recently, someone was
telling me that the tuatara
in the playground in Cuba Mall
(I call it a playground, it’s a slide
and this fucking tuatara-thing) is
the most pointless playground-thing
But I’m not so sure.
I remember sending my kid
down the slide the first few times and
that tuatara just sat there. It wasn’t really
worth anything. If a kid climbed it they
either fell awkwardly or arrived at
the top – couldn’t even really call it
the top, nor any sort of achievement –
then got down again. That was it.
But one time we were there.
On a Saturday morning.
And it was worth it.
You see, some passed-out,
gassed-up, no-hoper was
hiding behind the tuatara,
crashed out. The heat was
coming down and he was in
a leather jacket, patched-up with
grubby insignia and wearing black
jeans and he looked like he probably
stank of piss. (A closer look would
reveal wee stains and an open zip).
But not many people were taking that
Instead they were full of information
about this event:
“That’s disgusting”, said the woman that
never checked to see if the man was okay.
“It’s not fair for the children”, said another, possibly
clutching actual pearls.
The monopoly man’s monocle steamed over and
cracked – such was his rage that the money he collected
from every player might have to go towards fixing ‘this’.
“Somebody should call the police”, said somebody.
But nobody did anything.
Just the advice. And the knowledge, instantly,
that this was a bad man. In fact barely a man.
And certainly a waste of time.
And since having children, none of these people
had been out on the lash – their wildest days
now involved back-to-back Wiggles DVDs,
or collecting Tarquin from his swimming
lessons a whole 15 minutes before it was
time to drop Giselda at the equestrian centre.
Next thing, the drunk, spaced-out loser-guy
stood, and swayed, pulled his cock out
went to spray the tuatara, possibly the source
of all his problems, certainly the scene of his
Satchels were clasped tight.
Deep breaths were being drawn.
If only there was a number to call the
If only somebody had a phone...
If only little Faith hadn’t had to see this…
If only wee Hope had decided to play elsewhere…
This was a big deal. And the tuatara, pointless
previously, was now to be protected. Something
had to be done. But by who? And how? If there
wasn’t a team of adults united by the common
bond of being disgusted by the low-hanging
fruit of a dreadlocked drunk in jeans and a leather
jacket then what use was any of this?
So, as he staggered around, cock in hand, aiming to
piss in the tuatara’s face the angry mob went flaccid.
The mongrel in the playground fell hard. Probably for
the second time, at the very least.
Heads down now. Trim flat whites were going cold.
They weren’t the only things.
The tuatara wasn’t pointless. Wasn’t pissed on.
He held onto his cock. Flat out on his
back. And then, one final attack.
He started stroking it. Started
The cops wouldn’t be the only ones to come