The Blindboy Podcast - Covert Japes

Episode Date: September 29, 2026

An emergency short story, as I rush out the door to get to opening night of my play in the Abbey Theatre Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Get down on your hands and knees for the Cardinals' chumessent, erotic bees, you scandalous Anthony's. Welcome to the Blind Boy podcast. This is an emergency podcast. What I mean by that is, I'm having to record this very, there's noise in the background. I'm having to record this quite frantically and rapidly. Some unplanned chaos presented itself to my schedule this week. I'm quite busy at the moment. My big tour of England's Scotland and Wales, that's just a couple of weeks away.

And right now I have a play. My play is opening in the Abbey Theatre up in Dublin. I shouldn't be doing those two things at the exact same time, but it was out of my hands. So last week, I had to fuck off over to England to do some promotional work for the tour. I did some lovely podcast appearances and some interviews. It was great crack. and I'd scheduled everything perfectly. I was going to come back Thursday morning

and give myself four days, four solid days, to research and write this week's podcast. Just before I was leaving on the plane, I felt a tickle in my throat and a pain in my bones. I got hit with the flu Thursday morning and my two little kids got hit with the flu.

So I spent a good four days in the fucking trenches. wiping three noses shoving paracetam all up my hope and staying hydrated I'm fully recovered now there's a little bit of a frog in my throat as you can hear

but I lost I lost four days four days where I couldn't I couldn't research I couldn't write and I definitely could not record unless you enjoy listening to a person who's sniffling and has swollen tansils and now I find myself in the situation

I'm in right now I'm recording this on Tcheworthy Tuesday morning and I have to leave in about 20 minutes because tonight it's opening night of my play up in Dublin in the Abbey Theatre and I must go to that so I don't even have time I don't even have time to talk out of my hall for an hour and give you a phone call episode which is usually what I do when I'm incredibly stuck for time so I have to press the nuclear button this week and retrieve my emergency episode the emergency episode that I have prepared for when this type of, when this exact thing happens.

And I'm a bit pissed off because I was, I was saving this for when I'm on tour next month. I'm going to be away for two weeks next month. And I was hoping I could deploy the emergency episode. We got to do it this week. Because I will not miss a week. If I can show up, I'm going to show up. And also, if I am showing up, out of respect to the people who come here every week to listen. That's why I'm doing it.

I want to deliver quality and not waste your time. Before I deploy the emergency episode, I just want to say, so my play animals, it has been running for a week in the Abbey Theatre. Now, tonight, you're listening to this on Wednesday, which means it's last night.

So last night we'll say was the opening night. But I'm going to speak in the present tense. Tonight's the opening night, but it has been running previews for the past week. Preview shows are like the practice show, rough around the edges. It allows the director, the cast, the crew, a week to do the show in front of a live audience and then learn what is working and what isn't working once an audience are physically present in the room. And then changes get made. So tonight is an opening night, the final place.

The response from people who've seen the previews has been phenomenal. Lots of people walking away with all types of conflicting emotions and giving it at 10 out of 10. So it feels wonderful to be a part of that. And just for myself regarding the play, I've just got that feeling in my belly. You can't fuck with this. As a piece of work, it's doing what it needs to do. What everyone involved is trying to communicate and what does eventually communicate on stage, those things are congruent. It's solid as a rock. So when you have a piece of work like

that, you're in that lovely confident position of, do you know, I don't really give a fuck if people like it or people don't like it. These things actually don't matter because I can see that the work is solid. So other people's opinions are other people's opinions. But you can't really fuck with this. There's too many unique voices and too unique a vision involved. The play has It's an aesthetic autonomy. It's operating on its own terms, its own form of logic. So external judgments or taste, they're kind of irrelevant to that. They're valid, but they don't shake the work.

The work is a rock. So it's a lovely feeling to go into opening night with that and to be a part of that. Me personally, with the play, it's based on several of my short stories. The highest compliment I can give it is the director Dan Colley he adapted several of my short stories but he managed to zero in on all of the

bits in my short stories that are biographical so even though there are different characters that I've written there's bits of of me in there so the play for me to be in the audience to see it it's quite fucking uncomfortable because it feels a bit like my funeral and it feels like it's holding a mirror up to quite eccentric parts of myself that I'm a bit

ashamed about and embarrassed about and I try and get these aspects of myself into stories as a form of catharsis irrational thoughts anxieties fears I write these things into my characters because flow state provides me with a feeling a safety where I can engage in emotional catharsis getting emotions out in a safe way but when I see them up on stage isolated mirrored back to me it's actually really uncomfortable for me it's really challenging

and for a piece of work to be doing that to me that's phenomenal that is one of those things you want to do with a piece of art the thing with fucking art whatever form it takes writing, dancing painting, music

whatever the fuck you want skill talent virtuosity, being good at what you do, craft, aesthetic beauty, ogliness, discord. These are all parts of what makes art. But the thing is, how many times have you engaged in a piece of work? And the person doing it is just incredibly talented. It's a guitar player who is perfect at playing the guitar or a painter, and they're so skilled.

the painting that their painting looks like a photograph there's so much skill involved but the work doesn't hit you beyond wow that person is so talented look at what they just did the work doesn't hit you in my opinion what makes a good piece of art

is when you engage with it does some little transformation happen within you are you a slightly different person than who you were before you encountered that piece of art I mean music is a great one for that especially if you're sad or

heartbroken the way that music can help you transform and understand your emotions that that's an example of what I'm speaking about there the song itself can be ugly I mean I'm talking about the music of Nirvana there 13 years of age and I'm hearing a song like something in the way for the first time off never mind

I'm trying to navigate the new complexity of emotions and hormones that are going through my body because I'm 13 and then Kirk Cabain comes with this song something in the way. I don't really know what it's about but it helps me to understand the feelings that I can't put words to and that song is aesthetically quite poor and that song is ugly and wrong and what I mean by that is when Kirk Cabain was in the studio between songs he was lying back on a couch with an acoustic guitar that was out of tune and out of tune guitar. He was singing that song, humming it, grumbling it,

while lying down with his chin tucked into his chest, breaking every role of how you should play guitar, how you should sing. But the producer, Butch Vig, hired him and said, Don't fucking move. Stay where you are. I have to tune the guitar. Don't tune the guitar.

Stay the fuck where you are. Keep doing what you're doing. And Butch Vig moved the microphones over to him and he recorded that song lying on his back and an out of tune guitar singing in a way that the human body shouldn't sing

with his chin tucked into his chest and then on the chorus and this is what makes this song really special on the chorus suddenly cellos come in orchestral instruments instruments that use a sound that you associate with

classical music virtuosity music being done the quote unquote right way. Instruments that have no business on a grunge album, but they had to get the cellos and make the cello players put them fucking out of tune. They had to tune the cellos down to match Kirkcabane shitty out of tune guitar. That's wrong. It's ugly. It's simplistic. It's not aesthetically beautiful. There's no virtuosity. But yet the song is capable of, for me as a listener when I was 13, when I was a 13 year old teenager, it allowed to. It allowed to.

me to have inner change. I transformed. I was a different person, a different human being from before I heard that song and after I heard that song and I kept listening to it and I still listened to it today. I'm just using that as an example to illustrate the point of that's good art. It can create a sense of a little transformation in the person engaging in the art and you don't need to art doesn't have to be perfect or aesthetically beautiful to pull that off and you can have art that is absolutely aesthetically perfect and it doesn't create that feeling of change it can be boring but you can have complete virtuosity and that will create a sense of personal change listen to Stevie Ray Vaughn's version of Little Wing by Jimmy Hendrix it's like an 11 minute guitar solo

which very few people would ever be able to play absolute perfection in terms of what a guitar can do. And if you really lock into that song, it will bring about that little inner inner transformation. It did for me when I heard it, and that's why I keep listening to that song. I'm gone on a tangent now. Just while I'm here, another fucking example,

another example of how a piece of, we'll stick with music, can bring about internal transformation in the listener, while not exhibiting virtuosity or aesthetic beauty. or obeying the rules and technically being ugly. The song Gimmy Shelter by the Rolling Stones. 1966. Not necessarily the entire song,

but the female vocal, three quarters way through the song, that transcends the piece of work from being a really fucking good blues rock song. From being that to transcending into something otherworldy and cosmic. It's the vocal. Mary Clayton was her name.

She was a gospel singer, and the Rolling Stones were recording that album, 66, in Los Angeles. This is, this is when you were recording a fucking album back then, it was expensive. So it was about five in the morning, the lads were in the studio,

and they'd gotten to Gimmie Shelter. That song was emerging, it was being written. And as Mick Jagger was singing it, the lads were like, it needs something more, this needs a female vocal. They rang up Mary,

Clayton at 5 in the morning. She's in bed. They say you need to get to the studio now. We need you now. This is your only chance to do this vocal. She gets to the studio immediately, in her dressing gown, with carlars still in her hair, tired, she hasn't had breakfast, she hasn't been able to drink water. She hasn't done any vocal warm-up whatsoever. She's done no rehearsal. She's breaking every roll and then when she gets her shot at singing it's grimy and croaky and she's doing her best and at one point because she hasn't warmed up at all and she's got carlers in her hair her voice fucking cracks it cracks between notes and all of that is ugly and wrong and a professional voice coach would say what the fuck you're doing you're doing it wrong but without that one bit without

Mary Clayton's vocal and her voice cracking in that song. I don't think we'd be remembering that song the way we do. It might just be another Roland Stone's album track. Her vocals made it cosmic. They took it into outer space, into the land of flow. And you as a listener, when engaging with that, you will have a little transformation inside yourself. When you read a good book and you inhabit the worlds of the characters in that book and you begin to care about them them and you become absorbed. And long after you've read that book, memories of reading it come back as if there are real things

that happen in your life or a dream that you've forgotten about. That's because that art, that writing, has caused that little transformation, that little transformation within you. And that for me, that's one of the very important things that a piece of art should be doing, allowing the audience to experience some little transformation. They leave feeling differently from when they entered. Internal change has occurred.

That is... The play in the Abbey Theatre, Animals, does that. And I want to thank the director and the fucking cast and everyone at the Abbey, part of the production, who pulled that off. Everyone is at the top of their game. It's an honor to be a part of it. And I can't fucking wait to see it, to see the final, final

peace tonight. Is there anything I'm apprehensive about? It's going to receive reviews and the one thing I'm apprehensive about, not good or bad reviews. If it gets a bad review, it gets a bad review. Like I said, the work is so solid, I don't give a fuck. That's someone's opinion and they're entitled to that. Similarly, if someone thinks it's good, the work is too solid. I don't, I don't care. What I am concerned, I'm worried about. The play is very autistic because it's based on my writing, on my stories and I'm an autistic person who writes. But the autism dials are turned up quite high in this fucking play and it's mental. It is fucking mental.

My stories are mental enough already, but when they're all placed very closely together in a play and acted out with humans on stage in front of you, I come away from it going, is there something wrong with me? That's one of the uncomfortable feelings I get with this play. It's, is this surrealism or am I actually mental? Is there something wrong with me?

It reminded me of feelings I get when I would get anxiety and my imagination would run away and my imagination becomes my enemy and becomes the play through a bit of that at me and I had to grow myself. I'm worried that a reviewer is going to throw me.

me into the outsider artist category, which is, it's a very elitist term and it's quite offensive. It's a label that's given to the art that's made by people who might be mentally ill, people who could be mentally disabled in some way. It's closely tied with the savage art, which is art that's made from, art that, made from non-Western people, African tribes people and stuff. people who didn't receive formal artistic training. It's very, it's an insulting term. When you call something outside our art, it's like going, this is really good, but I don't think the person really knows what they're doing.

It's more of a product of their madness. Like it's good work and stuff, but we're not taking it seriously. And I get concerned of being thrown into that fucking category because I'm an autistic person. And why it's insulting is, no, I'm a fucking nerd about it. about art. I went to art college. I have a master's. That's not saying having a master's and art makes me better than anybody else, but I'm saying it's, it is evidence of serious, deep, passionate engagement with art and a capacity to be, to have criticality around what art is. So if I make a piece of work

that's good, it's like, yeah, that was deliberate, that was on purpose. It's not some autism magic. That was a deliberate thing on purpose. I'm kind of nervous about that possibly happening because the reviews for, because this is the Abbey Theatre and it's the National Theatre, it's quite arty-farty. It's fine art territory. It's reviewed the way theatre is reviewed. It's reviewed the way opera is reviewed or an exhibition of abstract paintings. It's framed and reviewed as serious art. Now it is serious art, but you don't have to be.

be in the Abbey Theatre or in some fancy gallery to make serious fucking art. You make serious art in your bedroom. What is serious art? Well, the artist is deeply passionate about what they're doing. It's not just to earn money, it's not just to follow a trend. It's to fulfil the need for self-expression. So anyone who's doing that is making serious art, regardless of the medium. My issue is with the, not with serious art, with the serious art world.

The serious art world operates on solemnity. Silemmity is the performance of seriousness. It's not to be serious, it's to perform seriousness. You know what I mean? You walk into a fine art gallery, everything is white, and suddenly you feel intimidated. And you look at the artworks and you... You don't understand them.

You feel it's not appropriate to ask questions in case you look stupid. You read the statement of intent about the piece of work. that's using words that you don't recognize and don't understand. And then you come to appreciate that, ah, this gallery, this space here, this isn't very welcoming. I feel kind of dumb. I'm scared that people beside me are going to think that I'm dumb. I don't feel welcome here at all.

I'm quite scared. I'd like to leave. That's solemnity, the performance of seriousness. And the fine art world does that. To inflate value, to inflate the monetary value of art. It's bollocks. The enemy of solemnity is humour. The enemy of solemnity is silliness, humour, comedy, having a laugh.

Now why? Because solemnity often hides absurdity. So when you start introducing humour or laughter there, the solemnity doesn't work anymore and it exposes the absurdity. What the fuck does this have to do with my play in the Abbey Theatre and my fear of reviews? I've got a plastic bag on my head. I have a podcast

Having a podcast is not very cool one of the most uncoolest insulting things you could be called today as a podcaster Now again that's bollocks too A podcast is just a space

A space that you fill it with whatever the fuck you want It's going to be difficult for any serious theatre critic Who writes in arty-farty language Who upholds the solemnity of the fine art world and the theatre world

as their job it's going to be really difficult for them to write about this play in the Abbey Theatre and then be like oh by the way it's written by this cunt from Limerica wears a plastic bag on his head and is a podcaster

and used to make novelty songs because I'm a silly cunt I am a silly cunt and I don't have a problem being a silly cunt and I can be dead serious about art while also being a silly a silly cunt. But the very solemn world of fine art has great difficulty with city cunt's can't exist within fine art because once you have that, then that exposes the absurdity. So you can't

have solemnity alongside someone being silly. What you can do is explain away my silliness by calling me outsider art. Crazy, cookie, autistic fella. Doesn't fully understand what he's doing but he does it well. So that's my fear. That's my fear. Not, not being allowed to be just a writer, just a writer who happens to be autistic. That's what I am. I understand the craft. I know what I'm doing the same as any other writer. It's just I sense the world differently. So my writing would be a bit different. Anyway, I'm talking for longer than I'm supposed to be talking because I do have to leg it for Dublin. Very soon, it turned into an unintentional phone call there. I do have something prepared for. Um,

which I'm going to play after the Ocarina pause. I have a short story, a short story that I've never read out on the podcast, that I've been saving. I've been saving as the emergency for when I'm put into a situation like this where I do not have the time to put a podcast out to record it properly.

My Abbey Theatre play is called Animals. It's going to be running for the next six weeks, I think. Go to what if you want. I mean, the reason I'm not plugging the fuck. out of it like I am what my tour over in England Scotland and Wales is it's the national theatre it's publicly funded it's not this isn't like a for-profit play so I don't have promoters breeding down my arse saying promote the fuck out of this play we need Bums and Seats that's not really what this is about this

is about funding art for the sake of art and if people show up they show up which is how art should be funded you have to fund art that's might not be popular, that might not get bums on seats. You have to fund plays where there could be six people in the audience. But the actors and the lighting crew and everybody still gets fucking paid for the work that they do because it's not a commercial for profit venture. And that's what the Abbey Theatre is, the National Theatre. But do go and see animals because I'm unbelievably proud of it and I'm honoured to be involved in it. And the best feature, of all, it's a piece of work where it's like you can't fuck with this, can't fuck with it.

You don't like it, okay, fair enough, doesn't matter. This is a rock, this is solid. And also, in the age of, the other thing I fucking adore about this, it's a piece of live theatre. You can't record it on video. You can't upload it, you can't put it online, you can't print it. You must be physically present. It's about being in the room with other people. It's about the feeling of the audience and the piece of work.

It's participatory. It will die. It will end. It will be over. And all you'll have left are memories of it that are held in people's mouths. And I can't say that about a lot of things today. Films, music, visual art. These things can be copied and printed and re-experienced.

Not a fucking play. You're either there or you're not. And when you've left, and it's not, there anymore and you're gone, you have to try and remember it. And the piece of art that I have, which is like that for me that I've consumed, was a play I saw in the Peacock stage of the Abbey Theatre in 2015 called You're Not Alone by Kim Noble, which I can't explain it to you. It was one of the maddest experiences of my life. I experienced multiple internal transformations, the big one, which is the lovely one you want to feel as a creative person.

The internal transformation of that was so good it makes me want to make something of my own which is like that and that that play that I saw You're Not Alone Kim Noble 2015 Dan Dan the director of animals

before I knew him he was in the audience too and he saw that same play and it was a conversational reference between the two of us when we were trying to envision what this fucking play up in the abbey now could be. But that's why I urge you to get up to Dublin and see the play animals if you get a chance over the next six weeks, because you're going to be left with something you can't show another person

you can only describe to them. The last vestiges of fucking monoculture and cultural scarcity. I'm going to plug the Patreon. Patreon.com forward slash the blind by podcast. This podcast is my full-time job. and this is how I earn a living. This podcast is how I have the time and space to show up each week and record a podcast.

Even though this week I'm not really doing that. This week, I did not have the time and space to show up. And I'm talking into a microphone, but this is just a long WhatsApp message. This is a fucking phone call. This isn't proper use of my time. Like, what are we, 26 minutes? I've been here for 26 minutes.

On my other monologue podcast episodes, 26 minutes could be three days but because this is listener funded that's how I have the time and space to do that and to show up to do this as my full-time job how I earn a living how I pay my bills

rent out my office purchase equipment repair equipment and replace it when it breaks listener funded independent all I'm looking for is the price of a pint or a cup of coffee once a month that's it and if you can't afford it

don't worry about it listen for free because the person who's paying is paying for you to listen for free and if you're paying you're paying for another listener who can't afford it to listen for free everybody gets the exact same

podcast the exact same experience you get the same thing whether you pay or not four episodes a month and I get to earn a living it's a wonderful model based on kindness and soundness Patreon.com forward slash

the blind by podcast gigs I'm just playing I'm plugging England, Scotland and Wales, right? Because you know about Australia off in April 27, Australia, New Zealand. It's more or less sold out anyway, but we can get to that next week. This week, I want to promote the last of the gigs that are available. This October, beginning on the 18th of October, where I start off in Brighton.

Then I'm in the new theatre in Cardiff, Wales on the 20th of October. I'd say I'll take my day... I'd say I'll take that one in Cardiff. No disrespect to Brighton, but it is a seaside town and I know from the lyrics of Morrissey. Not to, I don't want to be doing a seaside town in October. So I think I'll head on off there to Cardiff and have my day off in Cardiff. Then after Cardiff, onto Coventry, the Warragart Centre. Coventry is down to the last.

down to the last few tickets. Then the 22nd, Bristol at Beacon Hall. That one's close to sold out too. Guildford G-Live on the 24th of October. And then we have London, Barbican Hall, that's sold out. And then up to Glasgow on the 28th for a sold-out gig in the pavilion. The 29th, Gateshead. Last week I referred to Gateshead as T-Side.

I'm sorry I found out that it was Tyne side. I don't think I've ever encountered a place where, very politely, that people are doing this in a very nice and polite way, but the people of Gateshead, I think they feel overlooked, overlooked or overshadowed or ignored by their proximity to Newcastle. And they're very, very quick to assert their independence and identity. as being Gateshead and Gateshead being a specific thing of its own. And I'm actually quite fascinated by that.

So if there's any recommend some good Gateshead guests who can speak to me about that specifically. I'm going to finish the live podcast tour then in Nottingham, in Nottingham on the Theatre Royal. Okay, let's have an ocarina pause. You'll hear an advert for some bullshit. The ocarina pause is so you don't get suddenly startled by an advert. That's why I put it in.

So I actually recorded 30 minutes of a... I recorded 30 minutes that I was not supposed to do at all. And now I'm kind of late. I'm going to play now the thing that I had fucking prepared, which is... It's a short story from my last book, which I haven't put out on this podcast. It's a short story called Covert Japs.

I like the short story, but it's... It's the one story that feels slightly out of place in my last collection, topography, Hibernica. The thing with it, this isn't a particularly literary short story. There aren't much emotions or themes bubbling up underneath the surface. This story doesn't have a deep unconscious. It's not a story that you could pour over or analyse. But what it is, it's a piece of entertainment.

What I found with this story is, any time I put this one on, I always play it to the end even though I fucking wrote it it lends itself very well to be read out to the audio medium and I think you're going to really like this there's nothing this isn't challenging

there's nothing difficult emotionally I don't have to give any content warnings what this will do for you this is going to give you a nice peaceful half an hour where you can disappear into another person imagination. And regarding the themes I was bringing up at the start of this podcast, this story,

I don't think this story brings about personal change in the reader. This is just pure entertainment using the craft of writing. It's what it is. So look, I'll catch you next week. I have to leg it. I have to leg it to go up to sea opening night. Next week I'll be back. I have the hot take.

I knew what the hot take was going to be for this. week's podcast. That's one of the reasons I chose not to even attempt it. One of the things that I really tried to avoid doing with this podcast is that if I do have a hot take, if I have an idea, I want to give that idea enough time to research it thoroughly so that when I deliver it, it's complete and I'm not listening back afterwards going, fuck, I wish I put that bit in. Look, I'll be back next week, Doug Bliss. This story is called covert japs. It's from my last collection, Topographia Hiburnigna. 1964

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Not many cars over the road. A white RTE news van drove past. The estate behind the shopping centre has its problems. There must have been another shooting last night. I rang the number in the advert a few times yesterday, but never got an answer. I received a text back with this address. I was told to go to a pub

called the Imperial Bar The Imperial Bar The Imperial Bar. The Imperial Bar is a pub you only hear about. You wouldn't go in there. It's not dangerous as such, it's just that It's a pub stuck into the backside of the Southside shopping centre Which isn't much of a shopping centre.

Well, it had been in the 90s but the recession tore the whole off it. All shuttered up except for a discount store in a place that sells mobility scooters to the elderly. I wondered if this was a trap. When I shut the car door, I heard the rattle of rust between the panels. My 500 euro would be better spent than a no jalopy.

I walked towards the entrance of the pub. The facade was cladded in this Celtic tiger cream veneer. Fake carved wood all blistered. A Guinness poster in the window with the top half bleached by sun. Who drinks here? Why? Secret alcoholics? Accountants having affairs? I stuck my car key out between my fingers just in case.

This would be a great way to rob me or murder me in fairness. Who in the name of Jesus is selling a 1964 Hoffner base for 500 euro? Those things could go to auction for six grand, easy. This has to be a trap. There'll be a lot of boughs with baseball bats inside the pub, and I'll deserve whatever happened. deserve whatever happens to me. I'm a right idiot for agreeing to this.

I felt an instinct to turn back, but the curiosity had the baiting of me. There was a relief when I saw the security camera pointing down at the door. It had the flashing little red light. At least if something terrible does happen to me, I know that I'm being recorded entering the bar. I fixed my hair when I imagined the footage playing on TV

and one of those missing persons shows. and I considered turning back once more fuck it I went to knock on the door but it had been unlatched it was dark inside except for the frosty glow of a fridge behind the bar top

the pub wasn't open yet harp Guinness and Bulmers the Holy Trinity we show Sky Sports on the wall beside the old TV okay not too bad upturned chairs resting on wooden tables

and the sourness has spilled bows and the cheesy bleach bang of a bad mop. There was the reassuring bite of pine and lemon from a fresh urinal cake too. The place can't be too bad if they're topping up the urinal cakes. Hello, I said into the blackness. A much older man who looked to be in his late 50s a marred from the men's toilets and said pure sprightly, put across that latch behind you. I'll be with you now in a minute. Pick a table for yourself. You'll have a coffee you will. I will. I wail. I said, that'd be lovely. He was no punter.

He had the movements of a person who worked here and was opening early to meet me. He came around from the bar with a cup of milky instant coffee in his right hand and placed it down on my table. There you are now. He walked back up to make his own cup. I sipped the bitterness cafe

and took in his appearance. There was a bit of length to the back of his haircut. The type of deliberate length that lets you know it used to be longer in his youth. Doc Martin's shoes under light blue denim jeans. Matching denim shirt, red wine silk waistcoat and a dainty little silver earring. This was the uniform of a man who'd been playing in bands.

A long time. Probably does the odd wedding or corporate gig and moonlights in this pub to supplement his income. Flexible hours, never too busy, makes sense. This was definitely a fucker with a bit. base to sell. I was certain of it. I relaxed. No one was getting their head kicked in this morning. The man sat down opposite me and raised his coffee up to his lips. He told me his name was Jerry and asked if I'd like to see the bass. I'd love that, Jerry. Have you got a close by? I said. He reached behind with one hand and carefully placed a guitar case across the table. A battered

looking old leather thing, pocked, with stickers from bands and festivals and destinations. Fender, Arnie Bell, Chris Rhea, Van Morrison, Ronnie Scots, Glastonbury, I Love New York. There was no fake in that. That guitar case had earned those stickers. This was legit gear. And my heart began to race with the excitement. Can I see it? I asked. Hold onto your horse is no lad. I'll only open this case for the right person, he responded. He said it like a da With his right palm down on the case Guarding it like a bag of fish supper

And he continued As I said in the advert I'm not looking to make a fortune I know well how much this can sell for online But some things are worth more than money What's important to me here Is making sure it goes to the right person I heed my jocks down at that point

I got foolish I started trying to impress him I lost the run of my telling Jerry that I play in wedding bands, that my hope is to move to London, get some session work. I own a Fender Mexican jazz bass, but a real Hoffner is what will take me to the next level and get me the good jobs. I told him that my style is rooted in the more town warmth of James Jamerson, blended with the complexity of Victor Wooten, but I also had a deep respect for the simplicity of Paul McCartney's more melodic playing.

And I wouldn't dream of replacing the pickups or anything like that. I keep her as she is, I said. I'd taught myself up beyond my ability and I'd be fucked if he asked me to demonstrate anything in the instrument. But Jerry wasn't impressed or phased. He had the way of a man who'd heard this chat too many times.

He snapped at me a bit and said anyone can learn to play the bass son. What I'm looking for is the person who was spiritually mature enough to own it. And this is when shit started getting weird and I wondered if there was a fucking bass inside that case at all. Let me tell you a story

about the man who owns this bass. Jerry said. The man who owns this base nearly had a record deal with EMI in 1983. His band were called Furious Moonlight and they toured two dates with Cajigogo

in Denmark. There was a six-month period in Limerick City when you couldn't enter a men's toilet without hearing someone say Furious Moonlight will be the Irish flock of seagulls. John Peel almost aired their demo tape on BBC Radio One, but the IRA bombed Woolwich that weekend and that fucked it all. The record labels went cold. The crowds got smaller. It's a cruel old bullocks of a game, lad. The Furious Moonlight fell apart, but the reputation carried enough weight that he got gigs as a stand-in bass player

for other bands, a session head, a job he wouldn't wish on a convicted pervert. Touring as a bass player is like a party with no beginning and no hint, which might sound glamorous to a young lad like yourself, but you have to go home to your own bed at some point. Hotel rooms and corridors blared into a pargatory of roadies and sound engineers.

The rush of being up on stage in front of an audience that you haven't earned is as dangerous as any line of Chang. It's an artificial buzz that you end up chasing through other means. Before long, he was shelving wads of coke up his own winker on tour buses. Let me tell you about the man who owns this base. The man who owns this base once lit a cigarette for Kate Bush. She held eye contact too, and he would have been in there if he only had the gumption to make the move.

He still thinks about it in the red heat of night time. The man who owns this base? He watched Stingfall headfirst into a Ban Marie of Hot Strugganoff in the catering tent. He helped Axel Rose find his lost sunglasses backstage at Glastonbury. He toured with the house Martins. Aztec camera. Gary Newman. Fucking prefab sprout. He saw it all.

But the lights were too bright. He grew fond of the drink and the dandruff. His rhythm went arseways. He fucked up a couple of gigs for Martin Kemp and was demoted to be in the guitar test. He choned the base, kept the strings fresh for another man to live in the spotlight. Aw was the runner up. Never stood on stage again, but he still chased the rush of it. He toured with the crew and that the band, and he toured until he lost the feeling of having a home. Train stations and airports became his home.

He could tell you the colour of the carpet in Luton Airport on 19th March, 1993. It was purple with yellow squiggles and triangles. And he can tell you that because that's where he had his last drop of the demon drink. He'd been on a 70-hour Paddy's Day Bender while working Jason Dunnivins between the lines tour. Newcastle brown ale it was. He can still taste it now. His sweat was like the condensation on the back of a fridge and it smelled like a bin. Earlier on he'd wept into a woman's own in W.H. Smith.

Dangling off the devil's bell end he was. The drink and the sleeplessness and the hangover had all mired into one river of misery. He lost himself in the carpet with the Luton Airport bar and decided how he was going to die. He would get on his flight, wait until the plane got a bit of altitude and opened the emergency exit. He'd jump out somewhere between Derby and Manchester and bollocks to anyone else who got sucked out with him. Rockstar's death. He figured he'd get one last rush from the descent before his corpse penetrated. the attic of someone's house.

And when the Tanai called out his flight number, he finished the pint and accepted his destiny. But something glinted at him from beyond the sadness. He saw a sign beside the airport toilets that said, Multi-faith prayer room. People of all persuasions walked in and out with a look of peace and contentment on them. Multi-faith prayer room, he said to himself,

I wonder what goes on in there. Now, the man who owns this base wasn't religious in any shape or form, but he was definitely pining for the peace and contentment that he saw in those faces. He sensed a force drawing him towards the multi-faith prayer room. It took him away from the airport bar and he walked inside. Oh, heavy on the feet, mind, after all the drink and the coke. He might have done a shart earlier too. and the multi-faith prayer room

was sparse a beige carpet and a smell of car fresheners and there was no crucifixes or nothing like that but there was a stained glass window with a light bulb behind it that was it a neutral space for having a chat

with whatever God you wanted take your pick pure silence you'd nearly forget that it was an airport three other people were in the room each locked into different forms of prayer. There was a Christian on her knees

with her hands out, a Muslim fella, bent over a bit of carpet and a Buddhist meditating with his legs crossed. The man who owns this base had forgotten how to pray. He didn't even know which God he should be talking to.

In his body swayed with the drink and his movement distracted to other people from their prayers. They could probably smell him too, and a Christian woman opened her eyes and stared at him in judgment. He considered turning and leaving. He began to panic, with the old rotten memory of stage fright. But a piece suddenly washed over him though, a sensation of falling back into a powerful set of trusting arms. He received a vision, a vision of a bass string wobbling on the fretboard. The wobble of the string

reminded him of the movements of a maggot. He replicated this movement with his torso, rotating his hips and allowing a pulse to travel from his feet to his hands. He crawled around the carpet of the multi-fate prayer room in a sequence of rhythmic wiggling thrusts.

He moved. Moved like he was plucking out a song with his limbs. The timing was odd. It had the two-four of a Basanova, but with the quarter-note What of a begwin, you know what I mean, Led. It lasted for several minutes.

He was experiencing divine ecstasy. All the truth of the universe sang in his head. The Muslim, the Christian and the Buddhists stopped their prayers and observed him on the floor. In pure reverence and awe, and when he'd finished, the Buddhist kneeled down, asked him which religion he belonged to, what prayer or ritual he'd just partaking in.

And the man who owns this base, the man who owns this base didn't know where these words came from, but his mouth started moving regardless. And he told the Buddhists that he worshipped the maggot. The three stood looking with their jaws open, waiting for him to tell them more. He began to ask all three to describe heaven. They each told an account of a beautiful open place,

filled with sunlight, trees, Bard song. Sounds gorgeous, he said. So he asked him to describe hell. They all spoke of punishment, death and decay. I don't like the sound of that place, he replied.

They did those superior religious chuckles that you hear at an AA meeting. He got up from the floor, paced back and forth, feeling the confidence that a lead singer would have, and then he asked them, What would heaven look like to a maggot? They had no answer to this.

So he repeated it. Somebody here, somebody here, tell me what heaven would look like to a maggot. No response again. He reported back to them gently that they had all described

a vision of heaven that was perfectly tuned to the needs of human life. Sunlight, birds, open spaces, but to a maggot that eternity would be a vision of hell because maggots

experienced their vitality in the darkness and rot of corpses. If you could ask a maggot what its idea of eternal bliss is, it would describe a land littered with cadavers and decay. A maggot's heaven is a human's vision of hell. So somebody has it wrong, he said,

and I reckon it's us humans. We've created a selfish bastard vision of heaven, and that's why maggots show up when we die. They're not eating us. The maggots are informing our corpses that we got it all wrong. but by this time we're silent enough to listen. It's too late.

So that's why I worshipped the maggot. The three onlookers, they asked him how long he had worshipped the maggot. He was honest. He informed him that he had just witnessed the one true religion being revealed to him by God. The Muslim, the Christian, the Buddhist immediately dropped to their knees. They begged to become his disciples. And he accepted them as his disciples. They all wriggled.

like maggots on the floor of the multi-faith prayer room and out over the tiles of Luton Airport past the gift shop. He missed his flight to Glasgow, and Jason Dunovan could get fucked at this point. His disciples asked him why the maggot was worthy of their worship and he told them it's because no life on earth can escape the maggot. You could be Axel Rose, he said. Kate Bush, Martin Kemp,

and the maggot would still visit your body when you die. maggots don't care about record deals or whether John Peel played your demo tape Jason Donovan is equal to a dead rat in the eyes of the maggot but if you can submit to the inevitability of the maggot's mouth

you will know true humility in life and he wasn't even sure what that meant but it made sense to him and his disciples agreed he added that maggots move in the shape of a sine wave he used his finger to draw a wriggly sine wave in the air, because the sine wave is the shape that a perfect bass note makes when it moves through the room. Musical mathematics is the language of God, because it transcends the limits of words

and is understood universally by our bodies. Music is the maggots of the air. The ex-Muslim agreed with this. They got up off the floor and sat up the airport cafe and drank those gigantic 1990s cappuccinos that were all foam and no coffee. He explained to his disciples that there were three stages to a maggot's life cycle, the egg, the pupa and the fly. What they had all witnessed in the multi-faith prayer room was him wriggling out of his pupa stage and transcending into the fly stage. The ex-Buddhist was pleased with that explanation. The ex-Christian was skeptical. She asked what their sacrament would be. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a guitar plectrum, held it with both hands and swallowed it. There's your sacrament, he said.

the ex-Christian fell to her knees and worshipped his Doc Martins, renouncing Christ in that very moment. His disciples asked how they could all transcend their pupa stage and become flies. He told them that they would need to save humanity by teaching as many people as possible about this new religion. We should buy four tickets in the next flight out of Luton Airport, he instructed. It was a flight to Micahans. The ex-Christian paid for it. She was a minted yank. so he and his disciples boarded the plane.

The plan was to hijack the plane by taking control of the intercom because this was the gig that would make or break them. They would use the intercom to explain the urgency of the maggot to the other passengers. Then he would open the emergency exit and all four of them

would sacrifice themselves to the wind. But they wouldn't fall to their debts. Instead, divine intervention would cause translucent wings to grow from their backs. They would then buzz around the airplane and wave at all the passengers inside and every passenger on the plane

will have witnessed a miracle the plane will land safely by the next morning the miracle will be reported by every newspaper in the world it was a solid fucking plan lad and his disciples were sold on it the plan went tits up of course

about eight minutes into the flight the man who owns this base rushed for the emergency exit and pressed down on the red lever that man manually opens the door. It swung out violently. The wind was something shocking, but the cabin hadn't been pressurised yet, so no one got sucked out. It was just awful loud and windy. He tried his best to tell the passengers about his religious beliefs, but nobody could hear a word, and they were all screaming too. He got stage fright. It wasn't working out the way he'd

planned in his head, so he jumped and regretted it immediately. His left hand grabbed the plane door. He was dangling outside the fucking airplane, holding on until his fingers went white. He didn't dare look down. His disciples chikened out. Within seconds, the ex-Buddist and an air-hust chest crunched the door shut on his left hand. This actually saved him from falling to his death, but he stayed, hanging from the outside like Hitler's bollock. It wasn't painful. Pain isn't too much of a concern when you're in a situation like that. Then the wind picked up, stuck into the fuse a ladd like a fly on a swatter, in and out of consciousness. The plane turned around and made an emergency landing at Luton Airport within six minutes. Fair play to the pilot. A fire

crew and an ambulance were waiting on the runway. The paramedics could not believe that he had survived the ordeal. A miracle they called it. It made the papers all right, but not one of the darky rags reported on his message or his spiritual revelation. The other passengers only heard the accent and the IRA got all the credit again. Of course. He spent the next year in hospital with broken ribs and one side of him in bits. His left hand was mangled by the plain door and it had to be amputated at the wrist. My eyes darted around the Imperial Bar, searching for a hidden camera. Jerry recounted the entire story with a straight face in one take. He definitely told it a few times before. But if he was an actor,

he was a fucking good one. My instinct now was that this was a prank. Maybe one of the lads had set me up and planted that advert in the newspaper knowing well I couldn't resist

a 500 euro Haftner bass. Before I could even open my mouth with a response, Jerry brought his left hand up and slammed it down on the guitar case. The hand was peach in colour and made crudely

out of rubber. It was solid and heavy like a hand you'd buy in a joke shop. His middle finger bent at an angle around his wedding band. Now, lad, you can see why I'm setting this base, he said. There's two things I haven't done

for the past 30 years. I haven't had a drop of the demon drink, and I haven't played the bass. Do you mind if I use the jacks, Jerry, I said. Over beyond to the right of the bar, he said. I targeted my stream of piss at the urinal cake.

I pushed with force and budged it from left to right. It gave me a feeling of control over my thoughts. My piss was yellow and I watched it swirl green down the drain when it hit the blue cake. The fresh smell of tile at pine rose up at me. I wasn't thinking about the base, I was thinking about the maggot, because the maggot religion made a lot of sense to me. I wondered if I had been chosen by a higher power.

I considered getting down on the tiles of the jacks and wriggling out towards Jerry in pure devotion. I snapped out of that delusion fairly quickly because I was not. Because who in the fuck goes to the Imperial Bar at 8 in the morning and comes out joining a new religion? Not me. I walked back out to Jerry and sat down. We need to start chatting about the base, no Jerry, because the traffic will get wicked in about 20 minutes. But I do have one question that's killing me.

What happened to your disciples? I did a stint of rehab after hospital, spent a year in a wheelchair. I questioned everything that happened in that multi-faith prayer room. You can't trust in an episode. like that after a decent bender. I was interrogated relentlessly by English police, of course. Am I five too? Asking about my politics. They lost interest when I kept bringing up the maggot, though. As for the disciples, they visited me one by one over the years that followed. They had stayed in contact with each other. I got a sense that they were embarrassed by it all, embarrassed

to have allowed themselves to be overcome by the ecstasy of it. The Christian told me that it had felt like a one-night stand that she regretted. They had all returned to their respective religions, too. But what brought them back to visit me was a respect for my faith, the fact that I'd actually gone ahead with the plan. Each of them tried to convert me over to their religions, but I refused. I'm sticking with the maggot, I told them. There was a sincerity in how quickly Jerry answered my question. It threw me off. His eyes had a truth in them. So you've no disciples anymore, Jerry? I asked him. Well, that's what brings. us here son. I'm a one-man religion, solo, like Martin Kemp. The man who will own this base must carry

the message of the maggot forward to the people. The man who's going to own this base must prove his spiritual maturity to me, and you're the first person to make it this far in the test. Jerry then used his good hand and clacked the latches of the guitar case. He pushed open the cover. There she was, smiling up at me. A 1964 Hoffner violin bass shining like it was hanging from Paul McCartney's shoulder sunburst finish solid maple neck

22 fret rosewood with dad inlays and original Hoffner 511B staple pickups This was the real deal My mouth went dry with desire But as Jerry lifted the neck with his right hand He stroked the body with his left hand his rubber fingers made a squeaking sound against the varnish and they bent at the tips

the big ridiculous peach hand poked out of his denim shirt it just didn't look like an actual medical prosthetic it was a joke shop hand it did not convince me somebody was having me on here but i was hungry for that base jerry took a big swig of his nest cafe and said forget the money lad i'll give you this halfner for free if you become the next disciple of the maggot He made the shape of a sign wave in the air with his rubber finger and told me that real bass playing happens in the soul and that in the hands. I felt a hint of fear gripping me and I asked him.

And how exactly do I become a disciple of the maggot, Jerry? A bit of a mad look arrived in his eyes and he goes, abstinence and sacrifice son. The man who inherits this base can own it, but he can never play it. I have a butcher's block behind a bar and a sterilized cleaver. I'll do it in one swipe. Just below the wrist. We ring an ambulance in advance,

and they'll have painkillers and all that. With a clean wound, you'll be right in two weeks. Then we'll bury the hand under an oak tree and let the maggots purify the flesh. I didn't fully take in the severity of what he just asked of me, and I responded instantly.

But Jerry, if I've only one hand, then I can't play the base, even if it's mine to play. And now you understand the pure truth of existence, you're definitely the right man for this, he said. Give me a moment to think about this, please, Jerry, I replied. Take your time. I've some bits to do behind the bar. I'll come back in a few minutes. There's no pressure here. This is a big decision, lad. You're free to walk if you like.

I lean back in the chair and start doing some serious detective work in the silence of my own head. Colombo shit. I put a few pieces together and began to figure out exactly what was happening here. Last night, when I inquired about the advert for the bass guitar, that TV program Covert Japs was playing in the background of my apartment. It's that hidden camera show that's on RT2. The fella with the quiff presents it. It's not for me, but it's a good laugh if you're a fucking idiot. But they travel all around Ireland and get actors to prank members of the public

by placing them in ridiculous situations. They dress up as traffic wardens or pretend that there's an alien invasion happening. that type of shite. But then at the end, just when the mark is about to lose their rag, the TV crew jump out and reveal that it's all a big joke. Smile for the camera, you've just been covertly japed, they say. The lights turn on, hugs and laughs, lots of clapping. The member of the public always wins a prize too. Then the credits roll down the screen. Ha ha ha. Here's my evidence. Firstly, Jerry is clearly an actor. wearing a costume. His story about his band and the prayer room is too far-fetched to be true.

Hanging off the side of a moving airplane, didn't happen. He delivered it to me in one straight take, like a script that he had rehearsed. Then, the way he revealed his fake hand at the end, felt perfectly timed for laughs. There was probably a camera zoomed in on my face for my reaction to that. Secondly, who drinks in the impede? Bar. Fucking nobody drinks in the Imperial Bar. It's always empty because it's a pub at the side of a dead shopping centre. Last summer, I did a temp job as a runner for a TV company. After the pandemic, shut down all the live music. I hated it, but I did learn a thing or two about making TV. The Imperial Bar is exactly the type of place that is quiet enough and cheap enough for an RTE crew to

hire out and fill him in for the day. Also, TV shoots start very early, so that's where we're here at 8 in the morning. And that's why I saw the white RTE van drive past on the road earlier. They're obviously down from Dublin for this. Thirdly, his fucking hand. It's a joke shop, rubber hand. If he actually lost his hand, then he'd have a convincing medical prosthetic, not that peach yolk that sounds like a dildo when he slaps it on the table. that's the silly prop the hero prop they call it in TV language

its purpose is to make me look like an Egypt on telly if I believe that it's real this whole pub is obviously rigged with TV cameras but they've done an amazing job at hiding them and that is what is happening here it's all coming into place now

if I play along the crew will jump out hugs and smiles and then they'll present me with that vintage 64 Hoffner as the prize. Boom, not a bad result for a Tuesday morning. So I got into character and said to Jerry, I'm ready to become a disciple, Jerry. The revelation that you had in the Luton Airport prayer room has convinced me to worship the maggot. I'm not afraid. And the actor who played Jerry couldn't believe his luck. He was beaming. Are you sure about this? There's no going back,

son. I've never been more certain about anything before in my life, Jerry, I responded. He me up towards the bar and said, Could you give me some help lifting the butcher's block? It's a two-hand job. Now that line was clearly written into the script as a sex pun. Take it easy, Jerry. I'm here to buy a base, not to get a wank. They'd probably beeped that out, but I couldn't resist. I lifted the butcher's block up and laid it across the bar top.

It was heavy. Jerry reached for the old landline on the wall and dialed 999 with his rubber finger and said, I need an ambulance at the Imperial Bar. the Southside Shopping Centre, there's been a very serious workplace accident. Please, come quickly. He's bleeding heavily. The phone probably wasn't even connected. I made a face like I was terrified. I'm a natural performer.

So I chattered my teeth too. I could hear the canned laughter in my head when the camera cuts to my face. And if I do a good enough job of this, who knows? I could get booked to play a few more weddings. RTE is decent exposure like. he started laying down tea towels and the floor underneath the bar. No point in making a mess, he said. I opened my mouth really wide in shock

and bulged my eyes out, playing up my reactions for the camera. He took out the cleaver and grabbed it in his right hand. From where I was standing, it looked like an actual butcher's cleaver rather than a fake prop. But this meant that the crew would all jump out for the big reveal just before he pretended to bring it down on my hand. When you're ready, roll up to. the sleeve of your left arm and place it down there on the block.

Grab a hold of the bar top to steady yourself with your other hand too. I'll have time to move behind you if you faint. A head injury isn't part of the bargain. I did as he asked. And I practice a look a surprise in my head. There was one detail that niggled at me though. Covert Japs wasn't the type of TV show that had a six grand Hoffner violin bass in the budget. It didn't seem like a prize they'd give away.

The prizes were usually gift vouchers or a week. week-end at a spa in Wicklow. Jerry raised the cleaver high above his right shoulder and I held out my wrist.