The Champion of Chocolate.

It had been a long and winding road for Andrew. Fifteen years of family problems, untrustworthy partners, health issues, fire and the world financial collapse all played their part in his life. Now he was on the verge of achieving their ultimate dream and his life's ambition.

He left school following his father's path of accounting. He didn't finish first year, hating every minute of it. He wanted to make his parents proud though, and went back to college. That didn't last either, until his father pulled strings for him in the bank. He got a decent job in Dublin with a major bank but still dreamt through the long days of one thing - chocolate.

His job ended simply. His direct supervisor called Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory a stupid film. He clattered him across the chin with a left hook. Within minutes and without being told, Andrew started packing up his personal items from his desk. He left not knowing if he had been fired or not.

One thing he had learned from the bank was the importance of savings. At the tender age of 22, he told his friends about his love of food and his obsession with chocolate.Andrew wanted to go to culinary college and feed his nurturing desire in how to cook properly. He finished top of his class after three years and became a sous-chef at a top Dublin five-star restaurant.

Having his creative side stifled by the chef, Andrew soon became disillusioned. He wasted two and a half years until they employed a new pastry chef by the name of Tomasina. She was German and shared the same desire and love for chocolate. They hit it off immediately. Andrew soon found himself in the company of Tomasina, learning new ways and the complexities of chocolate.

One night, in the company of friends and too much wine, Andrew blurted out that he wanted to rule the world of chocolate. Everyone in the room laughed heartily except one man - Jon. Jon was the son of a wealthy financier and was eager to make his own mark in the world of business. Speaking further, they both had an idea to open a chocolate cafe. Tomasina and Andrew would run the chocolate end of operations and Jon would locate premises and staff.

Andrew put his entire life savings into the business. It bore fruit. They opened three cafes in one year, all making and raking in cash. Jon had ambitious plans, yet Andrew didn't quite agree. Then Tomasina fell pregnant. She had to take it easy near the end of her term. Jon franchised the business and the company grew exponentially. Using their exquisite brands of chocolate, the coffee and related products were flying off the shelves.

Andrew and Tomasina wanted to stick to the core value of selling the chocolate. Jon didn't agree. He wanted to brand the chocolate cafes and push the chocolate through this avenue. It became legal and very messy, very quickly.Andrew managed to hold onto the chocolate recipes and his one and only store. Jon soon coped without them both by employing another chocolatier.

Animosity soon developed between the two. A suspicious fire closed the shop for three months. The insurance money to refurbish was held back as an investigation was conducted against Andrew. His health detiorated as a result and he slowly drifted into depression. Tomasina soon moved out, taking with her their son, Philip.

Andrew celebrated his thirtieth birthday on his own, in a damp one bedroomed apartment in the city centre. He had never felt so alone. He contemplated his own demise. But then over a cup of coffee he was offered a complimentary piece of chocolate. He didn't like what he tasted and knew what he could change. He saw the way back.

He threw himself back into work, studying the old French and Belgian ways of taking the cocoa beans, harnessing, mixing and making chocolate. Travelling between the chocolate schools dotted throughout Europe, he refound his love. Sending Tomasina an over sized, ambitious and impressive chocolate present, he wrote a simple note.

"I'm back. Without you, Philip and chocolate in my life - I have nothing."

Andrew returned to Dublin, opening a small chocolate shop in a former old bookstore on Grafton Street. He held onto the the semblance of the exterior and placed a simple sign on the front. He wanted the chocolate to speak for itself. The front sign simply said "APT Chocolate."

It didn't take much time for the chocolate buzz. Word of mouth spread the popularity of his APT mixes. The variety and complexity of his four core chocolates sold themselves. He soon had investors and financiers wanting to back his every move. He turned every single one of them down.

Chocolatiers began to flock to him. Word flowed back to Tomasina that Andrew was doing very well. They had spent seven months apart, barely speaking a word. The queue outside the door of the small shop was immense.

The shop sign melted her heart. APT stood for Andrew, Philip and Tomasina.

She walked past the long line and walked directly up to him. Seeing the happiness in his eyes, a single tear brushed her cheek. Without saying anything, she kissed him deeply, forgetting the past months.

Now that his life was back on track, they combined ideas and workings with chocolate. New themes launched their business into the stratosphere. They won award after award, propelling them into the spotlight. But Andrew still craved a simpler but huge accomplishment. To be a Chocolate Master.

Andrew had worked hard for this moment. Five years on their own, perfecting and exacting their own particular brands of chocolate. And now he was on the verge of becoming the king of chocolate.

He was in the final three of the Masters of Chocolate. The World Championships of Chocolate.

The 2011 Champion of Chocolate took to the stage with the golden envelope in hand. He announced the three finalists representing Mexico, Japan and Ireland. Andrew was proud. Tomasina gazed on with Philip, teary eyed.

The announcer stated Japan in third place. He had done well coming second, he thought to himself. Andrew really didn't expect to win.

But then his life got better. Ireland had a new Master. A Champion of Chocolate.

Morning Chat at the 101 Bus Stop.


"Ah howya Elsie - how are ya dis morning?"

"Ah jaysus howya Betty. Let me sit down furst. Ah, that's better. This feckin bag is killin me bleedin back."

"Wha have ya in it? Bloody rocks or wha?"

"Ya know - the usual shite I need every day. Ya know how Bertie gets when ya don't have all the shite with ya every day."

"He's a bleedin fecker, he is. D'ya sleep ok?"

"Nah - the feckin dog was barkin half de night."

"And wha was he bleedin barkin at?"

"I haven't a bloody clue - probably de wall or something stewpid."

"We used to have a dag dat used te bark at the wind. Now he was s stewpid arsewipe!"

"Now dat's a feckin lie."

"No! Honestly he did!"

"Ah yer pullin me leg Betty. No living ting could be dat bad."

"Well de dag was in our family, and ya know how tick some of me clan are."

"Dat's very true Betty. No sign of the creepy crawlie fecker heer dis morning?"

"No sign at all. I tink he has a nice face dough."

"D'ya tink so? It looks mouldie te me. Like a slapped arse if ya ask me."

"Ah c'mon Elsie - he's not dat bad. He's just a quiet sole. He wouldn't hurt a little fly."

"Still makes me skin crawl."

"Wha ya got fer yer lunch?"

"I made it last night. Didn't want dat fecker of mine robbin them dis morning."

"I got a ham and cheese one and a corned beef one. Wha ya got?"

"Egg and mayo and cheese."

"Euggh! Mayo! Dat's not yer usual sambo combo. I'm not swapping with ya fer defo now."

"Aragowaan! Ya know I lurve corned beef!"

"Der's mayonaisse on dem. No feckin way."

"Suit yerself. I just thought. Ah well, I knew ya like egg, dat's all."

"Ah fer feck's sake, go on den. Feckin guilt trip at eight in de morning."

"Yer a star Elsie Brennan. Yer savin me from the shite they serve at lunchtime in my place."

"It's hardly dat bad, is it?"

"I wouldn't feed it to a pig. It's slop. Proper slop."

"Really?"

"Really really. It looks de colour of a Chernobyl shite."

"Ah stop Betty. I can taste me porridge all over again."

"Value fer money der den - yer gettin te eat it twice!"

"Ha ha! Yer gas Betty. I tink I see me bus coming heer."

"And I tink I see mine behind it too. Look who's coming running fer yer bus now!"

"Ah jaysus lay off him Elsie. He's alright."

"Seeya later so missus. And no snoggin yer boyfriend at de back of de bus - ya don't want him moving yer fillings dis early in de morning!"

"Feck off you! Seeya later!"

Tom hits table.

The taking of this drug does NOT have side effects. Anyone who tells you different is a bloody liar - with eleventeen fingers and three thumbs. I smell methane - and it's not a fart, before you get smart.

I've not dropped the kids off at the pool today. My back feels like a small Thai woman needs to run up and down it for a while. But my middle arm does hurt from milking the dog on the miniature animal farm.

I was riding the multi-coloured horse when Tom entered the room wearing the pink long sleeved loincloth. I thought it looked beautiful on him, accentuating his eyes. It matched his scooter. Not the red one, obviously.

Jimmy shouted something mad like "I wanted the fridge with the ice-cube dispenser dickhead!"

That man is crazy. He eats worms from his farm. Imagine breeding those fuckers. You can cut their heads off and they still live.

Tom twirled across the floor. Like a ballerina. On skates. In Maryland. Except he weighed 220 pounds. I noticed how fat his toes were. Cheesy sausages.

He clobbered into four tables, knocking over three games of chess that never seem to end.

Especially the rich hairdressing kind. Those fuckers don't know when to quit. Hair dryer in hand, I am God. Look at my shop and it's witty name. Fuck off bro - your name is a tank with leather trousers on. So 1980's. And it's muffler has an auntie who sells her pepper to the nearest farmer with black and green cows.

He stumbles toward me with those blue/green/yellow/turquoise eyes. He yells, wanting everyone to hear. He hits the table in frustration.

"Why the fuck did you sell my grey bin? You bastard! And what about my left boob? I loved that more than my right. Sorry rightie."

"I did it to save your soul dude. Now the left orange felange with the green teapot can fly again."

Argument over. Tom is happy. I talk sense.

Now when does that wardrobe that opens the alternate universe open again?

Strike Power.

Tension was brewing. Raised voices, clenched fists started the morning, and it was nothing to do with the heat of the factory. The hum of large laundry washers dulling the morning mist outside, intensified the mood.

The little issue had become the straw breaking the camels’ back. The shop floor workers were divided. This minor issue had potential repercussions. Production coming to a halt was in no one’s interest.

Action had to be taken.

The workers felt they had been backed into a corner. Management had taken decisive action before and weren’t afraid to make the uncomfortable choices. The ordinary worker felt this was a looming push factor. Their way of saying “Your opinion doesn’t matter.”

The shop stewards huddled together and debated the inaction by their direct boss, Mr. Clancy.

The general consensus was that Clancy was going too far. His attitude to it was bordering on unwitting. Why were they being forced to work under these draconian rules? How could they come to work with this percolating over them, every single day?

It had been infusing for some time now, January to be exact.

It all began with the closure of the big plant in Cork. It had forced some of the workers to relocate to the capital, Dublin, but they just wanted to remain employed. Accents, habits and working ways caused friction as both sets of workers mingled. County loyalties were not the only thing dividing the shop floor.

The Cork plant also brought their own shop steward, who in turn became the general workers representative. Tim Power had to quickly endear himself to the capital workers, who eyed him with suspicion.

Speaking on everyone’s behalf would be a step in the right direction. Avoiding the fermenting problem would show he was a man to be trusted. Getting them a fair deal.

Tim put his mug down and fixed his tie. He couldn’t bear to go in without looking professional. He wanted to show Clancy he meant business. Whispered voices sneaked out from between the machines as Tim strode purposefully across the cemented shop floor. This was no storm in a teacup.

Tim climbed the seven steps to the mezzanine office of JJ Clancy. He knocked before entering. He was beckoned in.

“Well Timmy! How are things? What can I do you for?”

“Eh, this is, a signed petition from all the workers on the shop floor.”

“About what?”

“About, what constitutes part of our, breaks.”

“What are ya on about? Breaks haven’t changed.”

“I’m gonna have to read this to you to make it all, like official and stuff. We, the workers of TC would like to enter into negotiations vis-à-vis what is part of our break. We feel that we are at a crossroads here. We just want what’s best for all.”

“I’m sorry, Timmy, but what are ya talking about?”

“We’re prepared to serve strike action notice over this, such is the emotion Mr Clancy. This has been steeping for some time now.”

“You’ve lost me and annoyed me in a very short space of time Timmy.”

“You know full well what affects the workers the most!”

“Don’t raise your voice to me Tim Power. I’ll feckin’ strike the shit round the back of your head if you don’t get to the bloody point!”

“In this day and age, we would equal opportunity – this is 1981 after all.”

“What are ya rattling on about Power?”

“We believe it is our equal right to have more than one than one choice.”

“Choice of what?”

“Considering that almost half the workforce are from down south, we just want like, fairness and equality for all.”

“Timmy! What do you want?”

“The choice of either Lyon’s or Barry’s tea. The effect of drinking Lyon’s tea is having a detrimental affect on the southerners. Morale just isn’t there because of it. Lyon’s is a capital tea. The southerners want their Barry’s tea!”

“How about I make a trip to the supermarket at lunchtime and I’ll buy two different boxes of tea. Does that solve your problem?”

“Eh, yeah. Just make sure it’s not the loose tea. They hate that.”

“Grand stuff. Is there something else ya want?”

“Do you mind if I shout and roar for another few seconds at you? Just so it looks like I’m telling you what’s what. For morale, like.”

“Get the feck out of me office Power.”

I bequeath of thee punk.

The sun glistened off the black tarmac and heat visibly rose from the one hundred degree heat. Bill stepped out of his vehicle and adjusted his Aviator sunglasses to exclude the strong midday Miami sun.

Tiny little geckos along the sidewalk avoided his stride, as he neared the door of the convenience store.
Bill wiped his sweaty brow as the whoosh of frigid cold air greeted his entrance. The electronic bell above the automatic door rang.

Pausing to adapting to different lighting, he glanced around checking for the soft drink fridges. Situated at the back of the store, Bill walked purposefully toward them, eager for something cold and refreshing.

He was so concerned about quenching his thirst that he did not see or spot the unusual circumstances surrounding him. Glazed expressions and confused stares wondered if he had a death wish.

Even the gunman seemed perplexed at Bill's audacity.

Everyone stood motionless, wondering what might happen next.

The cashier behind the long wooden counter shook, with a mixture of fear and anger. Three customers - two women and one very overweight man - who had stood in line to be served, now nervously waited for what came next.

The man held a six pack of beer. They all stood with wobbly dispositions - half clutching items they wished to purchase and with their arms halfway in the air.

The gunman waved his gun to and fro reasserting his command of the situation. Everyone shivered at his sudden anxiety, fearing his next jerky movement might be their last moment in this life.

They all weren't sure what Bill was doing. What was taking him so long?

Sixty seconds passed. Bill didn't reappear.

The young stringy gunman got more nervous, wondering where Bill had wandered off to.

Sweat began to trickle down the back of the cashier - even though she was directly beneath the duct of the air conditioner.  The chubby man couldn't keep control of the items he held in his arms - glistening beads of water from the beer made one of the bottles slip to the floor and smash open.

The gunman raced toward him and stuck his Glock under the ample chins of the poor man. He whispered to him not to drop anything further or he would shoot him up through his brain.

Panicking, the gunman ordered the cashier to continue emptying the till. He couldn't wait for the weird guy at the fridges to reappear. Where was he anyway?

The bustle of the broken bottle gave Bill enough time and distraction that hid his advance.

Bill was undercover at the moment. He had also a particular penchant for English literature. That's where he was going right before he walked into the store. To his second appreciation class of John Milton, the poet.

Moving deftly along the aisles he skipped toward the shaky drug riddled weaving gunman. The beer skittering to the floor gave him time to creep right behind him as he rose his own gun.

"I bequeath of you punk - resign your firearm to the floor before I send your soul toward hell and the fiery depths."

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?