TOMMY TIERNAN

takes on the devil

Iknow the devil well. He knows me, too. Often thinks he has the upper hand on me; often does. I listened to him for way too long; thought he was a friend of mine. You see, people think the devil is this colossal evil presence, but he’s not. He’s quite short, actually, and he laughs a lot. Could be an uncle of Marty Morrissey’s.

He drinks Bass. Sings a lovely version of The Fields of Athenry, but from the landlord’s point of view. It’s called Them Thieving Gypsy Bastards

Are After Robbing Me Corn Again. He’s easy-going and he wants you to be easy-going too.

He’s a very relaxed little fella altogether. And that’s how he gets ya. That’s how he got me. He’d be always on to me to do less; not to bother. Always telling me that everything was created perfectly just as it was and striving for stuff was wrong. Yeah — not just foolish and a waste of time, but wrong, morally wrong.

That you’d be out of step with the whole rhythm of life if you tried too hard. “Sure look at the cat,” he’d say to me (a friend of the devil if ever there was one). “Look at the cat and him aisy in himself, stretched out in front of the window — you’d be doing well trying to explain the concept of self-improvement to him, wouldn’t ya?”

And Jaysus too, sure wasn’t he talking about the birds and the lilies of the field and them doing nothing all day only rejoicing in themselves the way they are, not trying to better themselves or get a life coach? And the Zen lads are all about going with the flow, aren’t they? “Take her handy, Tom,” he’d say to me. “C’mon, switch on the telly there and we’ll watch the match. Isn’t the dole brilliant ?”

He had me boxed in for years, the devil had, but lately I’ve risen up in meself. I was losing energy, you see, losing the will to live. I knew I had to make a drastic change if I wanted to feel any different. I was that tired I was waking up asleep.

So I went on a tremendous diet of power foods and protein — oh yes, I did. I gave up sugar and spuds and drink and took up violence, towards meself. Steak isn’t enough for me. I’m eating live cattle; I drink nothing ’cept protein shakes and iron juice made from melted crowbars (I haven’t had a shite in weeks, but that’s another story).

I’m down the gym all day, lifting weights and putting them back down again. Resistance training, they call it. Resistance is right. That’s another name for the devil — he’s the pressure you feel pushing back against you when you’re trying to get your life in order.

Oh aye, it’s the mundane and the ordinary that he goes in for. Nuclear war and holocausts are all well and good (or bad, perhaps) but it’s the day-to-day evil he thrives on. Getting everybody to give up on themselves, that’s what gets him out of bed in the morning. Little victories, seven billion little victories.

He was the one who made me not do me homework in secondary school — “It’ll make tomorrow more interesting if you leave it, Tom,” he’d say. Imagine, Janey Mac, if it wasn’t for him, I could have gone to college to study capitalism instead of spending five years on the dole in Galway, which ain’t nothing but a collection of damp jackets and dossers. Well not no more with me, you pup, ya! I have you on the back foot now.

Weren’t you the fool to mess with me? I’m a new man. Muscles, is it? I’m ripped to bits. I’m in tatters. Any amount of six packs and triceps and biceps. I even have eyeceps. Strong as the offspring of an ox and a lorry. I’d like to see the devil trying his luck with me now. I’d have him in a headlock reciting the rosary by lunchtime. I’m up for everything. I’m doing things; I’m saying yes to life. Sitting on me hole ? I don’t think so. I’m out running, in the rain, pulling crows off the wind and ateing them raw. I’m running in me bare feet (that’s not me screaming with pain — I’m singing with delight). I’m super-fit. I’m ready. I haven’t sat down in weeks. I sleep standing up. Me manhood is permanently upright, boats could sail round it.

I am amazing — that’s what me trainer says, and I don’t think he says it to anyone else. I’m awesome. He gave me a certificate that says so.

There ought to be more mirrors in this house so I could see meself the whole time. The kids should clap every time I walk in the room and the missus should be all over me, swinging off these deltoids like a randy chimp. I’m incredible and the devil can go phuck himself. You ain’t seeing nothing like me, ya little red eejit ya.

That’s right, the divil, I called you an eejit! I have you licked, Beelzebub, licked and bet. I’m better than Jaysus (a loser if ever I met one; how’s that crucifixion thing working out for ya? Jesus, 0; Romans, 1).

If I was up in heaven, Christ himself would fall to his knees and declare to the angels, “This is the man that bet the divil, wahoo,” and they’d lift me up and say, “How did you do it, Tom? How did you beat the devil?”

And I would say, “I’m just amazing. I really am. I’m awesome.” And I’d show them me certificate and flex me flateral pectoids. “I’m not fit to wash this man’s feet,” Jesus would say, and I’d joke and reply, “Well, someone has to do it, so get scrubbing ! Ha ha ha ha.” But I’d be serious. “Go on, wash them.” And all of heaven would think I was amazing and the divil down in hell licking his wounds like a bet dog...Do you hear me, Satan? Licking your wounds like a bet dog... ha ha ha...

Anyway, I have to go and have a lie down now. My heart doesn’t feel so good. I think it’s constricting.

“I’d like to see the devil trying his luck with me now. I’d have him in a headlock reciting the rosary by lunchtime”