It was like a red rag to a bull, that green jersey, a red rag to a bull.

And he pulls me from the bed. It was all so sudden like. I couldn’t believe it. I never had nothing from him before that but kindness, he depended on me, you know? For everything. I’d known him since I was four and he was a big fella of ten going round the place. And why it didn’t stop him beating the shite out of me, I’ll never know, as God is my witness.

I can’t tell you all that he did – you wouldn’t believe me. Joe!

And when I got away from him and grabbed Jack and Little Macker from the other room, and hurried down the stairs as best I was able, I did, I looked back up and he was on the balcony, roaring and spitting fire like a demented demon, that’s what he was like.

Ran down the clattery iron stairs, bent almost double, and pulling on the little hands of me sons, to get them to come on.

And I went down to the Women’s Shelter and by now I was moving really really slow and feeling me injuries something bad, because, you know, you’re in shock for a little while at first, and numb, and the blood was pouring outa me nose, or somewhere, all down me fucking jersey, and me trying not to show too much for the boys’ sake, them whimpering and looking about, and me weeping weeping, trying not to, I couldn’t believe it, and by God if I tell a word of a lie, half the street was down there.

I wasn’t the only one.

Like wounded bleeding soldiers we were after a battle.

It must have been like a fever. When the Irish team lost, the lads suddenly knew what was what. When the Irish team were winning they could pretend they were winning, but when they lost, they knew they were losers too – had never been winners in the first place! It must have been like bubbles bursting in their heads, bullshit bubbles. They couldn’t stand it. There was a lot of happiness in them days and a lot of ould bullshit. That was the problem.

And then there was a lot of sorrow.