PINS - Rule Thirty-three: More Unsteady Zones

(Boy Hurt in Squirrel Attack.)

We have to keep steady in the unsteady zone, even if the Elite Units aren’t around, else we lose our pins. Remember back to other things, and draw strength from previous unsteadiness. The only way. Chin up.

None of them would listen, ooh we can’t say anything, the bosses wouldn’t be happy they said, all older, all so dopey and wet, but we said we would get up a petition, you couldn’t sleep with those terrible looms working all night, clack, clack, clack, they never stopped. But all the neighbours shook their heads. They were really numb, pathetic they were. That’s why we moved when you were two. Do you remember when I carried you out when the chip pan nearly set that prefab on fire? 

They threw me down this bloody dark hole and I had to get all the cotton fluff out of it with my hands. Moscow Mill. I was 15, the first day, covered in it and the ladder got really slippy with all the threads, mental first job that [laughs]. The women were the worst. Have some of that, the wife’s not back for ages with our Denise and we can put that Lee Perry record on, I had to write my name on all of them because they’d get nicked, but you’d take them round the college o’ knowledge, to show who’s side you were on.

Oh your poor grandad, worked to the bone, never recovered from the war, went up with the pilots in the planes, to test them, he was terrified. He was too meek and humble, second sight he had. He could see through people, see their colours, never said much to those he didn’t like, just puffed his pipe. Always polite, though. 

Wash your hands, forget about it., don’t do it again. You are only a little boy, no harm will come of it. We can’t say anything out loud, because [whispers] they’re Catholics.

Burnt the whole of the grass in the cemy, he scrubbed the soot into his face and couldn't get it out. Why don’t you like modern things? Like modern music? Can you see my bum line in these tights?

They put him on bagging duties because the junior foreman's after his girlfriend. That girl who’s always oynin’ on at you. Them tie cords, pal, they slice your hands open. Put white spirit on your palms and fingers. Only the students go in the bay to get fit, or the Christian lads who like doing the sacks, fucking idiots if you ask me, trying to be all meek and humble. Always from the hills and farms, them lads. Not like us Town drinkers. They haven’t clocked us, nearly eaten our way out of that back shipping carton of the Terrys. It’ll be too late when they find out, end of season, no grassing or I will fucking put you through the skylight. I don’t care how clever you are. And you don’t look my way in town on a neet. I don’t know you, cock. A seven crossed through in writing is foreign isn’t it?

I don’t like this, he’s in charge but he wants to sit next to me while I sing a note and I know he’s going to touch me and there’s no-one here. I can’t say anything, just put it away in my head, say I don’t want to join.

1988. More death and too much rejection. A fourpack of Trent mild, mixed salted peanuts and crisps, go to one of them new raves in the overheating mini, watch people dance round a sump pit. 

Look at me! Gossip Editor! I always thought you were such a nice lad, so kind - remember when you got me that fresh mackerel on Valentines Day? It was wrapped in paper and you brought it to the lecture, you got it from North Shields Fish Quay. I thought it was a joke but then you gave it to me and you weren't joking, were you! I can’t get over why you were so alone.  

Let’s get Panzer Leader out.

Dear you. A quick letter from moi au Londres to you in the bleak coal-and-snowbound north. I look down my legs, out of the French windows and see a procession of Cubs at the church, Methodists, but they are all under control; I just worry they might see that sculpture that looks like a form of VERTICAL TAKE OFF HOSIERY. It will mean extra shifts at the soup kitchen… It is distressing / inspiring to relate that the repercussions of the nuptials-heist-offence you indulged in are still resounding. I picture the scene amongst the newlyweds. ‘“Good,” he replied, removing his burgundy brogues which revealed a pair of calf-length rubber socks, the type which YOU KNOW WHO still denies wearing. Anyway, he peeled off his left sock, and held it at arm’s length. Grasping his pinking shears in his right hand he proceeded to cleave the item of  latex hose before performing a brief curvet.’ That’s about right, isn’t it? XYZ now has a pair of LATEX BOOTEES. I wonder what 1993 will bring?

First day, t‘butcher runs down t‘road and sez, you the new bobby? Don’t forget son, we fucking hate coppers in Bacup, always have. 

Put your hands where you want, but within reason.

Pencil sharpeners were nowhere to be seen and we made do with a fresh tub of shallot worm factory entree which was followed by nervous tension en croute which lingered on the tongue with a suspiciously lithe aftertaste of you, you, my dear old Frenz, you august brillo vacuum, you toasted gravellax sandwich course in elementary grain hoisting, we drank your health and the ensuing pheasant melee was enough to perm your eyebrows and make your remarkable fringe book a two week package holiday to Tenerife to be festooned with fecund finery and vinos macabre by the roosting ospreys of Hipperholme, the gateway to little of consequence, subsequence or thirst quenching parsonage nipple barbeques slightly flooding the oceans with Orson Welles rehashes of fey investigative journalism employed in a vain attempt at being normal, yet oddly choosing burgundy briefs from the underwear counter at Debenhams: anyway, how ARE you, up there? 

Do we have to go over the Snake Pass?  

We put melted ice cream and water from a puddle in the mini to cool it down. Nearly blew it up, on Pendle Hill of all places.  

No, right, listen to me, you’re the one that’s wrong; you’ve been on the cans, it’s a camel, not a rat, no, I’m near Rammy now, about an hour to go. It’s a camel but rats are tough, right, I give you that, and I would bet if a normal rat was in the desert it could live for a bit. No, I am near Rammy. Can you hear me? You on the cans or what? Dying, me. We passed Rawtenstall ages ago and we’re going on the motorway soon, but there’s no way a camel loses this.

An accompanying post to this Rule, with relevant illustrations, can be found in the Museum of Photocopies.