I’ve been thinking a lot about the film Jaws recently, particularly since Roy Scheider’s recent death one hundred and one days ago.
Brother Younger is an even bigger Jaws fan than me. I once bought him a meticulous and ridiculously detailed model-slash-diorama depicting that unforgettable scene from the film where Gran Blanco Sharko attacks our heroes’ boat - The Orca - and chomps down the southern hemisphere of Robert Shaw. The model currently resides in his otherwise tastefully decorated bathroom, perched on top of the low-level cistern of his eau de khazi. It truly is a thing of ferocious and atavistic beauty that evokes a primal sense of awe and terror amongst all those who behold it. This, of course, can be a somewhat off-putting sight when you’re trying to take a piss.
Impressive though it may be, this cistern-mounted scene of savagery pales into insignificance when compared to Rob’s other major item of Jaws-related memorabilia. My brother, you see, owns a three-and-a-half foot long, replica rubber shark. Or, to be more precise, a three-and-a-half foot long, inflatable Official Jaws’ Merchandise replica rubber shark that contains within its latex guts a most foul and terrible secret…
For thirteen long years it has lived in the garage of our family home, fully-inflated and hanging from the rafters by a piece of string. Along the side of its Great White rubber body is a grisly inscription etched in blood red ink:
JAWS - 20TH ANNIVERSARY
WISH ME A HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
I still don’t know where Rob got it from. I assume it was some merchandising gimmick from some shop promoting some long-forgotten VHS re-release of the film. Where he got it from is of little concern. How he managed to get it from wherever the Hell he got it from is of little concern. How it ended up full of air and hanging from the rafters of my parents’ garage is what really matters.
In 1995 there was a pool table in my parents’ garage and the place had become a popular late-night, après pub-slash-club rendezvous for Los Bros Lennon and our slender entourage of friends. On one such night my brother and our mutual pal, Phil Walsh, were somewhat the worse for wear. They’d spent most of the day stumbling from one salubrious venue to another whilst guzzling down copious amounts of industrial-strength booze and annoying civilians.
After returning home on a bus that conveniently went via an off-licence and an Indian Takeaway, they retired to Le Garage and were drinking some beer, eating some curry and about to play some pool when they noticed that something was wrong. Something wasn’t right. Something was missing.
There was no billiard lamp above the pool table.
This shouldn’t have been a problem, of course. There had never been a billiard lamp above the pool table, below the pool table or anywhere else in the garage, for that matter. To a pair of booze-soaked, curry-addled minds, however, a minor irrelevancy like this can take on a magnitude all of its own. Things rapidly escalated. In the time it takes to eat a chicken pakora and wash it down with a mouthful of Tenants Super, the Billiard Lamp issue evolved from a minor hindrance to a major crisis. Something had to be done.
Unfortunately, they soon discovered that billiard lamp manufacturers don’t offer a late-night delivery service or even answer the phone. A compromise solution had to be found. It was now an article of faith: without something – anything - hanging over the pool table then their evening would become an unmitigated disaster.
And that’s when they remembered the three-and-a-half foot long, inflatable, Official Jaws’ Merchandise, replica rubber shark.
Under the circumstances it made perfect sense. Who needs a billiard lamp when you’ve got - quite literally - a Pool Shark? They soon set to work on what, under the circumstances, must have seemed like a major feat of civil engineering. The two of them promptly divided up the necessary tasks: Rob dealt with string acquisition, placement logistics and rafter climbing, while the job of inflating the shark was left to Phil, possibly for phonetic reasons.
While Rob proceeded with relative ease and efficiency, Phil soon encountered problems. Despite the fact they were in a well-stocked domestic garage he couldn’t find a pump. He searched high and low for any type of inflation apparatus – a foot pump, a bicycle pump or even a session of BodyPump - but to no avail. Out of desperation, he resorted to doing things the old fashioned way. He filled the three-and-a-half foot long, inflatable, Official Jaws’ Merchandise, replica rubber shark with his own breath.
Breath that was far from Listermint fresh.
Anyhow, the work was completed, games of pool were played and eventually the night came to an end. The next day Rob & Phil nursed a pair of gargantuan hangovers and proudly inspected their handiwork. As the rubber shark hung from the garage rafters, they must have laughed and joked about how Phil’s booze-soaked and vindaloo-addled breath had been encased in rubber like a noxious Blue Peter time capsule.
That was then.
Days, weeks and even years go by. Pages fall from a calendar to denote the passage of time. And now - thirteen years later – that same rubber shark still hangs from the same rafter in my parents’ garage. While it gathers layers of dust and grime and maintains its silent vigil, I’m sure it has seen much change. Of course, none of us will really know what an inflatable rubber shark feels about the Death of Diana, The War on Terror or the career of Russell Brand. Sharks aren’t known for sharing their opinions, especially inflatable rubber ones. But, I’d like to think that it maybe chuckled to itself when the Dot-Com Bubble burst. After all - as hot-air filled entities go - he’s made of stronger stuff.
He never deflated.
That’s right: the rubber shark that hangs from the rafters of my parents’ garage still contains 1995 vintage Phil Walsh breath. Now, I’m no expert on these things. I can’t say what happens to booze-soaked and curry-addled breath that’s encased in rubber for 13 years. I’d like to be optimistic and believe that the booze and curry particles interact in such a way that noxious emissions are neutralised over time. I’d like to believe that, but part of me fears otherwise.
What if Phil’s Breath of Fire has fermented over time? What if it marinates? Could this three-and-a-half foot long, inflatable rubber shark that hangs from my parents’ garage contain a smell so foul and deadly that it could endanger lives and melt your face?
One thing’s for certain: I don’t plan to be anywhere near it when it bursts.
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