I give myself to you.

Months of planning and waiting have come to an end.
Tomorrow I marry my best friend.
Nerves jangle the night before.
I wonder what's going on in my loved ones' mind.
Are we as anxious as each other?

A few drinks with friends distract me for a while.
The alcohol only furthers my discomfort and twirling tummy.
A second and third check of what happens at an early hour tomorrow.
Has everything been collected? Are the flowers ready?
Does everyone know what they should be doing?

I wake to a morning with a bright sun, calming me.
Stomach lined with an Irish fry washed down with Mammy's milky tea.
A glass of champagne, strawberry bobbing up and down, juicy and content.
Hair and nails get some tender loving care before the make-up is applied.
Finally the dress - A smile, a twirl and a tear.

Exasperated gasps greet me at the top of the stairs.
Carefully, I step down in shoes not quite broken in.
My father whispers a gentle word of encouragement.
Mother clasps a tissue to wipe away a happy tear.
Bouquet in hand, a car horn beeps in the drive.

The enormity of the event is hitting me and I breathe sharply in the car.
My father senses my disquiet and squeezes my hand.
"You need a drink love - but not a word to your mother," he says with a wink.
A quick nip of brandy in an empty pub.  
I clench his rough hand tightly as we exit Maguire's.

The sun continues to stream down on my arrival.
The gods are with us today as leaves flutter above in a gentle breeze.
The doors are open, awaiting my arrival.
The music starts to begin - and I catch a glimpse of my partner.
I can sense the nerves, twitching unnaturally, facing forward.

Smiles turn in my direction as camera bulbs flash.
One final deep breath and I set off down the narrow aisle.
I relax and let my father take the lead.
In twenty short steps I reach the top.
A relieved smile greets me with bright, happy eyes.

Bad Booze Nostalgia.

The taste was terrible. His tongue stuck to the roof of the mouth. His right arm was trapped under his torso. The room was actually spinning as he opened his eyes.

Paddy woke not wanting to move his head. he knew it was coming. He sat up. He was still fully clothed, but his blue jeans were open. The button unfastened and the zip fully down. Lipstick was on his boxers. He had fallen asleep on top of the duvet.

Once upright, he ran his bony fingers through his thick black hair. As he did so, he found a lady's pink clip in his hair. He held it between his fingers, not recognising it.

The heating was on in the room and his arm felt tingly. One of his socks lay on the floor near the door to the box room at the top of the stairs. The door was ajar, opening out onto the wide landing.

He saw his army jacket on the floor near the bathroom and a pair of lady's pink frilly knickers beside it.
Then saw a matching bra at the entrance to Alan's room. A partially deflated red balloon was attached to the bannister with string.

Paddy wandered into the bathroom to splash water on his face. He heard snoring from inside the bathroom. Jonjo was fast asleep in the bath clutching a rubber duck, with two empty cans of beer either side of him. A large bath towel covered some of him.

As Paddy turned on the tap, he saw his car keys in the sink. He had left his car at home and got a taxi back to Alan's house here.

Shaking his head and putting the keys into his pocket, he noticed his distinctive lime green toothbrush - how was that here? As he looked up at himself in the mirror, he saw a large cut on the corner of his right eyebrow and blood splatters on his t-shirt. Flexing his knuckles, he saw they were bruised too.

He tried remembering what had happened, but came up empty. Searching his pockets for clues, he found one unused condom and three small yellow tablets. They weren't his - Paddy never took drugs.

His wedding band was missing.

Scratching his head, he returned to the bed he had slept in. As he passed Alan's bedroom, he looked in. A slim naked brunette lay beside him. And she wasn't his wife.

Another brunette with familiar looking lipstick, lay fully clothed on the mat at the foot of the bed. The blue mat had two yellow pills near her hand.

Descending the stairs, beer bottles and cans littered the floor and units.

The kitchen was empty, but a complete and utter mess. It looked like a room after a row rather than a party. One chair was smashed and green glass was broken to smithereens near the sliding doors. Two knives sat on the chopping board with traces of blood on the blades.

Paddy noticed white powder on the counter top.

Opening the double doors into the living room, he saw one man he didn't recognise. He looked like he was asleep on the white leather couch. He was dressed in a shell tracksuit and trainers.

Then Paddy suddenly saw the stark contrast of red on white.

What confused him more was what he saw out the front window. 

Why was his car impaled in the fence? And who was at the wheel dressed like the man beside him?

You can't beat me.

A quick check on the time. Twenty five minutes before I walk out. Another check on the gear. Everything is there - that must be the fourth time I've reached back into the bag to make sure. I'm doubting myself. That is not good. I pace the rectangular locker room. I am alone here apart from my thoughts.

The room is pine wood throughout. Very stately. A touch stuffy for my taste. Brass adorns every locker and handle. Shining brightly. The smell of polish and sweat.

Nerves are natural I know - I wouldn't feel the same if I didn't feel them. I force myself to stop and sit, clasping my cold hands together. I rub them furiously against each other. Sitting with my back to a closed locker, I get distracted for a moment and stare off for about ten seconds. It relaxes me for a short time, but the opening of an outside door brings me back to the present.

Tim, the masseuse arrives and asks if everything is okay. I ask him to rub the backs of my legs to keep them loose. I had felt a twinge two days ago on my left calf - there must be nothing left to chance.
I have prepared well, re-establishing my own faith in myself. While Tim rubs, I stick my ipod in my ears. My own words play back to me.

"You have done everything to prepare. You are ready. You are loose. This is your day."

The recording pauses for a second - something I did by pure accident - this makes me believe even more that today is my day. I taped this last night on my coach's advice.

"Everyone will finish second to you today. You are the boss of your own destiny. Everyone will play second fiddle to you."

Tim finishes up and I thank him for his invaluable help. I get up and go through my secondary stretching routine. I have already stretched earlier, but this is my process. Having stretched, I put my white tracksuit on. It has green and orange trimming. I zip the top up to the nape of my neck.

This is the last day of the championship.

I can hear the anticipation and excitement of the crowd. I can hear the stewards and busy bodies milling around in the hall. Old men blazers huddle together in the hall.

I spot some former champions and they nod 'good luck' in my direction. No doubt they have done the same to my competitor. Hedging their bets in both directions.

My ipod continues to play in my ears. I stretch my neck by rolling it clockwise. Young men in green t-shirts and shorts carry our bags into the arena. A man in black and white leads the way through the halls. I spot my competitor but not knowingly, ignore him. I am focused on the job at hand. I stare off into the distance.

"You will win today. You are the best. You will want it more. You will perform."

And then as if I recorded it to time my entrance into the arena, came the words I wanted my competitor to hear most.

"You can't beat me. You won't beat me."

I turn to face him for the first time. He extends his right hand in a sporting gesture before we enter the maelstrom of noise in the arena. He is donned completely in a white tracksuit with a red tubed trim.

"Good luck today," he says in his Hispanic accent.

"The same to you," I say politely in return.

I hold his stare for a split second too long. I'm getting into his head before we step into the glare of the crowd and hordes of media.

Camera lights flash in their thousands as we step out into the fifteen-thousand seater stadium.

He can't beat me.

This is the final of the Subbuteo World Cup - I will win today.

Distraction on the Team Bus.

Two middle aged men greeted each other like old friends with a hug and a warm handshake. They stood outside a six-year old white 52 seater bus. The bus had a blue stripe down the middle saying O'Brien's Coaches.

"How long has it been Jim?"

"Sure it must be near ten years! How are you keeping?"

"Sure grand. How's the clan?"

"Not a bother! And yours?"

"Not bad, all things considered. The reason we moved down the country was because eh, we were looking after the mother-in-law."

"And how is she?"

"Eh, she passed nearly a month ago."

"Ah shite - I'm so sorry Tony."

"Ah sure she lived a great life Jim - eighty nine at the end. We had to sell up and would you believe both of us kinda missed the old area."

"So you're back for good?"

"Aye. Back in the old homestead."

"And are you working for O'Brien's?"

"Nope."

"Oh?"

"I bought him out. Proceeds from the will. Might as well do something with the money. You're still involved here then?"

"Probably until the day I croak it Tony. Same shite politics though."

"So what the feck is going on here today then? This is a new one to me Jim - this would never have happened in our day!'

"I know Tony! But I'm just the kit-man! I don't have a feckin' say!"

"This is well odd."

"You're not alone there thinking that Tony."

"Why warm up at some other pitch? What's he thinking, like? Why leave it so late to get there?"

"Listen - I don't know either. I think it's some sort of mind games to be honest."

"I hope they're not going to be running up and down the aisle of me new bus in the time it takes to get there!"

"No they won't! Don't be silly for fecks' sake!"

"I'm just saying! Them bloody studs better not leave big holes in me carpet!"

"The ground is hard out Tony - they'll be wearing moulds. They're like runners with good grips - no actual studs."

"Oh right - good. 'Cos I was told it was only replaced last year."

"They'll probably just be doing some light stretching and motivational speaking en route."

"Grand so. But Jimmy - it leaves us feck all time - like no wiggle room at all! What happens if we get
stuck in a bit of traffic or, or something else?"

"He's not thinking that way. But in all fairness to him Tony - there should be feck all traffic between here and the pitch. Sure it's only about two odd miles."

"I know that! But you never know like! Will they be long?"

"Shouldn't be. Anything new in that newspaper you were reading?"

"Not much to be honest. Some poor fecker of a child stuck a pencil in her head by accident - how some one does that I'll never know!"

"Well they do say that children should never run with sharp objects!"

"True for you Jim."

"Anything else?"

"Ah jaysus, there's another article about how men get easily distracted driving in this weather."

"Whatcha mean like?"

"Well 'cos it's warm, women wear less clothes and our attention isn't exactly on the eh.."

"Road!"

"Yeah. That shit doesn't affect me anymore Jim - I'm long past me sell by date. Sure Moira barely even looks my way anymore unless she's looking for me to get the coal in from the bunker."

"Sure my Anne is the same! Only calls me by my proper name when (a) I'm in trouble or (b) she's looking for something!"

"We're forty years hung next year. Next February."

"Are you jaysus? Feck Tony, I'd never have thought that! Me and Anne are thirty three - a fair bit behind ye two."

"Sure ye two are only childer!"

"Here they come Jim - start the bus. This fecker will want everyone loaded up in less than sixty seconds. I've to tick them off on this bit of paper as soon as they board."

"What's that for? Surely you could just count the feckers as they get on?"

"It's not my call Jim. Ah feck this pen isn't working! Have you a spare?"

"Eh, I've a pencil here on the dash - will that do?"

"It will surely."

Jim ticked them all off, one by one. All 26 players and management accounted for.
The new manager spoke whole-heartedly as Tony drove along the main road. They all sat quietly listening intently. Jim sat directly behind Tony.

A young girl cycled by in the opposite direction.
Her light skirt fluttered in the summer evening breeze.
Her red beret and pale yellow cardigan glowed.
Her nubile bare legs shone like torches in the darkness.

Twenty seven sets of male eyes followed the cyclist.

Tony braked late.

He turned the wheel right as he craned his neck.

The bus stopped two feet short of a telegraph pole on the far side of the road.

Jim's pencil went flying too. Missing Tony's head by inches.

Galway Torture.

The music lilted out of the pubs onto Eyre Square. The weather was warm and balmy and people of all nationalities hustled throughout the city. It was Saturday evening at half past nine. Summer holidays were here and people were, for a change, enjoying the spell of good weather.

It seemed like the Saturday evenings of the Celtic Tiger days were back. People were spending money and talking about how much their house had appreciated in the past twelve months.

Andrew wished for times past. Of times that were so different. He dragged his feet wearing his over-sized shoes, clutching his jacket in his left hand. It was too warm to be wearing the overcoat. He removed his black tie.

A young couple wearing Mardi Gras beads stopped to shake his hand, clearly having a good night. Andrew told them to "fuck off" in no uncertain terms. Happy conscience-free people really annoyed him. Especially when they were a bit tipsy. He wasn't in the mood to share their festivities.

This was Galway in July 2019. Kids wore silly looking clothes and men and women were hard to tell apart. They were all idiots, following the state's advice about lifestyle choices and what to call their children. Drones, every single one of them. Only people of his age had the where-with-all to think for themselves. Thomas thought and spoke for himself, that's for sure.

Cash was no longer a commodity that people valued. Cards and electronic gadgets were all the rage. He never really saw the need for any of those fidgety things, and never wanted to learn how to use them. In truth, the technology had passed him by.

Staring up at what used to be the old AIB building on the square, he shook his head at what it had now become. Some sort of fancy glass building housing high-end electronic goods. He had worked there almost twenty years ago, when banks were king. Not so much anymore.

Scratching around in his pockets, Andrew found fourteen credits in coins. That was enough for a pint on the way home. It would be a fitting ending for the evening. A toast to his friend Thomas in his former favourite drinking hole - the Dew Drop Inn.

Wandering in and out of the crowds filtering into the square, he walked with a heavy gait towards the pub. His night of Galway torture was complete.

He hadn't visited the city in ten years. The pub was gone. It was now an apartment block of a monstrous nature. He doubted himself for a second, and checked back. No - his instinct was correct.

The Dew Drop Inn was gone for good - where was he going to toast his buried friend now?