by Chris O’Dowd
His little jelly legs were turning to slop.
‘Well, at least you’ve earned your weariness tonight, buddy,’ I noted.
‘What do you mean, Sean?’
‘You’re proper man-tired, Martin. This isn’t like that time your noggin got knackered by trying to think of words that rhyme with orange. It’s not as if you’re brain-tired, like some swot. You are body-tired, like an Olympian.’
‘I’m like an Olympian?’ the boy queried.
‘Martin, you’re a schoolboy holding down two jobs during a recession*. You’re on course for a silver medal at life. You deserve a nice sit-down. Now go in there and bathe in the oozing respect of your family.’
‘You really think they’ll ooze respect on me, Sean?’
‘Of course they will, buddy. You’ve been out there standing toe to toe with the real world, sizing each other up like a pair of insecure boxers.’
‘You’re right, Sean. This is a new era, the era of the employment Olympian. Me.’
‘Totally,’ I agreed. ‘That couch is your podium, so go watch some telly like a champ.’
Martin nodded determinedly and strode into the sitting room, to find his three lazy sisters sprawled out on the couch like beached seals.
*RECESSION - a period where normal folk have less money because rich people spent it after they broke into the nation’s piggy bank to play bingo
‘Where have you been, fish-stink?’ snorted Sinead, shattering our hopes.
‘It’s Fish-Guts/ Martin corrected her. ‘And if you must know, I’ve been slaving away at the fish factory. Like a proper workman. A man of work. Not like you ladies of leisure.’
From an armchair Liam called, ‘You got a job at the fish factory? I thought you were working at the butcher’s.’
‘Oh, I still am, Dad.’
Liam looked confused as Martin perched on the arm of his comfy chair like a tipsy grandmother. ‘Hey, I know you like having one job, Dad, but that’s just not enough for me. This body lives to work. So now I’ve got two jobs!’
‘Ol’ Two-Jobs Moone, that’s my boy!’ marvelled Debra, stepping into the room with her hair held high in a towel.
‘Why d’ya need two jobs, ya flute?’ Trisha snapped.
‘Because I’m twice the man of any normal man!’
‘Now hold on a minute,’ Liam started, before a little kick from his wife shushed him.
As Liam turned to protest, Debra leaned down and whispered, ‘Don’t discourage him, love - remember a few months ago when he was digging up the garden like a demented mole and having arguments with an imaginary clown? Two-Jobs Moone is a lot better than Mad-Mole-Boy Moone.’
Liam nodded sadly, remembering that when it came to his only son, it was important to keep expectations low.
Martin stood up, his confidence growing.
‘Ladies, you probably won’t understand this, but I’m body-tired. I’m sure ye’ve spent the day fussing over knitting or baby crosswords or whatever and that’s fine. But my man-form is worn out from all my hard labour and now I’d like to take my rightful place as king of the couch.’
The whole room stared back at him, unmoved.
‘So . . . if ye wouldn’t mind evacuating yourselves from my comfy throne, turning the telly over to MacGyver and allowing me some quiet time, I’d thank you kindly.’
As Martin waited for the girls to move, their facial expressions began to change from confusion to amusement. It seemed his demand wasn’t even being taken seriously enough to draw anger.
Just as a collective giggle of rejection surfaced, Liam cleared his throat and muttered, ‘Seems only fair.’
‘What?!! You’re joking! Shaddup, Dad, just shaddup now!!’ the girls squealed in unison.
‘A working man does need to relax,’ Debra added, to their dismay.
‘Are you mad, Mam?’ Fidelma yelped. ‘Dynasty* is about to start.’
‘Now, now, girls, ye can watch Dynasty another time. Your brother is no longer digging up the garden and chasing clowns, so he needs our respect before he goes mad again.’
The girls looked to their parents in turn, searching for some sense of reason on their tired old faces. But Liam and Debra were fresh out of logic that evening and motioned for the TV remote to be handed over.
‘This is so unfair!’ yelled Fidelma, throwing the remote control at her brother. To his own surprise, after a little fumble, Martin actually managed to catch it.
*DYNASTY - a popular American TV show where posh women would argue over had the fanciest shoulder pads.
‘Sorry, ladies. It’s a man’s world.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ Sinead snarled back.
As the lady seals flopped from the couch to the floor, defeated, Martin sighed deeply and switched channel in triumph.
Seeing this, Liam and Debra shared a look that suggested uncertainty about their new strategy.
As Martin happily hummed along to the MacGyver theme tune, his three sisters glared at him, clearly eager to take their baby brother down a peg or two.
‘Wow . . . you’re working so hard,’ said Trisha sweetly.
‘Yes, Trisha, I sure am. But a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.’
‘Must really take up a lot of time, all this manliness,’ Sinead added.
‘My day is indeed stretched thin, Sinead, but where there’s a willy there’s a way.’ He giggled.
The girls shook their heads at this. It was clear to me by this point that his sisters were up to something, but Martin was so engrossed in MacGyver’s exploits that he failed to spot it. Then Fidelma delivered the knockout punch to my dozy Olympian.
‘It’s so amazing that you find the time to do your homework too.’
Martin swallowed hard. ‘Homework?’
The mood in the room shifted. As smiles crept across the seal faces of his devious siblings, Martin felt his parents’ eyes burrowing into him.
‘Up!’ ordered Liam.
‘But, Dad, MacGyver’s in danger—’
‘Martin - Homework - Now!’ his mother clanged.
Suddenly dethroned, Martin’s shoulders sagged as he slopped off the couch and trudged off towards his room.
‘Don’t worry, buddy,’ I said with a smile. ‘Every prince has to deal with pesky peasants.’
Martin shrugged, resigned, but before he’d even reached the sitting-room door, Sinead had snatched the remote and turned the TV back to Dynasty.
Sensing his moment had come, Liam proffered, ‘I don’t suppose I could watch . . . my water-colouring programme now?’
‘NO!’ barked the ladies.
‘Man’s world, my flippin’ foot,’ he grumbled to himself quietly, and slunk off to eat some biscuits in his workshop.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
PRINCESS MARTINA
If there’s one thing Irish people love, it’s old sayings. ‘Red sky at night, we left the oven alight’, ‘A finger on your hand is worth two on your foot’ - that sort of thing. But the one that always confused me the most was ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’!
Now, I’m no ‘saying scientist’. I’m barely even a mumbling expert. But does that basically mean that all the worst stuff in hell - fire-breathing sharks, lava lizards, torture trampolines - is nothing compared to a grumpy girl?
If so, then this was worrying, because Martin and I happened to share a house with three grumpy girls. And after his little ‘man speech’ and ‘Dynasty-interrupting’ the previous night, they were feeling most definitely scorned.
The next morning, Martin’s sisters decided to put an end to his newfound manliness - through the lesser-known art of a ‘Revenge Makeover’.
Martin was in bed, fast asleep. And as he lay there, his stupid little face was being gently graffitied. The three girls loomed over him, quietly working away with a selection of eyeshadows, lipsticks and blushers.
‘Wake up, Martin!’ I hollered. ‘You’re being beautified!’
But all the extra work at the f
actory had made him even dozier than usual, and he continued to snore away. He’d snoozed through his alarm clock, as well as his mother’s morning yells, and was now paying the price for his sleep-fest.
It was seven minutes to nine, and Martin’s eyelids were painted an emerald green, his cheeks glowed with rouge* and his lips were a glistening pink.
*ROUGE - a kind of blusher used to redden the cheeks, often worn by old people so that no one mistakes the for a corpse.
‘That’s enough eyeshadow, Sinead,’ whispered Fidelma.
The girls were careful not to apply too much make-up, because if they did, then everyone would know that this was their doing. And that simply wasn’t evil enough for them.
‘We’ve got to doll him up just the right amount,’ whispered Trisha, ‘so that it looks as if he’s done it himself.’
They all cackled at this.
‘Oh, you people are the worst!’ I wailed.
‘Enjoy school, Princess Martina,’ whispered Sinead, as they gave him the finishing touches and then slipped away like serpents, slithering off to their school.
‘MARTIN!!!’ I roared. And finally he stirred.
‘Flippin’ balls!’ he squealed, gaping at his alarm clock. ‘It’s six minutes to nine! Why didn’t you wake me, Sean?’
‘Into the bathroom, buddy! We’ve got a lot of scrubbing to do—’
‘Oh, I’ve no time for a wash today, Sean! And no time to imagine you either. I’m late!’
‘What? But—’
POP!
I vanished.
And suddenly I was no longer in the Moone home, but instead found myself in the Imaginary Friends’ break room.
Soothing music was playing quietly and a few of the IFs lay in hammocks nearby, having power naps.
‘Martin! Imagine me, you fool! You’re in great danger!’ I called.
But nothing happened.
A friendly ogre in a tuxedo wandered over with a tray. ‘Cup of rumble juice and a foot massage, Mr Murphy?’
I paused for a moment. Well, if Martin was too stupid to imagine me, then what else could I do?
‘What the heck,’ I said, kicking off my shoes. ‘Give me the works, Keith!’
I sat back and he began to pleasantly pummel my feet.
Martin filled me in later on what happened. I’d hoped that his fancy face might go unnoticed, but sadly that wasn’t the case. As he hurried into school, the weirdness began right away.
‘Hey, beautiful!’ came the first catcall.
‘Eh. Hey. . . Alan,’ replied a confused Martin.
As he jogged down the corridor, a boy began singing at him. ‘Do you really want to hurt me?*’
* ’DO YOU REALLY WANT TO HURT ME?’ - a pop song sung by Boy George, who wore lots of make-up and sometimes dressed like a girl, but called himself ‘Boy’ so he’d never have to queue for the ladies’ toilets.
Martin gave an uncertain nod. ‘Yes, a strong tune, Tommy.’
There were more weird whistles and confusing calls of ‘Ooh la la’ before finally Martin rounded a corner to find the friendly face of Padraic.
‘Morning, Agent M double-0 N E.’
‘Padraic!’ exclaimed Martin. ‘Why is everyone acting so weird?’
Padraic rubbed his pudgy chin, pondering this deep question. ‘Well, Martin, we’re at the point in our lives when adolescence and manhood are fighting for supremacy in our ever-changing boy-vessels—’
‘I mean, today! interrupted Martin, ‘Why is everyone acting so weird to me today?’
‘Oh. Probably cos you’re wearing make-up,’ said Padraic with a shrug.
‘WHAT?!’
Martin bolted to his locker and whipped open the door, gawking into a little mirror that he normally used for ‘snot checks’.
‘Argghhhhhhl’ he screamed.
‘All right, Madonna?’ sniggered the Bonner brothers as they sauntered past.
Martin covered his face in shame.
‘I kinda like it.’ Padraic smiled pleasantly.
When Martin finally got a chance to wash his face, he scrubbed it so hard that he even removed four of his freckles. But that didn’t stop the slagging - the catcalls kept coming all during lunch break.
‘Hey, good lookin’!’
‘Nice lipstick, dipstick!’
But Martin tried to ignore his idiotic classmates, focusing instead on Operation Fish Factory.
‘So what new information have you got for me, M double-O N E?’ asked Padraic.
‘Well, Mr P, you’ll be glad to hear that I survived some tough questioning yesterday, and I’m now a fully fledged fish-factory fella. I’m even on the payroll!’
‘Really? They’re paying you?’
‘Well, not exactly. But I can have all the sherbet I can eat.’
‘They told you that?’
‘Well, not exactly. But I can have all the sherbet I can steal.’
Padraic looked concerned. ‘Look, M double-O N E. We all like sherbet. None more than me, with its strange fishy tang. But don’t forget you’re on a mission here. We need intel. Facts. And, also, some of that sherbet.’
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ Martin assured him. ‘I’ve got my Fish Detective Field Report Number 2 right here!’
He whipped out his copybook and scanned his notes.
‘Ah yes. This is great,’ Martin began excitedly. ‘So the break room has a vending machine. And if you whack it really hard in the top right corner—’
‘It opens some kind of secret passage where the fish-gutters are hiding?’ interrupted Padraic eagerly.
‘Eh, no. Even better! It gives you a free bag of Skiffles!’
Padraic rolled his eyes in frustration. ‘Skiffles? Sherbet? You’re supposed to be finding out about the fish-gutters!’ he snapped impatiently. ‘Who are those guys? Where are they from? Dig deeper, Agent Moone. Follow your fish nose, keep your eye on the prize and you’ll be well rewarded.’ Padraic glanced around secretively, then handed Martin a bag of meat bits.
‘Oh. Thanks, P.’
‘Trust me, there’s a lot more where that came from,’ Padraic murmured with a wink.
‘Where did it come from?’
‘My locker.’
‘I thought so. It’s really starting to stink up the corridor.’
‘I know. It’s awful,’ agreed Padraic. ‘I really need some kind of a cooler box.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE WALL
‘Flippin’ sisters!’ grumbled Martin, as he trudged down the country lane on his way home from school. ‘I can’t believe they sabotaged my face like that, Sean. All because of my cursed love for sleep.’
He stopped to wave his fist at the sky. ‘Curse you, Sleep!’
But then he sagged again. ‘Ah, who am I kiddin’? I can’t be mad at Sleep. I should be mad at you, Sean! Didn’t you know I’d get make- upped if I didn’t get wake-upped?!’
At that point, he realized that I wasn’t actually there. ‘Sean?’
He looked around.
‘Wait a second. Have I just been talking to myself this whole time?’ He slapped his head and chuckled at his foolishness. ‘Hahaha! I probably looked so silly there . . .
‘SEAN!!’ he yelled out.
Suddenly I was wrenched out of the warm Imaginary Friends’ break room and - POP! - I was plonked on to the cold, damp road beside him.
‘Oh. Hey, buddy,’ I said, trying not to show my disappointment. ‘How was school?’
‘Worst Wednesday of my life! Hey, where are your shoes?’
I glanced down and realized that I’d left them with Keith. ‘Oh. Er . . .’
His eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘Have you been getting a foot massage?’ he snapped accusingly. ‘Honest to flip, Sean, there I am, getting publicly mocked, while you’re off getting a pedicure!’
‘Well, I’ve got to do something when you’re not imagining me! And that ogre fella has the hands of an angel.’
‘Unbelievable,’ muttered Martin, and walked o
ff in a huff.
I hurried after him in my bare feet, hopping over puddles and pointy pebbles.
‘Hey, buddy - any chance you could imagine me some shoes?’ I asked hopefully.
‘No problemo, Sean,’ he called back.
POP!
‘Aw balls,’ I muttered, as I wobbled after him, now wearing a pair of red stilettos*.
‘But, Mam, they put make-up on me!’ complained Martin to his mother.
Debra was sitting on the couch watching TV with her friend, Linda, who was enjoying her usual afternoon pick-me-up - a bottle of Chardonnay and a packet of cigarettes.
‘Ah, they were probably just trying to spruce you up a bit,’ offered Debra.
‘Spruce me up? They turned me into a laughing stock.’ protested Martin. ‘Can’t we just evict them, Mam? Think what we could do with that extra room. We could finally put in a sauna!’
*STILETTOS - ladies’ shoes with very thin high heels. These were for people who find walking way too easy and want it to be more like a death-defying circus act.
‘Look, Martin, if you just got up a bit earlier and washed your face, this never would have happened. So just get up earlier!’
‘But—’
‘Hush, Martin,’ interrupted Linda, ‘We’re trying to watch the information box.’
Martin looked at the TV. It was showing a huge wall with lots of people climbing on it, trying to smash it up.
‘What’s this wall programme?’
‘It’s the news,’ replied his Mam. ‘It’s about the Berlin Wall*.’
‘Knocking down a wall - is that news?’ he asked. ‘Sure any eejit could do that.’
*BERLIN WALL - a big wall that was built in Berlin to keep Germans apart from each other. They say that good fences make good neighbours, so East Germany must have thought that building a giant wall with barbed wire and armed guards would make them the best neighbours ever.
‘Do they not teach you about this stuff in school, Martin? This is historic. It’s the end of Communism* in East Germany.’
