Many people who read my work see it as a series of bizarre and surreal aberrations, but the truth is there’s often a healthy dose of reality in there. Memories and experiences from my life litter the pages. Such an example is the God of Wanking from, and this might surprise you, The God of Wanking!
Many years ago, I had an aunt, and during the Second World War she became smitten with an American airman. When the shoot-bang-fire ended, he married her and took her back to Virginia.
The only time we ever met was when her and her husband (whose name escapes me) came over for a visit, when I was around five or six years old. They came laden with crap from the USA, and as I was a small boy, they brought me a selection of Native American toys, which was pretty cool at the time as the big game amongst boys was Cowboys and Indians.
Most of the toys got played with and were eventually lost or broken. One item she gave me was a miniature Totem Pole. Because it played little part in our rowdy games, it ended up on a shelf, and therefore survived.
I grew older, as children inevitably do, and my thoughts turned from toys and games to the pursuit of the opposite sex. Around this time, I also discovered masturbation. One of the negatives of being a young boy in an Irish Catholic household was the proliferation of judgmental religious artefacts. It’s hard to have a wank when Jesus is looking down at you from his cross. It’s difficult to crack one off while the Blessed Virgin looks on with obvious disappointment. It hard to get hard while the Child of Prague glares at you in his little frock.
The only effigy which seemed pleased I was going at myself like a dog with ticks was the fellow on the Totem; the God of Wanking. His grin was saying, ‘Go on, knock the top off it!’ And with his approval, I did.
The joyous day came when I was old enough to make my own way in the world, and I escaped the parental home. I only took my records and a few clothes with me when I moved out. I wanted a clean break. I forgot about much of my youth, and to my shame, I forget about the God of Wanking too.
However, his masturbatory influence was far from over. My old bedroom became a spare room, into which much junk was placed. It was also the only room in the house bereft of religious iconography. As a result, my younger brother escaped in there to yank his chain, away from the disapproving eyes of Jesus, Mary and Joseph. From a dusty pelmet, the God of Wanking looked down, his grin encouraging the younger Caffrey to spank the Bishop.
Time moved on, and my brother also left home. One day, we met in the pub, and the God of Wanking came up in the conversation.
‘He’s still there!’ my brother said, and I realised despite everything the Wankmeister had done for me, I’d left him trapped in a house of God. A plan was hatched, and within days the God of Wanking had been liberated. My mother was hesitant to let him go, suspecting he must have some value if I wanted him after all the years he’d been ignored. I wove an elaborate tissue of lies, and his freedom was secured.
Ever since, he’s been with me. He sits on a shelf in my office, looking down on me while I write page after page of filth. And do you know what? I think he approves!
So, there you have it: the reality which became the opening chapter of The God of Wanking!