So as when the IRA moves in and starts protecting us and housing us and taking our plight seriously – they gave my family a house in the Ardoyne – well, I thought to myself, finally, we have an army of our own. I joined up soon as I could. I was gunning for Adolf Hitler and for Brian Faulkner and for Edward Heath and for Harold Wilson and for James Callaghan and for any other bastard what wanted a war, only this time it was our war on our terms and our terms were non-negotiable: a united Ireland, a true Free State, or dead trying.

By the time I was twelve year old I had seen dead bodies. I had seen a soldier shot almost point-blank in the face. I saw bodies at the bottom of lift shafts in the old abandoned buildings up by the Lagan Canal that had been so badly beaten they looked like dead cows. I saw our neighbours crawling on their bleeding hands and knees, the sup-pu-rating legs of poor women, is what my da says, I still mind him saying it, that word, sup-pu-rating, crawling along the streets, beneath mocking British infantrymen with machine guns pointed to their heads. I saw my da and two of his pals whack this guy in the car park of a pub. I watched from the back window of the car as they beat him over the head with snooker cues and one of them snapped.

I thought my da was Jimmy Cagney. What meant that I was Jimmy Cagney’s son. What meant that I had to learn to be smart-mouthed, sharp-cut, a cold-hearted killer, a family man, and a swank with the ladies. I’d watch my da and his pals and try to copy their moves. The way they shaved in the mirror. The way they smoked their fags from the very corner of their mouth. The way they greased their side-partings. The way they called the top pocket of their suit the top bin; that was where you kept the fags. The way they smelt of Old Spice; aftershave, you called it, never cologne, not unless you were a fairy. How they fluffed up their silk hankies in their top bin. How to tuck a gun down into the waist of your dress trousers without using a holster. How to always have songs ready, just in case you’re asked to sing. How to always have jokes ready, just in case there’s a down moment. How to always do the right thing and send a little money back for bullets. How to drive the ladies crazy. How to have class and style. How to wood-panel a kitchen or a bathroom in a single day; that was a key skill. How to foster a network of safe houses, just in case you need to disappear. How to never linger over a drink. How to throw a punch (keep your arm loose till the very last moment). And how to make every day a comeuppance for every single historical slight your family has ever suffered. You call it the IRA, the Provos, Óglaigh na hÉireann. We called it The Boys.