‘Tony’s not feeling well,’ she said, much to my relief.
Mummy looked over her bifocals with a mixture of shock and disappointment as the frying fat spat at me from beneath the eggs.
‘Och, sure you’re all right now. You just need a good fry and you’ll be fine.’
‘Sorry, I think I need to lie down,’ I confessed. ‘Then I’ll be all right, if that’s okay. Thanks for the fry, please, sorry.’
Mummy, Daddy and Lesley cast glances at each other from their various workstations across the kitchen. I was embarrassed – if I had farted explosively at the kitchen table it could not have been worse. Mummy looked hurt, as if her cooking was so horrible it was making me sick, Lesley looked concerned about Mummy, and Daddy went outside for a smoke.
‘Sure, you would, you could, you should just try a wee plate,’ Mummy persisted, and she proceeded to set a plate of sausage, bacon and egg in front of me. Normally the smell would have overwhelmed my taste buds but in my current condition it only made me wretch. If I didn’t move quickly I was going to be sick all over the kitchen table, and there would be undigested sweetcorn and diced carrots all over the antique placemats depicting scenes of pastoral England.
‘Sorry, excuse me, please, thank you …’ I rapidly left the table and darted upstairs to the bathroom. As I departed I caught a glimpse of the shocked expression on Mummy’s face and I could tell that Lesley was embarrassed to have a boyfriend who was made sick by her Mummy’s Ulster fry. I made it into the bathroom just in time. I fell to my knees onto the brown shag-pile and boked into the beige bidet. I boked again and again, completely evacuating the richness of the previous day’s cuisine from my convulsing stomach. Such was the volume of my vomiting that Lesley shouted upstairs, ‘Are you all right? It can’t be that bad!’
I had always been a noisy boker, and this was not a problem in the privacy of my own home, but in my girlfriend’s house, on my first visit to meet her parents, on the first offer of her mother’s monumental Ulster fry, it was definitely adding insult to injury to be vomiting so loudly into their beige bidet. After a few minutes of cold sweat and further evacuations, I began to feel well enough to start cleaning up.
‘I’m all right now,’ I said to Lesley through the locked bathroom door, meticulously removing all traces of boke from the beige bidet so Mummy wouldn’t get any between her toes the next time she used it. ‘I just need to lie down for a wee minute.’
When I emerged from the bathroom Lesley mopped my brow like a nurse. It seemed like she still cared for me even though I was an utter embarrassment. I lay down for fifteen minutes, and eventually I felt well enough to return to the crestfallen kitchen scene where I slowly consumed a mini Ulster fry under Mummy’s watchful eye.
‘Sorry, that was lovely, thanks,’ I said as I cautiously set my knife and fork down vertically across the plate in a polite but firm indication that I could eat no more.
‘Sure you need a nice cuppa tea to calm your stomach now,’ said Mummy.
‘Sorry, thanks, I’m all …’ I attempted, but the cup was poured and set before me and to my surprise it did ease my nausea, though I did have to firmly decline the offer of two Rice Krispie buns and a slice of fruit cake from Ditty’s Bakery in Castledawson even though it was ‘the best fruit cake in Mid Ulster’ and I was ‘a growing boy’ and all.
Later that day as Lesley gave me a lift back to the bus stop we discussed the success of my first meeting with her family. By all accounts everyone thought I was a lovely fella, although the breakfast table incident had certainly raised eyebrows.
‘You’d better not be sick the next time,’ Lesley said.
I took this as her way of saying that her family liked me and accepted me because there would be a next time, on the condition that it be a vomit-free visit. As we waited at the bus stop Lesley drew back from a goodbye kiss, leading me to fear that I had let her down and nobody liked me and she was going to chuck me. Reading the concern on my face she explained, ‘I’m not kissin’ a bake that’s just boked!’
‘Have you got your return ticket?’ she asked.
I searched in my pockets and found only a 50p, a stick of Wrigley’s and a Greenpeace badge.
‘You were supposed to buy a return ticket, ya eejit ye!’ said my love.
‘But I’ve no money left,’ I explained.
‘Typical!’ said Lesley.
‘Oh, that’s so middle class,’ I retorted.
‘Change the record,’ she shouted.
Lionel Richie was singing ‘Dancing on the Ceiling’ on the cassette radio.
‘Well I’ve no money with me, either,’ Lesley explained, ‘We’ll have to go back to the house and borrow your bus fare from Mummy!’
She was ragin’.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said
‘Wee lad!’ sighed Lesley.
We returned to the house in Bellaghy. Fortunately Daddy was not home, having escaped to the pub after doing all the dishes. I was too sheepish to leave the car, so Lesley made a brief visit to the kitchen to obtain the required finances. When Mummy came to the back door she appeared to be laughing as if she was taking my silly mistake in a good-natured manner. But what if she thought I was irresponsible with money? This, combined with my weak stomach, might just be enough of a reason for Lesley’s parents to deem me an unsuitable suitor. Lesley was kind, and even gave me a kiss on the cheek when she left me back to the bus stop. It seemed as if my mistakes might be forgiven. But what if she thought I was nothing but an embarrassment that she couldn’t even bring home to her parents and decided to chuck me for some boy from Ballymoney with an XR3? I was insecure, so I was.
18
MR PRESIDENT
It was election time again, so it was. As a mature, intellectual adult with a socialist ideology I understood the importance of democracy. This latest election would have a major impact on the lives of many people around me for years to come, so it was vital that the right representatives were elected to the key leadership positions.
The election for the committee of the Christian Union was an annual event and as a responsible final-year student I decided to throw myself wholeheartedly into the democratic process. This was unlike any government election I had ever participated in at home. In my few short years as a voter in West Belfast, no one I backed had ever been elected. I had queued up for my ballot paper, marked my ‘X’ and posted my voting slip in the black box as a member of the population of West Belfast. Most people in my constituency voted for Gerry Adams, even though he supported killing people for a united Ireland, which was an affront to my pacifist convictions. Subsequently, Gerry Adams was elected as my new MP and he refused to go to London to sit in the House of Commons because he hated the evil Brits for all the hundreds of years of oppression and everything. At least in the Christian Union elections there was no suggestion of an armed struggle, no one tried to shoot anyone and there was a chance I could actually have an influence. Of course, as this was not a secular election it was carried out without any of the untoward competitiveness or rancor of a political poll in Northern Ireland. In the CU elections you didn’t have to promise to smash or kill anyone to become prayer secretary and none of the candidates for missionary secretary pledged to drive anyone out of the country. All proceedings were carried out with due spiritual reflection and prayer. It is true that Clive Ross privately advised voters that, until George Simpson had proved for certain that God had healed him from his gayness, it was unwise to cast a vote for him. I thought this was unfair and unnecessary, as George himself had said he wasn’t ready to take on a leadership role as he was still suffering from the depression that set in shortly after he got healed straight.
This year I decided, after much humble thought and prayer, to allow my name to go forward for election. I would simply offer myself to the membership, and if God told them to vote for me I would gracefully accept the burden of responsibility and greatness that the Lord had thrust upon me. As long as Clive Ross didn’t spread rumours
that Lesley and I were up to anything more than kissing, and provided Tara Grace couldn’t convince people that you had to be able to speak in tongues to be elected to the committee, I had a chance of winning a leadership role. I had played my part in the activities of the CU for the previous two years. I had put my acting skills to very good use, and at least here they were valued. I performed in sketches about devils and angels and I was given a leading part in a drama that compared giving away bananas to telling people about Jesus. It wasn’t method acting, but my performances were warmly received and had raised my profile considerably. I was something of a Roger Moore in the CU. I had organised the bookstall in LT17 every Thursday night and book sales were up due to my clever marketing strategies, which included a legendary performance of The Twelve Days of Christmas to advertise the twelve different books on sale on the table at the back. Growing Into Love by Joyce Huggett sold out.
Some of my fellow undergraduates were less impressed by my possible elevation to the Christian Union committee. I dared not tell Conor O’Neill or Marty Mullen for fear of total rejection. After two-and-a-half years, Marty had only just started to say ‘nay bother’ to me in an almost-friendly fashion when I asked him to swap bookings in the television-editing suite so I could make yet another music video. Conor was so incensed by the continued dictatorship of Margaret Thatcher that I didn’t want to risk upsetting him further with my possible leadership of another fascist regime. When I explained my aspirations to Byron Drake he predictably shook his head, flicked his fringe and his Guardian and turned up The Smiths on his Walkman.
‘Don’t talk to me, Tone,’ he moped. ‘You just don’t get it, do you?’
‘Don’t get what?’ I enquired.
‘Sssh!’ he said. ‘Morrissey is just pure fucking genius.’
‘Hey, what’s the craic there, Tony?’ Billy Barton asked in the canteen a few days before polling day. I was aware that Billy was also standing for election to the CU Committee, and as he was always very friendly to everyone I knew he was a possible threat. Hamilton Johnston and Johnston Hamilton were certain to vote for him. I hoped the voters had noticed that Billy was more interested in cars and cows than Christianity. I had never had a serious conversation with Billy in my life, and I was reassured by the fact that very few people got anywhere near a debate with him on justice and poverty in Christian mission.
‘I’m standing for the CU committee,’ I replied, in an attempt to gauge the mood of the electorate. ‘God willing.’
‘Good man yourself,’ said Billy. ‘Me too – God willing.’
‘Really? I’d no idea,’ I lied.
‘It’s some craic, hey,’ Billy added, slapping me on the back.
That’s one vote, at least, I thought. Two votes counting Lesley. Three votes if Aaron doesn’t have a rugby match that night. Maybe ten votes if all the Heathers from Portadown want me.
‘I’m standing for the committee, God willing,’ several hopefuls said at the best-attended prayer meeting of the year, the day before the election.
‘Dear Lord, we ask you to guide us to vote for the right leaders for the year ahead,’ prayed Clive Ross.
‘Yes, Lord,’ said Tara Grace.
‘And we pray that you will choose people worthy of the calling who are not caught up with the worldliness of materialism and the media,’ Clive canvassed.
‘Yes, Lord,’ prayed Tara. ‘And we pray that you will give us leaders who are baptized in the Spirit and are really just kinda on fire in a really beautiful kinda way.’
‘Amen,’ prayed Clive Ross.
After a few weeks of clandestine spiritual hustings, it came to pass that, lo, I was elected to the Christian Union committee. Clive Ross was not elected, an outcome he ungraciously compared to the crowd in the Bible choosing to free Barabbas the criminal and crucify Jesus the Saviour. I out-polled Billy Barton substantially, even though he was a right fella. My housemate Peter who liked guitars and prayer was also elected, which meant that our draughty house in Portstewart would become a nerve centre for student ministry. This only confirmed to Marina with the Daisy Duke shorts that I lived with ‘a bunch of Holy Joes’, which apparently was much worse than living with a mature student with a drug habit and a hygiene problem as she did.
Once elected to the executive committee of the CU this conclave of student spiritual leaders had to elect a president. This was the big job; the Pope of the Christian Union, except definitely not Roman Catholic. The president had to chair lots of committee meetings and lead prayers and welcome visiting speakers and never, ever get drunk in the uni bar. The president was supposed be a good leader and a ‘thinking Christian’ who read thick books by John Stott and understood really, really dark and really, really deep passages of the Old Testament. This election was carried out by secret ballot after a prayer meeting where God told us who to vote for. As the votes were being counted I noticed my heart was beating very fast, which suggested that I really wanted to win even though I was not supposed to covet such high rank and status. I promised God that I would stay humble if he let me win. When the result was announced, to my great surprise the committee had elected me president of the Christian Union. I was The President, so I was! I may have been just some wee lad from up the Shankill but now I was The President. I was like Ronald Reagan and Lesley was my Nancy. I phoned home from the red telephone box beside the sea in Portstewart and proudly informed my mother of my election. She said that it was lovely, so it was, but I should make sure to concentrate on passing my exams and not get distracted by too much coortin’ or ‘wee good livin’ meetin’s’.
Later, Tara Grace confided in me that God had told her I would be president. She promised me that she would pray every day that I would be baptized by the Holy Spirit so I could speak in tongues and heal people. Tara assured me that to be blessed with all the gifts of the Holy Spirit like her would be ‘really just kinda beautiful’, but I would have to give up all the hidden sins in my heart first. I was tempted to tell Tara that I hadn’t lusted after Bo Derek in the sand dunes for weeks now.
Once I accepted my calling as a religious leader on campus I discovered that I would have plenty of opportunities to practice being a blessed peacemaker. This would prepare me for making peace between Catholics and Protestants, Jews and Muslims, Man United and Liverpool supporters. My greatest challenge was to persuade all the different types of Christian not to fall out with each other, which was very difficult, as there were more categories of Christian in the CU than flavours of Tayto crisps! I enjoyed all the different flavours coming together, but some members found it very difficult to accept the other members who were clearly in the wrong about so many matters of faith and practice. The Presbyterians and Church of Ireland members got on reasonably well once they discovered that the other side was not quite as theologically unsound as they had always been led to believe. The Methodists liked Wesleyan hymns and disliked too much money, while the Brethren members generally liked money and disliked women speaking. The Baptist members knew the Bible off by heart and disliked babies getting christened. The independent house church members liked praising Jesus with guitars and disliked organs. The Free Presbyterian members were few in number because they didn’t mix with lesser Christians, but these members liked Paisley and disliked Catholics. The Catholic members were even fewer in number, and they mostly kept their heads down and hoped their priest didn’t find out that they were mixing with heretics.
But, like how everyone in Northern Ireland was either unionist or nationalist, there were two main wings within the CU – the fundamentalists and the charismatics. These two rival blocs tussled politely for dominance in all spiritual decisions in the Christian Union. The fundamentalists liked Calvin but weren’t too keen on women because God didn’t want females to be in charge; the charismatics loved the Holy Spirit but hated Halloween because it promoted the occult. The fundamentalists tried to have all the Cliff Richard gospel music cassettes removed from the book table because Cliff sang the devil’s music, w
hile the charismatics demanded a better supply of gospel praise cassettes of Cliff singing about Jesus being really just kinda beautiful. I managed to reach a compromise on this major issue by agreeing that the book table should also include a book entitled Pop Goes the Gospel which explained how evil pop music was, especially if you played it backwards and were turned into a Satanist by subliminal messages. That way people could read the book and listen to Cliff and decide for themselves which of the two was more objectionable. Fundamentalists were very worried that we were on a ‘slippery slope’ to becoming secular atheists and this generally meant we should not change anything; on the opposite side of the theological peace wall, the charismatics were always demanding more contemporary worship songs, playing them on repeat and dancing and speaking in tongues at the CU meetings.
I believed that my role as president was to be a sort of mediator between the two sides, like the Alliance Party in Northern Ireland politics. This ran the risk that both sides would reject me, but I was determined to put my peacemaking into practice. To keep both sides holy and happy, I brokered a deal: for every modern song about really just loving Jesus for the charismatics, there would be a traditional hymn about reformed doctrine for the fundamentalists. I promoted mutual respect for the decision to clap along or not to clap along during ‘Seek Ye First’, and discouraged members from judging their fellow believers on whether they raised their hands in praise or kept them steadfastly in their Presbyterian pockets during ‘Rejoice, Rejoice’. The charismatics loved the Holy Spirit as much as Jesus, and He gave them the ability to prophesy and heal each other. For some reason a high percentage of charismatics were born with one leg shorter than the other, so they often had to heal each other to make the shorter leg grow. Charismatics praised Jesus profusely for weeks after he lengthened their legs. The only miracle I was praying for was that I would be able to keep both the fundamentalists and the charismatics happy enough so they wouldn’t break apart and start alternative Christian Unions with just their own sort. If there was a split in the Christian Union during my tenure as president it would be a sign of my failure as a peacemaker. If I couldn’t keep evangelical Protestants from fighting amongst themselves, how on earth could I ever persuade Catholics and Protestants to stop killing each other? I had signed up as a volunteer to work on a summer scheme in North Belfast which would bring Protestant and Catholic children together so they could make friends and learn not to hate each other, no matter what their parents said. This summer scheme would be like the Westy Disco, but with Catholics and without the disco. It was going to be an enormous challenge for student volunteers to help children in Belfast do what politicians and paramilitaries and even their parents didn’t want them to do, so helping rival groups of believers to get along in the Christian Union would be very good practice.
All Growed Up Page 21