Galway Confidential

17

The Russians have told us they will be performing exercises off our southern coast! Cork fishermen told them,

“That’s what you think.”

Never fuck with a Cork fisherman!

The country is gripped by the story of three men in a post office in Carlow. The postmistress refused to pay pension money to the man in the middle as he was, she said,

“Looking decidedly unwell.”

He was in fact dead.

Two men had walked the dead man from across the town, with his sweater pulled up to his face, and wearing a face mask (so following the health regulations).

When the payout of his pension was refused, the two men leaned him against the wall and left.

The men later claimed that the man had just died at the counter.

I was walking along the Salthill promenade when I literally keeled over. No drink taken. Just out of nowhere, flat on my face.

And lost another two months of my life.

I woke up in hospital again, muttering,

“Fucking Groundhog Day.”

A doctor came in.

“How are we?”

We!

I spoke,

“I’ve done this gig before.”

He had my chart in his hands, said,

“Indeed, we have, but this time it was months, not years, so progress is being made.”

He went on to tell me that a slight lesion on my brain, not cancerous, he hastened to add, had caused the fall. They had operated and, in his words, got it all. I put up my hand, asked,

“But how am I now?”

“You are good to go. We need some sessions of physical therapy but considering the life you have led, you are some sort of medical anomaly.”

I nearly laughed.

“Last time round, they said I was a miracle. Have I been demoted?”

He nearly allowed himself a smile, said,

“Miracles are overrated, and we use the term sparingly.”

“What did I miss?”

He looked confused, tried,

“In life?”

I said carefully,

“The world, Covid, Omicron, Brexit?”

He looked crestfallen, then,

“Russia invaded Ukraine.”

Showstopper.

He gave me a brief overview of the Ukraine situation; already, three million people had fled their homeland. Europe was accepting refugees daily. Ireland had already welcomed nigh on twenty thousand people, they arrived exhausted after days of arduous travel across Europe, their menfolk left behind to try and fight the Russians. We were sending lorry loads of aid, especially medical aid, to Ukraine.

The narrative was so grim, tragic, and heartbreaking that I almost wished I was still unconscious.

I tried to remember what I had been doing before my latest coma. Slowly, it came back, the attacks on the homeless people, the psycho attacking nuns, and I felt a wave of exhaustion.

As the doctor prepared to leave, he said,

“You need a radical change of lifestyle; you can’t continue as you’ve been.”

I wanted to shout,

“What I need is a large Jay, and a cigarette wouldn’t hurt either.”

He left and I lay there, the swirls of a broken world all around me. A nurse breezed in, greeted,

“You’re back with us yet again, Jack.”

And following behind her came Raftery. He didn’t seem too fazed to see me awake, but then he was a guy who kept quiet on most all he felt or didn’t feel.

He had a flask and the nurse said,

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Raftery, but we are under strict orders to inspect any beverage you produce.”

He handed her the flask, said,

“It’s finest Colombian roast and you are welcome to a shot of it.”

She took the top off, sniffed, looked dubious, but finally put the top back, said,

“That’s fine.”

She left and Raftery unscrewed the top of the flask, used the metal top/cup and poured a half measure, looked round him, pulled out a half bottle of Jay, laced the coffee, handed it to me.

I had a moment of indecision, but then,

Fuckit!

It hit my stomach like a warm kick. I asked what the world was doing about Ukraine.

He gave me a long, detailed account of what NATO and the UN were saying and in summary said,

“So, nothing.”

He told of how Zelensky, the Ukrainian president, gave daily briefings of the atrocities against children and civilians, and the incessant bombardment of the cities. He refused to take refuge in the West, stayed by his people.

We raised a silent toast to him and his country.

Russian influencers and models

On learning that Chanel would no longer do business

With Russia

Cut up their Chanel merchandise.

It was time to do something about the attacks on the homeless. I knew that the vulnerable places were where you found few people.

No witnesses.

I got a thermal sleeping bag, battered it to get that worn look, got thermal underwear, watch cap, gloves, and my hurly. A flask for my Jay-laden coffee and I was ready to roll. As I surveyed my provisions, there was a knock at the door. Opened it to Sheila Winston, who declared,

“They released you.”

She looked great, her face healthy and windblown, as if she had done the Galway walk. You start at The Claddagh, go along by the coast road until you reach Grattan Road, passing the Famine Memorial, made possible by the late Mark Kennedy, a memorial to Celia Griffin, a six-year-old child who died of hunger during the Famine. The names of the ships trying to get the people to America were inscribed on the stone and to read them aloud was like a prayer of the past.

You reached Salthill and walked at a brisk pace along the prom, to Blackrock and the iconic diving towers. There is a stone wall there and the tradition is to kick it, walk completed. Of course, you must come back but that is a whole different story.

I asked her in, offered refreshments as she stared at my supplies. She asked,

“Are you going camping?”

Made me smile.

“After a fashion.”

I told her what I was planning, and she was instantly furious, accused.

“Are you stone mad?”

Hmm?

“My sanity has always been open to debate, but somebody has to do something.”

“You need to rest up, this plan is crazy.”

We tossed that back and forth and finally she left in disgust.

The first night on the street, I set up my vigil off Merchant’s Road, around eleven at night. Got the sleeping bag spread out and tentatively pulled it up around me. I couldn’t settle on a position, to lie down or sit up? What I wanted was to have easy access to the hurly, and wasted a good half hour deciding on where I should lay it.

Not many people were around and one guy passing sneered,

“Get a fucking job.”

Another threw some coppers at me, and I had to restrain myself from clocking him with the hurly. A hen party came screaming along, gathered round me, and offered me slugs of their champagne bottles. One of them leaned in and blew a kiss, said,

“Wrap up warm, darlin’.”

That kind of hit my heart, and I swear, I was sorry when they moved on. I took some sips from my flask and let the heat spread in my gut. I was half dozing when I became aware of somebody standing over me. I sat up fast, my hand on the hurly. It was a man in a thick overcoat. He whispered,

“I’ll give you twenty euro for a blow job.”

Jesus wept.

I stood up, waved the hurly, said,

“Take a hike.”

He did.

By five in the morning, I was stiff with the cold and gathered my gear, headed for home. First thing I did was take a shower, didn’t shave as I needed the rugged look. My phone rang, it was Sheila. I told her I was home, and nothing had occurred.

“Well, you hardly expected to find the culprit on the first outing.”

I said,

“I did get offered twenty euro for a sexual act.”

She hung up on me.

My body was aching from the night, and I crawled into bed, and was asleep almost instantly. I dreamed, phew-oh, did I dream!

Of—

Hen parties.

Hurlies.

Ukraine.

Doctors.

The usual fragmented shape of dreams juggled all those elements in a kaleidoscope of anxiety so that I woke eight hours later, the bed drenched in sweat. Told myself,

“You don’t need to keep vigil tonight.”

Did that fly?

Did it fuck?