Take a look at this photo, would you. Take a look at the state of Tommy. He looks like a fucking negro. The only negro in Belfast. Where the fuck did he get that tan? And those ears. That’s me on the left. Silk handkerchief in my top bin. One hand in my slacks. The other arm wrapped around the ladies. I mean would you take a fucking look at that would you. We all thought we were Perry Como. A good dose, a good dose of Como, that’s what Tommy says to us, stick that fucking record on and let’s get ourselves a good dose because it’s Como or nothing, lads, and we’d go to the wooden record booths they had in the shops where you stood in there and you smoked and you ran your hands through your hair and you spat on the floor and when Como came on through a little speaker in the corner it was like a wee fucking time machine that would take you off to some other Ireland or some other Italy, some California or wherever the fuck your man Como was singing from, some other heaven, in other words. And fuck Frank Sinatra. He was a dissolute cunt. But Como never cursed, never smoked nor drank. Plus he was always faithful to his wife.

*

The photo is from Ellen McFadyen’s wedding. That’s Barney in the middle there, and that’s his wife Shona. Poor Shona McFadyen. Died long ago and it was a shame. Died of cancer, and that’s Patrick on the far right. Shot through the heart, on his own front lawn, by some bastard, after he was grassed up by his girlfriend if you can fucking believe it. But wait till I tell you. And there’s Tommy next to him. Look at him standing there. It’s true that we were the handsomest boys in the Ardoyne. All the women loved us, the old dears looked at us like are these guys out the movies or what, the wee kids gazed up at us like that, beaming. It takes me right back there just looking at this fucking thing; happy days.

*

The photo was taken right after the thing in Dundalk. Me and Tommy had gone down there to take care of business, a couple of chatsbys down our trousers, looking like a pair of gangsters. What bollocks we had. That was the surest way to get by the peelers; walk in like you own the place. The peelers treated us like rats, waiting for us to sneak in the back door or shin up a drainpipe, nip down an alley in a black balaclava and a pair of camouflage slacks. Instead we turned up wearing cravats and with gold watches and with Italian handmade suits. That’s the reason they used us. We could’ve sold cheese to the French.

*