Irish Peat

Rock was Irish, and he was doing some kind of post-graduate work on cancer. I bought the Easy Rider album from him when he was strapped for cash. He came to live in our shared house in Zetland Road with me, ellen, my bruv and Ronnie after Jess and Sharon left in a lucid moment.

He was a good drinker. The only person I know who was actually stopped by the police and cautioned for being drunk in charge of a bicycle. Bruv and That Ronnie did the old writing on the willie trick on him one afternoon when he crashed out on ron’s bed. He was a great singer and had a guitar for accompaniment. Never a shy bairn, when the house next door was visited by a bunch of bikers who parked up in the cellar, he coolly stood at the window and yelled at the biggest meanest one ‘ you’re a cool fucker’.

Worst thing I did was posted a note asking for the person with type A blood and long dark hair to see to the laundering of my sheets when I came home one night and found my bed less than pristine. I thought it was Ellen – no it was Rock, he’d got lucky and the woman he’d blarneyed into bed was a total beginner.

He was also the best cook of the lot of us. We each put 3 quid into a teapot on Monday then did dinner on a day each. We’d mostly do budget student stuff but Rock had Mondays and we got some great food – then didn’t really mind having bread and drippin for the rest of the week.

His isn’t a story with a happy ending. Apparently he had an accident and damaged his brain a bit. He became depressed later: the books he’d read in the past and could no longer haunted him. Eventually he ended his life. The news was so very upsetting because we thought he’d just gone home to County Down and like others we’d catch up with him again in the future. Sometimes there is no future.