Paperboy (20 page)

Chapter 19
Winners

T
he day of the Lord Mayor's Show had finally arrived. Our eagerness in anticipating this event was second only to the excitement that had led up to the day of the now legendary Bay City Rollers concert in the Ulster Hall. In spite of my ongoing concerns about Sharon Burgess and the allegations of the wee millie that Sharon fancied my big brother, today I was consumed with hope for a great victory for the members of the Westy Disco.

The Lord Mayor's Show was an annual event, with a big parade through the centre of Belfast past all the bombed-out shops and the City Hall. Hundreds of people came out onto the streets to watch all the colourful floats, and there was music and dancing, as well as prizes for the best entries, and no rioting. It was a bit like the parade on the Twelfth of July, except there were fewer flags and less drink, but more girls and Catholics.

This was not the first time that the members of the Westy Disco had entered a float for the Lord Mayor's Show. The previous year, we had dressed up as
The Wombles
for our float, and we had been awarded a ‘Highly Commended' rosette for our efforts. My mother and Auntie Emma had spent weeks making Womble suits from old sacks and cotton wool. We had all dressed up and got onto the back of a lorry to sing ‘Remember You're a Womble' around the streets of Belfast. I had been given the part of Tobermory, which I thoroughly enjoyed – until, after hours of singing and dancing, my Womble suit got very hot and itchy. I endured this unpleasantness by imagining that I was an actor inside a Dalek on
Doctor Who
– as opposed to a boy inside a sack on the back of a lorry in Belfast. In spite of all the discomfort, it had been the best time ever. Children had waved and cheered at us all day long, and there had been a photograph of us in the
Belfast Telegraphs
I delivered. The whole carnival experience had left us hungry for more.

When Uncle Henry had got the letter inviting youth clubs to enter this current year's Lord Mayor's Show, he immediately brought it to the attention of the whole of the Westy Disco, during a short lull between Boney M and the Brotherhood of Man, and all those consulted were unanimous. We definitely wanted to enter the competition once again – but this year we were far too grown-up and cool to be Wombles. This year, we wanted to enter a float as the Bay City Rollers! We had to come up with a colourful banner that reflected the theme of the show, which was ‘Rebuilding Belfast'. So my father came up with the slogan: ‘BCR: Build, Construct, Renew'. My da was a very clever man, you know.

We soon got to work with all the preparations. It was a lot easier this year, because most of us dressed like the Rollers anyway, so there was no need to make special costumes for us. Our major task was building and painting a stage and banners to put on the back of the lorry. We used paint that my father had borrowed from the foundry and some wooden panels someone said had fallen off the back of another lorry. Belfast's emporium of fashion, John Frazer's, kindly donated sacks of tartan fabric fragments, and we painted and hammered and sewed until our creation was complete.

On the day of the show, our float was resplendent in tartan and packed full of tartan-clad teenagers in parallels on an unstable stage, singing Rollers songs at the tops of our voices. Five very lucky members of the Westy Disco had been chosen to be the Rollers themselves. Unfortunately I was passed over, just in case, following my starring role as a Womble the previous year, anybody thought my parents were guilty of favouritism. This was outrageous, I felt, because I would have made a far better Alan than Philip Ferris, who just kept saying as per usual that everything was ‘ballicks'. Heather Mateer, with breasts, was chosen to be Les McKeown and Irene Maxwell was Derek. I thought this was even more perverted than Patricia Thompson's recent triumph on the stage at BRA as Huckleberry Finn, and I was amazed that Reverend Lowe did not even attempt to intervene. Worse still, Titch McCracken was picked to be Woody and I was so jealous I had an urge to kick him. (It had never occurred to me that I might ever want to kick Woody again.) But I relented when I saw wee Titch on the day, still wearing his too-tight pinkish parallels, as I assumed he would be in enough pain already without an assault on his shins by the only pacifist paperboy in West Belfast.

However, apart from my righteous anger regarding these two major injustices, I had been looking forward to this year's Lord Mayor's Show to the extent that I had almost forgotten the poisoned words of the wee millie about Sharon Burgess and my big brother. Sharon Burgess was a dancer in the Rollerettes, and my big brother was Eric Faulkner on guitar – I had been keeping a close eye on them, like 007 trying to catch out a double agent, but as far as I could tell there was still no spark between them.

On the day itself, we were brilliant! My father had rigged up the turntable and speakers from the Westy Disco on the back of the lorry and had somehow plugged them into the engine battery, and so the Rollers were blasting out up and down Royal Avenue and all around the City Hall. I had taken out my brace and left it at home because I knew I would otherwise have great trouble pronouncing the lyrics of ‘Summer Love Sensation'. The crowds were smaller than the previous year, in case there were car bombs, but those who were there cheered and waved at us, especially all the teenagers in parallels.

It was amazing! We sang ‘Shang-a-Lang' and ‘Bye Bye, Baby' a million times until our throats were hoarse, and we waved our tartan scarves until our arms were aching. It was a Saturday, and I had the
Belly Telly
and the
Ulsters
to deliver that night, so I alone had to be careful to pace myself to ensure I would have sufficient energy left to carry out my professional duties later on.

After we had encircled the City Hall, we went with all the other floats up to the Lagan Embankment, where everyone parked in long rows to wait to be judged by the Lord Mayor and ladies in hats who were full of eager ‘ings'. This stop was timed to coincide with lunchtime, so that everyone could get off their lorries, go to the toilets and have a pastie supper and juice from a wee chip van, before doing their very best performance for the judges. Last year we had been highly commended Wombles, but this year we were determined to be winning Rollers.

Once our lorry was parked on the banks of the Lagan, we also had the opportunity to dismount and check out the competition. You couldn't see the other floats during the parade, because they were either in front of you or behind you, but once the lorries were all parked together beside the river, you could walk up and down and assess your biggest rivals. We strolled up and down, admiring all the big fancy floats made of polystyrene advertising banks and businesses, but it was the other youth clubs in our category that we were most interested in. There weren't very many youth-club entries in the Lord Mayor's Show because young people weren't allowed out much in the Troubles – so we were in a very strong position.

Heather Mateer, obviously still on a high from being Les McKeown, finished her pastie supper first and grabbed my big brother by the tartan scarf, saying, ‘C'mon and see who we have til beat this year!' My big brother went along with Heather without question, and I duly noted that this did not appear to cause any upset to Sharon Burgess. Irene Maxwell followed close behind the others, tartan scarves trailing from every limb.

‘Heather Mateer fancies him, ya know,' I said slyly to Sharon, ‘but he's only interested in Man United and girls that do gymnastics, so he is.'

There was no discernible response to the trap I had set. Sharon Burgess just continued dipping her last few chips into the residue of salt and vinegar on last night's
Belfast Telegraph.

Me and Sharon would follow shortly, but we had to wait around for Titch because he had spilled brown sauce from his pastie supper on his pinkish parallels. A crowd of wee lads dressed as pirates on a float from the Shore Road had immediately pointed at his trousers and started shouting, ‘Bay Shitty Rollers!' I had never seen Titch looking so scundered as he ran away to look for a toilet where he could try and clean up his trousers before the judging commenced. A few minutes later, Titch emerged from the crowd, all traces of the brown sauce removed from his parallels. However, he had used so much water to clean off the stains that now his trousers had a huge wet patch in all the wrong places! The pirates from the Shore Road reappeared from the crowd straight away of course; this time they pointed at Titch, shouting, ‘Bay Pissy Rollers!' Poor Titch was so humiliated that he ran over and grabbed one of the pirates and told him that if he didn't shut up, he would kick him so hard he would be ‘floating up the f**kin' Lagan in a bubble'. Then, just as this drama was unfolding in front of us, Heather Mateer arrived back on the scene, out of breath and bearing tidings of great import.

‘We're up against the Belfast Girls' Gymnastics Club!' she screamed, ‘and they're miles better than us, and your big brother loves them and … you'll never guess who is doing DJ for them!'

‘Where are they?' shouted Sharon.

‘Follow me!' screamed Heather, jumping up and down excitedly. She was once again in severe danger of splitting her parallels. This could be even more embarrassing than the last time for her, because she still had to be Les McKeown up on a lorry in front of the Lord Mayor.

We all ran along the Lagan Embankment for ages, knocking over a wee girl's poke and tripping over several Petra-like labradors. Eventually we arrived at the site of the very impressive float of the Girls' Gymnastics Club. My big brother and Irene Maxwell were standing transfixed, gazing at the wonderful sight before them. I noticed, however, that they were looking in slightly different directions. The gymnastics girls were wearing sky-blue leotards and were dancing gracefully with ribbons and hoops to Demis Roussos and ‘Dancing Queen'. It was truly international! My big brother was almost drooling. It was pathetic. He was watching the gymnasts even more closely than he would have watched a football match with Man United. He had never seen so many gymnastics girls in one place before. I have to admit, it soon got my attention too. It was like watching a mini
Miss World
, only on a lorry in Belfast.

I was beginning to enjoy the fact that there was one gorgeous wee girl that looked a bit like Farrah Fawcett-Majors – when suddenly I remembered that I was standing beside my girlfriend! I turned to Sharon quickly to pretend I had no interest whatsoever in the third gymnast on the left at the front, and I noticed she was looking upset all of a sudden. She wasn't paying any attention to me or the gymnastics girls, however. Sharon was staring at my big brother, and I could see jealousy written all over her face. Her lower lip was quivering, like when she had failed her Eleven Plus, but this was even more serious. This was the sign I had been watching for but dreading. My girlfriend was clearly upset to see my big brother fancying so many gymnastics girls, because she fancied him herself even more!

Sharon spat out her chewing gum like a real millie and said, ‘You'd think none of youse wee lads had ever seen a wee girl in a leotard before!'

Then Titch McCracken announced the devastating truth, ‘You're just jealous, wee girl. Everybody's saying you fancy Tony's big brother and he doesn't fancy you back!'

I looked at Sharon sadly, while Titch looked at me sheepishly. Sharon looked away guiltily, but my big brother just kept looking at the gymnastics girls lustfully.

The truth was out! I was ragin'! I immediately regretted all the tip money I had spent on ‘Love Is' cards for my girlfriend. I kicked myself for being so stupid and buying her Donny Osmond pyjamas for Christmas from the Club Book. I still had another ten weeks at 39p to pay!

‘What's eatin' you, wee girl?' I asked sensitively.

‘Wha?' Sharon replied, as if I had interrupted a dream.

‘What's the matter?' I repeated.

‘Ach nathin'!' she said stroppily. ‘Leave me alone, wee lad!' she shouted and walked off towards the Westy Disco lorry all on her own. I let her go.

‘You only went out with Tony to get near his big brother, ya wee millie!' Titch called after Sharon.

‘Shut you up, Titch, ya wee glipe,' she shot back. ‘You can fancy two people at the same time, ya know!'

I knew this was true. I fancied Agnetha and Farrah Fawcett-Majors at the same time. But this was different. It made my bad heart feel sore.

I had never seen Sharon Burgess like this before. She had never once been nasty to me before, even when I had pinched her bum the night we went to the Stadium Cinema to see
Jaws
and she had screamed louder at me than at the shark. But I wasn't stupid. Maybe the wee millie girl at the jumble sale had been exaggerating, but I now knew for certain that Sharon Burgess fancied my big brother! It wasn't fair, because she was lovely and I wanted her to be my own personal Olivia Newton-John. And my big brother preferred football to girls, and he preferred girls that did gymnastics anyway! It would never be the same between Sharon Burgess and me after that day. Our relationship was doomed. I accepted that we were not destined to be a for ever couple, like Agnetha and Björn from ABBA, or Princess Anne and Captain Mark Philips. It was over.

Then, just when I thought the day could not possibly get any worse, I noticed who Irene Maxwell was staring at so intently. Standing at the very front of the Belfast Girls' Gymnastics Club float, arrogantly doing DJ – with a dozen gymnasts in leotards looking up at him longingly – was no other than Trevor bloody Johnston. I thought he was supposed to be in Bangor!

‘Oh my God!' shrieked Irene Maxwell. ‘Look!! It's Big Jaunty and he's still as lovely as ever, so he is, and he still looks like David Cassidy, so he does!'

I suddenly had an urge to hijack this lorry and drive it into the river Lagan, where Trevor would get electrocuted by his microphone cable, after which I would remember I was a pacifist and do mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on all the pretty gymnastics girls.