The Omens: Sean

Yeah, against Karate

I recently read a piece of work by a friend, that teleported me to a part of my life that i hadn’t thought about for a very long time. It unlocked a great deal of memories, most of which I talk about below. I hope that you enjoy the piece, and that maybe it will do the same to you!

The Omens

Mudstains and bloodstains, grubby little monkeys,
Laundry is a mug’s game’, she thinks as she gets grumpy,
Mum’s dazed from son strain, lay across the runway,
Praying for a mundane evening on a Sunday

Instead she’s got two untamed
demons playing gun games,
speeding down the one-ways,
This seems to be a fun phase!
Mummy’s little sun rays, an ominous crew,
Ruined Corrie nightly, then the omnibus too

Football every lunchtime, concrete crunchtime,
Knees torn to shreds like an obsolete punchline,
No hormones had hit yet, so sweat didn’t matter,
Our minds were more innocent, torsos were flatter,
The ladies were Spice Girls from breakfast ‘til night
and perfected routines with infectious delight,
Mad skipping skills left us bleating in fandom,
Squealing out ‘Teddy Bear!’ leaping in tandem

Sent to the wall when you acted a fool,
Westeros justice, actually cruel,
The modern day stocks, FTSE 100,
Balls booted at you, your tootsies were numbered,
Dignity plundered, but rascal status
soared through the ceiling like class apparatus

The glass even shattered one evening in summer,
We hurdled the fence, just me and my brother,
Broke into prison for reasons obscure
and hoofed our Mitre at teachers and swore
at invisible targets, a fantastic fiesta
of boisterous vengeance by plastic protestors,
Chased by the fuzz when a window was claimed
and finally caught, a sinful brigade
of low rate scallywags, cried to the coppers,
Spent the whole Summer devising some whoppers,
Then sat in assembly waiting in vain
for an almighty bollocking that never came

Relief came flooding, freedom for all!
Boy dodged a bullet like Steven Seagal,
I could not understand it, just grateful inside,
For no scarlet handprint decorating my hide

The usual behaviour would slowly prevail,
I’d cashed in my card and I’d broke out of jail
And so every evening the crew would embark
On juvenile larks, straight through to the park
where we kept outta trouble with Wembley doubles,
Pieman in goal, eleven, with stubble,
John with the skill, the technical twerp,
Ben who had all the best replica shirts
And Joe with the toe punt, wounding us all,
Winding his leg up and hoofing the ball
in any direction, but not at the goal,
He aimed to destroy us, just rocket and roll
onto fouling football, combining our pleasures,
Wrestling and football and diving in hedges,
Swanton bombs from the sides of the fences
The lines were all blurry, no signs of the edges

We’d climb out the brambles, bruised on the body,
Sufi in the distance, tombstoning Ronnie,
He sounds like a cliché, but trust me it’s true,
Our Malaysian mate that was busting Kung Fu
at all opportunities, ludicrous outbursts,
Decked out in hoodies and luminous trousers,
Monkey bar maestros, we’d make it across
In less than 3 swings, just sprinted and tossed
our small puny bodies at juddering rails,
You had to commit, you were fucked if you failed

We majored in physics, Newton was King,
Human projectiles flew from the swings,
Released at the apex and soared through the sky,
The burliest bastard ensured you would fly
with an almighty shove in the small of your back,
You’re entering orbit and not coming back,
Plus centrifugal forces were tackled,
Clung to a roundabout, spun til it travelled
at breakneck speed and you’re flung through the barrel,
An infant shaped bullet in funky apparel

Then we’d head home, but pass through Ray’s,
The dodgiest offy, the foggiest haze
of Benson and Hedges would greet your arrival,
The cockiest, craziest geezer would smile
and let us rent out whatever we pleased,
Showgirls or Die Hard or Seven or Scream
cos evidently he was mates with my father,
They’d both share a Stella, evade the palaver
awaiting poor Pops on his way back from site,
so any delay was the greatest delight

He’d work Saturdays, so the routine was planned,
Football with Gerard then off to my Nan’s
on the Beecholme Estate in Hackney itself,
Before all the yuppies impacted the wealth,
A dangerous place yet I wasn’t aware
cos despite all the warnings fed through to my ear,
Innocent eyes don’t judge, it was clear
that the people were different, their voices perhaps,
I just stuck with my mates and avoided the flats

I now realise, on that weekly excursion,
The politics shifted completely, each person
was probably scarlet, not blue on their jacket,
A weekly exposure, a new demographic

We’d head down to Well Street for pies and liquor,
Dousing the lot in fiery vinegar,
pepper and eels to take home for Gramps,
Jellied monstrosities, boney and rank
and we’d hand it all over, a fateful endeavour ,
He’d ignore us, just grunt, ungrateful as ever,
A plateful of terror, a Cockney delight,
He’d scoff it all down and clock off for the night

Snoring aloud on his armchair for hours,
Boring the crowd to despair with his powers
of social misanthropy, alienation,
He’d soon head upstairs to his favourite location

The night would go down the pre-digital route,
We’d all play Crossword and Trivial Pursuit,
It may seem a mismatch, imagine the pain,
A ten year old boy getting slapped in the brain
by his so-called love ones, I tried and I failed
and on every occasion Goliath prevailed

I soon headed home after Casualty finished,
My waking abilities quickly diminished,
Sleep in the car in the back on the way
and make it in time for Match of the Day,
Who’d win the league? A marginal call,
No other worries, just Arsenal and school,
Moustaches were cool, as Des Lynam had shown
I looked and I stared and I wished I was grown

And how wrong I was to fixate on the future,
My memories fade like a dated computer,
Without me creating these rhymes, they could perish
So I raked through my mind for the times I would cherish


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