I Ain't No Expert

I Ain't No Expert

In 1980 I travelled to West Germany, but I didn't go on a whim. Earlier that particular summer I'd been sitting in a pub on South King Street in Dublin's city centre. King's as it was called was one of those dimly lit places where a fella could hide away, but at the same time it was just about bright enough to make murder difficult... if you get my meaning. I'd been in the same public house the Saturday before – and the Saturday before that. In fact, you could say I was becoming a creature of habit.

I enjoyed my Saturday morning pint and my attempts to resolve the Times Simplex crossword, ineffective as those attempts usually were. I remember one Saturday in particular being stuck on a stupidly simple clue... eggs on... five letters... naturally I wrote toast. Yes, dopey, but I blame the Guinness. Worse than that, it became my nickname, yup, “here's toast.” Actually the answer was “urges,” but that's another story for another day.

Back to Germany. So, I've leapt from my bar stool to begin my travels around Europe. Jumped right out of that comfort zone before I became ossified, paralysed, even fossilised. I didn't want to become one of those sad fuckers who felt aggrieved if some gobshite had the temerity to occupy their personal space at the bar... You know the sort of thing - “I wouldn't sit there... That's Declan's seat.”

It was to be a one way ticket sort of trip. Bag on my back big as myself and packed in that perfect way that such a bag will never experience again.

After many and varied adventures I found myself working for a building chemical company in Frankfurt. So, I'm here at last, here on my first morning down on my hands and knees. Yes, I'm kneeling in an Olympic sized swimming pool – not swimming mind you, but painting the grout between the tiles. I'm applying a noxious clear silicon solution to prevent further loss of the ageing grout. A brain achingly, slow, soul destroying task where we were warned not to get a smidgen of this dangerous fluid on their precious ceramic tiles.

By lunchtime on the second day they warned us that progress was too slow and we would now be working on a linear metre basis – paid only for what we done. We groaned... and then groaned again when the fucker told us what the rate was to be.

I sweated... I beg your pardon... perspired, (6 down, 9 letters) as I tried to apply this evil sticky damn fluid evenly and accurately. Like the rest I trimmed my little paint brush to carefully spread the stuff within the the10mm gap, but it was still to slow and my comrades faired no better. That was of course until I came up with a solution. A solution that I could not share with my new mates or my employer.

Now, I'm no expert in these matters but I added white spirit to the mix. Despite the few minutes where the chemical reaction made the concoction boil and the can itself heat up, you know, the way a nuclear device might before ignition, I succeeded. I could literally pour the thinned liquid into the gap and watch it run between the tiles like water in some miniature irrigation system. I couldn't believe my luck. Even when it dried it looked no different to other sections already done. In fact I even had to slow down a bit in case I looked suspicious.

I was earning over a hundred marks a day with virtually no effort other than the preparation of this dangerous chemical out back. Every morning you'd find me in the car park dribbling the spirits into my can and slowly stirring the chemical like it was nitroglycerine.

My progress and industry didn't go unnoticed by the others of course. They didn't know how I was achieving such miraculous results and were perplexed. But nevertheless they found a different solution requiring less finesse, less risk and nothing at all to do with chemistry.

They decided to lie on their work sheets, lie and cheat, imagine that. Damn German university students suggesting they had done more than they actually had... I mean, can you believe it? Can a fella not trust anybody? I only found this out on pay day when everybody's money was cut.

I remember my German boss man telling me that according to the worksheets gathered by his wife, the swimming pool was apparently twice the size it should have been. There he was behind his desk having a hissy fit, and me standing there, eyes downcast, feeling hard done by. After all, he should have given me a bonus for my ingenuity. A trophy would have sufficed at a pinch.

I was moved on eventually to different jobs by the now suspicious Herr Hillbigg. I don't think he ever really trusted me after that. An odious individual in any case. A man wide as he was tall with a thing for neat vodka. One day, perhaps he was suffering from heat stroke or something, because he turned up and unloaded a case of sparkling water from the boot of his Mercedes. It was a stinking hot Frankfurt day and we gladly raided the crate while he schemed with one of his minions. Unfortunately, I picked up a bottle of water that belonged to him and took an enormous slug from the glass neck... SHIT... it was neat vodka, his vodka. He was screaming abuse at me again, while I spluttered and spat the foul liquid onto the pavement. His eyes bulged like they might suddenly pop out to swing grotesquely to and fro on his fat cheeks held there with nothing more than his elasticated optical nerves. My German was just about good enough to understand some of the words this former SS officer was saying. I imagined that if he still possessed his old Luger, he'd have put a round through my forehead. Needless to say I didn't stay to much longer at his company. So there you are folks, to clever for me own good... But then, “I ain't no expert.

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