A Short Story - Cupping the Balls (2010)

'Cupping the Balls'

Ernie came back down the metal stairs, making carrying two pints look like a fucked human gyroscope in community care. I'd been thinking about what he'd said and I believed, with all the attributes of drunken certitude, that I'd marshalled my arguments;

'Nah man', by this point my accent and lexicon were mobile, 'Nah man, you're either talkin' shite or just cuppin' ya balls.'

I was satisfied to observe that my point had hit home as a muffled explosion of ginger indignity led to a minor spillage of weak, inexpensive bitter, which, tracing the contours of the glass with due deference to matters far more immutable than the one under discussion, did indeed make its way towards dripping on Ernie's jeans in the vicinity of the aforementioned cuppable spheres.

I looked around the beer garden, it was ball-cupping central.

Once the principal had been established, expressions of the central concept abounded. I took a sip of my Guinness and narrowed my eyes in what I imagined was a knowing manner. It is only fair to myself to say though that I was both aware of this and wryly self-pitying of my action. Sometimes, you are just too aware of certain things, but it didn't matter, I was on song, all the shit was set to one side. In vino veritas, I felt free and that made me feel happy and powerful and savage and wild.

'What the fuck are you talkin' about you pompous squint-eyed tart' rejoinded Ernie, managing to sound both the scornful victim of a laughable injustice and look a flush-cheeked ginger-bollock martyr to his ball-cupping faith at one and the same time. Schrödinger's indignity maybe.

Bloody hell I'd been caning those Guinness rapid.

I decided to elaborate on my new booze-fuelled social insights; 

'You're no better than fucking students, clanning together in great flocks of wankery, each one identical to the next because they cringingly test the waters to gauge what everyone thinks before proffering an timid yet vehement opinion nominally of their own.

'Same deal goes for dress, music, who to like, what to scorn, whatever, you get the idea? They are just cupping each other's balls, making each other feel warm and safe, it's like swaddling clothes. But if we all cupped each other's balls no-one would ever get hurt maybe, but we'd get nowhere fast I tell you.' 

I stopped to breathe, 'What I'm saying is that I like it when people think for themselves and not just cup the old balls whilst enjoying a solid cupping in return. That nonsense will only cause psychic hernias and spiritual floating testicles...'

I had a little laugh, Ernie was smiling from one corner of the mouth too.

'Go on then', he said, 'Tell me how I am supposed to be cupping me fuckin' balls, this I have got to hear.'

I picked up a beermat and twizzled it between my fingers as a rambled on.

'Right, let's break it break it down.' said I, rather tragically miming scratching some record decks to accompany that last sentence. I even made the appropriate noises too. 

I launched in again, 'You, and your particular ball-cupping crew, are dreadful snobbish elitists when it comes to music. This, of course, stems from university.' Fittingly I had assumed a rather donnish air, gone were the expletives, arrived instead were a certain rhythym and cadence of authority. I wonderered how long I could keep it up for.

'Elitists my arse! We just like good music'

'Hold on a sec, hear me out before you see reason' I quipped weakly and felt compelled to have a ball-cupping glance at Ernie but fortunately tipsy smiles all round at this extra-feeble joke. Aren't feeble jokes amongst friends the best kind of social binder? Like sharing sweets in the schoolyard I guess.

I began to open up on this new theory, Ernie said to get on with it. I returned to the main event with renewed and impassioned gusto;

'What is most important is what you all agree not to like' said I, 'basically anything popular in any way shape or form. Haha you utter wankers, in a nutshell that's fucking true. You thereby cull yourself from the happy bland herd so you can stand around in wankery-central beanie hats and ill-favoured ill-fitting corduroy trousers, cupping each others balls gladly, frantically, in fact it's necessary!

And talkin' ball-cupping twaddle about fuckin' pre-historic Indian techno and the Boards of bastard Canada or whatever "approved by being unpopular" cack-twattery you're obliged to be into by the collective will of the Testicular Tribe.

In fact some of that music is really very good, but that's not my point at all.' 

Excited and warming to my theme, the putative don had relapsed into the cheerfully demotic, vulgar language I enjoyed so much, all in the nicest possible way of course.

'So what is your point?' Asked Ernie.

'Ah I dunno, think for yourself, you're missing out on the bigger picture viewed but through a twat darkly, dah di dah, I'm just cupping my own balls here haha.

It's the principle I'm interested in...' I petered out, when was the last time I ate? Ugh!

I had lost my head of steam to Bastardo McBooze; It both giveth, and then taketh away.

I'll have to write all this down sober, I thought, be funny probs.

'Go cup your balls at the bar' said Ernie, lighting a truly mangled roll-up, 'Your round you nob.'


(c) Tales of Seamus 2012