Written by Auntie Matter

Sunday, 23 August 2015


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Paddy O'Shear. Clear Memories... When Sober.

Paddy O'Shea Remembers Being Born.

Paddy O'Shea of no fixed address London decided to seek help for his alcohol addiction. He was referred to the Tony Blair Asylum for the Insanely Deluded where he underwent hypnotherapy in the course of which he was regressed to infancy and beyond. Paddy, to psychiatrist Dr. Theo Leonard's amazement was able to recount in vivid detail his life in the womb and shortly afterwards. Here is an edited transcript of the session.

Dr: You are now in a deep sleep. You are not yet born. Just tell me Paddy what you see and hear.

Paddy: Giggling. Clinking glasses. A horse neighing.

Dr: Then what?

Paddy: Grunting, cursing, obscene language. It's the ma and da when they were on speaking terms. I am being conceived... but they don't know it....yet. They think they are having fun. They are in a barn, at night. Aye, they work on a farm and it is the weekend. They were at a dance and ended up in the barn, in the hay, among the horses. The da has a bottle of poteen that he had hid in a haystack.

Dr: And that's why they called you Paddy Pharlap O'Shea?

Paddy: Aye. The things you find out eventually... eh, Doc? I can see her. Mary Mother of God, whattafuck do you think you are doing, ya drunken', dirty pig!? Ye have four hours to put me drawers back on!

Dr: Excuse me?

Paddy: No... the ma. She's pissed. Probably for the first and only time in her life. That's what she's calling out. Then everything goes dark.

Dr: What are you aware of?

Paddy: I'm aware I have a new address.

Dr: What is your next memory?

Paddy: I wake up in the dark. Voices. Commotion. Mumbling. Crying. It's like I am in a confessional. I remember it from my previous life.

Dr: What next?

Paddy: I am being evicted.

Dr: You are being born.

Paddy: That's what you call it. From my point of view, I am being hoovered, turfed out. My very first eviction. It is all downhill from here. In every sense.

Dr: Then what?

Paddy: Somebody has me by the heels. I am swinging in the air upside down. Great noises. Then whack! He slaps me on the arse. I know now the bastards mean business.

Dr: What are you feeling?

Paddy: Shit house. Why couldn't they have left me alone? I want to tell them I will clean up the mess when I grow up and they had no reason to hit me ... but I can't speak. It seems I was born guilty. I am convinced it is all my fault. The ma is praying with the priest. She has to be persuaded to pick me up. "Pray for us sinners", she is mumbling through her tears. She doesn't want to know me. Says I was born in sin. The priest shakes his head sadly, kisses his rosary and looks at me like I am the Bubonic plague. I am too shell-shocked to even cry. The da is slumped in a chair by the door his hand still on the handle. He is drunk and asleep. Nobody bothers to tell him he has a visitor.

Dr: So, Paddy you grow up a normal little kid from then on, did you?

Paddy: S'pose so. Always working and then school and more work. Work, work, work, all day every day. The ma didn't like to see me reading. Said it was bad for me eyesight.

Dr: So when did you take to the drink Paddy?

Paddy: About eleven or so. As soon as I knew what it was and where the da kept it hid.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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