A Stinko Born
It was 5th January 1982 - the day that would change Captain Stinko’s life. He wasn’t called that then but that’s what he wanted to be – Le Grand Fromage. He knew he would make the grade sooner or later and this was the day that would help make it happen.
He’d spent all night ironing his socks and making sure the name label on his y-fronts was still stitched securely. To be doubly sure he’d already laid out the two belts for his trousers on the side dresser – there was no way he was going to be embarrassed like that again. Soup was Cock-a-leekie, with the bits of cock picked out, and half a granary roll wrapped in two folds of cling-film to ensure freshness. Reaching down underneath his bed he groped around for the KitKat he’d blu-tacked there in March 1981. His mum didn’t let him have KitKats – they were frivolous, inside every red and white bar Satan lurked. If he was caught he would be punished, he knew that.
He awoke early at 12.01am and set off on foot – it was only a quarter of mile away but he wanted to make sure. He pushed past the crowd of two people that were already standing in the car park – they were irrelevant and only interested in swapping phone numbers and blowing kisses at each other. He recognised them but didn’t have time for sophisticated types, not yet anyway, but one day they might serve well as minions. One was slightly swarthy like Omar Shariff, the other had weird teeth – yes, they would be useful for his plans but there was a greater game at play here.
He bypassed the trees along the avenue that he often conversed with; he didn’t have time for their idle, leafy chitchat today, and thrust forward ever faster. Little bits of mud were beginning to spatter over his black patent shoes and a fly exploded over the front of his glasses – it felt like even if he wanted to stop he couldn’t. He was so close, he could almost smell it, or so he thought – he’d forgotten to put apply his roll-on deodarant. His shirt would be ruined now, he vomited into his own mouth. Stopping though, it just wasn’t an option – he’d sooner kill himself and so swallow he did.
He rounded the corner at full walking speed, having just completed at least 125 yards, to see two people standing by the entrance to the bird hide! There was no choice – he let out a scream like a hamster being crushed in the hands of a small child and smashed them both in the face with one fell swoop of his tripod. He could hear the sound of teeth hitting the hide door and the eyeball popped out of the socket of the elderly lady. This was no time to mess about so he bludgeoned them until the soil was stained bloody and yellow bile seeped from the holes he punched in their stomachs. It had to be done, otherwise it was all for nothing – all the nights spent crying alone to himself, hoping, wishing, yearning to be somebody and the loneliness…….he couldn’t take the loneliness anymore.
Suddenly, there it was – the glittering prize, the godhead incarnate – a Little Egret. His finest spot yet. He didn’t do birdwatching – spotting was his game and he’d spotted another one
This one was important, this one was different, this one meant he had done it - another landmark in his bird-spotting career – species number 80. This was the day when he became a real man, a true McGarry. He fell to his knees and wept, he clawed at the ground, ripping his fingernails off in jubilation and swore that this was the beginning. A sensation gripped him in those dazzled, heady moments. A feeling, almost an urge, swelled from within his y-fronts as he planned out the rest of his life in scant seconds. The rush was overwhelming, almost suffocating – the fact that he was truly on the path to greatness made it tickle down below. One day he would create misery for every birdwatcher in Northern Ireland. With his hand down his y-fronts he swore that whosoever might stand in his way he would make false testimony against. He was victorious. He was and always would be right, no matter what it cost to those around him………… ‘I am Stinko’ he whispered.