Paracelsus McBride is a terrible man

Paracelsus McBride is a terrible man. 

Do you know what a terrible man is? I once sat on a bus from Enniskillen to Belfast, for about 3 hours, with a man sitting behind me the whole way saying "You're a terrible man... You're a terrible man... You're a terrible man...". Over and over, for three hours, continuously. I don't think he was referring to me (but he wouldn't be fucking wrong if he was). I think he was talking to himself. I like to think that many years ago, someone told this man that he was "a terrible man". A bit like "Aw, you're a fucking terrible man, John!". A bit jovially, like that. And it just stuck with him. He was pretty old, anyway (about 70). I'm not sure if he was a terrible man or not. I don't think so. It was just a bit annoying for three hours.

But Paracelsus McBride is a terrible man, truly he is. An awful cunt, that fella. 

Only Christopher J. Higgins and I have ever met Paracelsus McBride. 

He's old (Paracelsus McBride, not Christopher). He's from the Mournes. He reads Ireland's Own and sometimes the Mourne Observer, but mostly Ireland's Own. He hates computers. He likes TV. He hates football and most other sports. He likes motorbikes. He wants to go to the Isle of Man in a vague way, but he never will. He never will.

He likes drinking vodka. He wears smart enough clothes. He has never been to the doctors. He likes Chineses. He doesn't cook. He likes kids. He has 4 uncles in America. He doesn't care much for music. He is generally respected in the community in a neutral sort of way. He's a harmless fucker.

He's a Catholic. He'll punch the fucking head off you if you say anything about Padre Pio. He likes Cemetery Sunday.

He's a terrible man. 

He has lovely skin. He looks like Bea Arthur from "The Golden Girls". He taught Christopher and I how to do CPR. Is it even proper CPR? I'd be afraid to use it. I don't think it would work, at all. I might end up killing someone.

I don't even know what CPR means. There's so many words it could mean. "Chest-Press-Resuscitate"? I really don't know. 

There's so many things in life that you don't know, but you just do and say anyway. Loads of stuff from Mass that you don't have a clue what it means (the double chest touch at certain points of the Mass, for example. What's all that about?). ATM is another one. I found out what that means though (Automated Teller Machine, I think).

Anyway, all this to say that Paracelsus McBride is a fuckin' terrible man.

And yet I miss him dreadfully. He's not such a bad fella. Who am I to castigate such a man? I'm not perfect. Nor are you. No-one is, except Jesus (and wee babies). Even then, I wouldn't want to think of Jesus as perfect. It'd make him less dead-on, like a dislikable wee shrill man who tells on you for doing bad shite. Like those Mormons who worked for Howard Hughes. That'd be fucking wrong. 

Aren't we all terrible men, then?  All on our own personal bus from Enniskillen to Belfast (3 hours)? You have to pass the time. You could write "FUCK OFF" on the back of the seat with a felt tip if you're so inclined. Or you could read a magazine, or listen to music (I can't do both). Or even sit and whisper that you're a terrible man for the entire journey. You could raise a family even (not on the fucking bus, that would be wrong, and impossible). You could eat a sandwich.

We are all terrible men. You, me, your Ma and Da and your wee sister. Bishop N. and N. Cecilia, Anastasia, and all the saints, and all the clergy, and all the people gathered here today. The lot of us. Batman. The Joker. Michael Fish. Beyonce. Sean Penn. Octomom. All terrible men.

So you shouldn't worry. It'd be worse not to be a terrible man. It'd be like not having ever lived at all. It'd be like you were dressed by your ma's cool fashionable friend and were really careful about everything and washed your hands compulsively. You wouldn't laugh at anything that was really funny, and you'd be a total knob. You'd be sensible. You'd talk like you were a fucking robot and listen to shite music and never scream for joy. You'd be an awful man. You'd know fuck all about living. You'd eat sensibly and think it's class. Paracelsus McBride would be disappointed in you.

And that would be the worst thing of all.

"O cruel, needless misunderstanding! O stubborn, self-willed exile from the loving breast! Two gin-scented tears trickled down the sides of his nose. But it was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had won the victory over himself. He loved Paracelsus McBride."