was a chef.

            ‘You better watch your fucking back you fucking Irish prick…’

            ‘Don’t you fucking threaten me you cunt, you might be army but we kill army.’ I spat, having never involved myself in the bullshit of my motherland I suddenly found myself more than happy to bask in it.  Such a fickle little brat.  ‘You want to start some shit be my guest…’

            After a little shouting on each end of the patchy AT&T cellular line I gave him my address, unlocked the door and sat waiting in the living room for the inevitable appearance of the brother.  I had never heard of a relationship that ended any way other than badly.  It made me wonder why, as a species, we hadn’t died out or figured a way to reproduce asexually.  But how we needed the big O, the touch of another, the vanity of being wanted.  The clock rounded the hour.  I was getting bored so I grabbed a beer from the fridge and took the pug outside for her nightly business.  Sniffing around she pee’d in the same spot she had struck that morning, and the previous night, and the previous morning.  The once rich green patch of turf scorched to a brown deathly weed.

            Back in the living room I checked my phone, no missed calls, no new messages.  Thumbing into the call log I checked the time of the incoming duel.  He was late.  He had said he was with Maria and was coming straight to me.  Chef Boyo should have been with me now, slugs should have been exchanged, a victor announced before the police rolled up and took us both in.  Nothing.  Impatiently I stuck in a DVD, broke open another beer and rolled myself a joint to silence my tourette-spitting mind.  Setting the tip of the rolled paper alight I inhaled deep.  I checked the clock.  Very late.  Getting to my feet I lifted some weights, working my arms, pumping them up for powerful bursts of usage, woke them for work.  The army chef invading my abode through modern technology, threatening me, trying to put the fear of God into me, intimidating me in my own living room, the cheek.  He’d get his.

            I finished the cigarette.

            No sign of the chef. 

            I considered phoning him again, asking him where he was, offering him traffic advice on the best way to get here.

            ‘You don’t want to do that.’ the dog said, looking up at me from under her ruffled fawn wrinkle.

            ‘What do you know about it?’

            ‘I know enough to know that you’re meant to let sleeping dogs lie.’

            ‘How long have you been waiting to say that?’

            ‘A few weeks.’ yawned the pug rolling on to her back stretching all four paws towards the heavens.

            I lit a cigarette and took a hit, the adrenaline had been coursing around my body for, I check the clock, over an hour and a half.  Now it was beginning to drip from my finger tips and my eyes suddenly felt sore and misshapen in their sockets.  Reaching down to the dog I scratched her behind her black velvet ear making her grumble with contentment.

            ‘You look tired.’

            ‘I am tired.’ I replied, smoking with one hand while petting the dog with the other.

            ‘Don’t you worry about lung cancer?’ she asked.

            ‘If I started worrying I don’t think I’d know where to stop.  You know I found a lump in my balls.’

            ‘I thought I smelt that.’

            My heart raced to my throat, my anatomy was threatening to turn me inside out as my pulse shot to over one hundred and fifty and I realised that my dog, my little pug could probably answer the question that’s on my mind.

            ‘Is it, is it cancer?’

            ‘How should I know?’

            ‘You just said I thought I smelt that.’

            ‘That doesn’t mean it’s cancer.’ she replied chewing on her inside claws.

            ‘What does it mean?’

            ‘It means you should probably have someone look at it.’

            ‘I don’t have health insurance.’

            ‘Maybe you should try and date yourself a nurse, instead of strippers and bored housewives.’

            I rolled myself another MJ and put it to my lips, grumping to herself the little barrel chested princess got to her feet and click, click, clicked across the room setting herself down by the backdoor.  She looked at me sorrowfully with her dark chocolate eyes.  Smoking the joint my throat dried and cracked and I stubbed it out before the fear of throat cancer took hold but my head was beginning to swim and soon the idea of the big C echoed through my dome like I’d sunk my head into a bucket.

            ‘Crack a window.’ the pug said.

            ‘Sorry?’

            ‘Could you crack a window?  I’m small, I can’t take that stink as easily as you can.  Do we have any chips?’

            Walking across the room I crack a window, the cool air soothing the small claustrophobic room.

            ‘Why don’t you lock the door, turn that DVD off and go to bed?’

            ‘I don’t want him thinking I’m chicken.’

            ‘How bad can chicken be?’

            ‘Chicken is bad, chicken is as bad as cancer.’

            The dog lapped at her water with her long pink tongue. ‘So what?  So you have him come over, you beat him up and send him back to Maria.  Give her another reason to hate you.’

            ‘That’s the plan.’ I snort puffing out my chest.

            ‘That’s a terrible plan.  After what you did to her the least you can do is take a pounding from him, it’ll make them both feel better.’

            ‘I won’t feel better, and what do you mean after what I did to her?!  She tried to cut my throat.’

            ‘She told you she loved you.’

            ‘After two dates.’

            ‘She’s impulsive.’

            ‘She’s nuts.’

            ‘And you’re talking to a dog.’

            Touché, smart little bitch.

            ‘Well you started it.’  I walked to the window, pulling back the blinds and watched as a set of headlights burned brightly in the night sky, drawing closer and closer before turning by the apartment and off into the distance, towards a destination elsewhere.  I looked to the clock again, it’s rounded on another hour.  I sighed with fatigue as the last of the adrenaline falls from my bones and I’m left listless, limp and a little rejected.

            ‘He’s not coming.’ she sighed, curling up in her bed.

            ‘You don’t know that.’

            ‘I know Fairfax to Venice in late night traffic does not take two hours.’

            ‘Yeah,’ I conceded ‘you’re probably right.’

            ‘Take it from me, you’re better off leaving it be.  She’s going to hate you regardless, leave her to her anger.  It’s all you’ve ever offered her unconditionally.’

            As I nodded, my jaw stretched and an enormous yawn birthed itself from deep within my soul.  The hinge of my face, burdened by its girth, ached.  Moments later with my eyes watering it returns to its resting position and I’m done.  Closing the window I flick the latch on the front door, turn the DVD off, drop to one knee and plant a kiss on top of the soft little furry head that smells like popcorn, always.

          I curled up in bed on my side, placing a hand between my legs to stop them from crushing my lumpy balls.

Advice from a Dog and other stories for misfits are part of Chase The Moon: Issue One and available to buy [here: US] [here: UK].

A Short Story For Creationists

It was the early days of the Earth, God had just created man and was watching from his window in his large white office, at the top of his large white building which hovered in the sky perched on a cloud.  The planet was a utopia, every man was a King, every woman a Queen, every child a Prince or Princess and all of his other creatures were either starters or main courses for mankind, the Lord’s greatest creation.

            With his head slumped in his hands, his long white beard spilling over his palms dangling around his wrists, God watches discontent with how everything is going with man.  He has given them intelligence, imbued them with a soul and conscious thought but they’re lazy and arrogant and self-fulfilling.  They are not what he expected, not made in his image, more an image of the brat he was when he half-assed made the other planets in the Galaxy, none of which (of course) could sustain life.

            Knocking twice on the large white door the Arch-Angel Gabriel waits for the call to come before turning the perfect pearl handle springing the latch and entering the room casting a brilliant, truth-seeking light through the white corridors of the impressively white monolith of a building.

            ‘Have you seen them all down there?’ says God poking on the window with his index finger.

            ‘I haven’t sir, I haven’t had the time really, is it marvelous?  Is it a sight to behold?  The greatest creation of your existence?’

            ‘No.’

            ‘Ah.’

            ‘They’re ignorant, I give them intelligence.  I give them the wonder of an inquisitive mind and what do they do with it?’

            ‘Nothing sir?’ shoots Gabriel.

            ‘You bet your ass Gabe, nothing.  Look at that one.  The entire world at his feet, a realm of infinite possibilities and potential achievements and all he can do is play with his prick.’ moans God.

            ‘He does seem to be really going for it.’ Gabriel adds studying the primitive man whacking away at himself.

            ‘Dicks and cunts.  That’s all they’re involved in, day in, day out.  All they think about is their dicks and their cunts, all the do is screw and tug and suck.  And if they’re not thinking with their dicks and their cunts then they’re talking out their bungholes trying to impress someone who has a dick or a cunt.’

            Sensing God is coming to the point of the problem Gabriel puts a hand on his bosses shoulder, a sympathetic linger that will allow him to know he understands, he’s there, he’s available for promotion whenever the G-Man sees fit.

            ‘Are you,’ Gabriel treads carefully ‘sir, excuse me if I’m way off but are you feeling this tiniest bit…’

            ‘Neglected, unloved, forgotten, unappreciated, spurned, abandoned, you name it Gabe and I’m it… I’m a fucking wallflower up here.  Not one of them have so much as looked to the sky and questioned how did I get here?  Where is here?  What is the meaning of life?’

            ‘And what is the meaning of life, sir?’

            ‘To love me,’ God moans ‘they’re little more than toys to me, pets, not as difficult to house train as others but pets nonetheless… so why do they not even give me the slightest ounce of attention?!!’

            The roar of the voice of God shakes the building in its foundations, the chandeliers rattle in their fittings, the clouds bloat and turn black instantly before a clap of thunder and a bolt of lightning flashes in the brooding sky but still mankind plays with and fucks themselves blind.  On his feet God paces back and forth around the office, his sandals clapping against the white tile flooring.

            ‘I put bones down there you know, great big bones from carnivorous animals and have made it look like they’ve been there for millions of years.’

            ‘Very good sir.’

            ‘I figured they’d explore and dig and build and in doing so they’d discover them, and name them and ponder how old the planet is and how they got their and turn to the sky and know my name.  Know my face.’

            ‘But they haven’t?’ Gabriel’s voice winces.

            ‘You better believe they haven’t.  Eat, sleep, shit, screw.  That’s all they know.  One of them even tried to fuck their own food, I watched him hollow out a coconut before ploughing his turkeyneck into it.’

            ‘They’re all animals sir.’

            ‘They are.’ God cries ‘Oh, how right you are Gabe.  I’ve been thinking about going back to the lab and making a few who have knowledge…you know…of me…’

            ‘Hmmmm.’

            ‘They’d spread the word, they’d come to worship me Gabe and I’d feed them knowledge and wisdom.’

            ‘They’d reject you sir.’

            ‘They would not.’

            ‘They would, you’ve given them everything too easy and they’ve rejected everything except for the most basic of primitive instincts.’ Gabriel says ‘You’ve got to make it so that they discover you all by themselves.’

            Slowly, God walks back to the window.  An orgy is taking place, dicks and cunts and bungholes getting worked, everywhere.

            ‘Go on.’

            ‘You’ve given them a utopia Lord, you’ve given them the Earth and the stars and all they want is orgasms.  You should give them something to lament upon, something that will make them turn their noses to the sky and ask, why?  You should give them plague and famine and unpleasantness and sorrow and death and aids and murder and rape and war and when the world is a simmering shit-hole filled with cum and puke they’d never want to fuck in let alone live on they’ll ponder where it all went wrong, and where they came from and why man has turned on man, killed brother, raped sister and ate daughter.’

            ‘I like that.  Do you think we could get started on that this afternoon?’ God asks.

            ‘It’s already started sir.’

            Pointing towards the ground Gabriel’s finger charts a path along a continent to a hill.  The lightning spat from the sky in God’s rage has split a tree in two.  Thick branches lay discarded everywhere.  Raising one up above his head a man walks across a plush green field where a blonde couple are fucking.  With an almighty swing of the branch he caves the back of the male’s head in, brains drop out like puss from a pimp as the body goes limp and falls off the woman, blood spilling and seeping everywhere.  Screaming she goes to rise but the branch swinging murderer is quicker than she is, and in an instant he’s on her, pushing up tight inside of her.  Three onlookers rush to the river and quickly baptize each other in the name of their newly discovered creator.

            Sitting by his window in the clouds with a milky coffee in his hand God watches as his people descend into the depths of their own soul and in an attempt to justify their own behaviour point their nostrils to the sky and ask God why, why have you made me this way?  The voices fill the room through a dozen discreetly placed speakers, millions of people all wanting to talk to God, who has decided he no longer wants to listen.

The Greatest Cock That Ever Lived

I was fifteen, it was April and the summer had started early.  My mother gave me ten pounds to run to the parade of shops at the bottom of the Oldpark Road to buy two steaks and some mince to fry into burgers for the dog’s dinner.  Dragging myself away from the television I threw on my trainers, laced up, pocketed the bank note and walked down to the bottom of The Bone.  I passed many people, they all knew me.  I said hello to them all before suddenly someone was calling my name from outside the Suicide Inn.

                ‘Doug, Doug, Douglas Morgan!’ the drunk cried swaying wildly.

                I crossed over the road, the windows were boarded up.  The bar was called Henry Joy’s but the locals called it The Suicide Inn because of the amount of times it had been shot into by loyalist paramilitaries and the fact that you didn’t need to be suicidal to drink in there but it certainly helped, especially if you sat by the window.

                I didn’t recognise the man, but his face looked like family.  He was.  He was my uncle Johnny, my mother’s brother.  He had been a prize fighter in his youth and took a few too many blows to the melon to be considered a valuable member of society anymore.  Sooner or later the critical melon blow comes to us all.  As I got within arm’s reach he threw a huge arm around me pulling me in for a hug.  He had a cockerel under his other arm, and had tied a bandana around its head.

                ‘Doug, how are you?  I haven’t seen you since you were a little nipper.  Where are you guys living?’

                Don’t tell him, he’ll only get drunk and put a window in ‘Around Johnny, you know.  Top of the street.  What’s with the bird?’

                ‘Oh this,’ he said almost forgetfully ‘yeah this is Jean-Claude the greatest cock that ever lived.’

                ‘Is that so?’

                ‘You bet your spunk filled beans he is.  French bird, prize fighter.  I’ve pitted him against dogs and he’s licked every one of them.  Where are you going?’

                I checked over my shoulders, it didn’t do well to have people see you talking to a crazy man with poultry under his arm.  They’d all want to talk to you if they saw you’d stop to talk to a crazy man with poultry under his arm.

                ‘Mum sent me out to buy some meat for dinner.’

                ‘I’ll sell you this cock,’ he said ‘how much do you got?’

                ‘She wants steak.’

                ‘This cock is the greatest…’

                ‘Yeah I got that.’ I said impatiently.

                ‘Tell you what,’ said Johnny ‘I’ll make a bet with you.  You pick the dog, I’ll have Jean-Claude fight it and if he wins you give me the money and I’ll give you Jean-Claude.’

                ‘And if he loses?’

                ‘He won’t.’ Johnny insisted, his tone indignant.

                ‘But if he does.’

                ‘If he does then you can keep him and your money.’

                ‘So one way or another you’re getting rid of him, I thought you said he was the greatest…’

                ‘I know what I said.’ he snapped, waving a boulder sized fist in my face ‘He eats grain faster than a priest fucks.  I can’t keep up with him, I know you’ll give him a good home kid.’

                I took the bet, but felt bad about putting him up against a dog.  Most of the dogs in the neighbourhood were mean old junkyard dogs, the kind of beasts that would rip Jean-Claude’s head off and use it as a chew toy.  The only dog I thought he could beat was my dog Bosco – but there was always the slim chance that Johnny was telling the truth and I didn’t want my sad old mongrel getting hurt.

                I pointed to a hobo, a grumpy old bastard of a man with veins sprinting from both of his cheeks, crusty eyes and a big red nose.  The kids called him Wilf Tomato Bollocks and when they yelled it at him he yelled back banana dick!

                ‘What about Wilf?!’ I said.

                ‘What about him?’ replied Johnny.

                ‘Could Jean-Claude beat Wilf?’

                ‘Of course he fucking could.’

                It took a little convincing but eventually Wilf agreed to duke it out with Jean-Claude the French prize-fighting chicken for the princely purse of two three-litre bottles of White Lightning…if he won.  Strolling off behind the wasteland by the Suicide Inn I pitched up on a pallet and lit a cigarette as Johnny placed Jean-Claude three strides from Wilf Tomato Bollocks, explained the rules, and stepped back and called…

                ‘Ding, ding, round one!’

                Wilf went to raise his dukes but even then it was too late.  Leaping six feet into the air Jean-Claude battered the old drunk with a barrage of rights and lefts sending him reeling backwards.  Landing on his spring-like heels the bird advanced before leaping to meet him again only this time with an uppercut that switched Wilf’s lights out and had Johnny dancing around gleefully like Don King with a big white hard-on.

                ‘Didn’t I tell you Douglas!  Didn’t I just!  He’s a god-damn wrecking machine!’ sang Johnny, holding the cock aloft.

                Walking home I tried to figure out exactly how I was going to break it to the old lady that I had bought a boxing chicken instead of the red meat she was expecting.  Sneaking in through the front door I soft footed it to the bottom of the stairs, climbed them on my tip-toes placed Jean-Claude on my bed, grabbed some money from my tin and returned to the shop taking the financial burden of provider for the Morgan family on to my own shoulders.

The next day I put the dog’s leash on Jean-Claude and walked him down to the boxing club in the New Lodge.  The sound of heavy blows landing on heavy bags boomed out and echoed down the stairs as we climbed the single flight to the gym.  The stink of sweat and iron coated every breath of oxygen I sucked in.  Inside the gym was cool, Tommy (the owner) kept it cold to keep his fighters lean and mean and it worked.  The shack had birthed three All Ireland champions in the amateur ranks in recent years.  Turning on the spot the flat nosed old man heard me coming.

                ‘Who are you?’ he barked.

                ‘I’m Doug, I phoned you this morning about coming down and trying out.’

                ‘Didn’t talk to no Doug this morning, talked to a Jean-Claude.’

                ‘No,’ I explained sighing ‘you talked to me.  I was phoning on behalf of Jean-Claude.’

                ‘So where’s this Jean-Claude?’ Tommy asked.

                ‘He's right here.’ pointing to the cockerel on the end of a dog lead.

                He laughed, and then stopped seeing the funny side ‘Stop wasting my fucking time kid, this is a workhouse not a joke factory.’

                ‘Do jokes come from factories?’

                ‘Don’t get short with me.’

                ‘Look, I’ll make you a deal.  You let Jean-Claude fight one of your boys here and if he wins we organise a bout.  A ticketed bout, I get three quarters of the door and if I lose I’ll work as kit boy, cleaner, whatever the fuck you need until I turn eighteen.’

                ‘What age are you now?’ he asked, his interest spiking.

                ‘Fifteen.’

                ‘Kid,’ he laughed ‘you’re crazier than a shithouse rat in an Indian restaurant but you’ve got yourself a deal.  Vinny!  Lace up, you and the KFC are going three rounds.’

                The entire gym burst into fits, half of them laughing at me; the idiot boy who had just signed away three years of his life being Tommy Buchanan’s bottom bitch, half at Vinny who was about to be reduced to fighting a Christmas dinner in some Victorian vaudeville showcase.

                Climbing into the ring Vinny’s face flashed lightning, he was fixing on killing Jean-Claude; I could tell.  I placed the cockerel in the blue corner, Tommy rang the bell, the fight was on.  Vinny exploded out of his corner and suddenly realising he’d have to stoop to go toe-to-toe with the bird, froze for a moment;  It was all Jean-Claude needed.  He leapt to eye level with the shaven-headed fighter and socked him with a clever one-two.  He threw lefts, and then rights, he worked the body, and then the head, he faked left and went right, he faked the head and went for the body.  As Tommy rang the bell for the end of the round Vinny flopped into his corner, one of the other fighters racing to his side to give him water.  Jean-Claude barely looked flustered.  The second round was more of the same before Vinny went down in the third and stayed down.

                Calling the fight Tommy approached me, wonder in his eyes, a smile like a teenage boy in a brothel.  He slapped a powerful hand on my shoulder damn near breaking my back and laughed.  The fighters of his club were less enamoured and watched on angrily, I felt a lynching wasn’t far away.

                ‘God-damn it, Doug is it?’ he roared.

                ‘Yeah.’

                ‘I seen it and I still don’t believe it.  Wait until the world gets a hold of us!’

                ‘Us?’

                ‘Meet Jean-Claude’s trainer.’ he beamed extending his hand.

The fight was scheduled for a Friday night; all fights worth a damn are scheduled for Friday night.  Friday nights are magical, it’s the weekend but you still have the rage that comes from selling five more slivers of your soul to the man for minimum wage; so you’re ready for a fight.  St. Kevin’s Hall was packed, four hundred people, £5 a head, I took seventy-five percent of the gate.  Good earnings.  The posters billed:

EUROPEAN MIDDLEWEIGHT CHAMPION &

FUTURE WORLD CHAMPION

Kevin ‘The Tiger’ Taggart

Vs.

Jean-Claude Morgan (He’s a chicken)

When we entered the hall the house went silent.  Not many people had taken the poster seriously and outrage was building faster than waves in Hawaii.  Tommy went first, he held the ropes open and I climbed through, then Jean-Claude climbed through and we took our position.  And we waited.  Five minutes went by, I got the eyes from a tall man in a bomber jacket.  The eyes that say so and so needs a word.  I climbed from the ring and went with him.  In the corridor he closed the door gently before leaning in with menace.  He was an IRA man.

                ‘The bird needs to take a fall tonight, we’ll pay you two hundred.’

                ‘He won’t go for that.’ I said ‘He’s not that kind of fighter.’

                ‘Look kid, you’ve had your fun.  The cock goes down.  Kevin here is in line for a title fight, do you know what losing to a bird is going to do to his ranking?’

                I pondered the politics of pugilism and suddenly the sport made me a little more cynical about the world.

                ‘If he’s as good as the rankings say,’ I replied ‘he won’t have a problem.’

                ‘Take the deal, nobody wants to be licking their fingers in a few hours time but if we have to…’

                When I returned to the ring Tommy could tell by my face what the conversation was about and his face dropped, filled with disillusion and was fit to burst until I told him there was no deal.  If Jean-Claude lost he’d lose honest.  That made him shine.

                The music hit, dun dun dun you’re simply the best, dun, dun, dun, better than all the rest.  Kevin ‘The Tiger’ Taggart entered in a tiger skin gown, one of his entourage parading the European title behind him, the crowd cheered for the first time that entire night.  Stepping into the ring Kevin shadow boxed his way from corner to corner sending the beer soaked working class folk of North Belfast bat-shit crazy.  Taking off his gown he was tight, ripped, not an ounce that didn’t need to be there.  The referee explained the rules, asked for a good clean fight, a moment of realisation hit him when he looked from Kevin to the opposing side and saw a cockerel in a bandana and he almost laughed.  The fighters retreated to their corners, the bell went and they came out.

                Kevin danced a bit, entertained the crowd did his chicken walk.  It insulted Jean-Claude but he didn’t move in, not yet, he watched The Tiger’s footwork, how he moved, how he balanced his weight.  Then he struck.  He bounded into the air and came in heavy catching the Middleweight Champ with a right hook.  It must have stung worse than dipping your mushroom in vinegar because he dropped his guard and shook his head.  Jean-Claude overdid his walk mocking Kevin and a few people laughed, though most booed.  Kevin brought his guard up, came in light-footed, ducking in and out throwing rabbit punches and jabs, the occasional hook.  A one-two combination caught Jean-Claude right on the beak but he was unfazed.  He came in heavy double-tapping Kevin on the chin, working the body, a couple of rabbit shots to the kidneys that the ref warned him about but otherwise was opening up his opponent nicely.

                In the second round Taggart was bullish, he tried keeping Jean-Claude at arms reach, tapping him here and there on the beak, scoring points and whipping the crowd into a frenzy.  If it went to points we were done for, nobody beats a dog in his own back yard through judges.  I poured water into Jean-Claude’s mouth.  Tommy massaged his wings.

                ‘You need to get inside J.C, he keeps you at length and he’ll pick you off all day long.’

                Jean-Claude clucked in agreement.

                ‘Get out there and make it count.’ Tommy added, sending our boy out to battle.

                Top of the third and Jean-Claude ducked inside a hook finding an open body.  He jabbed left and right until Kevin brought his guard down to protect himself, Jean-Claude came up strong with an uppercut followed by a powerhouse of a left hook and put Kevin to the ground.  The ref counted, confident at first then reluctant as he got to 8, 9…10 you’re out!

                The bell rang.  Kevin was cold.  The crowd was hot.  They screamed, they threw beer bottles into the ring, they tossed chairs.  They yelled:

                This is an abomination!

                Disgusting!

                What is this freakshow?!

                This is not right!

                Boxing for humans!

                We raced to Tommy’s car leaving our stuff in the dressing room, leaving my take behind.

                In the morning I went to the shop and bought the Belfast Telegraph.  The front page carried a photograph of the fight with the headline:

CHAMP IN FOWL FORM!

When I got home Mum was holding the phone towards me, her hand over the speaker and she was mouthing something I couldn’t figure out.  Taking the phone I dragged it into the kitchen, closing the door.

                ‘Hello, who’s this?’ I asked.

                ‘Are you Douglas Morgan?’ the voice countered.

                ‘Yeah, who wants to know?’

                ‘The same Douglas Morgan who manages Jean-Claude Morgan the boxing cockerel?  The boxing cockerel that just floored Kevin ‘The Tiger’ Taggart?’

                ‘That’s me.  So that’s two questions of yours I’ve answered, how about you answer one of mine?’

                ‘Sure.’

                ‘Who the fuck is this?’

                ‘It’s Frank D. Schuman, the boxing promoter, you must have heard of me.’

                ‘Yeah, I’ve heard of you.  How can I help you Frank D. Schuman the boxing promoter?’

                ‘Jean-Claude is making waves kid, he’s in line for a title fight but I want to put him in the ring with one of my guys before I push to have it made.  I don’t want to be made a fool, I want to see him fight with my own two eyes.’

                Three eggs hit the kitchen window sending a bang through the house and waking Bosco from his slumber.  Outside I could see a crowd emerging, they were shouting K-K-KFC!

                ‘Ok,’ I conceded ‘but it needs to be outside of Belfast.  People are pissed, they’re not very tolerant and I don’t want anything happening to my old lady’s home.’

                ‘We’ll do it in London.’

And we did.  And Jean-Claude won by a TKO.  Frank D. Schuman held a press conference after the fight.  Some of the journalists called it a publicity stunt, some called it a fix, some went as far as to call in the RSPCA who checked Jean-Claude over and said he was perfectly fine and had one hell of a right on him.  Most of all people just didn’t like the idea.

                ‘But what if their bloods mix,’ I heard a woman shrill in a café ‘fighters bleed all the time, what happens if they both get cut?  What happens if that bird’s blood…oh!’ she said with a shudder ‘It just doesn’t bear thinking about.’

                Quickly signs started going all over the place, in every restaurant, in every café and bar and club:

WE SERVE POULTRY

WE DON’T SERVE POULTRY

As it started to get to Jean-Claude I could see the intolerance and fear build every time we stepped outside.  Schuman phoned, we were boarding at the Ritz.  He had arranged a fight in Las Vegas.  Jean-Claude Morgan was going to get his shot against the Middleweight Champion of the World Titus Ali.

                ‘I’m still working on the governing bodies agreeing to it being a title fight but don’t worry it’s bank baby, we’ll have it.’

                When we got the news Tommy flew out to join us.  His gym had been burned down by a band of masked men dressed like Colonel Sanders and the death threats to his house had become so bad he had to move.  He trained Jean-Claude hard, six hours a day, six days a week cutting down to two hours in the weeks leading into the fight.

The curtain was pulled back.  It was weigh-in day and the world’s press had come to Caesar’s Palace to get an eye of Titus Ali and Jean-Claude Morgan.  After the weigh-in, the banter, the clucking and the flash photography there was a statement from the boxing board that as Jean-Claude could not make the weight required to compete in the Middleweight division they could not sanction a title bout.  They were pulling the bout from the card.

                ‘He’s just a bird.’ was the last line in their official statement.

                The plane touched down at Belfast International, only Mum was there to greet us.  The controversy over Jean-Claude had passed, the small minds had moved on to something else, it might have been flags.  I unpacked and climbed into bed, my lids stung, my eyes felt like lead and as sure as anything jet lag took over.  When I woke it was morning again and Jean-Claude was gone.