Thanks, really.
I'd also like to thank my neighbours and friends in Dublin 10, without whom I could never have come so far so fast and so eloquently. To Father Arthur O'Neill for his spiritual guidance, belief in me, and occasional confessions. The people of Ballyfermot lower, the classier end where we're all looking out for each other. To the CIE buses that took us into town. To the factories over the back wall, without whom I would never have been able to afford fresh sticks and drum-heads.
To the staff at Tesco, who never once clocked that I walked out the door with several times more products than I paid for. To the various pubs, all of whom hired me at one stage or another when I was under twelve years old. To the teachers and staff at St John's College, the only school I was booted out of twice but always got back in. To Thomas 'Barney' O'Sullivan, who taught me the value of an apostrophe. To Willy Allen for the book list he slipped me one day and introduced me (and only me) to the wonders of modern literature.
To the local coppers for all the times they came knocking on our door claiming I was in custody at Pearse St/The Bridewell for stealing cars when I was in fact working in Greece most of the time. To the little bastards who kept using my name when they got reefed (I'm looking at you, Granda Jackson - and your scumbag neighbour Kevin Guilfoyle) and of course to the Guinness's of Decie's Road, who inadvertently taught me to fight after beating me up a few times until I lost the rag and cracked your bastard son's head off the edge of the pavement, scarring him for life (it wasn't much of a life - he was dead within two years) and to Katy for the use of her drums.
Again - none of this would be possible without that one vital element: yes, the Mowl.
Here's to sauna, quality of life, happiness, and wrecking Jambo's head.
Thank you - and good night.
t.me
). Those are numbers you can only dream of
