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I grew up in Galway. It’s in the west of Ireland.
I wasn’t born there though.
I was born west of that again. In a place called Connemara.
It’s a wild and rugged place. An elsewhere. A whole dark continent to itself.
My father said it was a dangerous place.
That is, if you got lost.
Or meet someone you don’t know. Then, well then, you were fucked. Many a good man has gone missing in those parts of Ireland for no good reason other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Oh well.
It is these types of things that set you up for life and give you your bearings on future events.
Shit things will happen.
You will be unhappy.
There is no point in leaving things to certainty.
Some cunt will come along and remove that confidence from your smiling countenance.
I was brought to Dublin by my uncle when I was five.
It was in a blue van.
Where was my father?
Good question.
My uncle left me with my father’s sister in Bray. She was a widow. Her husband had died of something or other somewhere a few months previous to my arrival.
No doubt I was not there to cheer her up. For what could a five year old do to a middle-aged woman?
Perhaps I was the suicide watch.
Perhaps my father sent me to mind his only sister.
Bollocks.
My father could have done that himself. And anyway. He was too drunk in the wilds of Connemara to give two flying fucks were I was.
He hated me.
—Get out now into that world and make your name.
My name.
What the fuck could that mean? To a five year old?
—Kill the pig.
—Of course.
—Kill the chicken.
—Of course.
—Kill the cow.
—Naturally.
And then you’re fucked off to the big smoke.
Well, nearly.
Bray is not exactly the big smoke. More of a small smoke. In fact, it is more of a smog now that I think of it.
It is a small seaside town, south of Dublin.
It is noted for nothing, or than the fact the British loved to bathe there.
Bless them!
They are so innocent.
The beach is so full of shingle that it is hard to imagine any one lying down upon it except to remind themselves of their own sordid and dreadful existence.
Of course.
I am writing off the point.
But I see no point in writing upon it.
Both paths will take me to the same place.
Here.
In this white-washed room.
Here.
Calm.
If I screamed would it make any difference?
Doubtfully.
