You better not mess with Major Ron

Posted in Old blogger by Twenty Major on August 30th, 2005

We all know Major Tom’s a junkie, David Bowie told us so back in 1981 in his number one single ‘Ashes to Ashes’ but Ron the Barman’s cousin, who was also called Tom, was also a junkie. A proper skaghead so he was and we used to have great fun with him.

Ron used to get really pissed off with him because he was a filthy, sneaky thief who would rob from his mother who was Ron’s mother’s sister. Every once in a while Ron would call myself and Jimmy over to the bar and tell us we had to do him a favour. As Ron did us many favours like stashing stuff in his cellar, locking us into his pub and helping us dig holes for putting …erm… stuff in and countless other things, it was never a problem to help Ron out.

Once we went round to the house where Tom had arrrived home twisted out of his face and fallen asleep in a pool of his own vomit at the kitchen table. Ron had a van so we put on gardening gloves and lifted yer man into the back of it. Off we drove up the mountains, up the Mount Venus Road, parked the van, stripped him naked and dumped him on the 7th green of the pitch and putt course up there. Of course he had no idea how he got there and it took him ages to get home because he stole some clothes off a clothsline, got spotted by a neighbour and got arrested before he’d gone 500 yards.

Another time, again while he was passed out, we shaved his head, drew a clown’s face on him with permanent markers and painted him with Hammerite.

Then there was the time Ron got someone to sell him a bag of of baking soda mixed with ant poison but he got too fucked up on his own gear, passed out and some other fucker stole it off him. Worst thing he, and his three mates, ever did. Their bodies lay bloating in a flat in Drumcondra for a couple of weeks before they were found.

The best one though was when Tom’s poor mother came home to find he’d pawned all her jewellery to get his fix. Her engagement ring, a necklace that had been handed down from her grandmother, a charm bracelet and lots of other things with huge amounts of sentimental value. She was, as you’d imagine, absolutely gutted. Ron got a call from his mother in the pub that night and thunder-faced he called me and Jimmy over. He was furious and told us we had to come with him right now. He was so angry he left Stinking Pete in charge of the bar and Ron has only left his bar one other time and that’s a story I’ll save for another time.

So we went round the usual places looking for Tom. It took a while but eventually we found him in the old Pierrot snooker club on the quays. He was sitting at an arcade game and the minute he saw the three of us he tried to run away but being a fucking junkie cunt he slipped and fell on his snot. He was told to shut up and he came with us without too much trouble. We got a few stares on the way out.

“What the cunting fuck are you looking at you pricks?”, Jimmy asked a couple of blokes playing Bubble Bobble. Turned out they weren’t looking at anything.

“Where are we going?” asked Tom.

“Don’t speak”, said Ron. Tom didn’t. Ron was never a man for shitting on his own doorstep so we drove north, out past the airport and towards Corballis golf club near Donabate. Small country roads not far from the city, but it was dark, quiet and at that time of night there’s hardly any traffic. We pulled over near an empty field and Ron asked us to hold him while he had a talk to him.

And by talking to him I mean punched him in the head. He smashed his face in, Tom was spitting teeth and wailing like a banshee. Tom slumped to the ground.

“Leave him”, said Ron. We did. He didn’t though. He proceeded to boot him up and down the field. You could hear the cracks as his ribs gave way. Tom was just groaning rather than screaming though. He made some spluttery cough sounds too. Ron is not a small man either so when he jumped on Tom’s ankles they couldn’t bear the weight. Me and Jimmy just stood watching.

Eventually Ron was finished and we left him there and headed back. Ron drove to his home, gave me and Jimmy the keys and told us to lock up the pub and drop the keys back through the letter box later which we duly did.

Now, I know that all sounds like a horrible story but there’s a happy ending. Tom never took any drugs ever again.

He died you see.