They called him God. But he wasn’t. That was a lie. True; he did look a bit like Christ had he been born in Kerry in the 1950s and, instead of taking the saviour/crucifixion route, excelled in athletics; coming 9th place running for Ireland in the Los Angeles Olympics and when too old for professional sports became a teacher. He made you want to learn and rewarded you when you did. He used to bring buttered bread rolls, hot and slimy from the local deli and give them out as prizes to students who scored well in tests. He was also fairly sound to fat lads like me on Sports Days. Most of the boys in Brigid's loved Sports Days but festively plump short arses like me looked forward to them like bowel cancer. Sometime around fifth class I had developed pre-man boy-breasts and gotten used to hearing about the big bouncing titties from Bray. The principal himself, a small meek ferret of a man, had once said to me, from the door of a classroom, - You’re no athlete. But God was alright about the whole thing. He was aware of the varying abilities in his class and while he did celebrate more than other teachers when one of his students scored or ran well in a race, he was also kind and non-excluding to those of us who were more, sort of, shit at sports and hated Sports Day. I remember the day I started to let him down. Every June the Boy's school hosted the annual summer camp with girls, yes, from the Girl's School, and one day he set up an obstacle course in the school gym. Horses (I still don’t know why they call them horses) were put in a wide semi-circle encompassing most of the hall and God had his stopwatch out timing each boy and each girl. Whoever achieved the best time got a prize and lifetime of validation. When it was my go, God blew his whistle and off I jollered and made, I would say, a marginally successful leap over the first horse. Not a bad start for a little fat fella. The second and third were not exactly ascended with skill or style or ease but I made them okay. On the fourth, however, damp at face, crack and boob, I landed on my belly, winding myself badly, letting out a little fart and perhaps some follow-through. Explosions of laughter. There were girls there, man, girls like. I looked up, groaning and drooling, saw the replays, heard the name-calls, and there he was, with his stopwatch, God, looking right at me. I slopped over the top of the glistening, grinning, hard leather monster and crashed like a salty pig on the floor. I wanted to sink, invisible, away in the nearest hole and play with pogs. So surprised I was when, retreating to the edge of the crowd, from above the clawing din of my peers I heard God's scratchy voice call out to me; - DAVID! COME BACK, BOY! YOU DIDN’T PASS THE FINISH LINE! As fast as I could I went back and crossed over the white tape at the corner of God's foot. I didn't look at him. I knew it hadn't been his fault. It had been mine. There was something wrong with me.

Cornelscourt bridge was a great spot for spitting on cars. I wasn’t bad at it but lacked the crucial killer aim and sense of timing some of my friends had. One boy in particular used to drop loads so huge that when they landed on unsuspecting windshields below looked more like a splatter of glue or bath foam than phlegm. We knew that God, who lived not far away and sometimes took the same route as we did walking home, could come round the corner at any minute; but in a way that only added to our relish of mischief. One of us would have to keep watch and if we saw him, either scatter across the bridge or, if he was too close, keep things cool and walk part of the way home with him. I would always feel a great confused sensation of shyness and complete adoration when I saw him outside the classroom – as if The Almighty really had risen, all lanky, tough and afro-curled, trekking the same squalid path as I in his quest-worn Nikeys, like any other but different; venerable, cerebral, the essence of holy strength incarnate. I wanted to run alongside him, keep up with him, follow him home and sleep in his attic. One day, after having our fun on the bridge, mouths dry after several epic spittle bombs, I – I swear– accidentally kicked a pebble through the bars of the bridge and hit the helmet of a motorcyclist below. He pulled over to the side of the duel carriageway, took off his dented helmet and screamed up at us standing stupefied on the bridge to come down right fucking now. We were trapped. The motorcyclist was blocking our way home, and turning back meant possibly meeting God and he could ask which one of us had kicked the pebble and that wasn't worth anything. It was better to have done with it as soon as we could. So down we went. - COULD HAVE CAUSED AN ACCIDENT! - COULD HAVE BEEN KILLED! - WHAT ARE YOU BOYS PLAYING AT??!! And don’t you know right then and there a Ban Guarda on another motorcycle drove past, saw us, and stopped. - THESE YOUNG MEN HAVE BEEN THROWING ROCKS, ROCKS OFF THE BRIDGE, GUARD! - IT IS SIMPLY UNACCEPTABLE, SIMPLY UN-AC-CEPTABLE My greatest fear at that moment was not that the Guard would call my mother or come to my house or that the enraged motorcyclist would sue and my father be called home from far away to teach me a lesson the manly way, no; the worst thing would have been to look up and see God crossing the bridge, look unassumingly down to inspect the astir, recognize me, and be forever let down by my stupid and senseless actions. Luckily, the bridge remained God-free. Day by day my love and loyalty to God grew and grew. My mother’s too. All the mothers loved him; still relatively young, a good role model; well-formed, fit, articulate and nurturing (more so perhaps than most of their husbands). The dads liked him too - they hadn’t had a former Olympian teach them to multiply and divide – but, I suspect, some may have harboured worries of their sons forgetting them in the shadow of such a titan. For me, there was no question; God was like a father times a million.

Then, one day, something happened that changed things. First thing in the morning, God instructed us to open our Maths homework from the night before and have it ready for him to inspect. This was a normal drill – nothing to worry about. I was sitting beside a friend, one of the key spit droppers, who happened to have the most clear and polished presentation style you have ever seen; every number curved or straightened precisely where appropriate, with just enough space between the symbols to ensure clarity without taking up too much unnecessary space. My scribble, a sometimes smudged and tangled spree of calligraphic heresy, took, let's say, more time and will to interpret. He had his way, I had mine. I was, however, anxious; none of the problem tasks had made any sense to me. My clean cut chum was better than me also in that regard. We were sitting almost at the back of the class and with God still checking notebooks near the front, I had some time. - What did you get for 3a? - What? - 3a? What did you get? - Not telling. When he came to our desk, he picked up my friend's page first. - Great work, well done. My friend was the picture of pride. School for him, it seemed, was a breeze. I used to go to his house in the evenings to do homework and he would always finish before I did. I would have to stay above in his bedroom, sitting at his old fashioned, pock-holed, two seater soft-wooden desk while he went down to watch TV or play Sonic. Whenever I finished, or gave up, I would go down and get the last scraps before my mother collected me. His parents, together since they were teens, were nice to me and took very good care of him. Every year, he had a brand new Maths book; it's plump unruffled pages had that store-fresh scent. He'd often skip ahead and do the tasks in the next chapter before the class got to it. When he showed God, HE would nod approval but gentle, humorous admonishment not to go too far ahead. God liked Maths and he liked my friend. He liked boys who could calculate in their heads without having to write anything down. He came to the other side of the desk and hovered over me. I couldn’t see him, but I could sense him, feel his breath on my neck and top of my head and hear his breathing. There was a pause, only a second or two, when all the other sounds in the classroom seemed to have the volume turned down. I then felt a large, strong hand grab the back of my shirt and pull me up from my seat by the scruff. I was shoved around the back of my startled perfect pal, over to his side of the desk and, still with my collar in its grasp, press my head face down on the desk so that my nose was on the page. A hoarse voice shouted in my ear. - LOOK AT THAT! LOOK AT THAT! NOW, LOOK AT YOURS! With his free hand, God shook my copybook in front of my face. - DO YOU SEE A DIFFERENCE?! DO YOU?! WELL? DO YOU??!! Then, just as fiercely, I was released and told to sit down. - A DISGRACE! I looked down at my page, the paper now torn and crumpled. It was a disgrace. It wasn’t even second rate. It was last place. I had been kidding myself. You couldn’t make anything out. You couldn’t read anything on it even if you wanted to. I had disappointed him again. I had let him down. I had disgraced God.

We found him by the roundabout this morning Clutching at his chest and we took warning His ragged bones and clothes were falling off him His dog was like a wolf, we could not touch him The manager of a chain store called emergency A waitress whispered the postcode in quiet urgency All the while he seemed to fix his eyes upon me And he lifted his starving finger up and at me The party asked me if I knew him I said no I don't I've never met him He began to speak but his pleas we could not understand The raving, ghostly calls of this homeless man.

Mouse is my only friend Mouse is my only friend He comes and he sees me Late at night Telling me I'll be ok He scurries and he squeaks In the corners of my room Singing me right into the day Mouse is my only friend Mouse is my only friend He hears the door unlock And he runs back to the hole Inside the wall The bad men come And they cut out all my joy Leaving me with a fractured soul Mouse is my only friend Mouse is my only friend In my old clothes And my memories I've tried but can't forget This little friend might be a patient sign That God's not forsaken me yet. He comes and he sees me In the morning light While the bad men are out cold He tells me I am not worthless at all And really it is time that I go Really it is time that I go Really it is time that I go.