We Need to Talk About... Kevin Bridges by Kevin Bridges

Author:Kevin Bridges
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9781405913775
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2014-10-09T00:00:00+00:00

36

At family nights in our house or in Uncle George’s or Uncle Kevin’s, my younger cousins Mark and Gary would tell stories about things I’d done at school.

Mark was in the year below me, Gary in the year below him. My cousin Nicole was in the year above. We knew the same people, but weren’t in any of each other’s classes. ‘Your cousin’s mental,’ they’d be told, before hearing another story about me. I was proud, again, to hear my work praised.

My mum would tell me off after every story. I knew she’d found them funny, but had to save face by being seen to condemn my actions.

I’d sit trying to look embarrassed, but I’d like watching my dad laugh. ‘Don’t you encourage him, Andy,’ said my mum, keeping up the pretence.

I didn’t mind everyone hearing about what I’d done. It was only when the story was told badly or if details were missed out that I’d interrupt and give the real version of events.

Neither my mum nor my dad could deny that I was happy and popular. It was good that they’d get to hear the same sort of things they’d hear about at school parents’ evenings, in letters home and meetings with the school, but from a different point of view, from Mark, Gary and Nicole, who’d find everything I’d do hilarious. I was still promising that I’d grow up and that sixth year would be my year, my last year.

Martin O’Neill’s Celtic had gone on a European run that no one had anticipated, beating Liverpool 2–0 at Anfield in the UEFA Cup quarter-final second leg. That was the moment when everyone began to think that the current team had it in them to go the whole way and win the thing.

John had been to a few of the European away games, and I’d been saving and constantly on at my mum and dad to let me go to another one. I’d been with my dad to see Celtic get beaten 3–0 by Porto two seasons before and been desperate to go to every one since.

They’d agreed to let me go to see Celtic play VFB Stuttgart in Germany with John and his pals. But an incident involving Tony, a firework and me meant that didn’t happen.

We’d bought a packet of rockets for £2. Like everyone else our age, we weren’t buying them for the colourful display or the noise; we were buying them because we were warned not to mess about with them.

We’d snap the sticks off and throw them around, not even considering the dangers. I’d thrown one, and in a freak accident it landed in the inside of Tony’s unzipped tracksuit top.

They were only cheap rockets, but, still, I couldn’t believe it and we were both shocked. Tony was unharmed but his tracksuit was scorched. It had been his birthday only a few days before, and this was one of his presents.

I felt awful.

I went home and had to tell my dad. I don’t know why I had to tell him.

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