So said Stephen Maurice Graham, author of the brilliant "Leftovers" and "400 Facts", when talking about Bangor. Bangor is a shite town near Belfast that's always cold. It's a windblown and seedy place by the sea. It has a pool where you can paddle about on giant swans. That isn't important though.
What is important is that Christopher J. Higgins goes there on solitary adventures for ice cream treats. Something about this sentence breaks my heart every time I read it, but in a good way.
I know he likes to go there. He'll often suggest it as a nice day trip, something pleasant to do on a Spring afternoon. He fucking loves it. He is a good person. He'll watch the boats in Belfast Lough, and maybe chuckle at some seagulls fighting over a discarded hamburger. He might stroll along the promenade, if it's a nice day. He'll buy an ice cream in Maude's and gently, carefully wander the roads, alone and content.
Knowing he does this is wonderful. When I was very, very young, I had an illustrated book about a brother and sister who discovered a fairy in a forest. I can remember fuck all about the story, just that the sister was good and the brother a nasty wee cunt. Anyways, the fairy turned the boy's head into a donkey's head to teach the wee cunt a lesson. The picture on the page was of him, the wee boy, sobbing with his giant donkey's head in his hands, full of remorse for all the bad things he'd done. The fairy went "Aye, OK, I'm only joking, I'll turn your head back normal now, don't worry. But don't fucking bother people again, right, you've learned your lesson." And turned his head back to a normal boy's head.
The image of the sobbing donkey-headed boy always stayed with me, I felt so sorry for him.
The mental image of a bright faced Christopher enjoying his ice cream in Bangor affects me as much, yet for its tender, innocent beauty, rather than its sadness.
Truly, the only Christ the Wee deserve.
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