sea2

It is New Years Day and I find myself in my local hostelry. As this is not an unusual occurrence and is quite the thing for me I give it not another minutes thought. In fact I am relaxed about it. As the afternoon is progressing I am becoming more relaxed and could even be described as laid-back.
Of course, one small thought is eating...
Read More

If you ever have to get rid of a body youll probably make a better job of it than we did. But then again, if youre lucky, you probably wont be off your fucking head like we were. Its all a bit chicken and the egg though. I mean, if Gary hadnt been fucked he wouldnt have died, and if we hadnt been fucked we...
Read More

In which we sing the praises of White's greengrocers. This morning I'd popped out to buy my provisions and called in White's greengrocers. Whilst I was selecting my carrots, tatties, mushrooms and onions I heard Mr White on the telephone to his bookie. "That sounded interesting," I piped up once he'd finished his call. "Yes, I was talking to the owner of a horse yesterday...
Read More

Paddy Nolan is the cock of the class. He has already started to take on the look of his dad and brothers, as if his part in the divine plan was always the pick, the shovel and the open road. Hes got a benign, ruddy face that should see him get done under the Trades Description Act because when he loses his rag, which happens...
Read More

Some things can crush a man. They'd better not try to hurt you by hitting you or calling you names because that's been tried and it doesn't work. So many small defeats, so many humiliations and you are a washed-up, ten-time loser and you have no qualities that a normal human being should have. Drip feed the badness in the eighties, the Falklands, ten-men-dead, the...
Read More

Sing, Michael, sing. A dirt path; mainly mud, littered with stones. Dodge the puddles. The trees rush towards you. Leaves are five different colours. The woods a kaleidoscope spinning as you run; your heart a machine gun. You are twelve-years-old. They never, ever hear you when you cry at night. If you run then no one can hurt you and nothing can touch you. When...
Read More

Waiting for Mrs O'Brien to Die.
The kitchen window in the old house looks down over the vale of Tralee to the steeple of St John's Church and beyond to the Slieve Mish mountains. It's only a small window and allows poor light; if the house were to be built today it would be twice the size so that the new money could appreciate the...
Read More

I loved you in an inky black womb. Outside, Barcelona sighed pollution from heaving lungs, laughed, wept and bickered. In our sanctum all was still, save for the movement of our limbs stretching to find a cool oasis on sheets warmed by our bodies and late summer heat. My fingertips and lips charted the deserts and terrains of your skin, crossing a rivulet of sweat...
Read More

A fog of phlegm has descended upon me. It sent advance warning of its arrival last Wednesday when I was lying on my back, fashionably drunk, and attempting to watch some football on television. Every now and again I shot bolt upright and coughed, resembling nothing more than a waking zombie in a morgue. I briefly considered going upstairs to get a white sheet to...
Read More