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."

Wee bullied-looking cunt and the bus

I hate getting the bus in the winter.

You're all stuffed in together, and you're wearing a coat and hat and squished against some other fuckers, and your nose is all running, and the bus is full of twats- schoolkids, working people, weird fuckers, old folks and scumbag anglophone student scum-of-the-earth bastards from hors du Quebec (in addition to a fair few hoors du Quebec, at the same time).

So you're on the bus, right, and it's fucking shite.

But lo! Amidst the madness, there's a wee island of tranquility and sadness: the wee bullied-looking cunt. He's so dignified, and quiet, and he's up there sitting beside a really nice looking girl, just sitting there aloof and sad while all the other wee schoolkids are chatting and gibbering and pushing each other about.

The look of quiet dignity on his face is heartbreaking, and it will stay with you for many minutes as you walk down the road to work.

I love that wee-bullied looking ballix. I often kid myself that he's really popular and good at karate or volleyball or something, and who knows, who knows, he might just be. But I doubt it.

I will protect you, youngster. 

You're probably an annoying wee shite, but I enjoy the sentimental notion of your nobility, and the nostalgic yearning it creates.

Fuckers are putting the fares up, soon.

Our wee human, or our wee dancer?

"Blogs are for arseholes" he said, whilst reading a The Dandy annual from 1987. 

This particularly Dandy annual was fuckin' class, it had all his favourites, like "The Jocks and the Geordies" and "Winker Watson". He liked "The Jocks and the Geordies" best. Even though he was 26, and many, many years past the appropriate age for enjoying such material, he loved it all the same. There is something, he mused, wonderfully comforting about the shite that was printed in those days. Kids nowadays are all into shite like fuckin' Ipods and Playstations and all that nonsense. Are they better? Are they better than me? Than I was and am? Happier?

I think not, he chortled, as he put down the book. Blogs are for arseholes, for them to write all the impressive shite that they did when they went on their holidays, or to show their stunningly original ideas about something while Jack Johnson plays in the background and a wee banner saying "Make Trade Fair" flashes on the fucking screen.

Worse is those cunts who write political blogs, where wee twats go on about Sinn Fein being class and not a bunch of arseholes, and how it's really good to be a Unionist who has never liked violence and is always fucking right and how their perfect logic beats the shite out of any argument you have because they did a fucking politics degree at Queens', so youse can all go fuck yourselves.

Yes sir, blogs are for arseholes. And arseholes are for blogs.

The title means fuck all, and has only the most tenuous link to anything that is going on anywhere in the world. I wrote it because I am a sad bastard who likes puns. I thought of "Mexican Stand-offish" too, but I couldn't use it, 'cos I'd no reason to.

Saying that, I'd no reason really to use the title either. I suppose I'm an arsehole as well.

But one who has a Dandy annual from 1987. Not many of you bastards could say that, could youse?