In them days the Irish were doing real well at the football and after getting over the surprise of that, we began to think we could win the World Cup maybe and that lifted the spirits. That was a queer thing. 1990 it must have been, right? After a victory the whole of O’Connell Street would be like a bleeding party, and lads going crazy, and girls, and fellas falling down drunk and pissing on the statues, and general happy mayhem.

So now here we come to the hard bit of me story – you know, like a hard sum at school. I suppose there’d be a couple of hard bits actually.

To be winning the matches was a great ould thing and a great ould feeling was caused in us, me too included, and me boys were delighted and the whole flats was delighted and we’d go into Lucky Duffy’s and she was delighted – she was a great woman, the queen of Parnell Street – and the filth would be looking happy too, though they was mostly country fellas and GAA men really, but.

And that was all great.

And it was summertime, you know, and Dublin in the summertime is just lovely, with the leaves on the old trees and the baking tar smells and just the way the breeze smelling of the sea goes along the old streets – but you know all that – sure why would we live in Dublin iffen we didn’t adore her?

But I was saying – the first match we won Joe comes home in the small hours, he was right tanked, and that was all right, but he had pissed down his trousers and he was all in a twist sort of about something but not having the words to say what. He musta bought a soccer jersey in the street, it was size small, and he gives it to me, beaming he was.

He was happy, high happy, like a crazy happy, a big blank happy look on his musher like he was on some bad drug, but he never done that. And that was very queer, and me and the little lads kinda slunk off in a corner and let him – blow up like a balloon – roaring and happy as a king – kinda bursting he was – then in the morning, like a balloon left sitting for a week he was, the sag in his face and the low throttle in his poor voice. Oh, yes.

And we was winning and winning. You remember?

But did we ever score a goal?

I don’t think so.

It was always a draw, or some kinda advantage, or some kinda squirming through by a miracle – but no, we musta scored a goal, we musta scored one.