Read Online When Mr. Dog Bites by Brian Conaghan - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Brian Conaghan
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do-do-don’t know, really.”
“You’re not helping, Amir. It’s okay for you—your legs are like an orangutan’s; girls like seeing those, not two baldy wee twigs like mine.”
*
And then, without any strategy or an Action Jackson plan, the chance came.
Location: outside the Senior Toilets.
Activity: I’d just done my biz ( pee). Michelle Malloy was just going (hopefully for a number one. The image of Michelle Malloy doing a number two was mega distressing and a potential deal-breaker).
Heart condition: my heart didn’t have much time to think about it, but torpedoed into action as soon as I spied her.
Hands: moist.
Hair: okay. I fixed it in the bogs’ mirror, pulling it over my eyes. I was trying to get it cooler, like some of the dudes at the normal school. Twitching shifted my hair away from my eyes. No hands! One–nil Tourette’s.
She came toward me without any warning. Like an angel out of the mist.
“Hi, Michelle.”
“What are you up to, Mint?”
“Erm . . . noth—”
“Hanging around the bogs, are we now?”
“No . . . I was . . . I was . . . DOIN’ A SHITE . . . NO. I wasn’t, Michelle, honestly. I was doing a pee. I was only doing a pee. BIG GIANT SHITE.” It blasted out of my mouth. I couldn’t stop it happening.
“Okay, so you’ve done your piss, now piss off.”
I laughed at Michelle Malloy’s joke. “Piss off, that’s good,” I said.
“What planet are you on, moon man?”
“Erm, planet Earth.” I felt for Green in my pocket and rubbed him as hard as I could.
“What in the name of fuck are you doing there, Mint?”
“What? Where?”
“ There! ” Michelle Malloy pointed to the pocket where Green was. “Mint, if you’re fiddling with yourself in front of me, I swear to God I’ll cut that fucker off and shove it and you back up your mother.”
Wow! I didn’t know how she’d do that, but it sounded painfully sore for everyone involved.
“No, it’s my stone, Michelle. Look, it’s only a wee stone. See?” I took Green out of my pocket.
“You better get that fucking thing out of my face, Mint, if you want to keep your nose.”
“I was just wondering if you’re going to watch the first game of the season next week. We’re playing Shawhead. DICK-CHEWER SHITE-DOER . . . Shit, sorry, Michelle.”
“You want me to watch you playing soccer, Mint?”
“Yes.”
“Mint, I’d rather wank a sheep.”
“A . . . sheep?”
“Now, get out of my way.” She made her way to the toilets.
“BIG GIANT SHITE,” I shouted, then whooped a few times and then headed back to class in a massive daze. No Way, José was Amir getting wind of that chat.
*
We kicked off.
Ping.
Ping.
Ping.
The Barcelona of the spazzie world.
Goals galore.
A dodgy penalty decision.
Criminal refereeing.
Then it really kicked off. “ Kicked off” is a soccer phrase clever-clog people use instead of “ fight” or “ scrap .” The thing was, we were playing soccer at the time—mad or what?
It actually all started because Snot Rag (a.k.a. Terence Trower) had to dash like a crazy man into the hospital for emergency kidney stuff, which left Drumhill’s soccer team without a first-choice goalie.
Holy Moly, no goalie! What were we to do?
I came up with a quality eureka moment: tell the bold Amir to hit the sticks.
I pushed for him to get the nod because cricket skills equal catching balls at sonic speed, a top-notch asset for any goalie to have.
It wasn’t.
He was rank rotten.
Worse than rank rotten.
Pish.
Pure pish.
Pure heavy yellow pish.
We lost 7 – 4 to Shawhead. Total redneck at this level. The majority of the Shawhead team was full of proper spazzies too. And I mean spazzies who struggle to walk, so playing soccer for them was, like, a miracle. Yet they did manage to rap seven past Amir. Utter, total, complete, scarlet redneck.
It all kicked off like a Ross Kemp program.
With the score at 6 – 4 Shawhead got a butter-soft penalty. One of their
“You’re not helping, Amir. It’s okay for you—your legs are like an orangutan’s; girls like seeing those, not two baldy wee twigs like mine.”
*
And then, without any strategy or an Action Jackson plan, the chance came.
Location: outside the Senior Toilets.
Activity: I’d just done my biz ( pee). Michelle Malloy was just going (hopefully for a number one. The image of Michelle Malloy doing a number two was mega distressing and a potential deal-breaker).
Heart condition: my heart didn’t have much time to think about it, but torpedoed into action as soon as I spied her.
Hands: moist.
Hair: okay. I fixed it in the bogs’ mirror, pulling it over my eyes. I was trying to get it cooler, like some of the dudes at the normal school. Twitching shifted my hair away from my eyes. No hands! One–nil Tourette’s.
She came toward me without any warning. Like an angel out of the mist.
“Hi, Michelle.”
“What are you up to, Mint?”
“Erm . . . noth—”
“Hanging around the bogs, are we now?”
“No . . . I was . . . I was . . . DOIN’ A SHITE . . . NO. I wasn’t, Michelle, honestly. I was doing a pee. I was only doing a pee. BIG GIANT SHITE.” It blasted out of my mouth. I couldn’t stop it happening.
“Okay, so you’ve done your piss, now piss off.”
I laughed at Michelle Malloy’s joke. “Piss off, that’s good,” I said.
“What planet are you on, moon man?”
“Erm, planet Earth.” I felt for Green in my pocket and rubbed him as hard as I could.
“What in the name of fuck are you doing there, Mint?”
“What? Where?”
“ There! ” Michelle Malloy pointed to the pocket where Green was. “Mint, if you’re fiddling with yourself in front of me, I swear to God I’ll cut that fucker off and shove it and you back up your mother.”
Wow! I didn’t know how she’d do that, but it sounded painfully sore for everyone involved.
“No, it’s my stone, Michelle. Look, it’s only a wee stone. See?” I took Green out of my pocket.
“You better get that fucking thing out of my face, Mint, if you want to keep your nose.”
“I was just wondering if you’re going to watch the first game of the season next week. We’re playing Shawhead. DICK-CHEWER SHITE-DOER . . . Shit, sorry, Michelle.”
“You want me to watch you playing soccer, Mint?”
“Yes.”
“Mint, I’d rather wank a sheep.”
“A . . . sheep?”
“Now, get out of my way.” She made her way to the toilets.
“BIG GIANT SHITE,” I shouted, then whooped a few times and then headed back to class in a massive daze. No Way, José was Amir getting wind of that chat.
*
We kicked off.
Ping.
Ping.
Ping.
The Barcelona of the spazzie world.
Goals galore.
A dodgy penalty decision.
Criminal refereeing.
Then it really kicked off. “ Kicked off” is a soccer phrase clever-clog people use instead of “ fight” or “ scrap .” The thing was, we were playing soccer at the time—mad or what?
It actually all started because Snot Rag (a.k.a. Terence Trower) had to dash like a crazy man into the hospital for emergency kidney stuff, which left Drumhill’s soccer team without a first-choice goalie.
Holy Moly, no goalie! What were we to do?
I came up with a quality eureka moment: tell the bold Amir to hit the sticks.
I pushed for him to get the nod because cricket skills equal catching balls at sonic speed, a top-notch asset for any goalie to have.
It wasn’t.
He was rank rotten.
Worse than rank rotten.
Pish.
Pure pish.
Pure heavy yellow pish.
We lost 7 – 4 to Shawhead. Total redneck at this level. The majority of the Shawhead team was full of proper spazzies too. And I mean spazzies who struggle to walk, so playing soccer for them was, like, a miracle. Yet they did manage to rap seven past Amir. Utter, total, complete, scarlet redneck.
It all kicked off like a Ross Kemp program.
With the score at 6 – 4 Shawhead got a butter-soft penalty. One of their
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