The Salmon of No Knowledge

It was a fine summer’s evening, that evening in 2007. One of those rare evenings in Ireland that we should be grateful for; where a cool and gentle breeze kissed the skin offering respite after a spate of sultry weather, but because we were bred ungrateful and ignorant wee bastards, we never really appreciated these rare gifts offered by the earth’s seasonal cycle. Instead we chose to waste it drinking. That said, it didn’t take a Salvador Dalí painted sky for me and the boys to want to drink. We'd have drank in any weather. Inclemency never did deter our decent into the depths of debauchery but it was specifically weather like this that made for optimum carry-out conditions.

This was the routine: usually on Fridays and Saturdays me and the boys would arrange to meet in town. Having met, a toing and froing match would then ensue until one of us would finally, through sheer vexation, relent, gather the money from the rest of us and then charge ourself with the courageous task of fulfilling a shopping list consisting of cans, Buckfast, bines and maybe the odd bottle of ding. As this brave and selfless volunteer stepped into the abyss, beyond the door of either Lily White’s or Friar Tuck’s Off-licence, those who watched from the street held their breath in all hope and prayer that their comrade’s true age remained concealed to the cashier. Thankfully it did this day.

Me, Kevin Taylor and Kevin Faloon headed across Sugar Island towards Lindsey Hill Steps armed with two plain-blue, plastic bags full of cans. The three of us were skateboarders and dressed in a manor that distinguished us from the rest of Newry, which was always fairly safe and conservative in its fashion sense. We all wore long hair of varying lengths and supported an acrimonious attitude to match it.

The old uneven steps were littered with discarded carry-outs, busted lighters, feg butts, empty Rizla packets, crisp packets, juice bottles, a used condom even. Crude graffiti adorned the walls on either side, nothing which could be considered artistic. ‘IRA’ in capital letters met the eyeline for good measure, but this place didn’t feel unpleasant or hostile. It felt fun and familiar.

We entered the sanctuary of our carry-out spot, an elevated strip of grass to the right of the steps. It ran all the way to what’s now remaining of North Street Flats on High Street. Cracking open a can, I peered through the green railings – an installation by the Housing Executive that insured we didn’t fall forty foot to our death below – the sun was dipping in the sky just above Derrybeg readying to make its finial descent for the day, where the softly silhouetted hills of South Armagh prepared to warmly embrace it.

“Whatea fuck ‘s that smell?” yelped Taylor.

Everyone’s nostrils flared, and like bassett hounds we proceed to investigate following our noses.

“Ahhhhhh here!”

“What tha’ fuck is that?” I retorted, my own sense of smell now offended by the putrid stench arresting my nasal cavity.

“Holy fuck!”

“Ho-lay fuck!”

“It’s a fuckin’ fish!” shrieked Faloon, in excitement.

Standing next to his find, as though he’d just discovered a long lost relic of the ancient world, he took a slow and measured, deep and satisfying pull from his pinched gripped feg; a can of beer firmly gripped in the other hand.

“Lukka the fuckin’ size’a this yoke!” he said astounded, while prodding it with the toe of his shoe.

Me and Taylor approached him. There, cushioned on blades of thick, ankle-length grass and spread out unceremoniously, lay a salmon equalling the length of my forearm. How it got there, we don’t know, but there it was and if smell was to be an indicator of anything, it had obviously been festering in the summer sun for sometime.

“What the fuck are yi at?” I asked Taylor, trying to contain my laughter.

By now Taylor had found himself two other plastic bags and improvised – as though from an urban survivalist’s handbook – a pair of polythene mittens. Bent over the fish, it’s cloudy, fixed, deathly glazed and opened eye, stared back at him as he proceeded to pick it up with one hand gripped around its tail fin, the other on its head.

“Ahhh, Ya doirty fuckin’ tramp!” I shouted through my laughter.

Lifting the Salmon to chest height, Taylor aimed the fish at Faloon and started gesturing as though he was going to launch it at him. Knowing Taylor's temperament, this made Faloon uneasy.

“Don’t fuckin’ dare Kevin!”

“I’m fuckin’ tellin’ ye nai!” shouted Faloon with emphatic concern.

Suddenly, Talyor lunged forward and hoofed the salmon at Faloon. At this moment time seemed to have slowed down. I stood laughing, anticipating impact with its intended target. It was as though the fish had been resurrected. Its foil like, scaled body glistened in the evening sun, almost like it was trying to jump back up some majestic fresh water stream to spawn. Its body twisting and wriggling in flight.

Then there was a thud crescendo, the resulting sound of contact having been made with Faloon’s size 10 boot. Rather than avoid the fish completely - like a ball crossed into Diego Maradona - Faloon sidestepped and dispatched the salmon’s head halfway across the grass. Chunks of salmon and bits of skin flayed from flesh continued through the air before resting around us. A act of decapitation that, through this existential absurdity, induced a fit of laughter amongst us.

Weeks previous, there had been several incidents between us and the committee in The Magnet Centre (a Newry Youth Club). Incidents such as climbing out the skylight window to traverse across the rooftops, then onto the roof of the library to catapult water balloons at unsuspecting and unfortunate pedestrians on Hill Street Below. Letting fire extinguishers off, making paper aeroplanes - to light and throw - and skateboarding the centre, all but to name a few. Henceforth, ourselves - and anyone associated with us - were barred.

I wasn’t bothered much by this decision, as in all honesty, I only ever really used the centre to shelter from the rain and besides, I had no respect for the committee. I felt as though they displayed a certain amount of smug, self-righteousness that usually formed part of the complex of those types of insignificant people who occupied minor positions of authority – the type of people who I'd imagine would relish being a peeler.

Alcohol now seemed it could be a wonderful lubricant, spurring on one's creative thinking. And as we delved deeper into our bag of cans, the creative juices, combined with hops, barley and yeast saturated our teenage brains. Retribution was the turn of thought: a means to discern how we felt.

Now scattered around us, having been severed by Faloon’s boot, the smell of rotting salmon had intensified and for this stench, we had found a renewed purpose. With contorted faces and as best of care as we could manage while wobbly on the drink, we heaped the butchered salmon into a bag.

“would ye fuckin’ watch!” I commanded the boys, fearing that my hands would become soaked in the juices running from the rotting fish flesh. 

The smell was so strong it made my eyes well up and my head jolt in revolt.

We set off down the steps towards Hill Street until we reached the Magnet.

“Right, gowan!”

“You bung 'er through there.” Faloon ordered Taylor.

I stood sentinel at the opposite side of the street in order to spot pedestrians approaching so as to give forewarning to the boys.

“Kevin, quickly, quickly!”

 “com’ere”

“hurri uptea fuck!” Taylor pleaded with Faloon for help.

‘Wha’s wrong?”

“It’s too fuckin’ big” stated Taylor in a panic, bracing himself with the fish against the door.

The two boys wrestled with the letterbox. The salmon broke into pieces as they fingered it through the hole bit by bit. Some stray pieces littered the ground outside the door but the majority of it was delivered faster than first class post straight into front hall of The Magnet, until finally, all the contents of the bag were gone.

We regrouped, walked back to Lindsey Hill, continued drinking and had a good laugh about the whole affair.

It so happened to be that that weekend was a bank holiday weekend. The Magnet Centre was closed, so the salmon sat there – probably - for several days before greeting some smug bastard on the committee the coming Tuesday. Faloon's shoes evidently had to binned after his perfectly executed Maradona impression, because there’s just no way to get the smell of rotten fish out of a good pair guddies.

Was it spontaneity that propelled us to action, I can't really say - I was too drunk - but Confucious did once say that, “To be wronged is nothing unless you continue to remember it.” And by fuck, did the boys remember.

“Fuck them!”

“Barrin' us the fuckin' bastards!”

“They ken shove t’ salmon up their fuckin’ holes!’

Glossary

Ding – a bottle of cider

Guddies – Trainers

Carry-out – Alcohol purchased in an Off-licence

Bines – cigarettes

Feg – cigarette

Doirty – dirty

Lukka – look at the

Peeler - A member of British Colonial policing in Ireland

Yoke - Thing