Christmas of 1977 we go to see our first punk rock show and it’s a black fucking nightmare. The Clash are playing the McMordie Hall over at the Queen’s University and Mack gets us tickets. Just a thank you, he says to us. A thank you for what? A thank you for failing to blow up the Europa? A thank you for provoking a civil war? I can say that now. But at the time I had to swallow my tongue and says thanks a lot, pal, you’re some man, ah that’s decent of you, right enough.

This is going to be an initiation, Mack says to us. He’s with this other guy, your man Del Brogan, who it turns out is a singer himself, as well as a newly made commandant in the IRA. I had never heard of the cunt before. We meet up at The Tim’s Harbour: me, Tommy, Barney, this pair. The pints of green are flowing. Up the Rebels! and we all drink to that. We’re half-blocked already. I better not get spat on, Tommy says. This is a fucking good jacket I’m wearing to this dance. These people are animals, that’s what I’ve heard, Barney says. They wear dog leads and get led about on all fours like animals out their own choice. Sure, it’s only rock n roll, your man Del Brogan says to us, expand your horizons, man, he says. He’s got his dark hair all cropped short in the style and the pale skin and the wee staring eyes that make him look like a mole come up gasping for light. I mean, youse like a bit of rock n roll, do youse not? he says to us. Aye, I like a bit of your man Bill Haley, Barney says. Well, it’s like that, your man Del Brogan says, only not boring.