Rat life

“What times our flight at tomorrow morning?” I say.
“Well our bus is collecting us at 5.00 so we’ll have to take it easy Tony.” he says before taking a swig from his beer bottle while on our way to the club.
When we arrive at Babylon we’re no longer subjected to the usual bouncer pep talks or cover charges as-having been here 14 nights on the spin-we’re part of the furniture.
Pepe’s first to greet us from behind the bar.
“Hey if it isn’t my two favourite Irish pigs” a ritual we’re well accustomed to. He then speaks directly to Matt “Hey whitey you still get no sun? You like Dracula.”
“Just get me a damn beer.” Matt says jokingly.
“You hear that Rui? Dracula’s sissying out on us-he only wants a beer.” Rui marches straight over and begins pouring four shots.
“Oh wait maybe sissy boys no want shots tonight.” We down our shots as well as the shots intended for the bar staff.
“Oh so you’re tough guys now? How about a motherfucker?”
The last thing we need is a motherfucker which is what the guys concocted after the third night to try and get us wasted. There isn’t exactly a science to it and taste is certainly not one of its virtues. It basically just consists of every nasty high volume alcohol thrown together in a long glass. I know there’s definitely Pernod, JD, and absinthe but the only distinguishable taste is fire.
“Rack ‘em up Rui.” Matt says and already I’ve got pre-drink regrets. I can tell by the manic grin painted onto Rui’s face that he’s taken this as a personal challenge-we’re not leaving here unless we’re completely fucked up. More foul drinks than usual flow into the glass and this time he’s even thrown Aftershock into the mix.
The drink presented in front of me is evil personified-tar brown bile with the smell alone enough to make me sick. I close my eyes and down it in three huge gulps-the first stripping my taste buds, the second burning my throat beyond recognition, and the third ripping apart my stomach lining. We complete our drinks to great round of applause with Rui ringing the bell, and Pepe clapping in recognition. A German tank at the bar gets caught up in the excitement and orders another three motherfuckers. I thank him behind gritted teeth still trying to come to grips with the first fire bomb.
Over in the corner some English lout is getting leery. I can’t quite make out what he’s saying but catch enough to get the jist.
“Fack those IRA cants, I show’ll them how it’s really done.”
Our drinks come but the German tank makes a point of waiting until the English guy is served.
“Okay now we go.” he says challenging the hate filled Brit. The German goes first downing his drink with admiral aplomb not even wincing in the process. The English guy follows suit but on his second mouthful ends up spitting it back out all over the floor.
“Your eyes why they condensate?” The German directs at the English guy who is too busy coughing to respond. The bar erupts into laughter leaving the emaciated English guy with no choice but to fade away into the background.
We spend the rest of the night getting wasted with the good natured German tank named Dieter and although I’m fairly wasted I can still function pretty well.
We exchange our good byes with Pepe and Rui and I’m amazed when they give us the Portuguese flag from behind the bar. It’s only on closer inspection that I realize they’ve signed it-“to our two favourite pigs”.
“Look our own personal testament” Matt says.
And the more I think about it the more I’m unsure if it’s a compliment; out of all the hundreds of thousands of drunks they’ve met over the years-we are the biggest.

Back at the hotel the coach has already arrived with families robotically putting their luggage on board. We sprint up to the room and shovel as much clothes into our bags and settle on “as long as we have our passports and wallets we’ll be okay”.
The coach ride is painful with everyone else’s sobriety making me feel very self conscious. Matt’s voice bellows at least ten octaves above everyone else’s and his booze filled breath causes me to recoil every time he speaks. I can feel the drink seeping out my pours as the adrenaline wears off and I slowly crash and burn. Matt however is the complete opposite-fuelled by Red bull and vodka-spitting out sentences at a dizzying rate to further compound my misery.
Our flight is of course late and by the time we’re seated I’m in a total vegetable state. The airplane is hot and the seats are so compact that I have to shift position every two to three minutes in order to stave off cramps. The air makes my skin incredibly clammy and is contaminated with the unmistakable presence of children-regular coughing, high pitched screaming, and round the clock tantrums.
“What time’s it bud?”
“I don’t have a watch but I’d say we’re about an hour through the flight.”
“Have you not got your phone?”
“No I have it turned off. I don’t think you’re allowed to have your phone on during flights.”
“That’s only during take off and landing?”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, now hurry up and tell me what time it is?”
I power up my and show Matt the screen which reads 11:22.
“Excuse me Sir but you are not permitted to use mobile telephones aboard airborne aircraft.” An angry looking flight attendant informs me.
“Oh I’m really sorry I thought that was just during take off and landing.”
“No sir it’s against aviation law and is not permitted at any time.”
“Again I’m really sorry I was merely checking the time, apologies.”
The battle axe immediately disappears and judging by her body language you’d swear I just told her to fuck off. A few minutes later the captain buzzes through onto the intercom “Hello this is your Captain speaking to remind everyone that no mobile technology is permitted at any stage of the flight including take off and landing. Anyone who has a problem with this will be dealt with upon arrival by local police, thank you”.
“Fuck Matt does that mean they’re going to arrest me?”
“Don’t be stupid, that bitch is probably on her rag.”
“But the Captain...”
“Tony it was a mistake, relax”.
I immediately scan through the planes health and safely and am relieved to find it states that “mobile phones are not permitted during take off or landing”. I wave it in front of Matt as if I’d uncovered the Holy Grail.
“There’s no way they’ll be able to press charges against me.”
“Calm the fuck down. You’ve just over reacting because you’ve got a bad case of the fears.”
“Over reacting? Am I the only one who heard what the pilot said?”
Matt gives up trying to reason with me and starts reading the in flight magazine without a care in the world.
The next two hours are the worst of my life. My mouth is so dry I can’t even generate enough salvia to swallow accentuating the stench of my warm lifeless breath, while continuous floods of sweat wash over my face. My deodorant packed in shortly after our arrival leaving my clothes and skin to fuse and become one. My head and heart hammer in unison vying for my attention as I struggle to come to grips with the situation. I envisage myself in a whole range of scenarios but the one which haunts me most is of ending up on the front page of the tabloids. I can see it now-“Mindless yob abuses cabin crew and endangers passenger lives.” with a picture of me looking the worst for wear still in the previous nights clothes. The masses will immediately say “No smoke with out fire” and that “He certainly looks the type”, while ex-neighbours and former classmates will sell exclusives fuelling the hyperbole to such a degree that even my lawyer will throw my case for the good of mankind.
As we approach Dublin airport the tension becomes too much causing me to rock back and forth in my seat.
“Seriously Matt if I do go down you’ve got to promise me you’ll help clear my name.”
He initially laughs-which is all well and good considering it’s because of him that I’m an airborne fugitive-before reluctantly agreeing. Fuck it maybe I should just give him up to clear my name...
“This is your captain David speaking as we approach final descent towards Dublin airport. Due to unforeseen circumstances we will not be able to land for an additional twenty minutes. I apologize for any inconvenience caused and hope you have enjoyed your flight with Aer Lingus, and that we will see you again in the not too distant future.”
“Fuckin’ hell did you hear that? This is all because of me.”
“What’s because of you?”
“Don’t you see what’s happening here? They’re trying to delay the flight to make sure the police are ready upon my arrival.”
“Fuck sake now for the thousandth time YOU-ARE-NOT-GOING-TO-JAIL.”
“Easy for you to say since you’ve made me your patsy.”
I desperately want to throw up but I’m afraid to leave my seat in case the stewardess adds it to my file.
The plane eventually arrives and I wonder how they’re going to play it. Will they swarm the plane and take me off in cuffs or wait until I’m off? The plane door opens and with it my moment of truth-not a Garda in sight. I feel so stupid my for previous thoughts-of course they’re not going to jeopardize passenger safety or cause undue concern-they’ll wait until I’m off the plane before quietly pulling me aside to apprehend me.
“Come on bud you right?”
I grab the plane’s safety instructions and stick down my jeans while concealing them with my shirt. If Matt’s lack of basic empathy is anything to go by I’ll need all the help I can get.
Upon disembarking the plane I make eye-contact with the air stewardess Nazi for the first time.
“Again I’m really sorry about the phone.” She smiles weakly looking right past me.
“I’m ever so sorry about the phone.” Matt says before waving me the international sign for cock sucker “Schuulpppppp”.
I walk down the steps surveying the area for potential Garda but none seem present. Would they use plain clothes?
“See what did I tell you?”
“I was winding you up the whole time.” I say fooling no one.

Ever since I woke up from the bath I’ve felt like a fraud. It’s as if I’m trapped in the host’s body looking out from the inside. In flesh and appearance I am Anthony but in reality I am a shell of the man. Matt keeps firing questions, which although very basic today seem monstrously difficult. I try to respond to the best of my abilities but struggle badly which results in the conversation being almost monosyllabic. It gets to the stage were he simply talks at me and although I feel compelled to respond I don’t have the strength or energy to do so. My stomach yelps for food and nourishment but-as I can’t see Matt bowing to that request anytime soon-I settle for a drink.
I sit waiting for some miraculous second wind to come, hoping-if nothing else-
It will give me a pulse, but as I watch the sun disappear I’m still struggling to form thoughts much less sentences. Matt manages to drag me out by helping to find clothes and dressing me. I feel like I’m in “weekend at Bernie’s” as Matt manipulates and contorts my body to get me into the club. He has to buy most of the rounds because I just stare into space, and the one time he sent me to the bar he said I was gone over forty minutes and returned with the wrong drinks.
“Whoa this geezer is totally mashed. Got any spare brown bears?” He says and although I think he’s talking to me without Matt’s confirmation I can’t be sure. I continue to stare out into space and when Matt returns I see he’s accosted by the guy and his friend. By the time he comes back to the table I’ve already forgotten about the encounter.
“Those guys asked me if I’d any disco biscuits for sale.”
“Disco biscuits?
“Yokes.”
“Oh, what guys?”
“The guys that where talking to you. They thought you were off your head.”
The night is such a total white wash that I feel I’m somehow due an epiphany. I’m sure there has to be some point to this whole night and curse myself for being so monged that
I miss it.

The club is a lot sleazier than what I expected with lots of middle aged men-who’ve probably just tucked away their youngest into bed-waving crumpled notes in their hands. I thought it would have been more of a Liverpool buzz with a kind of pub-come-strip club atmosphere. The kind of place where the bar maid gives you a dance, while you’re watching the footie, returning with a pint and a packet of bacon fries when she’s finished. Everything in here smells of sex; from the dark lightening, leather couches, and sultry music, to the fact that all dances are private and take place in the back past a beaded entrance. Matt’s a lot more excited than I am but then newcomers always are. He takes every dance offered to him afraid that by not accepting one he’ll somehow insult them.
A few girls ask me for a dance but I’ve no interest as I know the girl I want. Some of them still linger on hoping to sponge a drink.
“Mind if I sit here baby?” they ask.
“It’s a free country.”
“Want to chat to me? Since you’re so pretty I’ll only charge you 20 euro for half an hour if you buy me a drink.”
What the fuck would I want to chat to a brazzer for?
“It’s okay my mate’s with me and I can talk to him for free.”
There’s nothing I hate more than when a dancer tries making small talk before giving me a dance. The whole thing just feels so bizarre-shaking someone’s hand and exchanging pleasantries before they strip and gyrate naked on my lap while I eyeball their snatch. The last time I was in a strip club Mark engaged in a conversation with a stripper and made her cry.
Matt comes back from his latest dance and I can tell he’s as giddy as a school girl from the flushness of his face.
“So how was your dance?”
“It was great. She was a total dancer.”
“They’re all dancers.”
“No but I mean this one was really pretty.”
Matt takes a long slow sip from his pint clearly uninterested in conversation. I watch Matt's eyes as he scans the club for his next hit. By my reckoning he must de down at least 200 quid. I survey the club and am surprised by the amount of ugly dancers-at least half of these girls should be paying me for a dance. I accidentally make eye contact with one girl for longer than I intended and she takes this to be a pre-contract handshake. She masquerades over with her friend in tow and I already have the feeling it’s going to be me who’ll be the wingman.
“Hey Bay-bee, you mind if I sit down?” the black girl says and her white partner in tow waits in the backdrop. I weigh up a response but the song “Ebony and Ivory” starts playing in my mind-distracting me-so I settle on a sigh. Matt moves up to make way for his African Princess shooting me a look of distain in the process, which is pretty much the look ivory has stamped all over her face. Ivory’s not exactly an oil painting but her skinny punk rocker frame and fuck you attitude is oddly appealing. I take refugee in my beer while Ebony runs her hand up and down Matt’s chest. Ivory sits on a leather pub seat to Matt’s right looking possibly more pissed off and uninterested than me. It’s only now with her back fully turned to me that I notice Ebony’s nasty weave-fuck me did she actually just call Matt “Daddy”?
Eventually she gets to the point and asks Matt if he wants a double dance. He looks my way for approval and I tell him “go for it”. He jumps up from his seat and moves in beside me away from the girls.
“You see the thing is I don’t actually have the money for two dances but she says she only dances as part of a twosome. Please will you take her mate?”
“You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me. Once I get behind those beads she’ll probably gut me like a fish because of some long unresolved father issues.”
“Come on bud don’t make me beg.”
I bite the bullet (and my tongue) and nod in acceptance.
“I owe you.” he says and flees off with Ebony behind the beads.
I’m in no particular hurry and finish off my drink. Ivory-unlike every other stripper-actually seems madder at me for paying for her services. I stand up and Ivory mirrors me in a huff. I take her lead and follow her behind the beads until I hear Ebony’s voice coming from behind a set of curtains attached to what looks like a confession box. I pull back the curtain hoping to big him up and egg him on in a bit of lad banter, and am totally shocked to discover Ebony Eagle spread on a bench with Matt’s face between her legs.
She shrieks out something about being me a pervert and I just stand their totally gobsmacked until Ivory grabs me by the arm and drags me into the next confessional booth. Once inside she’s admirably business like instructing me to sit on the bench while we wait for the next song to start. Justin Timberlake’s “girlfriend” pumps through the speakers and she punches onto her shift. I sit patently with my hands by my side (I know the drill) while she slowly takes off her black fishnet tank top, gyrating slowly to the music. I’m surprised to see how toned her body is and her small but perky tits are absolutely perfect. She grinds down on my loins resurrecting my sex drive, which has been noticeably absent the entire holiday, in seconds. She grabs my hands and places them on her breasts instructing me to cup them firm and slow. She waits until I’ve reached my comfort zone before she grabs my right hand and traces right down her incredibly toned body until I’m down in her panties. I message her clit with my three index fingers, gradually increasing the pace as she writhes on my groin and runs her fingers through my hair with her free hand. It gets to the stage were her gyration actually becomes painful because the friction between the jeans and my belt is hurting my born again erection. I’m in total ecstasy and feel like crying when I hear JT’s song come to and end. Ivory abruptly cuts things short leaving me hanging.
“If you want more it’ll cost you.”
If I want more? I can’t believe she implied I have a choice. I’d probably marry the girl if the price was right.
“How much?” I say trying to act suave and uninterested like I could take it or leave it.
“50 for a blow job, 80 for sex, 100 for anal.”
“So for 230 quid I can have the whole works?” This was intended to come out as a joke but in reality sounds incredibly creepy.
“I guess.”
I tell her “fifty will be fine” and she wastes little time getting to work, undoing my belt and pulling down my jeans before giving me head. I was half expecting an angel and devil to appear on opposite shoulders offering me advice but as I ram my cock down the back of her throat I’m devoid of conscience. The sense of empowerment I feel as I look down and see her eyes watering is all consuming. My cock throbs uncontrollably and I try desperately hard to make the moment last but the combination of her professionalism and my backed up sperm count ensue longevity will not be on the menu. The exhilaration from her expert mouth movement causes my legs to almost buckle with the spasms, and I can’t hold back any longer...banal and ugly imagery floods my brain in an attempt to combat the inevitable-the Queen, the liffey bridge, the AIG building, Rosie, fish, tea bags, Roy Keane, finally stopping on a block of cheddar cheese until everything goes black for a brief second as I explode into her mouth with such vigour and raw power that thick chunks of sperms pour down her chin straight down on to her chest.
I quickly re-dress myself while deliberating over whether to say anything, but it’s hard to think of something apt to say when the fruit of your loins are still dripping off her face. I decide that money does in fact speak louder than words and put down a fifty on the bench, exiting sharply without eye contact.
Matt is relaxed, almost basking when I return, with both arms spread out wide across the leather couch.
“Come on Guv’-we’re going.” and before he even has a chance to debate the matter I’m already outside the club.

The nightclub did nothing to appease me with the thump thump thumping of the speakers only serving to agitate me more, while my usual prescription of drink provided little if any redemption. I badly need some blow to take the edge of tonight but Matt’s taking an eternity to roll replaying his strip club adventure at nausea.
“I still don’t understand why you where licking her out? I mean they’re the ones meant to be providing a service.” I say while cutting a piece of blow.
I’m at the fridge searching for a yogurt when he finally provides an answer.
“I don’t know. I just get so turned on by a woman climaxing.”
I’m distracted by my food quest when I come across a barely touched YOP that I bought Matt the other day.
“It’s so sexy.” and I think he’s talking about the YOP because it’s what I’m thinking about.
“But you haven’t eaten much of it.”
“It tasted a bit funny.”
I check the back for confirmation but it’s still well in date.
“Do you mind if I finish this off?” Matt turns his head to examine what it is I’m talking about.
“Yeah work away. I didn’t even know that was still there.” which confuses me greatly.
I burn the hash in uneven clumsy lumps because the light keeps burning my fingers. I knock the YOP back in one but the yogurt does nothing to disguise the taste as small rocks get caught in my teeth. I sit back and wait for it to take effect. Matt completes the joint, which we share, and each time it’s my hit I take a long deep lung filled drag. I wait for it to kick in yet nothing happens so Matt roll’s another, but it only has a slight effect, as I all I can think about is that she’s somebody’s daughter.
“Jesus Tony you must have burned a ten spot in. I don’t know why it’s not working.”
“Fuck it I’m not wasting anymore time waiting-I’m going to bed.”
I walk across the room but the air that I’m breathing feels very thin. I feel incredibly dizzy and I’m suddenly very self conscious of the fact that I’m breathing. I quickly spread myself on the floor to stop myself from puking. I try to message my stomach but it feels alien and the more I touch it the more it cartwheels with excitement.
“Jesus are you okay Tony?”
I tell him “yes” but no words come out. I try to reassure him again but all that comes out is air.
“Fuck, right Tony, just focus on your breathing.”
Breathing? Oh Fuck! How do I breathe? I’ve never had to think about it before. I exhale in, and exhale out as if copying instructions from a textbook diagram but I’m doing it at such a frantic pace that no air is actually reaching my lungs, and exhaling out makes me dizzy. I begin to panic and try to tell Matt that I can’t breathe but again no words leave my mouth and I continue hyperventilating.
About two minutes go by and I feel like I’m going to pass out if I don’t breathe soon. I look at Matt’s face and his features seem too animated to be real. I really shouldn’t laugh. His eyes look like they’re going to pop out of his head as his cartoon lips issue me with instructions. I can’t laugh now he’s trying to help me. His face actually has more colour now than it’s had all holiday. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH... The more I try to stop the more I can’t help myself. Tears soak my cheeks as I choke on my own laughter. I’ve never laughed this hard in my life. I curl my arms around my ribs to help ease the pain but the laughter is unrelenting. I try to apologize but seeing Matt’s face awaiting my announcement like a cancer diagnosis sets me off again.
Eventually my frenzied hysterical laughter is down graded to giddy and I can manage to mouth one worded responses.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.” I say nodding my head for confirmation.
“Fuckin’ hell Tony you gave me a heart attack. I thought I was going to have to be the one to tell your Ma her son had died.” This starts me off again and takes me a couple of minutes before I manage to calm myself down.
“What do you want me to do?”
It’s too long winded a question to respond so I simply stick up my thumb me and say “I’m okay”. I don’t want to tell him about the snakes in the corner because it’ll only freak him out. Instead I lie on the floor patiently studying their every move as they hiss and slither across the window. All is calm until Matt walks by to use the toilet and I mistake his shadow crawling up my skin for a snake and I let rip with a skin curling scream so loud that its echo sends violent vibrations through the floor startling the snakes into a frenzy of panic. They all dispersed so quickly that I couldn’t make out where they went-some fled behind the curtain while others darted behind the couch.
“SNAKES” I roar but Matt treats this as a question repeating it back and not as the command I need him to heed. I jump to me feet planning to evacuate to the bathroom but my legs won’t move, and the pressure mixed with impending danger causes my head to spin until I can’t take anymore and pass out onto the floor. The feeling of cool tile against my hands and face reinvigorates my determination as I slowly drag my body across the floor towards the bathroom.
“WELL DON’T JUST FUCKIN’ STAND THERE.” I say as Matt stands at an idiotic impasse too stupid to realize the impending danger. “COME ON.” and this finally shatters his trance like state as he swoops down lifting me up onto his shoulders to carry me across the short distance. The door is ajar so summoning all my strength I kick it open almost snapping it from its hinges making for a sharp entrance. Once inside Matt sets me against the bathroom sink before returning to shut the door. He turns on the light and I can barely recognize my own reflection in the mirror-my eyes are nothing more than tiny red slits and my face is a horrible gray/green colour. My heart is beating so fast, although I can’t tell if it’s out of relief or fear. Either way it sends my head into over drive and even when I close my eyes I can still see the spinning and the lights and I think I’m going to pass out, but before I get the chance to I puke my ring up with such force that most of it rebounds back onto my shirt.
“Well at least we didn’t eat anything.” Matt says as I roll into the bath and finally I’m safe. Everything’s okay now, everything’s okay.

I’m walking not because I want to but because I have to. I woke up this morning with a real purpose and venom adamant that today-in the very least-I would see daylight. I asked Matt out of courtesy if he fancied joining me but the vodka in his hand was response enough.
My hotel is still fresh in the distance and yet I’m already a sweaty mess. I can feel the alcohol escaping my pores as it mixes with sweat and hair gel to form a potent mix. I initially sneeze constantly as my body fights to adapt to the intense daylight surroundings. I persevere in no particular direction taking in the baron landscapes, bland rock formations, and quiet featureless neighbourhoods. It strikes me that how undeveloped and basic life is here, and that if you took tourism away they wouldn’t be far off a third world country. Most of the houses aren’t up to much except for the ones draped in union jacks which always have a pool. Mangy cats flood most drive ways and nearly all seem to have clapped out bangers with broken windows. This place really reminds me of an affluent Mexico.
The sun persecutes me with a vengeance so I decide to take solace in the first place I can find which happens to be a McDonalds. I feel embarrassed for perpetrating yet another stereotype as I take my seat with my Big Mac meal along with the rest of the British Isles. The only person who seems to be Portuguese in here is a fat twelve year old kid and I’m guessing by the volume of food stacked on his tray that he didn’t have much choice in coming either. I tuck into my meal, which normally would be nothing more than a snack, but I’m really struggling. It’s only now that I realize I haven’t eaten in days. I do my best to finish it off but give up half way through.
I continue to wander around aimlessly, remarkably underwhelmed by the whole experience. I’m actually relieved when I check my phone, that it’s time to head back and meet Matt.
I step inside the Irish Rover and this compounded with my McDonalds places my self loathing at an all time high. I might as well be in Wexford. I can’t see Matt but I can certainly hear him. He’s already locked-his drunken rambling’s are painfully accentuated by emptiness of the place. I locate him talking at Debra and the fact I know her name drives me further to despair.
“Aye up Guv’.”
“LOOK WHOSE COME CRAWLING BACK. IF IT ISN’T BEAR GRYLLS HIMSELF.”
Debra seems delighted by my appearance and quickly returns to the bar.
“You alright for a drink?”
“Just get me a WKD .” The fact he has a pint of Guinness and a Strongbow are irrelevant.
I make my way to the bar and am immediately greeted by Debra.
“Awh Tony he’s been a total mess. He keeps shouting random things and talking to himself. He’s already drank fifty quid worth of booze.”
“Praise fire for cooking your food but then chastise it when it burns your hand?”
“He asked me to marry him.”
“Well did you accept?” I say trying to lighten the mood. “You could do a lot worse...” and judging by her scruffy appearance today she certainly won’t do any better.
She laughs-although I can tell she’s humouring me-and takes my order.
Before I’ve placed the drinks down on the table Matt snatches his drink out of my hand. “A HAON, A DO, A TRI, A CEATHEAIR.” and with that he tilts his head back putting the bottle top in his eye as if it were his mouth, the sting of the alcohol causing him to yelp as the blue WKD flows down his face. I don’t really know what to do but find myself laughing although I’m not quite sure why. Matt simply wipes his face in his shirt sleeve as if he just blew his nose in a hanky.
“I can see you sure have had a productive day?”
“Yeah so-so. I asked Debra to marry but she doesn’t seem interested. WELL LET ME TELL YOU BABY! THIS BOAT HAS LONG SAILED!” he says to no one in particular while frantically blinking. I’m about to respond when he asks me “So what score do you think the game will be?” The fact he asks me this now after his previous statement somehow makes this one weirder. I struggle for a reply.
“Are you okay?” he says.

The weed Matt rolled is some really good shit and seems to help balance out the copious amounts of booze we’ve been binging.
“This weed is quality guv’ I’d normally be asleep by now otherwise.” I say suddenly realizing that I haven’t even had breakfast.
“Maybe I should start djing again?” he says while imaginarily mixing whatever song is coming out of the CD player.
“Sounds like the perfect midlife crisis. You could buy yourself some leather trousers and move out to ibeefa.”
“And be like Colin Farrell in a beach bar hollering at every young one that walks past.-Howaya doin daaarling? “
“I could just see you now flexing your Celtic tongue-a hoan, a do, a tri, a ceatheair.” I say punctuating and exhaling every number to great effect. We both break out into fits of drunken laugher. When the laughter subsides I feel overwhelmed with pangs of guilt for having laughed at a Colin Farrell reference. Poor John Marc isn’t even dead six months yet. I chug my beer in silent remembrance.
“Do you still think about your mate?” Matt says and I feel embarrassed that my inner thoughts are so palpable.
“About John? Yeah all the time. I feel kind of guilty.” discussing this makes feel like I’m incriminating myself further.
“How so?”
“Lots of reasons. I should have done more for him in the past. I was also one of the last people to speak to him on the day he did it. Fuck I probably triggered him off. The poor bloke’s just mailing, asking how I’m doing and I go back to him all doom and gloom with my petty rants and irrelevant work problems.”
“I’m sure you did the best you could.” He says convincing no one.
“I wasn’t even there for him in death. The lads rang me for eight hours to tell me what had happened but I just ignored their calls because I was so busy in work. I thought they wanted to book a holiday or something.”
“Was that his first attempt?”
“No he’d had a couple before but they seemed more cries for help. I knew he’d been cutting himself so I did some research on the net and confronted him. I tried to get him to substitute the cutting with rubbing blocks of ice against himself.”
“I don’t get it?”
“The net says it’s basically a safe kind of self harm.”
“Did he really kill himself over Colin Farrell robbing his bird?”
“No, that was merely the straw that broke the camels back. That was all media bullshit.”
I feel so raw and exposed only the drink helps me form words. I don’t even know the whole story with that either. The lads all told me but I thought it was a joke. You know the way when you haven’t seen friends for ages and they tell you so and so out of the group is gay. I just thought they were winding me up. It was only when one of the lads told me under no circumstances to speak to the media that I realised it was serious.”
I pour a few shots each to help take some of the edge of our conversation. I’ve finished my second when I’m startled by the directness of Matt’s question.
“Have you ever thought about suicide?” He says as if asking me to pass a bottle opener.
“I don’t know....I suppose I’ve thought about it.” the admission makes me feel ashamed.
“I have too. I wouldn’t have the guts for it.”
“Me either. I know a lot of people say it’s the coward’s way out but in a way I think it’s one of the bravest things you can do.” Matt explodes into another fit of laughter.
“What?” I say, very self conscious that I came off corny.
“Sorry I’m just after remembering a story about one of the lads I went to school with.”
Matt’s laughter becomes so infectious that I also find myself joining in.
“There was this lad I went to school with called Ken Adams. I didn’t really know him that well but he seemed alright. Well one day he decided to off himself, so he went home and hung himself from a light fitting in his sitting room.” Matt abruptly stops almost choking on his own laughter until finally he regains composure. “Well anyway halfway through the ceiling caves in on him.”
“Was he ok?”
“Yeah the poor fucker was fine.”
“Jesus imagine how degrading it must be to not even be able to kill yourself properly?”
“That’s not even the best bit, when his parents uncovered what had happened they made him pay for the ceiling repair work. The poor cunt worked like a slave all summer.”
“Haha so Irish. Is he okay now?”
“As far as I know...the poor guy probably can’t afford to have another botched attempt.”
Once I’ve managed to regain composure I grab the bottle of Il Diablo that Matt insisted we buy earlier in the local shop.
“What were you thinking Matt?” I say studying the black bottle of absinthe. “This stuff is 90%.”
“Really? I thought it was only 80%.” he says matter of factually. I pick up two glasses and fill them up a third of the way.
“Okay you first.”
“Why do I have to go first?”
“Because you were the one who wanted it.”
“Fine.” and with that he casually downs the drink. “Uggghhhh...give me a beer quick. Awh I’m on fuckin’ fire.”
He crouches down and begins punching his legs until I hand him the beer. His face looking possessed as he fights the alcoholic demon. After knocking back the can he slowly regains composure.
“The devil. That shit is the devil-my chest is still on fire.”
He says nothing for a minute reaching out for his cigarettes until he looks me straight in the eye “right your turn”.
I don’t even bother arguing instead I try to lighten the blow by having a Smirnoff Ice open and ready. I pick up the drink.
“Right bud on the count of three. A haon. A do. A tri.”
I knock it back and for a micro second don’t understand why Matt made such a big fuss, but then the delayed reaction catches up and I can feel the fire strip my throat, and burn my belly. “FUUUUUUUUUUCK....” I quickly gulp the Smirnoff ice but its acid icy base only fuels the fire. I pound on the walls while Matt laughs until the raging inferno simmers down to a bonfire.
“Seriously what’s wrong with you?” I say making Matt even giddier.
“If you’re mate wanted to kill himself he should have just downed a bottle of this-fuck!”

We settle down with a few more drinks until I notice the clock.
“Jesus Matt it’s 04.10 we’d want to get a move on.”
“How about one more Il Diablo for the road?”
I don’t get a chance to respond before he knocks the bottle right off the table smashing it all over the tiled floor.
“I think we both know what needs to be done here.” he says and instantly both of us are on all fours lapping up the booze. We frantically guzzle until Matt spots a red dye slowly contaminating our source.
“Tony your fuckin’ wrist man.” he says and on closer examination I can see it’s got a few lacerations but nothing deep. I look at Matt pleading my case when I notice his mouth is garish red and that he too appears to be bleeding.
“Fubb.” He says while rubbing off some small splinters of glass from his tongue.
“Haha I think it’s safe to say we’ve hit rock bottom.” I say before continuing to lap away at the puddle.
“Right well just to be on the safe side we better stick to our own part of the floor-you never know what we could catch.”

When we eventually stumble out onto the street I’m beyond wasted.
“Hold on did you just see that rabbit?”
“What rabbit Tony?”
“What rabbit? That smug bastard in the tweed cap up the top of the hill?”
“What hill?” I know I’m hallucinating but I definitely can see a rabbit.
“He says I’ll never make it up but I’ll show him”. I proceed to crawl up like an Army vet trawling through the long grass in enemy quarters.
“Haha what the fuck are you doing?”
“Shh you’ll blow my cover.”
“What cover? You’re in the Irish Rover cark park.”
“Fuck it. You blew it-he’s gone now.”
I’m about to point to where he was, but it’d be idiotic pointing now as Matt never seen him in the first place. I jump back to my feet and dust myself down from the tarmac. We head in search of a club and Matt keeps laughing, but it’s disconnected from humour. The streets are virtually empty except for the odd die hard straggler. We hit the first club we can find called Coco’s and the bouncer doesn’t bother charging us because “its last orders”. Matt orders us a couple of double JD and coke’s but after the absinthe, which still burns strong, it’s like drinking water. I try to get Matt the round back but the barman informs me “The bar’s closed”. Almost on queue the lights come on and we’re all herded back onto the street.
We walk back to the hotel with remarkable ease and polish of the rest of the vodka watching the sun come up. I stare hypnotically at the sun searching for something, although I’m not quite sure what. I feel I’m inches away from a breakthrough and that the words are on the tip of my tongue, but the Faithless song, which was in the background, reaches its climax and shatters the moment.

“Tony get up, get up.”
Tony finally opens his eyes but is totally out of it. He’s slumped against some man’s chest but the man has his arm around Tony like they’ve been best mates for years. All I see is floor. My head flops to the right. Is that a gun in his shorts? The music is pumping. I want to dance. Fuck it I’m going to dance. Tony stands up but his legs buckle until he’s back in his seat. I see the floor again.
“Tony come on.”
“Your Amigo is fine with us.”
Tony tries to stand up again but is pushed down by some girl who starts gyrating on his lap. I can see her face. I try to push her away but all I can feel is her fat belly. It feels really solid. “Chicane on the beach that’s what it is.” I say.
I try to stand up again and this time she moves. I make my way to the dancer floor.
“On the beach.”
Hey there’s Matt. “Come on Tony we’re getting the fuck out of here”. He grabs me by the arm. I want to stay but I don’t have the to strength to pull away.
“Seriously Tony get fucking moving.”
“Do you ever feel like an astronaut when you’re walking Matt?”
I then proceed to lunge forward step by step until I fall over.
“Get up Tony.”
“How about we set up base camp here and head for the summit tomorrow?”

“Who’s this?” I say.
“It’s Thor, just keep walking Tony.”
“Hi Thor.” I have my arms around the guys.
“Hi Tony.”
“So are we going to a party?”
“Yeah Tony we’re having a party back at ours now keeping walking.”

I wake up and have no idea where I am. A light shines down on my face burning my sensitive eyes. I’m on a bed fully clothed. My head hurts so much that every time I blink a new wave of pain crushes down on my skull. I stagger to my feet and the room’s spinning. I think I’m going to be sick. I walk out the door and see someone who looks like Matt on the couch but my eyes are zooming in and out so quick that I can’t be sure. I lean on the wall for support but it’s the bathroom door, and I fall straight onto the nice cool marble floor. The tile feels so soothing pressed against my cheek.
After a while I get back to my feet and am initially startled by my reflection in the mirror. My eyes are nothing more than slits with one eye practically shut while the other over compensates. I look like an even freakier Tom Yorke. I take a step back examining my picture portrait only to fall backwards into the bathtub. I feel like shit. I kick the bathtub nozzle until cold ice jets of water spray from the shower all over my face. The sensation thrusts me straight back into reality and I crumble up into the corner hoping it’ll somehow wash away my hangover.
I take off all my soaking wet clothes dumping them in a corner before draping myself in a towel and returning to bed. I concentrate hard on trying to remember what happened last night but when I close my eyes all I see is black and I fall asleep.

“What the hell happened last night?” I say.
“Where do I even begin with that question?” Matt says while handing me a beer. It’s after 3 o’ clock and I’m still draped in my towel.
“I’m not even that sure. I was up on the dance floor and when I came back you where doing shots with the pimp and his girlfriend. At first you didn’t want to leave because you made yourself a new best friend, but then when you fell asleep and when I tried to move you that fat pimp flashed his gun and told me to fuck off. He said that you were all going back to some place for a party. I thought you were a goner.”
“Then what happened?”
“You threw his pregnant bird to the floor.”
“Where the fuck was he?”
“I don’t know in the jacks or at the bar....The bird started screaming and you just fucked off to the dance floor cool as you like. I dragged you out of the club but you were doing some kind of retard moon dance, so I had to hid you down an alleyway behind some kegs, and beer crates.”
“What happened with the pimp?”
“He came out roaring proper bloody murder. He even decked one of the bouncers for trying to calm him down.”
“Jesus.” I say taking a large gulp of my beer.
“I didn’t show my face for at least another hour and even when the coast was clear, I still couldn’t get you up. I needed the help of some Norwegian lad to carry you home.”
“I’m really sorry guv’ it won’t happen again” which seemed idiotic as I sat nursing my Heineken.
“Don’t worry about it...although maybe we should keep things a little bit more low profile.”

The first Instalment is now in audio. If there's any interest I'll put them all up.

Thommo.

“Jesus Spain killed those suckers.” Matt says.
The game was a total non-event but I was happy because I’d backed them to win the competition.
“Yeah it was a nice result alright. I put 300 quid on them to win the Euro’s so they’d better come through.”
“300 quid on a country who are perennial bottlers, and always choke in every major competition?”
“I know but I lost my arse on those United fuckers and I need to start recuperating some of it back.”
“Why how much did you lose on them?”
“A grand because of the ginger twat Scholes.”
“A grand and this on top of the 500 you lost on both Chelsea, and England?”
“Yeah but I won 700 quid off Liverpool.”
“You’d want to watch that.”
“I know you actually forget its real money when you’re betting online. I’ve been going through a bit of a blip lately.”
Usually I’d consider myself a good gambler but lately I’m becoming a bit of a degenerate. With Liverpool always flattering to deceive, and Man u always scoring their customary late winner, football-like everything else in my life-just seemed pointless. I started out betting to make big games more interesting but then resorted to betting on irrelevant games I knew nothing about. Even when I won I lost because I’d get giddy and end up betting on whatever game happened to be on next, heavily backing an Italian team just because I’d heard of them.
“ING-GUR-LUN....ING-GUR-LUN.....” a few lads behind us starts chanting but like a virus it spreads quickly and it’s not long before the majority of the pub are infected.
“ING-GUR-LUN...ING-GUR-LUN...” the crowd chants louder.
“I hate the way everyone assumes we hate the English because we’re Irish. I hate the English because they’re English.” I say.
“What the fuck are they singing for? They didn’t even make the competition.” he says.
I look around and I can see the hate brewing. If there’s one thing the English know how to manufacture and export its violence. The gas thing about them is they don’t need something as trivial as a reason to kick off-it just comes natural.
“ING-GUR-LUN...ING-GUR-LUN...” the hate crescendo rises as tables, chairs, fists, and feet are banged. It’s only a matter of time.
SMASH.I don’t know how it began but by the time I turned around they were already at it.
Some young Pakistani lad is doing his best to fend off his aggressors. There are so many fists flying that I can’t make out the numbers involved. The Pakistani has taken a few digs but surprisingly has managed to stand his own. The group back off and I can see it’s four against one. Somewhere from the side a glass is thrown smashing the Pakistani lad straight in the face. No sooner has the first glass smashed that a shower of glasses from the original group rain down on the poor victim. Luckily most of them miss, except for one, which he shields off with his arm before running out the front door. The group give chase but now spontaneous fights are erupting in pockets throughout the pub as glasses fly through the air in every direction.
“WHO ARE YA, WHO ARE YA, WHO ARE YA.” is chanted in the victims absence as if he were an away fan at the footie.
I look at Matt never having felt so Irish in my life.
“What the fuck do we do?” I say.
“Well we can’t move cause we’ll get caught up in the cross fire. Just stand perfectly still until we can make a break for it.”
The thing that scares me most about the violence isn’t the violence itself but the sheer randomness of it. It’s not just your stereotypical fat bald tank with “love” and “hate” tattooed on their knuckles, or men with pictures of wives, who have long since left, on their shoulders. It’s your average Mr. Fucking 2.4 children. I watch as geeky middle aged men with glasses hurl pints through the air, while their misuses gives the youngest a pack of Walkers cheese and onion crisps. Fat old men with five bellies holler like hyenas overjoyed at some imaginary victory as they jump up and down on tables. The women are just as bad if not worse. I hear some middle aged women shout over her gin and tonic “PAKI CANT GOT WOT HE DESERVED”, while others use it as a chat up line as it if it was an amusing ice-breaking anecdote “did you see when the glass smashed his face? His face was gushing”.
After ten minutes the party is in full swing and Matt spots an opening at the side entrance. We casually make our way towards the exit following two girls in front of us.
“Get your tits out for the lads.” a fat man who ironically looks like Roy Chubby Brown shouts out. A group of lads suddenly turn around from both sides and swarm around the women. “GET YOUR TITS OUT, GET YOUR TITS OUT, GET YOUR TITS OUT FOR THE LADS...GET YOUR TITS OUT FOR THE LADS.”
The poor women aren’t the usual tramps and look genuinely horrified. I see a few lads nudge each other pointing straight at the two of us. Fuck they must think we’re their boyfriends. Almost simultaneously the two girls turn around searching in vain for a knight in shining armour. One of the girls is really pretty and even amongst the chaos her blue eyes still sparkled as she looked me straight in the eye. “GET YOUR TITS OUT FOR THE LADS.” I sing feeling myself die inside. It was like slowly gutting the loveable family dog Rover with a flimsy Stanley knife right in front of them. I watched her beautiful eyes drain of life and vitality as she crumbled right in front of me before bowing out the door with her head sunk, almost like she was ashamed of herself. Right then all the other lads broke out laughing and rubbed my head like I was some kind of hero. “Nice one geezer.” one of them said. I smiled playing up to what were now my darling public; slapping hands, and high fiving until I could finally leave.
“That was a close one.” Matt says.
“Yeah I could certainly do with a drink.” I say.
Outside isn’t much different with the neon lights from various pubs only serving to highlight the blood, piss, and puke stained roads. Groups of girls stagger and fall up the road, nestling down on street curbs while friends scream, or throw up. The lads swagger about the place like they own it waiting for the wrong person at the right time to in avertedly give them the eye. Food seems to placate a lot of the masses as they hungrily scoff down kebabs pouring most of it on to the street. Piss streams flow from nearly every alley, side entrance, bush, or relative dark spot, although a brazen few walk with their cock out, pissing as they go.
We walk into the first club we can find called Babylon and the place is empty which given what just happened makes it the perfect spot. I take a seat not far from the bar while Matt gets the first round in. The place is dark and featureless except for a blue light which illuminates the tiny dance floor. In the far corner I can see a young girl or women playing darts with what looks like her boyfriend. I still can’t make out if she’s a young girl who looks old or an old women that looks young. Her boyfriend steps up to take his shot and straight away I’m in no doubt as to the lady in questions age. He’s not so much her boyfriend as he is her pimp. He must be at least in his fifties wearing a polo shirt which barely covers his beer gut, Hawaiian shorts, white socks and black sandals. It’s only on closer inspection that I see his mullet and a moustache. Jesus this poor girl is really earning her money. Matt slams the drinks down breaking my concentration.
“Did you catch a load of pimp daddy cassius over there?” I say.
“Yeah that’s some dead rat he’s got under his noise. I see his bird is pregnant as well-classy.” he says.
I’d only seen her from behind but looking over now I can see the bump in all its glory hanging over her hot pants. I down Matt’s crazy concoctions and head over to the bar for a top up. People are slowly beginning to trickle in as the girl takes another sip from her cocktail watching her pimp playing in silent awe. I bring the drinks back to the table and Matt looks quite excited.
“Your one over there seemed to be checking you out.” he says.
I turn around and see a couple of blonde girls hovering around the bar but neither displaying any tell tale signs.
“Are you sure?”
“HIV positive. Why don’t you go over there and chat her up?”
“Yeah sure why not? And then afterwards I could take for a ride on my Harley Davidson a la the Fonze!”
“Sarcy prick. You’d swear I was asking you to stick your cock between her tits.”
“I know I just hate all that chatting up bullshit. And what if she’s not interested? I’m nowhere near that drunk.”
“You do okay for yourself.”
“The whole process feels like an interview and I hate always having to be “on”. The fear of rejection isn’t worth the potential payoff.”
“That why nothing ever happened with Kim?”
“Exactly.” the very mention of her name hurts.
“But she was mad about you. I’m 99% certain you would have had a chance.”
“I know but I keep thinking about the 1%. What if she rejects me? Then we can’t even be friends.”
Although now I’m worse than her friend-I’m her sister. Every time she goes on a date I’m subjected to every pain staking detail.
“Suppose, have you heard from her at all lately?”
“No I don’t really keep in contact with her anymore.”
The pain became too much. Having to advise her how far to go with her last date was the final straw. I seek the comfort of my drink but I’m not the only victim of this conversation as my pint has almost all but disappeared.

We’re inappropriately dressed for the scorching weather but there was no way I was wearing a pair of shorts in Dublin airport at 4.00 am. I feel like such a paddy in my jeans and Abercrombie jumper. Our hotel room won’t be ready until after 12.00 however I’m more than happy to bask in the suns revitalizing rays. It took us a while to find a bar open so early but it was certainly worth the wait-all bottles are only €1.50. I take a sip from what must be my sixth beer as I survey my new surroundings. It’s hard to focus in on any one feature for more than a few seconds without squinting as the sun paints everything a magnificent white. The air smells so fresh that I can almost taste the sea.
“It’s so great to be out of Ireland.” Matt says as if reading my mind.
By the time it comes to check out our hotel I’m already tipsy but the bill was just short of thirty quid. We walk back to our hotel reception and the first thing I notice is how many kids are running around the place. We wait in line until our names are called out by a tanned middle-aged man with thick dark hair who’s probably named Christiano. A few families are called first as I enviously watch on by, my patience getting the better of me. “Thomp-son, An-thony” he finally says.
“Yes that’s me.”
“Room 145. The bar is open until midnight, and if you need anything just dial 000 for reception. Enjoy your stay.” I quickly search for his name tag before replying.
“Thank you Miguel.” Well at least I wasn’t too far off.
I grab my bag and head straight for the room checking the place out for any potential talent.
“Is it just me or are there a lot of kids around here?” Matt says.
The place does seem to be crawling with midgets except for one bald man, although he’s about 5ft 5” so I’m not technically sure if he’s exempt.
“Yeah it does seem a bit like a Garry Glitter wet dream alright.”
“Suppose, but for 450 we can’t really argue.”
When I open the door I’m quite surprised to see how spacious our hotel room is. There are two bedrooms, one with a double bed, and the other with two singles. We have a large marble bathroom, couch, coffee table, dinner table, cupboards, fridge, and even cutlery. The perfect family room really. I open the window and our room is consumed by noise-pool splashing, screaming, children calling after one another, and parents issuing warnings. Matt’s begun unpacking with most of his shirts already hanging.
“Want to have a quick wander around and stock up?” I say.
“Yeah just give me a couple of minutes.”
I quickly change into a pair of shorts with plenty of pockets and an aertex Inter Milan polo shirt. I throw a load of talcum powder in my Adidas runners so I can wear them bare foot without stinking them out. There’s no way I’m walking around like a fuckin’ culchie with runners and black socks.
We’re on our way to the shops when I hear this strange noise “kiz kiz kiz kiz...”
“Do you hear that?” I ask.
Matt shrugs his shoulders and we continue to walk until I hear it again.
“Okay I heard it that time.” he says.
For some stupid reason I instinctively look to the sky, while Matt locates the source.
“It’s that guy by the bushes.” he says.
“He probably saw us come from the hotel and wants to lure us into his van with ice-cream.” He shifts around before motioning us to come over with his head to which we oblige.
“You want coca?” he says.
“ Nah you’re alright mate.” I say.
I’m already turning away “what about hashish, or grass?” he says.
I wouldn’t mind a bit of grass but I can’t roll so the ball’s in Matt’s court.
“Well what do you think Tony?”
“I don’t mind guv’. Sure we might as well get a bit.”
“Okay so what have you got?” Matt asks.
The guy is sweating heavily which doesn’t make sense considering how tanned he is. He should be well accustomed to the weather by now. He takes a small bag of weed out of his Levis jeans, which looks about maybe 50 quid’s worth.
“120 euro my friend.” he says.
Matt examining the bag says “I only want half that”.
I pull him aside “Matt are you having a laugh? 60 quid for that.”
“Trust me.” he says.
The dealer immediately cuts the bag with his knife handing over half to Matt.
“Okay 60 euro friend.”
“60 euro? Nah its okay. That’s not worth anymore than 20. Come on Tony forget it.”
We walk away ignoring his strange cat like call until he shouts out after us “okay okay 40 euro.”
40 euro seems a good price. Matt again fingers the pack before adding “sorry mate I’ve actually only got 25 quid on me”. He continues to plead and bather except Matt isn’t having any of it. Eventually after numerous hissy fits and child like strops he gives in. Matt completes the transaction and we’re not even ten feet away when the dealer shouts “English scum”.
“Jesus you didn’t half rape him there” I say.
“Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to work out when a sweaty Moroccan dealer is obviously carrying too much weight. I knew once we got him to cut it he wouldn’t take it back.”
We walk straight into the first supermarket we see and it’s refreshingly cool inside. I pick up a basket and within seconds it’s fully loaded.
50 quid later and we’re back in our hotel room taking inventory of our stock-One litre of Vodka/JD/Bacardi, 6 Smirnoff Ice, 24 bottles of Heineken, 6 mixed fruit cider, one miscellaneous green bottle, a bottle of coke/spite, cigarettes, papers and a pack of Doritos in case we get hungry. I’m quite dehydrated from our excursion so waste little time in cracking open a beer. Matt’s already halfway through making a fat frog.
“So what’s the plan for later?” I say.
“Suppose we’ll head out for the game. Kick off‘s at 20.45 over here. Stick on some tunes there Tony.”
I unpack my CD player lashing in the first mix CD I can find. The Chemical Brother’s “Elecktrobank” erupts onto the scene and I can’t help but feel alive.
“I still can’t believe how shit that gig was in the point.” He says.
“Yeah left halfway through didn’t we?”
“Left? You implied we had a choice. I had to get you out before you got yourself killed. Remember the queues were out the door for the jacks so you just pissed all over the guy in front of you?”
“Well you certainly got your own back on me later on that night when you sent me to Coppers and fucked off home yourself.”
“The best bit was you kept texting to see if I was in the place, and I kept on replying that I was at the bar.”
“Yeah you dickhead I feel asleep in there, when I woke up and couldn’t find you, I thought something might have happened. I spent the next two hours searching the place looking for you.”
“Haha good times.”
“I did see the Chemicals at Witness though and they were pure class. It was probably just the point-gigs are always crap there.”
“Why were we even at that gig in the first place? I don’t remember buying tickets.”
“Joanne got them for me as a present.”
“That nut still harassing you?”
I notice he’s now diverted his attention to the grass as he licks papers and begins burning.
“Nah not so much especially since Crazyhorse. The cunt tried the whole pregnancy card.”
“Fuck, she used to be sound when I started there, but she was always Mary’s gimp.”
“She’s totally hit the skids since she split up with her ex.”
“Always happens though with people who’ve only ever been in one long term relationship. They come out thinking they’re Carrie Bradshaw and that the world’s their oyster. It’s not until later that they realize they’re just another soiled goods two-a-penny moonpig.”
“Speaking off moonpig’s whatever happened with that oompa loompa from last weekend?” Straight away Matt shoots me a look that could cut ice.
“Ohh sorry are we still not joking about that yet?” This eases the tension and we both burst out laughing.
“I think that she might have been a virgin.” He says sending me into convulsions. Matt remains deadpan but I can’t tell if he’s doing this for comedic effect.
“I’m serious.”
“You actually are?”
“Yeah I am. I got her back to mine and I soon as I stuck it in she yelped like a dog. I’d get a few pop shots in-not even enough time to find some rhythm-and she’d make me take it out.”
“Probably has the clap.”
I intended this as a joke but I can tell by the blank look on Matt’s face that he’s got a serious case of the fears. All joint production ceases and he seems traumatised.
“You don’t really think she has the clap do you?”
Fuck the last thing I need is him tripping before he’s smoked.
“Hardly”, the sincerity of which is so hollow that it will surely fuel his paranoia further. I decide to keep my mouth shut unless spoken to, watching Matt meticulously craft an expert joint.
After he’s done examining his workmanship he slumps back into the couch, taking refugee in each big lung full of smoke. I patiently wait my turn afraid to move in case I disturb his self medicating. When he passes the joint I take a long drag but almost instantly I begin coughing, and spluttering.
“Fuck that shit is strong” I say but then I always was a greenhorn. I successfully manage a couple of drags before passing it back to Matt, who finishes it off with ease. The strength of the blow leaves me in such a monged state that anytime I grab a beer more of it ends up on my chin then in my mouth.

“Anthony could you come over to me when you have a second please?” Roseanne says.
I don’t waste anytime and report straight over to her.
“Okay we have PWC in while you’re away and I need you to have the audit complete by C.O.B Friday. They’ve requested our daily packs for a list of dates which I’ll mail shortly. Any of the aforementioned requested dates will all require checklists.”
“Sorry Roseanne which checklists are these?”
“We don’t actually use them but again I’ll include it in the email. Every checklist will have to be signed and dated by both of us. In fact just sign and date every page to keep it simple. You will need to thoroughly search through every pack to make sure we have all the necessary requirements. If we don’t, either print off the information fresh from Bloomberg, or else edit information we all ready have. Some of the information will need to be tip-exed out and photocopied. If there’s anything at all that you’re not sure about just give me a shout.”
“Okay Roseanne.”
I’m only well too familiar with this drill. Every single company is always the same. My only surprise is that more Enron’s or WorldCom’s don’t happen. Year after year these auditors come in and yet never find foul play or even anything slightly suspicious. But then how could they when they warn us in advance? It’s almost like a parent playing hide and seek with a young child, and as they approach the child’s hiding spot shouting “Hmm I wonder if someone could be hiding behind the couch. Maybe I better check the fireplace first”.
None of them ever ask for a clean week sample; they’ll just ask for around five random days giving us plenty of advanced notice. The packs that are handed up to auditors never resemble anything close to what goes on in reality.
I check my email and set off to obtain the required dates. As expected five dates are required ranging from November to March. I locate three of the packs without much difficultly but the other two are non-existent. I search my desk and all the surrounding boxes but to no avail. Great I’m going to have to make those two up myself.
I devote every spare second I have to updating the packs-printing off new excel spreadsheets, edited Bloomberg print screens, made-up pricing sources and other bogus data. As a result my own work takes a hit and I occasionally miss deadlines but surprisingly Roseanne lets it slide. Every day it’s getting more difficult to complete the wires because no Director wants to touch them, or if they do they dick about. Yesterday the grill had my wires for over two hours and still didn’t sign off on them. The worst bit is the prick’s have the balls to get antsy, when I try to take them back and redistribute them before a deadline’s missed. That cunt Donal’s just as bad. Every morning when he comes in those wires are sitting on his desk yet I’m lucky to see any of them back before half eleven. Last week alone we had interest claims of close to 500 quid due to late receipt of payment, which of course always comes back on me. Everyday I come in before eight (sometimes earlier) to give myself a head start but it’s never enough. Nothing’s ever enough.
Everyday pushes me to the brink and today is certainly no exception. My eyes are really struggling to keep pace. I’ve seen so much paper that anytime I look at a page now it’s a blank blur. The air conditioner keeps churning out the same warm contaminated air leaving me feel even more fatigued than usual. All this extra audit work has really taken its toll but for once I feel like I’m actually winning. The only stout consolation is that I’ve been so obsessed with completing the audit that I haven’t needed to avoid Christina-it’s happened by default. No awkward silences, prolonged stares, or having to embarrassingly ruffle a few pages about to feign work anytime she’s around. I’ve been too busy with the real thing to get caught up in the usual office mind games. I handed over all my audit work and once Roseanne gives me the okay I’m out of this kip for three whole weeks.
“Anthony have you got a minute?” Roseanne says.
And then it dawned on me-this is what she’s had planned all along. The vindictive cunt is probably going to turn around, say it’s all wrong, and have me in all weekend, or even worse-try make me cancel my holiday. Fuck! Why didn’t I see this coming? I’ve been playing Russian roulette with a fully loaded gun.
“Anthony?” she says. I quickly snap out of my train of thought.
“Sorry Roseanne I’ll be over now.”
The only person I hate more than Roseanne right now is myself-how did I not see this one coming?
“Anthony, well what can I say? You did some excellent work here. Everything looks in good order.”
I’m too puzzled to reply.
“But there’s one small problem.”
I fuckin’ knew it. You sneaky bitch.
“There is?” I spit out nearly literally through grinded teeth.
“Yes I forgot to hand you over a cross currency FX deal.”
“Sorry Roseanne an FX deal?”
“It’s the transferring of money from one currency to another. Basically I did one the other week because Donal was away from his desk, but for audit purposes the person who entered it can not approve it. All I need you to do is sign off on the trade. I worked myself up into such a frenzy that my hand is still shaking when she hands me the slip and pen. I’m so relieved that the trade amount doesn’t even register with me and I sign where directed by Roseanne.
“Thank you Anthony, and enjoy your holidays.”
I begin to feel bad for being such a paranoid mess.
“No problem Roseanne,” and for once my smile is genuine. I return to my desk and tidy up what needs to be finished off. Its only when I’m finished putting on my out of office do I begin to feel alive. It’s actually going to happen-Portugal baby! I power down my PC briefly pausing to examine the office floor. The place is still quite busy. I can see John pumping his stress ball hard with his free hand, and the Fuse finishing off another can of red bull. So long suckers.