WHO SAYS SPANISH FOOTBALL'S BENT?

Saturday evening; on television Madrid’s stadium-quarter, lit by burning cars; police in riot gear charge and charge again; somebody didn’t like the result.

            I’m not a fan of Real Madrid. They’re one of those teams it’s fun to hate – because they’re just so fucking good. But you don’t have to be a fan to acknowledge they’re currently – since most Champions League sides figured out that if you shut down Iniesta and Xavi Hernandez you’ve shut down Messi, and thus the whole Barca attack – the best in the world. Acknowledging it doesn’t mean you have to like it.

            Real were beaten this morning by Atlético Madrid in the final of the Copa del Rey. They really shouldn’t have been. You hear about corruption in sport, about officials or players being paid-off, but you don’t like to believe it; what happened in Madrid today made our own bent horse-racing/book-making dynasty look positively saintly by comparison.

            Forget the antics of Atlético’s supporters (Instead of enjoying the sight of the world’s ... second ... best player, they shone laser-pointers in Ronaldo’s eyes the first half-dozen times he touched the ball), it was the antics of the match-officials which were truly outrageous. Some of the decisions seemed to belong to another game.

            Now, in any local derby – let alone a cup-final – you expect tension and aggression. This one was no different. Both sides maintained a frenetic pace and made tackles and challenges that were borderline-malicious. The thing is, though, that for most of the game only Real’s players were being carded – and not always for the stuff that really deserved it. Heading into extra time they had more than twice the yellows. And that’s just the most obvious aspect of some very dodgy refereeing.

            I may be cynical, but it’s hard not to think the idea was: if Real were ahead at the seventy-fifth minute, then it would be easy to quickly send-off two or three key players. As it was both Ronaldo and manager Jose Mourinho were sent to the shed during extra time – which was strange, given that Mourinho was sent the first time he ventured from his seat and opened his mouth, while Atletico’s manager spent the whole game running up and down the sideline, screaming like a mad thing. Maybe Jose sauntered over and asked the ref how much he’d been paid?

            I had an enforced break from sport for a few years while I was married. I don’t remember it being so soul-destroying. Something that’s supposed to celebrate the best in us is being surrendered to the worst in us. I’m not certain it’s all worth our attention. One thing I know – if I were a Real supporter, I’d probably have burned a few cars too.

SLINGS AND ARROWS

                                “ ... In the mind to suffer

                                the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,

                                or to take arms against a sea of troubles ...?”

Sleeping better lately. Or more at least. Sure, there are the nightmares but, to meet them, you have to actually sleep. It’s almost a nice change; like going home after a long absence.

            Big decisions ahead: stay the course, or take drastic action? Is what you’re doing working? And if so, is it working fast enough? Is your impatience justified, or will you make things worse trying to make them better?

            I never wanted to be on methadone. I’ve been on it quite a while. At the beginning you rationalise it, saying, “If I have to take it every day for the rest of my life, it’s better than the alternative”. Thirteen years later, the rest of your life seems like a long time. The alternative might have killed you by now, but are you really alive anyway (Possibly. It certainly feels that way when the bad dreams start)?

            So, to rehab or not to rehab – that is the question. I’ve never liked the idea. To me, rehab facilities and all their twelve-step nonsense have always seemed a little cultish. Not sure I’m willing to admit powerlessness in the face of an incurable disease yet, or surrender my authority to a higher power.

            That’s not to say I’m on the willpower bandwagon. As a junkie you get to hear a lot about willpower. If only you had some, you’re told, you could kick this thing tomorrow; now; yesterday. Put simply, that’s bollocks. Nobody who’s ever seen what a junkie will go through to get their gear could ever conclude that they lack, of all things, willpower.

            It may, though, be a matter of power reclaimed. Contrary to the twelve-step dogma, Heroin is not stronger than you. I’ve always inclined to the view that the only power it has over you – beyond the purely physical – is the power you surrender to it. Take that back and it becomes a jackal moping about the dark edges of your life, beyond the fire at the centre. Sure, you wouldn’t turn your back on it but, as long as you stay close to the light, it won’t come too near; especially if you clear out any dead stuff stinking the place up.

            Methadone, much as I dislike it, has been useful. It gives you time to sift through the shit in your head; to figure out how you got here in the first place; and to start doing something about it. However, its usefulness is just about exhausted. The thing about high-functioning autism is you seek comfort, control and safety in routine. A trip to the Methadone clinic three days a week shouldn’t be anybody’s routine – not indefinitely.

            I’ve just about reduced my dose to nothing. I feel like a human again. A screwed-up human, sure, but awake and aware. I’ve seen a lot of people blow it by getting impatient over those last few mils. I think I’ll suffer the slings and arrows a little longer. Tis nobler in the mind, after all.

            Check back with me in November.

ANNIVERSARY

Crisp May morning chills the ears and lips. Sun shines bright without heat. Winter is close.

A normal day.

            Bus turns the corner like it always does. Puff frantically to stockpile nicotine then climb aboard. The usual boring ride to another pointless school day; probably be gone by third period.

            A sly smoke in the vacant lot opposite the school, then up the stairs to start the routine. First bell: roll-call. Compulsory reading (One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest – far too cool to be a school book). Second bell: trudge along to music – double practical, could be fun; might stick around. Late-bell ... odd; it’s usually me who’s late, not the teacher.

            Nigel’s out of uniform. Funny guy; been expelled from every school in town – a legend he doesn’t discourage says last time was for jumping out a second-storey window; crazy (Had this routine where he stuck needles in his biceps then flexed the muscles to pop them out. Always carving or burning something into his arms. Smoked some grass with him over the holidays then jumped the fence at the Show. Watched him on this ride looked like a giant Mexican hat – the Gravitron, I think. Passengers caged inside the rim, the sombrero starts to spin, tilting steadily on to its edge. Look up when it’s at its zenith – there’s Nigel, wrong way in his cage, trying to climb over the side. Crazy).

            “Mr Pittorino won’t be in today”, barks Sheila the Hun, our Deputy Principal. “I have a class downstairs, so I’ll be keeping an ear out. Behave yourselves.” She turns on her stiletto heel and leaves, sparks ringing each step down the stairs. Things are looking up: two whole periods to play guitar.

            Alone in the storeroom, lost in distortion and pure volume. “Shit, Sam, you scared me. How long have you been there?” She’s trembling, wide-eyed. “What’s up?”

            “It’s Nigel. He’s got a gun in his bag and he says he’s going to kill himself.”

            “Yeah, sure,” Nigel’s always saying that.

            “It’s true, he showed me.”

            “What kind of gun is it?”

            “A sawn-off shotgun,” she chokes through tears. “He’s got a whole belt full of shells. Daniel, what are we going to do?”

            Fucking hysterical girls; can’t she see he’s just looking for attention? He knows she’s still in love with him. “Go tell him to bring it in here and I’ll do it for him. Fucking idiot”.

            Dismiss her with a chord. Interrupt my creative process with this shit – Jesus.

            Back to work; practise, practise, practise. Getting pretty good too, though I say it myself. Just getting back into a rhythm when, dammit, what do they want now? This time she’s got Fiona with her – Fiona’s in love with Nigel too.

            “Jason’s gone to tell the Principal about the gun. Nigel asked if he can hide it in your bag”.

            “Why don’t you hide it in your bag, Sam?”

            “I might get caught.”

            “And you’d rather I did? Get fucked. It’s his mess; let him clean it up”. The girls skitter out. Now, where was I?

            You lose all sense of time and space when you play an electric guitar loud. Swept along on power-chords and squealing harmonics, you don’t notice the door banging open till Sam run/bounce/stumble/screams through it and trips over a chair. “He shot himself! Fuck! Nigel just shot himself!”

            The guitar hits the floor thud/whine. Through the door running. Spin off collisions on the way to the music room.

            Freeze-frame: black and white infused scarlet; rusty tang of fresh blood leads stench of voided bowels. Fiona, on her knees, cradles Nigel’s head – what’s left of it. With no crown to dam it, a waterfall of blood becomes a steaming red-black lake. Rush of people in and out – mostly out. Screaming girls soundtrack a horror movie. Back away from the doorway; half-turn. Sam!

Start running – strait into Sheila the Hun. “Go into the other music room and wait”. She’s crying. No sparks leave the stilettos when she marches into the death room.

            Otherroomandwaitotherroomandwaitotherroomand ... Right. Okay. Good. Do that: go into the other room and wait; go into a psyche-ward five minutes before medication time. Wails; moans; weeping; howls; sound of someone hyperventilating; zombies walk small circles; a girl chews her hand up to the knuckles; another sucks down doses of Ventolin between sobs, eyes wild and streaming. Can’t believe he did it. Can’t take this; will go insane in here. Back outside.

            Numb surreality. Sun still bright, no heat. “Fuck”, says Gaby, who stood behind Nigel when the world went up. “Blood was pissin’ out the back of his head”.

            “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” Fiona launches, claws-first and screaming, at his throat. Rush to pull her away. She collapses, quivering – “I held him in my arms ... I held him in my arms”.

            Peripheral blue: two police walk past and into the now empty classroom. “Jesus,” echoes through the door. “He did a good job of it”.

            He sure did.