Founded in 2016, a century after the Irish victory ousting the UcK in 1916, Random Acts of Hooliganism, or the RAH, is sheer delinquency at its most cunning to the point of stunning! I was on the riproaring rampage all year long…shacked up unhappily in a highly dysfunctional family & partying my pants off & back on again in a highly successful attempt to excempt myself from misery. My diet consisted mostly of bullet-proof coffees in the AM, beer glorious beer in the PM & MDMA anytime of day or night.
Random Acts of Hooliganism became second nature to me. The hooliganism escalated sharply when I stumbled across a great big gang of juvenile delinquents on tour along the Grand Canal late one night in summer. They were hanging out on the jetty by Portobello & I was strolling by, on the tear as ever…
The lads were all stripped to their shorts or naked, taking turns to jump or be thrown into the cool waters of the canal. I stopped to egg ’em on & present company to that point quietly evaporated. Leaving me to engage wholeheartedly with 20 or so misfits & miscreants. Oh what a night!
Couldn’t remember any of the lads’ names to save my life, just one of the lass’s, Rachel, because she gave me the sweetest friendship bracelet. Shacked up at the end of the night with two 18 year old studmuffins. Really took a shine to one of ’em & he to me so he invited me to come sleep with him in his van, which he was living out of.
His best mate joined us. A bit of a big mouth but the funniest fucker there. I took on each of the guys in turn & it was one knockout after another. I shook the lads awake & took them on a naked romp around our surroundings…beautiful houses in a beautiful neighbourhood with beautiful gardens. God only knows where we were but I have no idea. Southside somewhere.
Just like that, we were thicker than thieves. A troublesome trouble-making trio. Can’t believe I’ve forgotten their names, it’s totally unlike me to forget the names of VIPs in my life. Random Acts of Hooliganism rule! And will continue to expand with Faith In The Ripple Effect.
Set Ballyfermot ablaze one night, flying solo. I arrived by bus, not knowing which bus route I was on or where that bus was travelling, brandishing a gorgeous blue guitar emblazoned with a white star. Loved that guitar! Misappropriated it from a cafe in Rathmines just a few days earlier & we were instantly inseparable.
Recognising familiar turf, I jumped off the bus opposite the shops in the heart of Ballyfermot. As soon as I landed, I knew there was mega trouble brewing inside me & that there was a need for speed…to travel light. So I left my guitar propped up against a wall on the main road, where I thought I would be sure to remember to collect it. Not. That’s the last I ever saw of that guitar…forgot all about it as the night unfolded.
Breaking & entering was the order of the night. In the wee hours, I had a whole housing estate to roam unseen & wreak havoc. Even though I was travelling light, I couldn’t resist grabbing an adorable garden gnome from someone’s doorstep. Soon I lost that on my travels.
I slipped in & out of gorgeously-kept gardens & in & out of houses just as easily. A groggy man in pyjamas descended his stairs to see what was going on in his kitchen. There I was making coffee. I offered him a cuppa but he politely declined & retreated back upstairs to his bed, leaving me to it. Trippy!
Best craic I had that night was bantering with all the taxi drivers swarming around Sinn Fein’s local office, apparently in operation 24 hours. Love it! Up the RAH!
When all was said & done & I was ready to hit the hills after a fun & frenzied night of unbridled hooliganism, I approached the nearest bus stop to hail a cab. Glinting on the ground in the light of the bus stop sat a big fat bag of could it be Charlie? I snatched the baggie up & swiftly sampled its contents. Mmmm coca! What a gift from the Gods that was! Coca pops for breakfast!
First cab driver I hailed stopped the cab after hearing enough of my spiel to make his ears bleed. Get out of my cab! Sound. Haven’t got a penny on me. Free taxi ride halfway home. Second cab driver, same reaction. Getting closer to home. Sweet! No money no funny me eyeballs! I always have the best time when I’m penniless. Magic happens & all is provided, provided i proceed lwith patience. Took ejection from a total of 4 taxis to get me home that morning. Free rides here!
How many years have I spent in psychiatric care? 6 or 7? Too many admissions to tell. Sometimes my shrink updates me on the latest figures but still I lose count. We in psychiatry are treated like lab rats. God loves lab rats. And curses their captors. I curse the practice of psychiatry as the greatest of crimes against humanity.
Give it up for the homegrown, like Kings Of Leon. That tune has the fondest of memories for me. Being escorted by 4 men in black in a spacious vehicle with a wicked soundsystem from my friends’ house in Cobh, Co. Cork back to St. James’s Hospital, Dublin. Once the car door closed, the party started. Me & my 4 escorts singing along to all the songs playing on the radio all the way to the Big Smoke. Homegrown..crooned the Kings just for me as I landed on my seat. Remains one of my theme tunes since that night.
When I arrived at the hospital in the wee hours after travelling since midnight, Nathan Jones, otherwise known as Nigel Featherstone, furthermore known as Nigel Featherstoon, was up & at it: high jinx in the smoking room! Nigel had something so important to tell me that he couldn’t quite catch his breath to say it.
I destroyed your file. He eventually uttered. Haaa. He had delayed my re-detention by a number of days in doing so. Fair play to him! Staff never figured out where my file could have disappeared to. Suckers.
Back in those days, our files were easily accessible from the nurses’ station if one was brazen enough. Nigel is the most brazen person you could ever hope not to meet! He stalked me for years after our hospital stay together. Psychic capabilites, like myself…always promises to create something of a freakshow! Nathan Jones is the world’s worst hooligan.
On our first encounter, Nigel rushed at me with a biro, shouting SPAWN OF SATAN! It appeared that I was pregnant & he was about to stab me in the belly. I was not pregnant, just full of shit. No shitting happening on a shitload of sedative medication prescribed by The Powers That Seem To Be.
Staff rushed to hold Nigel off me but there was no calming him down until I explained to him that I wasn’t actually pregnant. Just full of shit. Shit happens & then again it doesn’t on the psych ward. Laxatives are not prescribed until a patient is in need of an enema. And then they are under-prescribed. It’s all medicine to me & I know all about it through painful experience.
Nigel calmed right down & all of a sudden we became besties: partners in absolute grime. The grimy surrounds of the psych ward. Cesspit. No solution in the slightest for mental health issues. Incarceration & medication. It’s the stuff that psychopaths are made of. And I am an unclefucking psychopath if ever there was one. Innit. Up the RAH!
Faith In The Ripple Effect 