World’s Most Expensive Spliff

I’ve only been to court once, when I was twenty one, for possession of cannabis.

The night I was arrested, I was sitting in the back seat of a friend’s car, parked up near a local football pitch; normal behavior. As always, we were on the lookout for white Garda cars or Ford Mondeos with two extra aerials.

We mustn’t have been looking too hard though, because soon enough a white Garda car pulled up and flashed its blue and red lights. Two potato-headed Gardaí rolled out and waddled towards us. I’ll call them Fergal 1 and Fergal 2.

‘How ye lads?’ wheezed Fergal 1, rhetorically, as he approached the car.

None of us said anything. I could hear the blood pulsing in my ears.

Both Fergals were breathing heavily. Their breath fogged the cold dark air like big cumulus clouds. Their faces were red and full; the midnight 3-in-1s from Dragon City catching up with them.

Fergal 1 leaned in towards the driver window and gave us all a long look. Fergal 2 stood back, rearranging his belt and smoothing out the boxers that had bunched up around his arse inside the thick navy uniformed trousers he had on.

‘Is that weed I’m smelling in there now lads?’ asked Fergal 1 in a Garda accent.

We were made to get out of the car. There were three of us. I had the bag of weed in my pocket. We’d smoked most of it, but there was enough left for one joint.

Fergal 1 took our names while Fergal 2 searched the car.

‘Right lads, I’ll ask ye now, and now only,’ said Fergal 1. ‘Have ye anything on ye that ye shouldn’t have?’

I took out the little plastic baggy and gave it to Fergal 1. There was barely anything in it. He shook the little baggy, holding it up to inspect it under the orange glow of a nearby street light.

‘Nothing else, no?’ he asked.

We shook our heads.

Fergal 1 told us he wasn’t going to do anything. He kept the small bag of weed and made us sign his notebook to confirm we had been cautioned. That was the last of it, he said. Fergal 2 told us to go home and stay out of trouble. Then both Fergals got back into the Fergalmobile and left, presumably in the direction of Airside Swords where there’s a 24/7 McDonald’s.

And so, that brilliant use of taxpayers’ money came to an end. We got back into the car and left the car park.

About two or three months later, in early December, I was at home. There was a knock on the door. I answered it.

It was Fergal 1 and Fergal 2, looking smug – big round soft heads on them like brioche burger buns.

They mustn’t have met their arrest quota for the year, because despite having promised us that nothing would ever come of the caution they’d given us a few months prior, they served me with a court summons and waddled away with all the grace of two walruses headed for a comfy rock after a big feed.

My court date was a month or so away. I needed a solicitor, and got one based just down the road from Swords district court, where my “trial” would be held (if you could even call it that.)

My solicitor was a very short man in his 50s with salt and pepper hair and a Marty Whelan moustache. His office was on the main street above a spray tan salon. It was small and smelled like your granddad’s coat.

I sat opposite my solicitor, who was behind his desk. There was a picture of his daughter in graduation robes on the wall, and a framed degree. He started asking me questions about myself, trying to come up with a plea he could use.

‘Aha! That’s it. We’ll say you’re a college student and you want to apply for a Masters in America and that a conviction would put an end to that. The judge should let you off with that and strike out the case.’

It sounded like a plan, so I agreed. Before I left, he told me to wear a suit on the day, and to bring three hundred Euro with me for his fee – preferably in cash.

On the day of my case, I met my solicitor in his office before going to the courthouse. We ran over his plan. He told me not to talk under any circumstance, and that if the judge asked any questions, he would reply on my behalf.

‘What if the judge asks if I still smoke weed?’ I said.

‘He won’t. And anyway, like I said, don’t talk at all. I’ll do all the talking.’

He asked me for his fee. I handed him an envelope with three hundred Euro inside. He counted the notes then put the envelope in a drawer.

We walked to the courthouse.

I randomly met one of the lads outside the courthouse. He was up for a driving offense. Neither of us had known we were both due in court that day, so we laughed and went inside. We sat beside each other on a bench in the courtroom.

The courtroom was full of young men. Most looked like they’d be straight back to the bookies once their case was heard, or into the pub. A few were handcuffed and standing to the side, next to some bored looking Gardaí.

The judge eventually arrived, looking pissed off that this was how he had to spend his morning before tee-off at 11am in Old Portmarknock. We all had to stand up for him like children in a classroom.

The judge heard a few cases. Some for drink driving, some for theft, some for public indecency. Many people were convicted, receiving fines, and in some cases short prison sentences.

Before each case, an arresting officer would read out the accused’s criminal record. Some people’s convictions count was in the double digits.

I noticed the judge was in a bad mood. He often barked at Gardaí who supplied him with inadequate information about the accused’s arrest, or else he barked at the accused themselves for not giving one iota of a fuck that this was their twenty-sixth conviction.

My name was called. I walked up to the bar, stood facing the judge, and listened to Fergal 1, my arresting officer, read out my charge.

Fergal 1, looking sweaty and warm, told the judge that I was arrested for possession of marijuana, with an estimated street value of forty Euro. Forty fucking Euro. He caught me with one joints worth of grass and said it was worth forty Euro. Whoever he was buying from was ripping him off. Despite being annoyed at this, I said nothing, following my solicitor’s orders.

Next, my solicitor pleaded my case. He told the judge that I was in college, and that I was only experimenting with marijuana, and I knew I had made a mistake, and I was deeply remorseful, and that I planned on applying for a postgraduate program in America so a conviction would ruin that.

‘And do you still smoke?’ The judge asked, looking straight at me.

I looked at my solicitor. He hesitated, then turned to the judge.

‘Judge, as I’ve said, my client…’ he began to say, until he was cut off.

‘I’m not asking you,’ the judge snapped at my solicitor. ‘I’m asking him. Do you still smoke?’

I looked at my solicitor. He looked away from me, towards the ground then up to the ceiling, his master plan now fucked. I looked at the judge. Then I looked around me, then back to the judge. The judge tilted his head, staring at me impatiently. I stared at my solicitor again. He didn’t look back.

The whole courtroom was silent. I could hear the handcuffed accused sniggering at the side of the room. I looked around me again, to where my friend was sitting on the bench. With his eyes, he seemed to be telling me, ‘Man, fucking say something. Quick.’

I looked back at the judge, who’s face was now red, tense, and stiff with anger.

‘Answer me!’ he roared. ‘Do you still smoke?’

I looked at my solicitor again. Still, he wouldn’t look at me.

You little hamster-sized prick, I thought. Great plan, mate. Stellar fucking stuff. Really earning your fee today, aren’t you?

The judge roared at me again.

‘If I made you do a drug test today, would you pass or would you fail!? Answer!’

‘I’d fail,’ I quickly replied.

More sniggering from the wings of the courtroom. I may have heard someone call me a fucking eejit. The judge silenced the room.

Following my response, my solicitor pursed his lips and looked at the judge apologetically, like a parent whose child had just said the most embarrassing thing in the world.

‘Good answer,’ the judge replied, relaxed now. ‘An honest answer. I don’t get many of those in here. I’m letting you off.’

A wave of relief washed over me.

‘But you’re to pay a three hundred and fifty Euro fine to a charity of my choosing. I hope you’ve learned from this. I better not see you in here again, you mightn’t be so lucky the next time. The case will be struck out. Next.’

I went back and sat by my friend on the bench. My solicitor shuffled sheepishly to the side of the courtroom, knowing that for all the money I had just paid him, his game plan of me not talking had proved to be as useful as Anne Frank’s drum kit.

Fergal 1 stayed where he was, because he had also arrested the next person whose name the judge had just called.

A tall, fat, baby-faced teenager rose from a bench, flanked by his worried parents. They were told to stay put by the judge. The young lad was wearing a suit – a very baggy one – and the poor chap shook with nerves. He couldn’t have been a month over eighteen. He was definitely still in school.

The judge asked Fergal 1 what the young man had been arrested for.

‘Well, judge, myself and my colleague arrested him and found a marijuana grinding apparatus on his person,’ said Fergal 1, clearly referring to another past adventure of the Fergals.

‘But did you find any actual marijuana on his person?’ asked the judge, annoyed, rubbing his eyelids.

‘No,’ Fergal 1 replied, ‘but we did notice marijuana residue inside the apparatus, with an estimated street value of five Euro.’

The courtroom burst into laughter, led by the handcuffed men standing by the wall. Even some of the Gardaí struggled to contain themselves.

Again the judge silenced the room. Then he looked at the terrified young man. The judge seemed fed up, eager to get to the golf course ASAP. He exhaled long and hard.

‘Look. I just made him pay a three hundred and fifty Euro fine for a similar enough offense,’ the judge told the boy, pointing at me. ‘It’ll have to be the same for you. The case will be struck out. Next.’

Soon, I was back outside the courtroom with my solicitor. He shook my hand and said goodbye.

‘That went well,’ he said, seemingly oblivious to how useless he had been. Then off he went. I watched him go, thinking about how I’d just spent nearly seven hundred Euro on one joint.

Hopefully I’ll tell this story to kids in the future, and they’ll have a hard time believing me. The same way I can’t believe it when my parents tell me condoms and divorce used to be illegal.

Deco from Cabra

The Adrian Kennedy PhoneShow on Irish radio must be one of the easiest platforms to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes. I reckon half the callers and texts read out are fake. I know how easy it is to swindle listeners, the producers, and Adrian himself, because I did it myself for close to two hours, live on air.

The topic was men fighting on nights out. Too easy.

The first thing you need to do when you’re trying to get on The PhoneShow is send a text in. Don’t make it too far fetched though. Give it enough believability that the producers will bite. But get ready for what comes next, because if your initial text is what the producers want, you’ll get a call from them.

It was a late winter evening and I was sitting with my friends, parked up, in a local car park beside a football pitch. There was a row of cars full of us, each parked close together so conversations could be heard and joints easily passed back and forth. A typical Tuesday night for young lads in college. I was nineteen.

The lads knew I had texted in to The PhoneShow. But I don’t think anyone expected what was going to happen next.

Again, the topic was men fighting on nights out. I texted something like:

“Tell ur 1 ta shut da fuck up I always be in a scrap down me local its natural I luv it gets me mad respect in d local fuckin dopes talkin shite Deco in Cabra”

Two minutes later I got the call; private number.

‘Hello is this Deco?’ a posh south side woman’s accent asked me.

‘It is… eh, I mean…’ (Now doing my best inner city Dublin accent). ‘Yeh it is yeh.’

‘Hi Deco, this is Una calling from The Adrian Kennedy PhoneShow. You just texted in didn’t you?’

‘Yeh.’

“Great. I’d like to put you through to the show so you can join the live conversation on air, is that something you would be interested in doing?”

‘Eh, yeh. Wha’ever.’

‘Great, Deco. Just hold the line.’

The lads were all staring at me, excited and wide-eyed. I told them to hush. Everyone leaned in towards my phone.

I was put through to the show.

‘Adrian tell him to shut his fuckin mouth the stupid cunt. Eejit, so he is.,

‘Sarah, Sarah, please. I’ll have to ask you to not use that sort of language.’

‘But he is a fuckin eejit, Adrian, listen to him…’

‘…You shut your fuckin mouth!’

‘…John, please…’

‘…You see Adrian? He’s worse, fuckin eejit.’

‘OK, well let’s hear from Deco. Hello Deco are you there?’

‘Yeh.’

‘Deco, you said, and I’m reading your text here now, that fighting on a night out gets you “mad respect” in the pub. What do you mean by that?’

‘Just dat fightin is normal like. All lads do it. Your ones a dope der talkin shite.’

‘He can’t be serious, Adrian.’

‘Of course I’m bein serious. I’ve scars down me face and all and everyone knows not to touch me cos I can handle meself. All young lads should be able to handle demselves. Ye haven’t a clue what yer on about ye fuckin dope.’

‘And you do? Fighting makes you hard does it?’

‘Yeh, and the mots love it. I get loads of gee after I’ve floored some cunt.’

‘Deco, please, that sort of language isn’t acceptable.’

The conversation continued like that for close to two hours.

After the first few minutes, I had to leave the car I was sitting in and go stand in the cold, because the lads couldn’t stop laughing in the background and I didn’t want to blow my cover. Also, the lads obviously wanted to listen to the conversation, and there’s a twenty second delay between the actual conversation and what goes out live. So I couldn’t sit in the car with the radio blaring the delayed conversation.

Callers came and went, but Adrian kept me on the line throughout. I was stirring so much shit that people were getting really angry. It was too easy to wind some people up.

One man called in to say he’d like to see me put a pair of gloves on and get into an octagon. He said I’d crumble in an MMA fight. I called him a poxy little fairy who loves getting half naked and oiled up to hug his mates, and that he should skip all that and just go straight to riding fellas.

Another lad told me I was a coward, and that one day I’d get what was coming to me. I said the only thing coming to me was respect and his auld one.

During ad breaks, Adrain would talk to me personally.

‘Deco, how are you doing?’

‘Good yeh.’

‘Listen, this is great. I’m going to keep you going OK?’

‘Yeh grand yeh. Fuckin dopes the lot.’

‘Brilliant.’

It did get tiring at times though. I was standing out in the wind and cold so long my hands went pink and numb. My teeth were chattering and I needed a drink to cure my cotton mouth.

Every thirty minutes one of the lads would come over to me, silently, with a big smile and giving me the thumbs up. They’d hand me a half smoked spliff, because I’d chipped in on a bag with the rest of them, and then leave me with it. I’d make the hand signal for a drink and someone would grab me a water or Coke from one of the cars.

The distant laughter from the lads in the cars fed me. When I knew I’d said something good, I’d turn towards our row of parked cars and wait for their delayed response. Plumes of smoke billowed from the car windows. So did fits of laughter and choking coughs. It spurred me on.

Sometimes my accent slipped. Maybe the producers and Adrian noticed, but I doubt they cared. I was controversial, unrepentant, and winding the other callers up to the point of hysteria. Deco from Cabra, The PhoneShow’s wet dream.

I told Adrian I’d been glassed and bottled plenty of times, and had the scars to prove it. I said I wore my scars with pride, like war medals. I said any woman who says my behavior is disgusting is only lying to herself, because one sight of me knocking people out in a smoking area and their knickers would be drenched.

Adrain was loving it. He knew how angry everyone was getting with me. I reckon the phone lines in the studio were lighting up like the control centre on board the Millennium Falcon.

One caller – let’s call him Terry – said he was from Cabra as well, and he’d like to see me outside one of the locals for a straightener tomorrow night. I told Adrian I recognised Terry’s voice, and that Terry was a well known sham. I said Terry was always throwing shapes and running his mouth, but couldn’t back up the chat with his fists. I told Terry I’d seen him “go down more times than a bleedin whore with bills to pay, know what I mean Adrian?”

That really boiled Terry’s piss. He eventually had to be cut off the line because of anger and profanity.

I stayed on the line until the midway point in the show, where Adrian winds up the conversation and takes an extended ad break before changing the topic and getting new callers.

Then I joined the lads back in the cars.

I’d like to bump into Adrian Kennedy in a pub, or one of his producers, and ask how many callers he reckons are faking it. I reckon every night of the week there’s a group of stoned young lads parked up somewhere, giving it a go.

Mícheál, Me-hawl

I have a Jack Russell called Mícheál. He is named after a character in The Wind That Shakes The Barley, a film by Ken Loach about the Irish Civil War of 1922-23, starring Cillian Murphy.

The film opens with a scene of men playing hurling in the hills of West Cork. Hurling has been outlawed in Ireland by the ruling British government, so the men must play in secret. After their game, some of the men return to a local cottage. The Black and Tans – an immoral and murderous police force sent to Ireland from Britain by Winston Churchill to terrorize the Irish – soon arrive. They arrest the men for playing hurling.

“All public meetings are banned, and that includes your poxy little games,” the Tans’ angry commander shouts, as he pulls a hurley from the grip of one of the men.

The commander demands that each man line up against a wall and provide his name and occupation. One young man, seventeen year old Mícheál Ó Súilleabháin, refuses to give his name in its Anglicised version: Michael O’Sullivan.

“What’s that shite? He doesn’t want riddles, he wants your name. In English, boy,” the commander growls at Mícheál.

“Is Gaeilge m’anam. Mícheál Ó Súilleabháin fós é,” Mícheál calmly replies, but knowing full well the risk he’s taking.

The commander of the Black and Tans squares up to Mícheál and threatens him. Mícheál stares back, defiantly. Again, the commander demands Mícheál speaks English, not Irish.

The women watching – Mícheál’s family members – plead with the commander to go easy. So do the men. The commander orders them to, “Shut the fuck up.” He then physically harasses one of the women, throwing her aside, and orders the men to strip.

Mícheál refuses.

The commander pulls Mícheál close to him, then punches him. Mícheál punches him back, knocking the commander to the ground. The commander gets up and orders his men to take Mícheál inside a nearby chicken coup, where he is tied to a pole and beaten to death off screen. We only hear his howls of pain. Then the Black and Tans flea, hands red with Mícheál’s blood, no longer caring about the arrests.

It’s one of the most blood boiling – particularly if you’re Irish – and difficult scenes to watch in the film. Mícheál’s mother collapses with grief at the sight of her dead son. Everyone else watches on in anger and disbelief, totally helpless.

The sight of his friend, bloodied and lifeless, is enough to radicalise the character of Damien, played by Cillian Murphy. Damien, a highly-skilled and qualified doctor – pride of the parish – was due to travel to London and take up a prestigious job at a hospital. Instead, he stays at home and joins the I.R.B to fight for Irish independence from Britain.

The Wind That Shakes The Barley is definitely one of my favourite Irish films. But I didn’t name Mícheál after the character for political reasons. I chose the name simply because I love how all the characters in the film, especially Cillian Murphy as Damien, pronounce the name in that airy West Cork lilt.

“Me-hawl.”

It’s not, “Me-hall.”

It’s, “Me-hawl.”

The first syllable rising high, the second syllable prolonged – emphatically drawn out. It’s great fun to say. Anything said in that lyrical West Cork accent often sounds funny, even if it’s not. Think of The Young Offenders, or the similar Limerick accent of The Rubberbandits.

I once heard a great description of how the Irish speak. The person said that Irish people pronounce every word using all the muscles in our face, giving almost every syllable its moment. It’s often true, and funny.

So, because of Cillian Murphy, I say Mícheál’s name with a West Cork accent. And it suits him. I thought the name would give him character, and it did.

I love when dogs have normal names. One of the lads used to have a red setter called Ross. Another one of the lads has a fat black labrador called Douglas. Gas.

One time Mícheál ran off on me during a walk in Malahide Castle. I was shouting his name, looking all around for him. A man rushed over to me with a worried look on his face.

“Have you lost your son?” he asked me.

“No, a little Jack Russell,” I told him.

The man walked off saying nothing, a look of, “Fuck off mate,” on his face.

Mícheál tears around our garden, ripping rabbits to shreds and leaving the carcasses on our doorstep as a gift. He’s a skilled, intuitive hunter. A born killer. Mícheál can sit for hours like a lion ready to pounce, hidden in a bush, totally still, watching rabbits eat the grass, waiting for his moment.

He also skips like a rabbit and often runs on three legs, alternating the raised leg. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s a Jack Russell thing to do with hunting. Whatever he’s doing, it works. Because our garden used to look like the Teletubbies garden before we got Mícheál – happy rabbits prancing about all over the place. Now it’s like the elephant’s graveyard from The Lion King, but with rabbit skeletons instead of elephant.

During his downtime, which there’s plenty of, Mícheál also cuddles up to anyone he meets. My mom carries him like a baby, and if anyone is sitting on the couch, Mícheál is straight over for a belly rub, looking up at you whenever you stop, wondering why.

When I’m driving, Mícheál climbs up my arm and onto the back of my shoulders and sits there, perched, like a neck pillow people wear on airplanes. Every night before bed he gets a bath in the sink. His favourite dinner is boiled chicken with rice, or a can of tuna. Dry food is an insult to him. Prince George probably doesn’t live a better life.

Even though his name is Mícheál, he also responds to any variation of the name Michael: Miguel, Michel, Mikel, Mikael, Mick, Micky.

There’s no real point to any of this. I just love my pal. And I love saying his name.

“Me-hawl.”

Have a listen for yourself. It’s music. Skip to 1:56 of the video. And try not to get angry. Just enjoy the accents if you can.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=MDLBVXZXnN8

Dirt Road John

Australia is crazy. It’s like California, Hawaii and sub-Saharan Africa had a child that got inhabited by Pokémon. God was smoking very strong crack when he made Australia.

I’m picturing God on the day he came up with Australia. He’s sitting back, red-eyed, reclining on a cloud.

God: (Taking a huge hit from his crack pipe, dictating to an assistant): OK, so what was the last thing I said?

Assistant: “The head of a camel.”

God: Haha, yeah. The head of a camel. And give it a tail like a dog too. And make its legs exactly like a rabbit, but like twenty times bigger. Lol. And instead of walking, just make it jump everywhere, like it’s on a pogo stick. That’d be hilarious.

Assistant: My Lord, I think…

God: Don’t interrupt me. Make it jacked too. Give it a huge chest of pecs, with mad triceps and guns. And I want it to be able to punch. Oh, and (hitting his crack pipe again), also (coughing), when it has kids, make it have a pouch on its front where the baby lives, like a packet of crisps in the pocket of your hoodie.

Assistant: My Lord, I think this is getting out of hand.

God: Shut your bitch mouth. I’m God. What does it say on your name tag?

Assistant: Gabriel.

God: Gabriel. Does it say God?

Assistant: No.

God: No, it doesn’t. It says Gabriel. Little bitch boy Gabriel. Now shut the fuck up and take this next one down.

Assistant: Yes, my Lord.

God: Ok, so for this next one. Right. Check this, its got the body of an otter, but the head of a duck. And it swims like a water snake. (Hitting an outrageous amount of crack) Oh and give it webbed feet and a tail.

Assistant: Of course, my Lord.

God: Sick. (Staring into a now empty pipe) Where’s Lucifer? Go get him. I’m out of ice and this shit is banging.

Assistant: Yes, my Lord.

God: Hurry though. I’ve got an idea for a bear that lives in a tree, and we’ll make it look all cute and cuddly, and actually I might give it one of those pocket things for the baby and – oh my Me! – we should make it give its kids piggy back rides everywhere. That would be so funny. But this cute looking tree bear won’t actually be cute. It’ll be vicious as fuck. And be able to scream. I can’t feel my hands or face.

And that is how God created Australia.

I love Australia. The beaches are white, the sea is an opal green and blue, the landscape is stunning, the weather is warm, the food is excellent, the wine is great and the people are always up for a good time. They’re really funny too. And friendly. Australians are a solid bunch.

Australia can be dangerous though. And it’s huge. You don’t want to get lost in it. My friends and I got lost in it, on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere – the outback – with nothing but dessert for hundreds of kilometres in every direction. That’s how we met John.

Four of us were in a rented camper van traveling the west coast. It was a shit camper van. Every 200 kilometres we would have to refuel. Even with a jerry can of extra fuel in the back, we often almost didn’t make it to the next petrol station, which are sometimes hundreds of kilometres apart. We always made it though. Until we didn’t.

We were driving along the highway with almost no fuel left, and we had used our extra fuel from the jerry can. We knew the next petrol station was 50 kilometres away, so things looked bleak. And then the highway became a red dusty dirt road. Fuck, was the general consensus.

Panic seeped in a little. The sun was going to be gone in about two hours, and we were in the middle of the North Western Australian outback. It’s an absolutely stunning place to break down – think Arizona cowboy plains during a pink sky sunset – but then night would fall and snakes, spiders, flies and all sorts of mad shit would show up. And it was hot.

We knew a car would pass us soon, but then we had to bank on them having spare fuel. And stopping for us.

A car appeared. A 4×4. Most Aussies drive 4x4s, with bull bars at the front so they don’t wreck their bumper whenever a suicidal kangaroo jumps out in front. There are more mangled, dead kangaroos on the roadside in the outback than road signs. No joke, there’s a bashed up kangaroo every kilometre.

The 4×4 was getting closer to us. Thank God, we thought. We beeped our horn and waved. The car stopped. A man got out. His name was John. He was dressed in a cowboy hat, jeans, work shirt and boots. His skin was red and wrinkled from a life of sun exposure – like well-worn leather. His hands were rough, thick and purple.

John told us to follow him to his house, four kilometres down another dirt road. We barely made it.

John’s house was a cattle ranch. He had a petrol pump for his farm machinery, and he filled us up to a half tank. While this was happening, I threw a stick for his beautiful Australian sheep dog, Mabel.

Full tanks of unleaded at a petrol station were costing us one hundred dollars. We asked John how much he wanted for the half tank he’d given us. He wouldn’t take any money. We insisted, but so did he.

“When the time comes, and someone needs your help, do right by them,” John told us. “Just do right by someone else, and that’s enough.”

We shook hands and drove down the dirt road, away from John’s ranch, our tires kicking up red dust as the sky blushed.

Seamus O’Connell

A day out at the hurling or football, particularly in Croke Park, is one of the best memories any Irish person can have. My memories start from a young age. As long as I can remember, I was brought to GAA games.

Sometimes it was Parnell Park to see the Dubs, sometimes it was Croke Park. Every now and then it was off into the countryside. Either way, I was always lucky to be brought to see the Dubs.

One time I was there to see Malahide and St. Sylvester’s legend Nicky Cleere captain the Dublin minors to a Leinster title. And I was there again when Nicky captained the under-21s to a Leinster title. The likes of Stephen Cluxton, Alan Brogan, Darren Magee and Paul Casey were on those teams. I was also there when Nicky’s younger brother Cian captained the Dubs to the same title a few years later, but in Croke Park. The Cleeres are close friends of our family, making those days all the more memorable.

There’s a few people that are ever-present in my memories of going to see the Dubs. One of them is my dad, and another is Seamus O’Connell.

Every time a game was on, my dad would drive. Seamus was almost always in the passenger seat, with me in the back. Parking at GAA matches usually means finding a spot a few kilometres away from the ground and walking the rest. If we were parking near Croke Park, young lads from the flats near North Strand and the Five Lamps would promise to make sure nobody keyed the car or tried anything funny with it, so long as you threw them a few bob.

Seamus always tipped well. Nothing ever happened to our cars. Seamus told me a story once about an arrogant man who didn’t want to tip the lads from the flats. Apparently the man showed up in a swanky car, with a German Shepherd in the back seat. The man cranked a window so the dog had air, then headed in the direction of Croke Park.

“Mister, I’ll keep an eye on your car for a few quid,” a young lad from the flats said to the arrogant man.

“G’way with ye,” the arrogant man barked back at the young lad.

“Can’t promise nothing will happen to your car so,” said the young lad.

The arrogant man pointed at his dog in the back seat of the car.

“You see that dog? He’ll have a thing or two to say if anyone tries anything,” he told the young lad, then turned his back to walk away.

“And, eh, Mister…,” the young lad asked. “Can the dog put out fires?”

So, Seamus always tipped those lads. And after Seamus tipped, we’d join the crowds funneling through the old streets of Dublin’s north side in the direction of Croke Park.

Anyone who’s experienced game day at Croke Park knows the excitement, especially if it’s a quarter, semi or final. Crisp late August air. The feint glow of sunshine. Horns blowing. Touts yelling. Onions and Burgers frying. People spilling out of pubs. Glasses clinking. Pints enjoyed on the path.

“Hats, scarves, headbands.”

The closer you get to the stadium, the tighter the crowds marching through the streets. As a young lad who couldn’t see far ahead for all the people, all I got was the sight of arses in jeans and shoes on the concrete. In the distance, the beating of drums and the chants of Hill 16.

“Aaron? This way.” My dad or Seamus.

Once we were near the stadium, Seamus would hand me my ticket. He always held onto the tickets. Hogan Stand. Premium level. Section 670.

Through the turnstile, my ticket scanned with a beep, and up we went.

The build up is always one of the best parts. That half an hour before the whistle blows. When I was young, I’d be handed a Cidona and a pack of Cheese and Onion Tayto, and told to sit at a table in the bar. There, I’d read a program, given to me by Seamus. I’d sit studying the players‘ names and what clubs they played for when they weren’t wearing blue.

After the men had their few pints, we’d be in our seats just in time to see the Artane Boy’s Band March ahead of both teams for their pre-match ceremonial lap of the pitch.

A stirring rendition of Amhrán Na bhFiann came next. By the time the second last line of the anthem was sang, the 80,000 strong stadium roared.

“Le gunna scréach faoi lámhach na bpiléar,

…”COME ON THE DUBS!”…

Seo libh canaig amhrán na bhfiann.”

“COME ON THE DUBS!!! GEWON DUBLIN!!!”

Goosebumps. Beautiful.

I’m remembering all of this, not because the season will be starting soon enough, but because I’m thinking of Seamus right now.

I just got a phone call from my mom in Dublin. (I’m in Melbourne.)

Seamus died.

I’m shocked. Gone suddenly from a heart attack at 66. Far too soon.

Any Gibney’s regular in Malahide would know Seamus. He was always in the bar. Short, golden hair, glasses. A resting grumpy face. Kind of looked like Gerry Springer. For the last few years he walked with a stick and a limp, because diabetes took one of his legs and was working on the other one.

Seamus used to always give me golden handshakes, especially as a kid, and then again whenever I saw him in Gibney’s. Fifty quid into the palm of my hand. A wink. Say nothing. Enjoy that now.

Seamus worked with my dad too. Their office is in our house, so I saw Seamus almost every day. I haven’t a bad word to say about him. And I know he had a soft spot for me, because I loved him.

Seamus couldn’t drive so his wife Marian dropped him off and picked him up every day. Their golden labrador Bruce was always in the back seat. I don’t think Marian knows how to frown. She’s always a sight for sore eyes, warm to the bone. Last year when I performed at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival in a play, Marian and her sister flew over just to see me.

The last thing Seamus told me before I moved to Australia was, “Have the time of your life. But sure, I know you will.” Then, fifty quid into the palm of my hand. A wink. Say nothing. Enjoy that now.

I’m a little shocked writing this. Seamus was one of the good ones. In my mind it was a forgone conclusion that I’d go to another Dubs game with him and my dad the next time I was home. That won’t happen ever again now.

But I’m so glad it did.

Hail, Hail Ricky Hoops! part three (scroll down to read one and two first)

I was waiting to meet Ricky on a wet November Tuesday night in Norwich city. He had told to meet him in a car park at the back of a supermarket, again on the scruffy side of town. So I stood in the darkness and rain, waiting for him to arrive, wondering what a men’s shed was.

I heard Ricky before I saw him.

“Hail, Hail!”

He took me across the car park and towards a warehouse next to the dual carriage way.

“Good boys in this place,” he said. “You’ll like it.”

I just wanted to get out of the cold and wet. I would have liked the waiting area of the Motor Tax Office. My socks were soaked through my shoes.

There were no lights on in the warehouse, from what I could see. When we reached it, we walked around it to the other side. Five or six men were standing with their backs to the warehouse’s walls, shielding themselves from the wind and rain. They were all smoking in silence, standing a few metres apart, alone.

Most of the men were in their 40s and 50s. Some looked nervous or uncomfortable. Like students chain-smoking before an exam. Ricky nodded hello at a few of them as we walked past, but most kept their heads bowed.

I followed Ricky up a steel staircase at the side of the warehouse. Light was coming out of an open door at the top.

Inside the men’s shed was like a straight male college student’s dream. There was a room with a pool table and a dart board and a fuseball table, a room full of random couches facing a projector screen, a room full of half-built cabinets and furniture with tools laying about, and a kitchen full of toasters, microwaves and George Foreman grills.

The whole place was no bigger than a normal two-bedroom flat, but every inch of space was being used. It was quite cluttered. Every wall had a poster or a notice board on it. There were shelves stacked with plants and books and DVDs anyone could borrow. Random but useful everyday appliances lay about wherever, like bike pumps, a guitar, a vacuum cleaner, garden shears and high-vis jackets. There was also a desk with a computer and a printer.

Everything in the men’s shed looked like it had a use or a purpose, except the men.

I gathered that a men’s shed is a place for lonely men; Down-and-outs, lost souls, the socially awkward. But that’s not really fair, because I don’t mean to judge them. Not everyone there fit those descriptions. But for the likes of Ricky, the men’s shed definitely seemed like a haven.

In the few days between watching football with Ricky and now coming to the men’s shed with him, I’d been comparing my life to his a lot.

I had hundreds of names in my phone book – I wondered how many Ricky had. I lived alone in a ground floor flat with a garden and a big tree. Ricky rented a cheap tiny single bedroom in an old house and wasn’t allowed use the living room. And his landlord was always on his back, looking for a way to get rid of him.

Every day I woke up and went to university and studied something I loved. Ricky either went to get his dole, or hung around the Norwich city library using the computers to search for jobs that might hire 50-something men with no qualifications, basic formal education and very little job experience.

In the evenings I went to the gym or for a drink or stayed in watching Netflix. Ricky lay on his bed watching whatever free movies he could find on YouTube.

Ricky introduced me to some of the men in the men’s shed. They were friendly. Some seemed shy, but most were chatty and very welcoming. One man stood in the corner sucking on the sleeve of his jumper, his legs shaking. He was in his 40s but had the demeanor of a nervous twelve year old boy on the first day of summer camp.

I asked who would be watching the football. Most wanted to, but they said there was only a laptop hooked up to the projector, so no TV channels.

“Aye, but he says there’s free channels online,” Ricky said, pointing at me.

I went to the laptop and quickly found a pirate football stream. Everyone clapped me on the back or let out a whoop as if I’d just invented fire. We sat round on the random couches. Someone took tea orders.

The man sucking his jumper sleeve didn’t sit with us. He stayed where he was, looking around nervously and not making eye contact with anyone. He had the scared look of a threatened animal.

“One sugar, cheers.”

“Two for me.”

“No worries, mate.”

Tottenham were playing Borussia Dortmund in the Champion’s League. Everyone spoke about the players’ form and gave predictions. This happens any time strange men meet for the first time, and football is on.

Ricky told stories about Borussia Dortmund’s stadium, comparing it to the other German stadiums he had been in. He also gave histories of what German fans were the most passionate, like Borussia Dortmund, comparing them to Celtic.

Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. They seemed comfortable or at ease now that the tension had been broken by the football. At first our conversation was awkward, as if we were the boyfriends at a wedding where all the girlfriends were actually friends. But football saved the day. The sport was something to focus on.

“One sugar, there you go.”

“Lovely stuff.”

The man making the tea seemed out of place. His clothes were nicer than everyone else, and I noticed he had new looking Audi car keys in his hand at one point. When I had arrived with Ricky, he seemed to be asking everyone how they were doing; He was keeping tabs, checking in.

We hadn’t been introduced. I got up and followed him into the kitchen to ask if he needed a hand with the drinks.

His name was Ken and he asked me what brought me to the men’s shed. I could tell he was suspicious about me, but not in a negative way. I told him about Ricky bringing me along. He said he liked Ricky a lot. And that Ricky was one of the more sociable and confident members. But Ken also worried about Ricky, because Ricky still couldn’t find any work and apparently he was having issues with his landlord.

Ken wasn’t a member of the men’s shed. He looked after the members, locked up at the end of the night and basically ran the place. Ten years ago his brother in law hung himself, so that’s how he got involved in the men’s shed. He wanted to help vulnerable, lonely men, like Ricky. I liked Ken.

As Ken and I were speaking, the nervous man sucking his jumper sleeve hurried past the kitchen door. Ken excused himself and went after the man. I finished making tea and handed out the mugs. Ricky updated me on what I had missed in the match. Then I went back to the kitchen to clean out my empty mug. About twenty minutes had past. Ken came back.

He said the man sucking his jumper sleeve was one of the men who struggled the most with anxiety and nerves. He was a bit on the spectrum too. Socialising was terrifying for the man but his family made him come to the men’s shed because they felt he needed to socialise, and Ken agreed. Some nights he was better than others. But tonight had been a bad night. He had wet himself.

When the football ended I stayed with Ricky to help Ken clean and lock up. Then we said goodbye and Ricky and I headed towards my bus stop.

Ricky said the shed was open again in a few days, and asked if I wanted to go again. I made up an excuse and told him I was busy. Then he asked if I wanted to watch Celtic again on Saturday, and suggested my flat. (I had told him I bought the sports channels along with my WiFi from BT.)

I told Ricky I couldn’t watch Celtic, I had to study on Saturday. He looked at me strange, wondering how a fellow diehard Celtic fan could ever not make time to watch a match. Then he asked if I was free on Sunday maybe?

I told Ricky I wasn’t sure yet, and that I’d let him know. A look came over his face that I felt he was used to making. He seemed to understand. Here I was, another person making excuses not to see him.

To be honest, even though I liked Ricky and he was a nice guy and everything, it was all a bit much for me and I didn’t really want to be his friend, which sounds mean. But I didn’t want to keep meeting up, and I knew he would want to often. Also, it was getting difficult pretending to be a Celtic fan. And in the few days between the Celtic match together in the pub, and now at the men’s shed, Ricky had texted me many times. He was only looking for a chat, but I wasn’t bothered.

I felt bad.

For the next three weeks I kept making excuses when Ricky texted, and I never answered my phone. I felt mean, so one day I agreed to meet for a coffee. Ricky looked very upset when he arrived.

His landlord had kicked him out. From day one the landlord had never liked Ricky and was always trying to get rid of him. I can’t remember exactly what it was that he used an excuse, but Ricky had finally been kicked out.

He was sleeping on the couch in the flat of a friend from the men’s shed. Ken had helped arrange it. But it could only be temporary. Ricky said if only he could find somewhere else, someone else’s couch. An awkward silence followed.

Ricky looked visibly stressed and said he was thinking of going back to Glasgow. Coming to Norwich had been a failure. He said he knew someone in Glasgow who might let him stay with them for a bit. Or else he could just keep couch surfing online. He was also thinking of reaching out to his brother, but didn’t sound optimistic.

He asked if I knew anyone who would buy his bike? He needed money. I said I don’t know anyone. I told him I’d put a sign up in the Arts block at UEA though. He shook my hand and said I was a good guy. I never put the sign up.

That was the last time I saw Ricky. A week later I went back to Dublin for the Christmas holidays and when I came back to Norwich I stopped using my English phone number. Not because of Ricky, but it definitely helped with avoiding our friendship.

I felt guilty for a long time for going cold on Ricky, and sometimes I still do. I reckon he is – or now perhaps was – used to people like me in his life. People who disappeared as fast as they had arrived.

I’ve no idea what happened to him.

Hail, Hail Ricky Hoops! part two (scroll down for part one)

Saturday afternoon came and I went into Norwich city to meet Ricky.

Norwich is like Dublin: It’s more of a big village than a small city. And like Dublin, Norwich is beautiful. It’s an ancient medieval city with old soot-stained yellow and black churches, winding cobblestone alleys, and Tudor-style buildings with thatched roofs. Norwich also has beautiful cathedrals with tall spires and an old castle on top of a hill that overlooks the entire city. There’s also a stunning canal with colorful barges. Rosie and Jim buzz. In short, Norwich is very beautiful. Cambridge and Oxford vibes.

Like any English town, Norwich is also full of old pubs that have been around longer than electricity. They all have names like The Beehive, The Red Lion, and The Lord Nelson. These old pubs have dark wooden walls, low roofs, good food, friendly lifelong landlords and great local ales. Ricky didn’t want to meet in one of these pubs.

He sent me the address of the pub he was in. I followed Google Maps. Ricky’s pub was on the wrong side of the river; The ugly part of Norwich. Pound shops, Polish supermarkets and charity stores. Scruffy fed-up men smoking in the doorways of bookies. Random shopping trolleys lying on their sides. Old bikes with no tires chained to poles. Every path paved with cracked tiles and dark chewing gum.

I went into the pub Ricky had chosen. It was a kip, and more of a rugby club type bar than a pub; Red carpets, pale fake wooden tables and the smell of farts and yesterday’s beer. It was huge too. There was at least ten dart boards, five pool tables and countless fruit and slot machines. Crumpled copies of The Sun and The Daily Express lay on the bar, the back pages open. Carling and Tennants were on tap. Every wall had a TV playing different sport. There wasn’t a woman in sight. Bald men with rolls of neck fat and blue fading forearm tattoos sat alone drinking flat beer. Brexit: The Pub.

I found Ricky at a table directly in front of a screen and projector. He was wearing the same clothes as when I last saw him. He sat staring at the screen with a sad face, his chin resting on his hand as if someone had just given him bad news. He was watching football highlights but looked like he was watching a tragedy like 9/11 unfold live on Sky News. There was a pint of water on the table beside him. As soon as I said his name, Ricky immediately perked up and jumped out of his chair with a smile to shake my hand enthusiastically.

“Hail, Hail!” he said, tugging on his jersey as if he’d just scored the winner in the Old Firm Derby at Celtic Park.

I asked Ricky if he wanted a pint. He shook his head, looking at the ground, as if he was guilty of something. I took the hint: he didn’t drink anymore.

We watched the Celtic game. Ricky sang at the screen as if he was in the stadium. He talked about all things Celtic, in between jumping up at half-chances and applauding strong tackles. Whenever he spoke, he would lean forward, his hands on the table and his chest on his arms like he was telling me a secret. Whenever he mentioned a player or past game, I just nodded along, faking knowledge. I stuck to old reliables.

“Henrik Larsson, what a man! Remember his dreadlocks? And what a player John Hartson was – the passion – like Scott Brown. Kieran Tierney is a baller.”

But then Ricky would say something like, “Aye, I was at that game where you know who scored the brace and so and so got sent off. Remember?” He often winked after these mentions, because what he said was assumed to be common knowledge between us. Whenever he spoke like that I kept my mouth closed, pursed my lips and exhaled a laugh out my nostrils, pretending to reminisce.

Sometimes I just nodded my head when he spoke because I actually didn’t know what he was saying. I’ve a good ear for Scottish accents, but if people came with an option for subtitles I’d have turned it on for Ricky.

I noticed that whenever Ricky spoke about Rangers fans there was no hatred about what he said. He spoke about them as if they were a strange friend and their choice of Rangers over Celtic was some sort of anomaly that he didn’t understand, like when someone says they don’t watch Game of Thrones. Rangers boys were just unfortunate to have been born on the blue side of the city, he said with a chuckle.

I just couldn’t admit I wasn’t a real Celtic fan though, because I could tell how much fun Ricky was having talking about them. He seemed to savour every minute of our conversations, as if it was the last one he would ever have. He smiled and nodded at everything I said. He kept asking if I agreed that the pub we were in was great. I’d look around the pub – at the cast of The Royle Family – and look down at my two pound pint of flat piss lager and say, yes, it was a great pub.

I’ve never met someone who loved anything as much as Ricky loved Celtic. He spoke about them like a proud parent tells you about their kid’s school play. He claimed to have been to every away European game since the mid 80s, and asked me if I wanted to join him for the next one, or was I already booked to go with someone else?

Ricky said he had been to every country in Europe, many times. He knew European cities not by their names, but by their football clubs. Partisan Belgrade. Dynamo Zagreb. Hertha Berlin.

When the game was over, and Ricky and I had high-fived to another three points for the mighty Celts, I asked him what had brought him to Norwich. His mood changed again, like when he refused the pint earlier.

That’s when he told me he had spent a lot of time homeless. He said he’d been signed on for most of life as well. And he used to be a drinker. I asked how he afforded to travel to Celtic away games all the time. He winked and said there was always a way – sometimes he only ate once a day or not at all to save for the trips. And he said the Celtic community, as I knew, always looked after their faithful.

“Best bunch of boys there ever was.”

Ricky said he came to Norwich because he heard there was work here and cheap rent, and the shelters and hospitals were far better here than Glasgow. But I got the sense there was something or someone back home in Glasgow that wanted him gone.

When I asked about his family he said he didn’t speak to them. And then he tried to change the subject.

I told Ricky about my Scottish family. He reminded me of the town names in Glasgow whenever I paused and tried to remember.

“Aye, I know Pollokshields. Your family are posh so. Ah, am only joking.”

A lull in conversation came. Ricky put his hand out and said thank you, looking me in the eyes. I shook his hand, snorting a chuckle, and asked what he was thanking me for.

“You know. For coming out today. Made my week.”

I didn’t know what to say. I told him I enjoyed the game with him. He asked if I’d like to meet up again on Tuesday night. We could watch the Champions League together. He suggested we watch it at his “men’s shed.” He wanted to bring me to meet some of his friends at his “men’s shed.”

I had no idea what a men’s shed was. I’d never heard of one before. At first I thought it was just some nickname he had for his flat. Like how people have “man caves.”

But then I remembered Ricky telling me that he rented a small single bedroom. And that he didn’t have many friends at all. And that nobody ever really spoke to him, and that people tended to avoid him. So who were these friends? And what was a “men’s shed”? I told Ricky I’d like to meet up on Tuesday and go to his men’s shed.

We shook hands goodbye and Ricky thanked me again for coming out. When I left the pub I took my phone out and googled “men’s shed.” After reading what they were, I wanted to go even more, because I was curious. I’d never known these sort of places existed – men’s sheds. I wanted to see one for myself.

Geebags and lovely hurling

I love a good euphemism or idiom – words or phrases that mean something different than what is actually being said.

For example: “Wear a raincoat,” instead of “wear a condom.” That’s a euphemism.

Or, “I’m over the moon,” instead of “I’m very happy.” That’s an idiom.

Irish people are excellent at using euphemisms and idioms. Because euphemisms and idioms are fun to use and the Irish are very creative with language. When someone uses a euphemism or idiom it’s for comedic effect, or simply for the enjoyment of talking. And we enjoy talking.

Instead of “he was ugly,” we might say, “ah, he’d a head on him like a bulldog chewing wasps.” Instead of “vagina,” we might say, “gee.”

An example of our creativity with language, is how we often incorporate a euphemism into an idiom. “We go get gee-eyed lads?” doesn’t mean, “Guys, let’s put vaginas in our eyes.” It means “let’s get drunk,” obviously.

I don’t want to get all technical though and go on about euphemisms and idioms or etymology (the origin of a word). Instead, here’s some examples of great Irish linguistic creativity. I’ll unintentionally be leaving so many out. There’s too many to remember, and our creativity is bred into us. We improvise on the spot. I love that.

Also, I don’t want to give any explanations for them. Here we go.

A sniper wouldn’t take her out. If I’d a bag of mickys I wouldn’t throw her one. He has a face only a mother could love. Face like a slapped arse. Sure he fell out the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. The tide wouldn’t take her out.

Deadly. Lethal. Insane. Mad buzz. Mental. Unreal. Savage. The craic.

Knacker. Gurrier. Head-the-ball. Skanger. Bowsie. Pikey.

He wouldn’t give you the steam off his piss. Tight as a nun’s hole. Scabby. He still has his communion money.

Your man. Your one.

The craic was 90. Gaf was on wheels. Whale of a time.

The town bike. Like throwing a sausage down O’Connell Street.

Like hen’s teeth.

There’s a dose going ’round.

In the horrors. Like boiled shite. My mouth is dryer than Gandhi’s flip flops. Dying of the fear. Rag order. Sicker than a plane to Lourdes. In a jocker. Banjaxed. Rattled. Shook. I’m off it now for a while anyway.

Give it socks. G’wan ya good thing.

Story horse? How’s she cutting? Craic off ye?

Your arse is falling out of your trousers. There’s more meat on Good Friday.

Pull the other one. Ya chancer. I’d rather flirt with my ma.

Like a drowned rat so ye are.

… I could go on forever. There’s endless examples of Irish phrases and sayings. And I’ve barely scratched the surface. The beauty of them is that they come so naturally. In trying to list them I’m actually struggling. They’re best left for off the cuff conversation.

But here’s a gas one my dad always says if someone farts.

“Who’s coughing in their knickers?”

Underage Orgies

My friend Mick offered me a smoke at a disco when we were fourteen and we ended up becoming best mates. I had never met him before when he offered me the smoke. We just happened to be sitting beside each other on plastic chairs in the smoking area of the disco.

I didn’t have a smoke, looked to my right, saw Mick, he was about to light a smoke, he saw me, offered me a smoke, and we got chatting.

That was nearly thirteen years ago now. We’re still best mates and do everything best mates do, like go out together, stay out together, spend hangovers together, and a few times a year go traveling together. But this story isn’t about Mick.

I was just reminiscing about how Mick and I met, and it made me think of underage discos, and how wild they were/still are.

The disco I met Mick at was Wezz, in the Wesley clubhouse end of Donnybrook stadium. Most Irish people know Wezz. It’s where drunk underage posh kids from posh schools went to meet other drunk underage posh kids from different posh schools so they could ask each other what posh school they went too.

Wezz was also were drunk young teenagers went a bit mad and had fun. I think Wezz is actually gone now. I heard kids were showing up out of their heads on MDMA and the organisers weren’t arsed anymore. The new generation is always wilder than yours was, don’t kid yourself.

Wezz had the reputation for being a hothouse of depravity. But really it was like every Irish underage disco. Or any underage disco for that matter. Underage discos are piss ups. I reckon underage discos are the closest thing modern civilization has to Ancient Greek and Roman orgies.

A night at an underage disco follows a similar pattern. Everyone shows up hammered, having convinced an older sibling or relative to buy them drink. Or if you don’t have sound older relatives, you go fishing outside the off license. Either way, you congregate with a crowd in a park, car park, or lane near the disco, or sometimes in a friend’s house under the supervision of carefree parents.

You drink your 4-6 cans of cider or piss beer, or your naggin or shoulder of vodka mixed with Coke or Red Bull, or your bright coloured alcopops. Sometimes it’s whatever you could get away with stealing from your parents drink cupboard, replacing whatever you took with water.

Whatever your tipple is, it’s drank fast and then off you go to the disco where, unless you look hammered, you get in and proceed inside towards the dark dance floor with cheap flashing lights.

The sexual tension on the dance floor can be cut with a knife, and the entire room is roasting hot. It also smells like way too much perfume and aftershave, with an undercurrent of piss that Oompa Loompa lookalike young girls wearing way too much fake tan never realize they smell like.

Everyone starts kissing everyone, usually because they’ve sent a friend over to the person they like as an envoy. If the person says yes, you’re in. If it’s a no, you pretend your friend asked the wrong person.

Along the walls of the dance floor, kids shove their hands down each other’s pants while “Yeah” by Usher plays in the background. That’s what they played in 2006-2008 anyway, when I was going. Nowadays it’s probably Cardi B “I Like it Like That” or Drake “God’s Plan.” Whatever the banger of the day is, everyone cheers and crowds the room to dance and sing along.

Unless someone has their hands down your jocks, that is. In that case you stay right were you are. Sometimes young couples even sneak off outside for something more. “Head” or “wanking” or “fingering.” Although nowadays, with everyone watching free online porn, I reckon the poor young girls are expected to do a lot more. Either way, in my day, I was never that cool.

The night continues like this as kids in outfits they’ll look back and cringe over journey back and forth between the smoking area and the sweaty dance floor.

Nobody had smart phones when I was a teenager. Bebo was the social media site of choice. The day after a night out we’d all log on and check who had posted photos. In the photos, everyone would be posing, lips pouted, often pretending to be drunker than they were.

Nowadays I reckon every second of the night is on Snap Chat or Instagram stories. But kids these days are smart, savvy. They know their parents check their social media. So I reckon there’s an unknown site where all the mischief is posted.

The night usually ends outside a chipper or a McDonald’s, where young lads show off how hard they think they are by squaring up to each other in groups, before kicking the shite out of each other. That’s unless the police haven’t shown up to clear everyone away, only adding to the excitement.

But if you’re lucky you get to witness a scrap. Lads laying into each other, girls watching telling them to stop, even though a part of them is enjoying the display of testosterone.

Again I was never that cool. I always watched from the fringes as other lads proved whatever young teenage boys think they need to prove. It’s like in nature when male bucks challenge each other, clashing antlers to see who gets to shag the females. And, like in nature, the winner often does get the female.

Because underage discos are as primal as it gets. They’re great fucking craic.

Ing-Ga-Lish ”Set.”

If English is your first language, there’s a massive chance you can’t speak any other language.

Out of the world’s approximately 7.5 billion inhabitants, 1.5 billion speak English – that’s 20% of the Earth’s population. However, most of those people aren’t native English speakers. About 360 million people speak English as their first language.

I don’t know what the percentage of 360 million people out of 7.5 billion is. Because that’s mental maths. Get that shit away from me. But I know it’s not much. So, if so few people speak English, why is it such an influential language?

It’s a complex question. There are thousands of contributing factors to the dominance of western culture as perpetrated by the English language. Many involve pointing a gun in someone’s face.

So I’m not going to try and answer the question of why. Instead, I want to highlight one single word, and talk about how English is so difficult to learn because of that word.

If you only speak English, grew up in a western culture, and then were tasked with trying to learn another language – “fuck that” might be your immediate response. Western arrogance assumes we only need one language, English, and that everyone else should get up to speed and learn English, rather than us learning Chinese or Arabic.

Imagine trying to learn Mandarin Chinese. The way it’s written, the pronunciation of words and the structure seems so alien to anybody who can only speak English. The same could be said for Arabic or Punjab.

The appearance of those languages on paper with their strange – to us – symbols and markings makes us imagine the languages as strange in our heads. It’s like the enigma code and we can’t crack it.

Now, imagine trying to learn English. It’s hard to imagine, but consider it. Just think of how difficult it would be to learn English.

English is a crazy language. There are so, so many ways to say the same thing. It’s a highly expressive language. But we often use the same word and give it countless meanings. For example, think of the word “set.”

“Set” is a deceptively simple word. Three letters, easy to say. But imagine learning English for the first time and trying to figure out the meaning of “set.”

I can speak French, poorly, but I get by. “Livre” means book in French. I know that. It doesn’t mean much else at all. 99% of the time when I hear the word “livre” used in French I know a book is being spoken about. Nobody in France says “livre une table,” when making dinner plans. They say, “faire une reservation.”

But think of “set” in English. There are so, so many meanings.

“Are you set?” (Ready) Adjective

“Set the table.” (Make) Verb

“My daughter has a train set.” (Item) Noun

“Quiet on set please!” (Location) Noun

And so on and so forth. Seriously, Google the word “set” and just have a scroll through how many different meanings come up. And then imagine coming from China to Dublin with little to no English, and then going to a BBQ and trying to understand the following conversations.

“Set the table please. Where’s your Dad?”

“He’s outside showing John how to set the time on the clock in his new car.”

“I just checked the golf. Woods looks set to take it.”

“We should eat outside and watch the sun set.”

“Mary, you have try the new Italian. They do a lovely set menu.”

“The food looks fab, Mary. Great set up.”

“Wasn’t it wonderful news about Jim’s son’s engagement? Have they set a date?”

“Woods just won the golf. And he set a new record.”

“So, Kate, are you all set for your holiday?”

“Ah he was innocent, no? He was set up.”

Just imagine trying to understand that load of shite. You’d be fucked.

What’s interesting though is that if we all just spoke in numbers, like how computers communicate, that Chinese person would understand. Think about it. We all have different languages and forms of writing to essentially communicate the same thing. But when it comes to numbers we only use one language: Numbers. We might pronounce the words for each number differently using our own unique languages, but on the page, we use the same script.

But fuck getting into that subject.