When I was 17 I played in a punk band called ‘Of Xerox’ with three of my friends. We became famous around the scene in Dublin, partly because we were an all-female band but mainly because The Virgin prunes used to come to all of our gigs. Everyone was in awe of The Virgin Prunes, known for their outrageous stage performances. They’d make an entrance when we went on stage and leave immediately afterwards, never waiting to see any of the other bands.
In 1980 we played McGonagle's in Dublin supporting The Outcasts from Northern Ireland, which was quite a big deal at the time. We got a rave review in Hotpress, Ireland's biggest (only) music paper with the headline ‘Of Xerox and zeros’
We were so well known that several times when we were in the audience at a gig, we were called up on stage to play a tune. Quite embarrassing really.
I was quite a pudgy girl in those days and was always self-conscious about it. I was on the way to a gig in Dublin’s famous Dandelion Market one Sunday in 1979 and as myself and my friend crossed the road to the bus stop, a car came speeding out of nowhere and ploughed into me. Strangely enough, there was an ambulance at the traffic lights opposite and I was taken to the hospital with a broken leg and a fractured collar bone. There I remained for almost 8 weeks and in that time I lost about 3 stone, undergoing a complete metamorphosis from ugly duckling to beautiful swan. I should have gotten a huge settlement out of it as it was an unmarked police car that was speeding and ran the red light, witnessed by the ambulance driver, but my father didn’t want to get involved with authorities so that was that.
Being born to parents who didn’t have much regard for government, the law, or indeed any sort of authority, when I started a business after leaving college I didn't exactly register with the tax authorities and the like. I thought it outrageous that the government expected me to pay tax to them for every job I created, so when I got these little forms in the letterbox with a nice square box where I could fill in how much I owed, I used to screw them up and toss them in the direction of the bin.
After a couple of years, I had a visit from the tax man, a tiny imp of a fella he was, vitriol oozing from every pore. Think Rumplestiltskin and you'll get the idea. Unfortunately, he encountered my father in the foyer who, upon finding out he was from the tax office, roared at him ‘’get out of here you poisoned (expletive) dwarf ‘ something which likely cost me a pretty penny.
Sometime later I was summoned to the tax office where I was met by said poisoned dwarf, apoplectic with rage, who got out his little calculator and announced that I owed 59,210 pounds, a sizeable chunk of money in the early 80s and far more than I had even turned over. Despite my attempts to argue that taxation is theft, I was ordered to write out 104 post-dated cheques for 569.32. A month later they came back to me for a further 104 cheques for 56.93 pounds for a fine they had omitted to include in their calculations.
At this point, I will confess to being brought to the doctor twice when I was a child as I wouldn’t eat and was painfully thin. The first time I was prescribed Complan and the second Jersey Milk. So no, I was never pudgy.
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Posted in response to the Ink Well creative non-fiction challenge #14. The prompt is Two truths and a lie.
The images are my own, for decorative purposes only, and are entirely unrelated to the content.