Springsteen, Slane Castle, 1985

Springsteen, Slane Castle, 1985

On the first of June, preparations began quite early. Luke had the hash. For food he had a brown paper bag with half a pound of sliced ham from the shop. Just for the day he exchanged his van for a four-door saloon. The first stop was the shopping centre, for some slabs of beer and cider. As he, Doherty and Quirke pulled out across the forecourt of the petrol station in front, a woman pulling in to do her shopping started pointing upwards and beeping. Luke stopped. One slab was still on the roof of the car. It was a sunny day and they headed off. Bryan Ferry’s Slave to Love came on the radio as the breeze rippled through the open windows.

It was a Saturday. In 1984 the Slane concert had unwisely been staged on a Sunday, allowing the zombies a whole weekend to get tanked up enough to riot and besiege the local police station. That was the night before the concert. Things hadn’t improved much the next day as, backstage, Lord Henry tried to get Bob Dylan – who was caked in orange make-up – to get his act together and just go out there.

In 1985 the peaceful smoking of doobies and the eating of ham slices behind one of the goals on Slane’s GAA pitch was interrupted by the opening blast of Born in the USA, out of sight just down the road. A few songs later the three boys entered the concert over the vast panorama of the natural amphitheatre, the stage, the castle and the river. Springsteen was singing Trapped at that moment.

The sun was strong, beating down all day. The crowd was massive and Bruce told them they had never played to so many people before. For most it was just a day out and there was no festival atmosphere. Quirke hadn’t that much interest in the concert but Luke was on a different level, most of the time. He kept on and on about getting his hole. Quirke let Doherty talk to him.

When it was all over, they climbed back up the steep slope, grabbing tufts of grass, and Quirke glanced around to see hundreds of people tumbling back down the hill, left, right and centre. That much was a bit biblical. He fell asleep in the back of the car on the way home but woke up when they stopped for a minute. In the dark, Luke told Doherty to ask somebody for directions. It had been a long day. By the time he rolled up the window the passenger had forgotten whatever he was told.

The Irish Fight Clubs

The Irish Fight Clubs

The first credit on Na Chéad Fight Clubs means ‘Based on an idea by Michael McMahon and research by John Flynn’ (see above). In late 2007 I submitted a written proposal for a TV history documentary to an Irish production company that took it up with enthusiasm.

For a year or so it seemed I was in the loop. Then silence descended again, due to funding issues, I thought, until I discovered by accident in April 2010 that the thing had been commissioned by the Irish-language channel TG4 and was already in production. My father happened to be visiting an old friend who had whitewashed buildings in his yard when a location scout knocked on the door.

Legal advisers were then called in – a single letter from ours had the production company meekly offering to settle – and happily the project soon got put back on the rails, contractually. Plus we got paid. As did their very expensive lawyer. The legal lesson for all concerned was that copyright isn’t just about plagiarism, it also covers adaptation. Méaracha dóite is the Irish phrase for burnt fingers.

fight club beach


Planet of the Naked Stranger

Planet of the Naked Stranger

…the Sixties trip viewed through the prism of three period classics: The Naked Ape (1967); Planet of the Apes (1968); and Naked Came the Stranger (1969). That two of the texts have a Taylor only adds to the minor challenge of quote attribution.

“You don’t seem too cut up about it…
It’s too late for a wake. She’s been dead nearly a year.”

“Ah, yes – the young ape with a shovel.”

“When a wife smashes a vase on the floor it is, of course, really her husband’s head that lies there, broken into small pieces.”

“Dammit, Taylor, if you break my chair,” he roared. But they didn’t hear him. For a moment Taylor lay there. “In a wheelchair,” his boss said softly. “That’s something, Taylor.”

“Taylor, don’t treat him that way!
Why not?
It’s humiliating!
The way you humiliated me? All of you? You led me around on a leash!
That was different. We thought you were inferior.
Now you know better.”

“I’d forgotten there was more to life than mowing a lawn.”

“Well, Taylor, we’re all fugitives now.
Do you have any weapons, any guns?
The best, but we won’t need them.
I’m glad to hear it. I want one anyway.”

“A belief in the validity of the acquisition of knowledge and a scientific understanding of the world we live in, the creation and appreciation of aesthetic phenomena in all their many forms, and the broadening and deepening of our range of experiences in day-to-day living, is rapidly becoming the ‘religion’ of our time.”

“It lacks the element of challenge, luck and risk so essential to the hunting male.”

“There’s got to be an answer.
Don’t look for it, Taylor. You may not like what you find.”

“Doctor, I’d like to kiss you goodbye.
All right, but you’re so damned ugly.”

“…faster, quicker, faster, needful… lost in immense, billowy softness and riotous colours and roaring winds; he was the sand, the sea and the star-pierced sky.”

“What will he find out there, Doctor?
His destiny.”

“It was easy enough to decipher loins, hores, bores, penny kings, panders, tapers and leapolds, but almost impossible to be certain of the species referred to as bettle twigs, the skipping worm, the otamus or the Coca Cola beast.”

“She was driving, floating actually, toward her new house, floating past the freshly butchered lawns dotted with the twisted golden butts that were the year’s first fallen leaves, past the homes built low and the swimming pools and the kempt hedges and all the trappings that went into the unincorporated village of King’s Neck.”

“The threat-faces of cars have become progressively improved and refined, imparting to their drivers a more and more aggressive image.”

“Ernie found what Cervantes and Milton had only sought. He thought the fillings in his teeth would melt.”

“Her skin, the colour of India tea at summer’s end, flowed nicely over a slender frame.”

“Imagine me needing someone. Back on Earth I never did. Oh, there were women. Lots of women. Lots of lovemaking but no love. You see, that was the kind of world we’d made. So I left, because there was no one to hold me there.”

“She knew she had aroused the creature in the torn, paint-spattered T-shirt.”

“In my world, when I left it, only kids your age wore beards.”

“He simply couldn’t. (He could.)”

“It is the white colour we have to watch for here: this spells activity.”


“I’m pretty handy with this.
Of that I’m sure. All my life I’ve awaited your coming and dreaded it.”

“Take your stinking paws off me, you damn dirty ape!”

“With that he thrust Gillian back onto the bed and made a flying leap with the clear intent of pinning her down to stay. But she swerved to one side and the holy man, stiff with lust, came down standard-first on the bedpost. For a full two minutes he did not rise; he lay there, crumpled up, hissing incoherently.”

“Anti-contact behaviour enables us to keep our number of acquaintances down to the correct level for our species.”

“She stretched the tiny member to its full length, and it seemed to shrink even more in embarrassment.”

“You are right, I have always known about man. From the evidence, I believe his wisdom must walk hand and hand with his idiocy. His emotions must rule his brain. He must be a warlike creature who gives battle to everything around him, even himself.”

“Our fundamental biological tendency, inherited directly from our monkey and ape ancestors, is to submit ourselves to an all-powerful, dominant member of the group”

“The pre-copulatory patterns are brief and usually consist of no more than a few facial expressions and simple vocalizations.”

“… faster and faster they communicated. Fingers on skin, teeth on skin, then great shudders of total communication, and explosions of understanding.”

“The screams were not meant for him, they were meant for the other girls in the audience.”

“If these non-stop grooming sessions are to be successful, a sufficiently large number of guests must be invited in order to prevent new contacts from running out before the party is over. This explains the mysterious minimum size that is always automatically recognized as essential for gatherings of this kind.”

“Then methodically she drained him a second time, emptied him, calmed him and gentled him.”

“On this planet, it’s easy.”

“And that completes my final report until we reach touchdown. We’re now on full automatic, in the hands of the computers. I have tucked my crew in for the long sleep and I’ll be joining them soon. In less than an hour, we’ll finish our sixth month out of Cape Kennedy. Six months in deep space – by our time, that is… the Earth has aged nearly seven hundred years since we left it, while we’ve aged hardly at all. Maybe so. This much is probably true – the men who sent us on this journey are long since dead and gone. You who are reading me now are a different breed – I hope a better one. I leave the twentieth century with no regrets.”

“She was at that moment gently massaging him at his point of greatest altitude with a bottle of pink Johnson & Johnson baby lotion.”

naked came the stranger

Stalag FÁS – Dublin @ the Millennium

Stalag FÁS – Dublin @ the Millennium

On 23 November 2008 an Irish Sunday newspaper exposed the colossal waste of public money at the state training agency, FÁS, an acronym that is also the Irish language word for growth. The agency had spent €643,000 on foreign junkets in the space of four years and the details of the first-class flights for officials and their wives, the top hotels, the gourmet meals and the rounds of golf in Florida led to a public outcry. The next day the agency’s director general Rody Molloy went on the radio and proclaimed he was “entitled” to travel first-class. On 25 November he resigned.

Less than a year later, the scandal exploded once more with the publication of a report by the Comptroller and Auditor General into the matter. This revealed more astounding waste, with €600,000 alone spent on a TV commercial that was never even broadcast. On 13 September 2009 it emerged that Molloy’s pension had been boosted by €1.4m following the intervention of two Fianna Fáil ministers. Following the severe thrashing handed out to Fianna Fáil in the general election of February 2011, the next government abolished the agency in October of that year.

Dickens always cringed at his memories of pasting labels on pots in a blacking factory. For me, it’s the coal face at FÁS, where there were no junkets and no entitlements. With a well-paid, part-time job in Dublin City University, I was looking forward in 1999 to finishing my Ph.D., out in Maynooth, but then I discovered that I wasn’t on the new tutor list at DCU. The first excuse offered was that I’d been there too long (“four years”). That was false. The second was that I’d proved incompetent, after they had doubled the amount of students in my care. That excuse was also abandoned. The third and final explanation was the old reliable – “a terrible administrative error” – and I was verbally promised a contract for the following year, which of course meant nothing.

I had to do something else. Unwisely, I chose a computer programming course, chez FÁS, on the Jamestown Road in Finglas on Dublin’s north side. Doing it meant twenty-five quid a week on top of the dole and the rent allowance. Looking back, I think maybe the real lesson that entire period imparted was that the whole of Dublin was a blacking factory.


5th July, Monday

Let the course begin: our leader (Dazza) is facially part Peter Sellers, part Victor Buono.


8th July, Thursday

Some nice women can be seen in the canteen and on the grass. It’s like college out there. The interior design class contains some attractive ones and so they are our stars.

13th July, Tuesday

The plankton eater was complaining about the pointless questions asked by his neighbour (Hugh – hair cropped, red-faced, all that seems missing is the Dublin football jersey). The plankton was eaten for his colon. Gone overboard on health food (including liquid protein) and still he doesn’t look overly healthy.

14th July, Wednesday

Some petty c*nt of an assistant manager put me out of the “staff toilets” in the corridor next to the canteen. I couldn’t believe it when it happened. I’d finished my leak. I didn’t say a word to him in response to “You’re not allowed in here” but just washed and dried my hands and left. We’d been told not to react to things like that.

21st July, Wednesday

I’ll be able to produce my thesis on my machine out there. More typing but think of the money saved.

9pm: some c*nt is roaring, somewhere out the back. I heard him for the first time last night. He’s upset about something. I want to move to a peaceful, bourgeois suburb.

22nd July, Thursday

Today was the first day I felt like throwing the mouse through the screen. The others are hooked up to sixteen-man Quake. We’re waiting for more people to come on Monday.

11th August, Wednesday

Eclipse: the class of welders had dark glass visor squares so we could see a green crescent. It gave us twilight and a drop in temperature.

12th August, Thursday

Stalag FÁS: Marcos and the Limerick boys were prevented from driving out at breakfast time and then Marcos was put out of the staff toilets.

3rd September, Friday

Niall and I are sitting down to breakfast in the canteen when the plankton eater comes over. “I’ve got nits,” he says, straight out, before we take a bite. Niall christened him Nit Boy.

Near midnight. I just had a shower to feel better, what with the blocked nose and not a breath outside. Had a few pints this afternoon with Niall and Hugh. Niall had tequilas. Hugh won’t sit upstairs on a double-decker bus. He’s afraid of heights.

6th September, Monday

Went to James’s Street post office this morning but got no rent allowance. They had new computers. Made it more of a pleasure, more of a breeze, for the blonde to tell me there was nothing there. Any question was cut short by telling the customer to go see social welfare. Who are the true parasites? The option is always to f*ck them out of it, for some small satisfaction, but you ration that. What about the day one of the Hitler Youth behind the glass gave the fella called Mustapha the grief about ID? No one else, just the dark-skinned gent. He said he was coming there every week and that he wasn’t a refugee (“I’m not refugee, I’m married here”). Not that the public servant’s words were objectionable but his tone was far out of order, as was his ‘discretionary’ (i.e. discriminatory) cheek. They wouldn’t be long having manners put on them up in the Barn. According to my neighbour Dermot, they never give anyone hassle up in Dolphin’s Barn. They wouldn’t dare.

7th September, Tuesday

Nothing there again this morning. This was the extent to which the Nazi with the earring was helpful: he muttered something behind the glass and when I said “What?” he exaggerated the words “Is it your day for signing on?” After a long wait in Bride Street, where I was almost the only Irish person in the queue, I discovered it was only a computer problem. I asked if I could get changed back to Leonard’s Corner post office.

10th September, Friday

A bunch of us were drinking in The Full Shilling in Finglas. Niall was asked to leave after slagging a one-legged biker.

12th September, Sunday

Sunday drags along and I await another week (no. 11). There’s a new, more attractive interior design class to cheer up the canteen. So what?

13th September, Monday

Compassion on the bus. I gave Niall and Dara a tenner each and we had a few pints in Bowe’s. Niall was thinking of nine quid out of reach in the bank and Dara was locked out of his flat.

15th September, Wednesday

Earned my first re-sit. It didn’t help that I felt tired, sleepy. What piece of happiness remains? A wardrobe full of clean laundry. I must pay more attention in class.

16th September, Thursday

Dazza told me five more minutes on the test and I’d have passed. Barely. I’ll re-sit and get it right.

21st September, Tuesday

At breakfast in the canteen, the plankton eater complimented the state of my teeth. He said he’d noticed on the bus the previous afternoon.

Last night I’d fallen asleep when the Algerians underneath came in after midnight and woke me up with their mouthing. They kept it up for an hour and when the guests left, one of the tenants had a ferocious dump. The smell wafted up to me, like a coup de grace. Open both windows. They had been good, quiet boys since the confrontation over the blaring of Rod Stewart a few weeks ago, when I stamped on the floor and one of them came up, giving out in broken English. I had a cold so I wasn’t worried about this Arab hothead. I figured the only way to get through to him was to speak French. He backed down and said sorry, once I’d explained and turned up my radio full blast, as a demonstration.

28th September, Tuesday

Breath mist on a bright morning. They’ve finally transferred my rent allowance back to Leonard’s Corner. Caught the tall blonde looking at me across the canteen (she’s tall in comparison with most of her class, the ‘new’ interior designers).

29th September, Wednesday

She’s elegant. Nice clothes, not glammed up. Our gazes, stares met, today, as she was about to sit down with her tray. She broke away. I’d be interested. My Ph.D. has more words than my M.A. now. Lastly, I managed to do a Basic 2 assignment, with help from the lads.

1st October, Friday

In Finglas I passed a re-sit (my cogging was more educated). Went to wet Maynooth, to the library. Back into town on a 66 bus with F. and C. C. Listening to them and their academic bitching and talking shop I thought, ‘I can’t do this, this is bullshit’. I knew that long ago.

15th October, Friday

Passed the second re-sit. Our class is being disrupted by re-roofing. Weather gloomy today after the blue skies. Yesterday morning on the bus I told myself to have courage, to persevere. Smell the bakery every morning on Sycamore Road.

18th October, Monday

A whirlwind start with Mike, the fat English instructor, at ‘C’, or C++? He described one of my programming attempts as “logical spaghetti”. Three days a week at this, for five weeks.

19th October, Tuesday

Most were in at nine. No let up. Never mind the litost, you’re learning and this stuff is worth it. I have to grasp the maths problems. The plankton eater told us he’s been riding a married woman for a couple of years and in an effort to get her to break it off with him he stole £60 from her purse. It didn’t work but it’s not much of an exaggeration to say Gary was in awe.

21st October, Thursday

In the night the winos were fighting in the back alley. When given out to, a woman among them mentioned the (symbolic) fact that a window was between them and the person giving out. A male wino shouted, “Nobody tells me what to do with my woman!” The power of the powerless.

26th October, Tuesday

It got to a stage where (I reckon) Mike was trying not to tear out his hair, while I was trying not to laugh, as he attempted to drum in the structure of a program I couldn’t grasp. I wanted the code, not the (mathematical) philosophy.

27th October, Wednesday

No class due to roofing. Three radio ads are signs of the times:

(a) an appeal for factory workers in Blanchardstown, money spelt out;
(b) the soccer player Paul McGrath on about a plastic surgery clinic;
(c) a hotline for software piracy.

28th October, Thursday

Trying to come to grips with the book Teach Yourself C++ in 21 Days, which I printed off some months ago. Home study tries to master this so I can get off this course. So I can get a job and get off this f*cking course. I shut down like Hal (except quicker) every time it’s back to Basic.

29th October, Friday

A multiple choice exam in Basic 2. 14 from 18 = pass mark. I got 14. Some educated guessing and plain guessing.

2nd November, Tuesday

Cold and bright. No heating due to the roofing. Had a couple of pints in the Bridge with Niall and the plankton eater.

4th November, Thursday

The tool’s equation of maths with fun reminds me of how in school such problems seemed as meaningless as cryptic crossword puzzles. What on earth is the relevance of calculating massive prime numbers to what we’re doing?

5th November, Friday

Rain. I barely attempted the Basic 2 practical exam today. Went to see American Pie in the Savoy. Do I really need to be reminded about sex? Had my dinner in the Portobello because it’s raining. First time there in ages. The Portobello is the ancestral home of Captain Shamrock.

10th November, Wednesday

Past the halfway point now. With this thing I feel I’m in the trenches. It’s not helped by this tosser, this smart-arse talking to me like I’m a schoolboy. He’s putting me off learning the blasted language. Life feels full of annoyances. This is what it’s like, tired in the evenings.

Walking up through town I saw a city of students. Some buskers on Grafton Street were doing I Shot The Sheriff in the style of Oasis. Some yahoos on the Green were mixing up Brits and Britney Spears in a Spanish guy’s head, explaining the crowd and the limos outside the Fitzwilliam Hotel (re MTV Awards, Thursday) and up on Wexford Street, across from Whelan’s and the Mean Fiddler, an aged-looking Noelle Campbell-Sharp stood in a black skirt and leather jacket talking to some green-jacketed bozos. All I heard while passing was “…really f*cking something. Now let me introduce you to…” One limo was reportedly burnt out on the Northside.

11th November, Thursday

A drunken scumbag landed beside (almost on) me on the bus. Fiddling with a walkman, he said he’d just robbed a car but his mates had driven it away on him.

14th November, Sunday

While my brother was a distant silhouette on a beach I thought about the fact that at twenty-one I couldn’t imagine being thirty but at thirty-five I can easily imagine being fifty.

15th November, Monday

Class abandoned due to lack of heating. Stages of life are only stages but should one worry, getting older, that the chances of better periods lessen? From ‘This will end’ to ‘How will this end?’

17th November, Wednesday

Went down by one mark in the multiple choice ‘C’ exam, then could only get so far into the practical (about bus tickets). I left at two. Any touch of litost is removed when a man knows he’s gotta know his limitations.

20th November, Saturday

An encounter at the salad bar in Dunnes Stores in Rathmines: a beautiful, black-haired, busty beautician in a tight, white coat. She was even nice to me. She showed me how to use the price-sticker machine. If she didn’t work in a beautician’s then at least she worked in a chemist’s. What a ride. You know what you’ll have to do. Life’s too short.

21st November, Sunday

Looking for the hoover, Sarah knocked on the door of number nine (top floor). One of those Algerians emerged (scratching his balls) from a haze of dope smoke and a sing-along to camel music. No, they didn’t have it.

22nd November, Monday

On the qt, after I asked, Dazza said that the (telephone) program Dermot gave me would constitute our exam. Dazza did his own version and tonight Dermot put it on a disk so tomorrow I’ll try and slip it from there to “My Documents” to the disk Mike will give me.

23rd November, Tuesday

A successful cog, I should hope. Switched labels on disks etc.

29th November, Monday

The cog was found out. The code was too good and the date a giveaway.

30th November, Tuesday

Windy, then wet. Didn’t sleep too well, didn’t do anything re the programming re-sit (and got 18 this time instead of 20 in the multiple choice). Still, there was a bit of poetic justice in the end of the day that made my day. Despite having the exam program done for them by Dazza and then keeping it to themselves, the Three Licks still failed, to general delight. Everyone bar Keith failed.

I wonder how long it will be before I lose it with fat, snide Mike. I’d have done it before now if I thought he was worth rearing up on but he just may pester me over the edge soon. He seems to be goading me to quit, to suit himself, but he’ll be the last person I’ll do anything to suit. As for that other bollocks Dazza, he’s little better.

This morning on the bus I had to listen to a DCU student who incidentally looked a bit like me, with glasses and cap. I saw what he looked like when I looked around to see who was talking like that. He was from the West and he was pontificating in the manner of a typically ignorant student of some technical subject. The object of his bullshit was a girl who was both Australian and Jewish. He told her that the passing of the Millennium marked two thousand years from the start of “modern civilization”. She was able to point out that the Romans were established long before that and when he turned to the purely Christian thing she countered with the priority of Jewish history. Then he said, “You’re a lapsed Jew, I presume” and (luckily for him) she said, “What’s ‘lapsed’?” He had been to America so of course he knew everything. He knew nothing, except that “California rocks”, and I wanted to shoot him.

2nd December, Thursday

Dazza told Keith he thought he’d have to extend the course (on a day when he did forty-five minutes’ teaching).

Went to see Morrissey at the Olympia. Seventeen songs. When he threw his (first) sweaty t-shirt into the crowd it arrived back on the stage after a few minutes. (“When I threw it in I didn’t expect it back. Really, I insist.”) When he sang “Do you care how animals die?” I’d swear I heard a chorus of “No!

3rd December, Friday

Docking me three days for last week [while I was hundreds of miles away at a funeral in Kerry] was bad enough but when Dazza feigned surprise and then I saw what he’d written on the timesheet I just f*cked him out of it.

4th December, Saturday

Frost. Tour guide to T. and V. A good day was had, in the cold, bright capital. First time in the Cellar Bar. T. told me his junkie half-brother survived a shotgun blast, which blew a hole in him, but died later of an overdose. The Yugoslavian Mafia have now flooded Oslo with good, cheap heroin.

7th December, Tuesday

Having had a bad night (hot, aching, dizzy, with laboured breathing) I was surprised this morning to find the oncoming ‘flu’ gone. Cold twilights leaving Finglas. The women on Camden Street looked well, wrapped up but feeling the cold. It made them more alive. You could see it in their eyes, in their faces.

8th December, Wednesday

As well as the cold now, the wind is up and the rain is down. Some vessel is missing off Galway in the storm. Since last night I’ve had a pain in my left shoulder, roughly speaking. Nothing’s gone.

10th December, Friday

I thought I was bad, arriving in at twelve, but Hugh didn’t show up until 12.45. This is on a half day.

14th December, Tuesday

I was only words away from a successful cog at the telephone program test. I had a hard copy of the program inside my jacket but made a simple error copying it and the program wouldn’t run. I’d never have seen the obvious mistake.

15th December, Wednesday

Which word is more accurate, “lonely” or “alienated”? When the majority of women seem to dream of timber floors and freezers big enough to hold a man, I cling to the latter term. You know the way they think when you pass them on the street because you can hear them talking into their mobiles.

The Boys from Ballymun

The evening bus picked them up on Ballymun Road. At first they seemed to be talking about an ominously immediate situation like shoplifting or mugging. The more sober and coherent of the two made two points.

(a) He’d batter anyone who decided to mix it
(b) It only takes a minute to get away

When they were talking about how much “a fix” is these days (£20) I thought ‘That’s cheap heroin’ but they were on about prostitutes. The same guy said he got one for £15, when he was a truck driver. He used to park the truck down on Benburb Street and do the business. “You wouldn’t go down there now,” said his more out-of-it companion (who was carrying something in a grey bag). Reason? “They’re all riddled with AIDS.” The first one said he’d had a fourteen-year-old down there who’d been abused by her father since she was six, “until he put her out on the game”. They said they’d roast that man on a small fire. “I’d keep adding coal to it and his screams would be heard for a thousand years,” said the main talker, the leader. Then he extrapolated.

You see some people with their kids and they’re f*ckin’ bootin’ the bollix out of ’em and punchin’ ’em in the head. I mean, what do these people be tinkin’?

They said that Ballymun’s kids had gone quiet “because their fathers told ’em ‘Watch out for him’ and ‘Stay away from him’ and so on”. They were scared, in other words.

But Finglas is still a wild place. The kids are into it, turnin’ over coppers’ cars with coppers inside in ’em.”

Their last earwig-able subject was driving. On being told he couldn’t drive the number two said he’d driven when he was pissed. Then the leader told his own parable.

This is what I did. I went and bought a car off the knackers and I got me ould fella to drive me up to the industrial estate. By nine o’clock that night I was a f*cking rally driver. I was fifteen.”

Those two were an education. And these are only the bits I could make out from their conversation, while the clicks of the lighter signalled joint-rolling was going on (“Put in more soup”).

16th December, Thursday

Ran off a hard copy of the thesis. 190 pages. I need to go over that with a pen in order to come up with a total draft for January. I could have done it by now but who would look at it over Christmas? Who will anyway?

I’ve addressed a letter to the customer complaints section of Dublin Bus on Upper O’Connell Street.

Since last July I have had to use the 19/19A service on a daily basis and in general the impression I have formed it is that it is an utter disgrace. What prompts me to write this letter is analogous to the straw that broke the camel’s back. This morning I was the last passenger on a single-decker 19A that turned on to Cedarwood Road. The bald, bespectacled driver stopped the bus and disembarked, saying he’d be back in a couple of minutes. Given that the terminus for the 19A is McKee Road, for which I had paid, what really made me lose my temper was the fact that the same driver had pulled the same stunt at the same point a couple of months earlier. On that occasion he said he wanted to go into a shop to get his breakfast so I said it was okay, got off and walked up Sycamore Road. This time, I got off and asked why he wouldn’t do his job – with a few expletives added, admittedly – and he then gave the excuse that he wanted to go to the toilet. Colleagues of mine who use the same route have had similar experiences with this individual. Employees like him and another individual who happens to live on Sycamore Road and who has been witnessed taking breaks in his own house during shifts only add to the common impression that many of your drivers treat the public with contempt.

Even a fellow driver parked on McKee Road confessed that the last chap indicated was taking the piss.

22nd December, Wednesday

Town is mad. It would be a good day to punch a few people’s lights out. I lost it a bit with some screeching little slappers on a bus stuck dead in traffic.

23rd December, Thursday

Did my bit of shopping. Got a poster for Bela Lugosi’s Dead in Final Vinyl. At the end of the night Dermot bought a voucher so I could have a lap dance in Strings. I declined the offer.

29th December, Wednesday

Before the end of the year let me note the last strange thing told to me by the plankton eater, of a morning in the canteen. He said he saw a girl electrocuted at a rave in a big squat in London, in Willesden Green. She was heating a hash knife at a cooker when she let the knife touch the ring. Dodgy wiring meant she was blown back against the wall, dead. He said that three fellas tripping with him at the time started crying and that they weren’t right for days. When I asked him what he did, he said he just left, along with everyone else.

30th December, Thursday

George Harrison was stabbed by an intruder but his wife managed to knock the guy out. I hope nothing takes to the air in Russia (Y2K). The Finns have stocked up with iodine tablets.


4th January, Tuesday

What next? Dazza is gone from us, mysteriously. Big Mike is holding the fort, in his own room, while the heating is gone again in ours. He had the Three Licks in with him, while Niall, Hugh and I remained in the cold, doing our own thing.

5th January, Wednesday

Today, in the other classroom, Mike’s last word to try and get me to do something was “please”. Therefore I worked on an exam program or two (esp. the bus ticket one). I’m going to try and get the ‘C’ module and the Visual Basic. Still working on the end of the thesis, at home and in breaks.

7th January, Friday

£27.68 pay. Don’t ask me. Hugh kindly got me five pints in the Long Stone.

10th January, Monday

Failed the multiplication tables test today. Another case of being unable to spot simple errors.

11th January, Tuesday

Dank drizzle. Mike began teaching the rest of them Prolog today, in the other room, so I occupied myself finishing a draft of the thesis (190 pages, 43,000 words). My drawing of Mike with the speech bubble saying “I love to count” is still up on the white board.

About a hundred pages to go in Dracula. Mina Harker is a good name for a heroine. I didn’t expect so much humour, although some of it is unintentional. Where Van Helsing lists the strengths and weaknesses of the Count I was thinking of a phrase from At Swim-Two-Birds (“rat-bite at twilight”). The boys seem a bit incompetent at combating vampires. I’m getting a bit tired of their emotional pledging to each other.

12th January, Wednesday

Wet again. Passed the phone program exam. Maybe I finally knew what I was cogging? It was my third attempt at it. Did a bit more on the thesis, tidying up the last chapter. Added a coffin to the picture of Mike. Put him in it, in other words.

14th January, Friday

Half an hour in Maynooth. Gave the draft to the dept. secretary (Maureen). Saw Rosie, whom I shifted in Parson’s Street time. After a moment of recognition, she didn’t want to know. I said nothing.

It’s five to twelve and I’ve just finished Dracula. The ending is a bit anti-climactic. Overall the Count isn’t in it enough. Mina is quite a heroine after all. She even gets a gun (a revolver). The co-operation of every working-class person in the book has to be solicited with booze.

16th January, Sunday

I passed up South Great George’s Street. The George was blasting the Weather Girls and guys in sleeveless t-shirts could be made out, leaning against the glass, in the crowd inside.

17th January, Monday

Before I got in (noon) some FÁS person had tried to tell the class the Visual Basic module would be cancelled. More annoyingly, it seems the Three Licks in the class knew since November that Dazza would be leaving and again said nothing.

18th January, Tuesday

A good day. I passed the two-hour multiplication tables test and later showed a grateful bus driver – new to the 19 route – how to get from Finglas to Parnell Square. That included a trip round the houses on Tolka Estate.

21st January, Friday

No half days now on Friday because Dazza is back to do VB with us. When he said almost immediately that Cobol was bollocks and useless then I knew for certain I wouldn’t bother with those exams. He got the chop, he said, because it was either that or they would have had to give him a permanent job. They gave that to Mike.

22nd January, Saturday

The new beauty (lounge girl) in Cassidy’s is Canadian, I discovered last night. I’d thought she was Scandinavian. Her grandfather was Norwegian.


26th January, Wednesday

Same cold fog. Around this time each week I think of Mr Micawber’s distinction between happiness and misery based on being a bob over or a bob under. As I nearly always manage the former, my empathy with the outlook is reinforced. Until Friday. Mike shaved half an hour off my clocked-in time last week because he claimed I did nothing between 10.30 and 11.00 on one of the days. I told him it was a despicable thing to do.

27th January, Thursday

Didn’t hear the PA say “Gerry Sperm” (Gerry Sperrin?) today until late afternoon. The plankton eater arrived late. It took two hospitals to remove the toilet paper he’d bunged in his ear on Monday night in some night club. We had pints later in Bowe’s. Thanks Niall. I told them that Mike had me sussed (by now I use the course “to pass the time and pursue pet projects”, in his words).

31st January, Monday

Today the canteen served a nice beef stroganoff and pear crumble. Great surprise for a Monday, there, but a Hungarian group was on tour.

4th February, Friday

Had a few drinks after the course with Gary, Hugh and Niall. Niall told me how there came a moment in Holland when he was heading to work and he realized that for the first time in his life he didn’t have to worry about anything. He got off the tram. Three months later it was all gone.

7th February, Monday

Dermot and I went to the jobs fair in the RDS. Met Niall and Hugh. Niall stayed with us but got the boot from Cassidy’s. He’d begun to annoy Dermot before that. Miss Canada still brought us rounds and then some bird sent down a pair of double gins. While Niall, Dermot and I had been up the back, some cops arrived in, celebrating something. Miss Canada brought us some of their cocktail sausages and then we spotted a guy holding a tray full of delicacies like chicken nuggets. He had grey hair and seemed to have some seniority. I went at his cargo with both hands and this was the exchange.

“Who are you?”
“Ah, Inspector Gadget.”
He gave a grunt.
“I’ll give you Inspector Gadget!”

He turned on his heel with the tray.

10th February, Thursday

Passed the first VB exam with a little help from Dazza. Passed the multiple choice ‘C’ exam (22 out of 30) yesterday. This week has been quite bitter, weather-wise. You can see the traffic on the M50 from the window of the room we’re in now. Planes take off close by too.

14th February, Monday

No sign of an instructor today. The bus home was covered in leaflets. A strike tomorrow.

16th February, Wednesday

The FÁS f*ckers are docking us for not going in yesterday, when there were no buses. Passed the last ‘C’ exam (ISBN numbers). We’re out of there on Friday. We only have to check in a couple of times a week after that. The weather is bitter, arctic. A bit of snow fell.

18th February, Friday

Last day. Passed the last two VB exams. I’ve got what I wanted from the course: C and VB.

28th February, Monday

I rang Havas Interactive about contract/freelance work testing games and educational software. N. works there.

2nd March, Thursday

A general thumbs-up from Liam Ryan in Maynooth. He said he’d ask Andrew Greeley to be my external examiner. That would be a bit of a coup. Failing that, he’ll ask Steve Yearley. Not a bad name either. It’s a bit like Kafka’s Court out there – even with some kindness, it still receives you when you come and relinquishes you when you go. I must hand the thesis in (with revisions) by the middle of July.

3rd March, Friday

Just had a few pints in a packed Cassidy’s. The Canadian called me by name for the first time. I blew her a little kiss before I left. Across the counter, when she took my glass, having signalled a request for permission. Dream on.

14th March, Tuesday

Maybe after Fight Club stupid jobs don’t seem quite so lacking in ‘potential’? Grafton Recruitment want to send me out to Hertz in Swords to enter data. Natasha – a fine-looking girl – good at being professionally nice – push all these people into the front line of shit jobs. The best spin that can be put on something like that is that I have to start somewhere. You have to start from scratch somewhere.

15th March, Wednesday

Last visit to FÁS? On the way out I read twenty-six more pages of Fight Club, on the way in I read sixteen. Niall gave me the book a few weeks ago. My brother rang. He said Swords would be too much hassle.

23rd March, Thursday

When she looks at me and smiles is it any wonder that I may expect too much out of life? Her visible enthusiasm on seeing us enter late – Dermot (“your girlfriend”) remarked on it – makes me think I’ve just got to ask her out. What am I saying?

27th March, Monday

N. said Havas were looking for someone. I did four and a half hours in East Point. I’m to go back on 12 April.

28th March, Tuesday

Not only have I no dole but I’ve also had my rent allowance cut off. All because of FÁS failing to send out that letter of termination.

Went to see American Beauty. The satirical comedy is good but the film is a bit pervy. No one seemed to close their curtains in that neighbourhood.

29th March, Wednesday

After closing time the Canadian came in. I went over to talk to her. Eyes were still like dark forest pools reflecting slivers of light. It was interesting to see her ‘dazed’. It was like her own private joke. The searchlight beam of her smile drew me across in the first place.

31st March, Friday

I got a cheque from Havas this morning. I’m wanted there for a month.

1st April, Saturday

The power of the powerless: yesterday Eugene McGee said there are 30,000 GAA officials. No need for fight clubs here then.

3rd April, Monday

A bright, cold day in April. FÁS finally sent me the letter. I should have my dole back by Friday.

6th April, Thursday

When I had my back turned, getting some milk and sugar, I got a poke in the back. When I sat by a window she asked was I eating anything. I told her I was cold and that was the reason for the coffee. The place seemed quiet. Let her do her job. I slipped away. Being here is just a big adventure. Went down to Bride Street and told Maguire I’m working from next Wednesday.

7th April, Friday

Last night she was telling me in the Horse how she didn’t like to be leered at in that “meat market”. Today I went down to Thomas Street and signed off.

8th April, Saturday

Last night she had a stud in her lower lip, put in yesterday. She asked if I liked it. I said yes. She’d have to do a lot more than that to spoil her beauty. There’s so little beauty in the world so enjoy her presence while it lasts. Like an impending exam or big game, the thought of her sneaks back in and grabs hold of consciousness every time I try to think of something else. You try to grasp a piece of flotsam, only to slip beneath the waves into the black void again. That’s the killer. She is twenty years old.

13th April, Thursday

Made a start, back at the Ph.D. On the passing of time and what is produced: didn’t it take me long enough to write good academic work? Be patient, you seem to live slowly but you can come up with the goods in the end. In the pub, the Canadian put her arm around my shoulders and leaned into me. “Hello baby,” I said. She said she’d discovered large bottles of Bulmers the night before and had “about ten” of them, with a guilty chuckle. She wore a beautiful, high-neck, grey-brown sweater.

17th April, Monday

It turns out P. McCaul is in Havas as well. He said he’d put my name down for a localisation project that could last a year or more. My cert from FÁS has arrived in the post. It’s wrong. There’s no mention of Visual Basic. I’m just going to send it back.


28th April, Friday

She told me she read the e-mail I sent. She liked it. Her demeanour suggested telling her she had beautiful eyes did no harm. Ask her out to dinner. Ask her tomorrow night, sick puppy. A couple of times she was standing close to me, waiting for the others to order, and it felt like there’s something not quite wrong here.

29th April, Saturday

I asked her and she said yes. She has to find out what nights she’s off. She said she’d phone me. Relief. Though I got a bit tongue-tied at the start she did make it easy. She waited calmly, expectantly, while I tried to ask.

Doors nostalgia

Doors nostalgia

Photo © New York Times



Saw Ray Manzarek at HQ. M. got a couple of free tickets by phoning in about an Irish Times promotional offer. Vast quantities of alcohol were consumed by the crowd. The references to cosmic energy must have been over their heads e.g. “Play us a f*cking song.”

The quotient of cool was surprisingly high, as was the number of fine women. Blame the new venue. On Jim’s father’s desire that he join the Navy: he asked the audience to imagine Jim Morrison in charge of a battleship (“Hey man, point those guns over there ’n’ blow those suckers up”).

There was a nice instrumental version of The Crystal Ship. A music lesson on how they wrote Light My Fire.

Man I need a beer. Can somebody get me a beer?” The lad who handed him a pint of lager was named on the spot as the new roadie. He drank it fairly fast too. “Now can I have a cigarette?” He got one. He got a third item too and played to the gallery with it. “Man this is good shit.” Impromptu Back Door Man followed.

One wannabe black-leather demon invaded the stage but was really more interested in the crowd’s reaction, holding up his hand to give the peace sign as he was being hauled off. The crowd roaring a perfect rendition of the last verses of Light My Fire was quite memorable.

He performed some of Summer’s Almost Gone as part of his depiction of the famous scene on the beach in Venice in August 1965, when Morrison introduced him to Moonlight Drive. He described “Jim, in cut-off jeans, kicking up diamonds at the water’s edge”.

Beside me, a large black-clad Frenchman with a shaved head and a goatee had ordered a Black Bush whiskey but instead got handed a cocktail from the tray of one of the army of waitresses. He turned to me, perplexed.

What ze f*ck is ziss?

A Black Russian.”

Being Michael McDowell

Being Michael McDowell

Graham Greene’s memoir Ways of Escape contains a final chapter called The Other. This title, from a poem by Edward Thomas, heads an epilogue that deals with the writer’s long and unfulfilled search for at least one conman who had passed himself off as Greene on several continents.

Michael McDowell was first elected to the Irish parliament in 1987. Some years still had to pass, though, before people began to mistake a harmless nobody called John Flynn for him. That can be put down to the lookalike spending more time in Dublin and less time combing receding hair. It all began late in 1993 with a tap on the back from an old lady on a bus. She was echoed one night on Dorset Street during the noisy nearby convergence of an ambulance and some squad cars. It was then that another old dear approached him on a street corner.

Sorry, love, I thought you were Michael McDowell and you’d know what was going on.”

By 1999, McDowell was Attorney General. That August, a pal and I were in a pub on Camden Street that is known to be popular with the police. A new barman went out of his way to be nice. He even brought the pints down, unbidden, to where we were sitting. He then set them down with an attitude of reverence. Later another barman did a background check, while I was in the toilet.

Eh, what does your mate work at?

McDowell had an even better result in 2002. During the election campaign a homeless man approached me at a bus stop but I didn’t have any spare change. As he walked away he looked back for a moment. You look like Michael McDowell. Following the election the great man was appointed to the Cabinet. This extra power was soon reflected in the same bar when another chap asked the lookalike to settle a bet.

Are you the Minister for Justice?

When people ask such questions often enough, you can get into character.

Do you want to be thrown into prison?

The man hung his head and said sorry. He was shrinking away when granted an exasperated reprieve.

No, I’m not him. Would you ever cop on?

Shortly before Christmas 2007, it was a dark morning when I rose in a Waterford city hotel. There was no bottled water at reception (“But you can have all the drink you want”). The night porter then suggested asking at the nearby McDonald’s.

Two deaf guys in t-shirts had got to the locked door of the outlet first. They seemed to have had a long night and were indifferent to the frost. It then turned out that one of them could speak because he translated some giggles and sign language going on behind my back.

I’m sorry, my friend thought you were Michael McDowell.”

As for Greene’s quest, he never came closer than a couple of photographs and a letter from an impostor who had got himself into some trouble in India. Greene himself was later accused of being the fraud by a newspaper during a visit to Chile. It was then that he was assailed by metaphysical doubt as to whom was the real impostor all along. All he was left with was the Edward Thomas poem’s ending.

Even though McDowell had seemingly left the political scene, back in late 2007, these lines could ever only sound a bit sinister, given that I always knew he was out there, waiting.

He goes: I follow: no release
Until he ceases. Then I also shall cease.

JF at Jack wedding 2009

The Vampires of Parson’s Street

The Vampires of Parson’s Street

“…I have not received anything quite like it and I was very pleased to get it. I am still researching diaries for an anthology and am not certain what form it will take – so can I keep the manuscript you sent… What has happened to you since? I hope you are warmer and richer and illuminated. Oh those golden days of youth… I like the little incidental things you throw in like the tip of your nose being cold and the lack of light bulbs…”

– Melosina Lenox-Conyngham (editor, Diaries of Ireland, 1590-1987), 1 June 1995

That letter from the late Melo got retrieved lately in reaction to stumbling upon an issue of the Hello of the groves of academe: the alumni mag. The cover star had been busy networking, even as a fresher, but there were even worse issues of this Pollyanna bullshit. The one devoted to shameless boasting about their charity work and how they could afford their ostentatious contributions was a particular low. Overall, this stuff that gives kitsch a bad name makes me think of William Golding finishing Coral Island and turning to his wife. I wonder what English boys would really be like on a desert island.


5th January, Tuesday

Conor Mac had enquired about experiments in clinics. Four thousand for a six-second heart stop. Dermot picked a mouse up off the bar floor in the Roost. He had won seventh prize in the Roost Xmas draw. It included a bottle of port, which we drank hot. I slept in my clothes so I wouldn’t freeze to death.

6th January, Wednesday

We now have two light bulbs for seven rooms, including both jacks but not including the Rock ’n’ Roll Kid’s room, which is locked. (He has a key.)

7th January, Thursday

There are some good records popular at the moment – Terence Trent D’Arby (Sign Your Name) and George Michael (Father Figure). It is so like a squat now that there are three mattresses laid out in one room with the television. It is a squat.

8th January, Friday

A rejection slip came from the Irish Times (“We are greatly overstocked with poetry contributions”).

10th January, Sunday

When I got back to the house, Pearly had a f*cking crossbow, which his girlfriend got him for Christmas. A bedroom door was all shot through.

11th January, Monday

As a new beginning I cleaned the kitchen and got Dermot to help me clean the front room. We got briquettes too and lit a fire. The college opened again. Zig and Zag have attained cult status.

12th January, Tuesday

Typing a couple of pages in cold early hours by the light of a new bulb at last (150w) in a house on the edge of darkness. Starving in a garret.

15th January, Friday

Dermot, Pearly and I remained awake until 7.30 AM in order to wake CB for his weekly day’s work. “These boys are like vampires,” said Joe Caulfield later in the day. Dermot’s possessed tape recorder spewed out my Joy Division tape.

17th January, Sunday

All-night radio is on. The coal in the fire is reddening away, slowly. The Rock ’n’ Roll Kid made the statement of the year so far, to Pearly (“…and in the morning, we made love”).

18th January, Monday

Pearly came in and started to trash Dermot’s room. He smashed the crossbow when I wouldn’t help him load it. After much hassle, I ended up talking to him by the fire and he finally agreed to go to a doctor tomorrow. He fell asleep on the chair and I listened to the radio and ‘read’ Mayfair. By missing the daytime I am so much less bored.

21st January, Thursday

Joe Caulfield, CB and I stayed up talking until five o’clock. In the afternoon in bed I decided not to go home. Joe and I later sat talking in the cold. It began to snow later still. Back in the house we burned a chair and a shelf for heat.


22nd January, Friday

It’s after 5 AM. Dermot insisted on making and playing with a ouija board. Dan K. and Pearly joined in so I decided to teach them a lesson and pushed the glass around for hours. Both the fact that I had to stretch my imagination and the effect it was having on the boys proved quite draining but it was an interesting psychological experiment for a good cause. I don’t want to do it again.

23rd January, Saturday

Brilliant ideas are essential for fiction. If you make up ‘ordinary’ people and situations it is a bland recipe for boredom.

27th January, Wednesday

Afternoon session. Talking about mysteries. Sean kicked Downes out of the Roost, saying he couldn’t listen to any more. At a table quiz in Celbridge we lost a sudden death play-off but came away with a fiver each. They also forgot to take our entrance fee, so it was really £7.50! M. and J. are now separated. We sat in the car outside this house talking and smoking. She feels rejected by the academics. It was a good day for Dermot. He shifted a nice girl and flashed the pocket telly scandal on PF, who had accepted one as a bribe.

29th January, Friday

A letter from my mother. She keeps telling me I’m lucky to be away because of the weather. CB broke up another sign to light a fire. We are surviving on a four-stone bag of spuds.

31st January, Sunday

Rose at 5 PM. Showered, ate, cleaned kitchen. The tube went in the television.

4th February, Thursday

The tip of my nose is very cold every morning. A shower in the college puts me right each time. In the Country Shop, M. said something about a factory job in Munich if I wanted to go right away. Last night I’d to ring the landlady. The phrase “legal action” was mentioned in her first sentence but through a mixture of buck-passing and semi-grovelling I got her to hold off for a while. This house wouldn’t get me down if it were clean more often. I feel better after washing up, for instance, but it pisses me off that I’m the only one to do it. I get at the others to light a fire and clean the front room. Joe is moving out very soon. His gloomy nervousness has been unsettling me lately but he’s better off out of here. Pearly will probably kill himself before the summer. It’s a pity. He can be very witty. I must write to keep sane. I read All That Fall on a 66 bus.

8th February, Monday

Rag Week. On arriving in Maynooth I started with a flagon of Strongbow and a naggin of vodka. I got mouldy drunk. On waking at teatime I saw the Union was in a mess and no people were left. I thought I’d missed the whole lot and felt ready to slash my wrists. I stood on my glasses in a toilet cubicle in the Roost and cracked a lens. At the bar ex, N. sold me a ticket for a raffle in aid of a woman who’s dying. “What’s the point in buying a ticket so?” I asked. I shifted but I couldn’t get it up. I missed a sitter.

9th February, Tuesday

Pearly came in and saw that we’d had his quilt the whole time. On the couch he’d only had two jackets. Outside, there’s a hurricane. If I really wanted to, I could finish the book in a fortnight but typing a chapter a day isn’t too bad. I discovered that by putting on two jumpers and wearing my pyjama bottoms under my trousers I don’t feel cold in my room.

10th February, Wednesday

In the afternoon in Dermot’s room we drank sparkling cider and joined the dots in a pornographic picture book. I’m a blind man. On leaving the bar ex early again I was cheered a bit to find almost a quid in change on my windowsill. It means I can eat something tomorrow. Someday I’ll get out of here. I’m in a poverty trap.

11th February, Thursday

A shower did a great deal of good. After four burgers on the end of the gas I washed up and cleaned the downstairs. It’s not for anyone else, it just does me good. Empty flagons are good for lighting fires. Nothing gets wasted around here except time and money. We listen to Bauhaus – Bela Lugosi’s Dead.

12th February, Friday

Coping with the welfare state is a Kafkaesque experience. The new guy behind the desk in the Health Centre said he didn’t think I should have had to reapply for rent allowance. Wait about another two weeks. I get the feeling that those people delight in delaying you even if it is only for one week. So maybe you’ll give up.

Parson’s Street is getting to be like Beasley Street. Beauty problems are redefined, the doorbells do not ring. Even Tom H. wants to move out and he hasn’t officially moved in. My achievement was to achieve creative fulfilment and a preparation for death at such an early age. I just missed out on a partner and economic viability.

13th February, Saturday

The landlord’s brother called, saying he was going to collect fifty quid a week from now on. I suppose I could go home if need be. Without the radio the silence would drive me insane. It would be like Leixlip.

16th February, Tuesday

Bed for the day. The tip of my nose being always cold is fairly irritating. It’s chronic. Just what is under the yellow tarpaulin in the field behind?

17th February, Wednesday

The landlord’s brother agreed to give us a breather.

19th February, Friday

AM: there seemed little point in writing something now but things feel bad so I thought I’d better record this moment. In silence in this room you can always hear two sounds: the running of an engine or a boiler somewhere and the tapping of a pipe, probably arising from the water which drips away out of the wall at the back. They are mysteries.

At the weekend I hope to get some peace. Every day is a blur without my glasses and poverty grinds on my faith in a future. I can’t stay at home, I know that, but where can I go? I need a good break to come my way fast. Nothing I write could convey the jumble of boring nothingness. Everything sounds like bombast in print. Fourteen hours in bed and I wake up to find my last tenner lost. Suicide is out of the question, as are violence and self-mutilation. Whatever I’m going through is not as bad as adolescence. It’s just irritating to a large degree. A lot of banal difficulties are getting in the way.

When I break clear from here, when I break clear from here, there must be something about to turn up. It’s like getting bad hands of cards all night long. The lack of money to buy typing paper has been a simple obstacle in recent weeks. I don’t mean to sound self-pitying but I worry about the hopes and fears of my parents. It’s like being a cuckoo chick. The parents aren’t designed for the monster in their midst.

As the cold air begins to reach up my legs the only therapy is to write down sentences. The feeling of wanting to piss is increasing but the cold fingers of my right hand continue in the hope of re-entering a stylish vein of thought. A cup of tea and the radio are the best things life has to offer at this time of night, apart from an attractive girl who doesn’t talk shite. The world of Parson’s Street is one of icy temperatures, empty flagons, queer smells. I am like an old man here.

20th February, Saturday

Dermot and I had no luck thumbing so I attempted to cash my rent cheque. I tried the Roost, Kevy’s, Brady’s, the Leinster Arms and the petrol pumps outside Quinnsworth before trying Barry’s as a last resort. Robert cashed it, in part.

21st February, Sunday

CB woke me at four to get money. Robert gave me the remaining fifty. You couldn’t wait, huh? Spent it all? It’s relaxing to have money in my pocket.

22nd February, Monday

There is one shelf left in the downstairs bedroom. Pearly’s tape recorder died.


24th February, Wednesday

The landlord’s brother came again but no one answered the door. Old Luke emerged from next door and gave him an opportunity to give out loudly.

25th February, Thursday

Upon discovering that my coat had been missing for an indefinite period I asked in the Roost. The barman just said it’s out there under the flap in the cocktail lounge.

27th February, Saturday

Now that the problems of material existence have taken over from those of adolescence I must try to decide which are worse. So far I prefer to be the way I am but as I sink deeper and deeper it may all change. Listening to people on buses at the weekend would make you give up hope for the country. Apart from the bog primitiveness, which is one cause of hopelessness, there was a couple in front of me who pissed me off too. She was Spanish and he was a dry, clean-cut, Gaelic footballer type of student or something. When she asked him to explain a piece of Irish on the inlay card of a Sinéad O’Connor tape he couldn’t even make an attempt to do so.

I think Parson’s Street is the really bad aspect of life. It is only sinking home how bad the house itself is, even before our way of life e.g. the hole in the ceiling in the downstairs bedroom caused by a broken toilet pipe. That’s not really meant as an excuse for me drinking my rent cheque. I wouldn’t have done so had the place not been so intolerable, or at least I wouldn’t have guzzled it all. At least I’m home tonight in a decent house. The comforts of home are appreciated at a time like this. You know, when read in the light of the conditions in Parson’s Street, the letters from the landlady are quite comical.

Sexually my run of misses must come to an end. The ball is going everywhere except into the net. The bonk in November is approaching mythical status.

28th February, Sunday

We are wrinkles from another age. Our lives would not fill a problem page.

2nd March, Wednesday

On the phone the landlady told the Rock ’n’ Roll Kid to tell everyone to get out by Monday. Look, can I just keep my room? Best news: Dermot got the two of us a room in Beaufield.

9th March, Wednesday

We broke into Parson’s Street to retrieve my letter. After trying to fish it out with coat hangers, Dermot thought of removing the new windowpane where the putty had not dried. The temperature had dropped after the rain, which had fallen for hours.

10th March, Thursday

A free film and being skint drew us to the Arts Block. It coincided with the surprise visit of Mary O’Rourke to a uni high society night. We blocked her car on the way out and the Special Branch horsed in, swinging girls by the neck.

15th March, Tuesday

Dermot told me he tried to torch Parson’s Street at the weekend. He smashed in through the back but the lighter wouldn’t light the damp blankets.


5th August, Friday

When I got to Parnell Square they just introduced me to everyone, told me what days to be in etc. I just wanted to acclimatise myself to the feel of the place. I ran into B. on O’Connell Street. He had twisted his ankle so he was on crutches again. It was very warm in the city and he struggled as the two of us went to find Dan M’s flat. We had a few pints and, after B. left to meet his father outside Trinity, Dan mentioned the time he had come to Parson’s Street after we were gone. On hearing the knocking, Old Luke came out of his house, waved his arms and said, “It’s over!


It’s the last house, with the smoke.