Larry Parr

Pictured below is 1960's Meols Cop Boy's School, Merseyside Maths/Sports teacher Larry Parr.



Picture taken Friday 25th November 2005.

So ask me, Acolytes? What has changed.

And I shall reply: Nothing changes all remains the same

Please light a Candle for all victims of sexual mental and physical abuse, past, present and future.

See you in Hell, Larry...see you in Hell.

Addendum:

So tell me Acolytes...what has changed? 1958...1962...19??

Extract from the novel:

THE TRAVELLER THE SHAMON And THE KING by Seáfra O'Ceallaigh

I remembered this man and this boy from long ago.

‘It seems to me the Shaman fails in his argument simply because of his attempt to put order onto chaos. There is natural ebb and flow to all things in existence be they humanly constructed or that which emanates from the so-called heavens above or again made natural by design through chemical interaction no more, no less. There are those that say we construct our own realities in the vain attempt to resolve the inner conflict between that which is and that which is, not. I couldn’t care less. Whatever strategy we subscribe to, in an attempt at personal resolve, it is little more than arrogance. We give ourselves excuses all the time for our mistakes. We assume connectivity with that which is past and that which is yet to come. As though somehow this will in itself not justify our excuse as a species that simply does not care either of itself or of any other put forward in the slaughter house of human existence. The Shaman was described a teacher in the sermon. But what did he have that was worth the learning. Where did his ideas emanate from, the heavens above? Or do they transcend from Hades, below? Was the fable etched in stone? Then laid to rest at the gates of the citadel? Was he, struck blind in order to see the road that leads to Damascus? Was he as I suppose him to be begrudged by those he laboured to inform? What is the substance of his argument? That no one listened to his retrospective philosophy? Was he himself abandoned in the schoolyard? Or should we suppose as did his tutelage serve only to betray his own adornment? As he, journeyed inexorably once more into the abyss? I am trying to understand were the educators happen upon their god like instruction that informs then denies basic truths then fails at absolution. Life is an algorithm. A mathematical statement of what surely must follow unto death. And then the process begins all over again. We are born. We exist. We Die. Our chemical composition implodes. Our energy dissipates and settles harmoniously with the sun. If life is as The Shaman subscribes it to be. Then I must deny the philosophy of the resurrection. The chimneys may lay abandoned now. Only the diligence of the builder points the journey that lies between the gates of heaven and of hell. We deny the philosophy of our own destruction with palms outstretched. We plead not as was supposed at the feet of Socrates but accept with joyous anticipation the demise of those yet unborn. There was time in human history when the spoken word was death. The educators gave us words to read and symbols to ascribe. They new nothing of their import then but then why did we not cry out in anguish, as those millions passed us by? You may feel my words are best left unsaid. My thoughts retained within. My brain is filled with energy as I stand outside the shelter of the chaos from within. Your scaffold built on hallowed ground denies my truth and loss. But the hoards surround the deserts now and your time is almost lost. I believed the words my teacher spoke as he lay upon the ground and asked me to caress his soul and touch him with my hand. That fateful day so long ago reminds me now of you.

As you, narrate philosophies of destruction and of truth.