Dublin, Ireland - April 1st 11.50 pm. Events have taken their toll today on men and women around the world. In some places it's death, in other it's destruction, and in yet other places it's lack of decent swimming pools and outdoor eating facilities. Nevertheless the truth remains - today has been a lousy day for virtually all the people on this benighted and bedevilled planet of ours.
Nowhere is this more evident than in the front room of Finbarr O' Barrfin, onetime reporter for the Irish Times and now a humble pisshead in the suburbs of Dublin. As I watch him, slumped before the blurred rainbow of his badly tuned TV, he twitches as if trying to grasp the last of the two dozen bottles of Guinness he bought today and then vomits elegantly over the arm of his sofa. His cat makes a run for it, silken coat matted with stout and sweet and sour. Finbarr grins like a WalMart greeter.
"I don't f*****g give a shite" he slurs as I move to pull his head off his shoulders. "That f*****g cat had it comin' to it. Have you any idea how much f*****g cat food it eats? Almost a tin a day. Even I don't eat that much cat food." Finbarr relaxes again, sliding down the sofa's cushions as he does so. In a couple of seconds he is on the floor.
"Whassatime?" he growls, raising his left wrist to his one good eye while the wrist with his watch flops into the pool of sick on the floor. "F**k me, is it that time already? Better get to bed."
And he falls asleep where he is.