Here´s a little story I wrote earlier this year:
Batter that ChatterYou wouldn’t believe the stench of the batter Jack. The customers in the queue were banging on about the stench and when the haddock really started smoking, it created an almighty stink. It was Saturday and that means football time. The away fans brought blue and white into this part of town. FA Cup 3rd round. What an exciting atmosphere. I was in a silly mood again. This was a carnival. Pandemonium mate. Nothing could go wrong. Well okay, I might have prayed there wouldn’t be an upset. Most of all, I hoped the reds would make it through to the 4th round.
People pile in to my chippy on matchday and who can blame them? A big game means big hunger. We don’t sell pies though. They’re just full of crap. I want to make fish go hand in hand with the beautiful game. Fish and chips are still traditional British food - you know what I mean? We’d ordered in pounds of haddock, plaice and potatoes, not to mention the Irn Bru and Cherry Tango for the kiddies. If we sold beer too, we’d make a killing.
Hot oil needs pumping through the fan’s veins. It’s stone cold in early January. Spirits are low after all the money squandered at Christmas. It’s a funny time of year so souls need warming. I prefer running a chippy than a pub. Not as much grief. Sure, you get more banter in the pub, but I try my best. I owned a pub and pissed away the profits but those days are over. Rather not talk about it. Jack you’re a good’un. You’re not like I was. Shame there’s only so much fish that can slide down my neck and into my gut. You can drink one drink after another but fish fills your belly right up. Fuck knows, get me another pint of smooth please matie. That funny ancient book says fish is for Friday’s but nah it’s for everyday I reckon.
The demand on matchday was huge. I didn’t want the pressure to get to me. I had a new lad called Dominic making his chip shop debut - one for the future I thought. But he forgot about some fish that was stuck at the bottom of the fryer, he must have done, he was new. As people were getting hungry, Dom was getting edgy. Sure I was excited by the football and nervous about a big upset but I didn’t want this to rub off on him. I knew what I was doing in my shop. It’s not a fish bar. It’s a fish and chip shop. I’m done with bars. Yes a mild, sorry Jack. Where was I? Oh yeah…. I could tell that something wasn’t right because of the drops of oil that flew out the fryer and crisped my skin like a piece of cod. I yelled out and f’d and c’d in front of Dad’s and sons, which I felt a bit shit about. They thought something fishy was going on. Ha.
This turned into a panic. It was doing my head in. I didn’t want to lose it like I have before. I’m not Ian Beale. I screamed at the kid. I gave him what for. I asked him what the fuck he had done. I swore in front of children. Tell you what, it’s a good job I don’t have any Jack. You know that’s what everyone around here would say. Anyway, what am I talking about? Yep, people started leaving. Loyal blokes an’ all, everyone left because of the stink and the foul lingo. I told Dominic to fucking do one. The fire had just got started at this point, but it wasn’t that bad. I took it upon myself to sort this out. I picked up the Class F wet chemicals extinguisher from the back that you need for hot oil, but it was empty from all the fun I’ve had with it in the past. Practical jokes and that. I grabbed the foam one and the powder one and filled up a bucket of water. From then on it all turned into a catastrophe.
I shot foam and powder in the fryer. Everything was madness now. Total chaos. Fish was still cooking. My pride was cooking now. The smoke alarms were sounding. I screamed as more hot oil mixed together with extinguisher foam and powder and it all spewed out of the deep fry again and battered me. I grabbed my phone. I got through to 999. I stammered. I gave details. I couldn’t nail down the right details. I got burnt some more. All hell was breaking loose as yet more oil gushed out of the fryer.
My business was on fire. My pride and joy. I didn’t want my life to go up in flames. The past was burning down. The heat of the present isn’t worth getting all philosophical about for you Jack! Anyway, no chips for the fans means no income for me and no future. This was even worse than the time when the pub had rats. No doubt it was. But then I realized I had to get out. Stupidly I just stood around, trying to fathom where the nearest fire exit was. That goes back to my days working at Kwik Save where I was the fire warden. Kwik Save went bankrupt. That couldn’t be me. So, I didn’t have a fire exit so to speak. I hadn’t planned this out. All I’d thought about was the catering side. I wanted to feed the thousands like in the old book. Home or away fans, it doesn’t matter. This could have become my second home but it was crumbling to the ground.
All the emergency services arrived apart from the coastguard. I don’t know what he’d have made of it. This didn’t enter my mind at the time of the fire but like you’ve said Jack, I’m a strange one. Funny thing hindsight isn’t it? All the emergency sirens were clashing. I tried to work out what was what, but I couldn’t do it. I forgot about the fire for a moment. It looked like a race, the fire engine chasing ambulance chasing police car. Tell you what; I don’t call them pigs anymore.
Same again please Jack. So they got there quicker than you can say ‘fire in a fish and chip shop’ which I actually did say on the phone but that took fucking forever because of my state of mind. The police wanted to know how the fire started. I blamed the new boy and then they left me alone. The ambulance wanted to treat my wounds but my adrenalin was pumping and I didn’t feel that badly burnt, though I was clearly red raw. I predicted that things would turn out alright after all. But whenever anyone asked a question, I kept fumbling my words. I tried to blame it on Dominic, but all I could do was a little nervous squeak as a bit of spit trickled down my chin. I felt dehydrated. I blame the fire.
As the firemen began to hose it, the phrase ‘ you can’t mix oil and water’ entered my head. Who knows why? Anyhow, my burns were minor. The police asked more questions and I couldn’t answer them, let alone remember them now. The ex-wife said once that I have a selective memory. I don’t even know what that means. I think the services were competing for my attention. The fire boys had it undivided. You should have seen the way they tackled that fire! This was pure inspiration Jack. If I shape up, I think one day that could be me. Ha! You’re right though; I should learn my extinguishers first!
The chip shop was one big fryer now. The fire wasn’t getting any smaller. The fish was getting a royal fry. The panic had died down, but you could still get the whiff of fish. My heart started racing and I started to feel proud again. I was hoping to cook all the fish on matchday but never like this Jack, never like this. Yes please, just the one more, you’ve twisted my arm. Yep, a pint of mild.
The red fire engine and the heat of the fire reminded me of my team. We were going to knock the blues out of the cup today. I was picturing the winning goal but the spray from the jet hose got me in the face. When I opened my eyes they were shooting foam at the shop. It looked like soap as if everything was being washed down for a clean new start.
The fire boys couldn’t get it out. There was even chip oil on the street now. It was seeping out. They called for backup. I had left my mark on the place. The smoke made me cough and splutter. I couldn’t see what was going on. I was choking. I heard megaphones saying to move back. I felt all faint. I heard a crowd of what sounded like away chants. I started to lose my balance. Stability is like a seesaw for me. Some fat shit comes around and weighs you down. Life isn’t swings and roundabouts; it’s a fucking seesaw. I only saw the blue of his scarf. The away bastard grabbed my head and shoved it in the smoke near the shop. I hit the deck and gazed up. I wasn’t out cold or anything. Just gasping for breath. He was pissed off at the game being cancelled. The local news had said there wasn’t enough emergency cover for the game. Some other fat guy in a suit punched the away fan though. I remember the pigs confronting them about it.
The news team turned up and tried to identify the cause. The panic. The confusion. I was confused too. I got up off the floor and a microphone was in my face. I tried to push it away but I had no strength. I heard football fans. Fire hoses. The fire. Walkie-talkies. Panic. Cameras flashing. The news teams. A kid’s voice asked his Daddy innocently what was happening and I felt the same. For what? I felt a pinch in my throat and I wanted it all to stop. The journalist mumbled a long question I didn’t understand. I stammered some nonsense and then raised my voice nervously looking away and screamed into the microphone whilst facing to the side:” I’m sick of you all and I’m sick of your chatter!” I turned away and got into the ambulance. I was starving though and could have murdered a fish supper.
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Betra líf by Páll Óskar Hjálmtýsson
