Brendon calls, the dvd is ready, with the clips of the girls. It’s old hat now, but there might still be enough in it to at least vaguely amuse some dinner part if I ever get one together. I drop into his office after work one day last week, can’t remember which, and the place, is as ever, a mess of equipment, dvd’s, note books. He’s on the phone when he buzzes me up and I sit down flick thru a magazine til he’s finished. “good fuck” he says “deadline, fast approaching, then receding”

“I know the drill” I say, “I’ve missed a few myself” he’s scratching his head and clearly going slightly bald. Um um, hold on he says, rummaging round. Here it is.

He hands me an ordinary dvd case, it has my name on it. I wrte him a cheque. We shake and agree to go for a drink later in the work, to discuss possible videos for the new band.

And what fun are they. We’re rehearsing, and I brought in some songs on cd that I said we had to learn. Seventeen by the Pistols, Elected by Alice Cooper and Eloise by the Damned. Well, the damned version. The lads hate them of course but I tell them all that as musicians their palette is EVERYTHING. Prejudice is for the dweebs on the street. They’re not too pleased, but they’ve no songs on their own so what are we gonna do. I buy them a tray of cans to lessen the blow of having to do some fucking work. Jesus. We still need a guitarist. That guy down in Galway didn’t work out, even tho I took him to the strip club next door and bought him a lap dance. He fancied the idea of moving to Dublin, but didn’t want to leave his ma. Your ma? I asked. Listen, this is a rock band, so forget it. Anyway, I just wanna put colm and Kristo through the mill here, see if they can hold together a song. I’m convinced that there’s a bassist in Colm, cos there sure as fuck ain’t a guitarist. Nice guitar tho… hum.

Anyway, our singer, Angela, is coming in next week. She’s 19, which is good, and very angry about just about everything. She tells me she has a few songs already wrote, which frankly terrifies me, but I’m keeping and open mind.

Meanwhile this new cunt in work. We went out for a drink on the Friday just gone. I’d been up the last few nights trying to work on the script and probably drinking too much of the whiskey, again, but I felt that I was making good work, so after a day in the office I had that itch at the back of my throat that only a beer or ten could scratch. I knew Saturday was ruined, but I didn’t care. He and I, and some other suits went local, started on the booze at about 5 of the clock. Being the generous type, and the man in the position of superiority here, in oh-so-many ways, I bought the first round for the boys. They sat around scratching their crotches and talking football. I suggest that we get in a round of shorts, get things moving. I’m paying so the lads aren’t going to refuse are they. Out comes the plastic, a few swift Jagers. Couple of hours later our boy has the rosy cheeks and he’s cracking poor jokes like there’s no tomorrow. Our table is covered in crisp packets, our dinner, and glasses accumulate only to be removed by the hot polish girl with the arse like Kirk Douglas’s chin. You’d almost drink just to keep her coming back. “I would to take that girl home,” I say. There’s a general nodding in agreement. Our boy has ebullient beads of sweat on his forehead, taken with the effort of keeping up with me. This young buck in his Guineys suit. “fucking fine arse on that alright he says” too true, I whisper. Them poles, you know what, they like it rough, I say and his eyes are lit up like the front of a stupid bus. I wink. Eh?

We’re outside having a smoke, it’s dark now, and chilly but we’re in our shirt sleeves, emboldened by booze. So I start on him. What about that Cathy one. Would ya? He raises an eyebrow at me and gives me a grin Oh yeah, I says? She’s a pistol alright.

I have a vague plan fermenting in my head, but I’m not sure what it is, only that we need to get drunker, possibly drugged up and most importantly elsewhere. I suggest we head down Harcourt to dicey’s first of all, cos of the beer garden, then maybe coppers. Jesus, it’s a nightmare, but fuck it, it’s Friday. We lose some of the goons on the way, sure that’s alright. The bouncers love us in our suits and red faces, knowing we’ve knocked off work with thirsts that only eight hours in the stultifying dryness of the over warm office can give you. I’m tipsy a bit, but the prick is clearly getting into it, making eyes at some girls over in the corner, some slag party of parts foreign, dressed as if we were mid summer, and a good two decades younger. We’re sitting outside, having some beer. I’ve stopped buying the rounds, slowed down a bit. I’m an old hand at this.

Next we go to coppers, it’s dark down by the dance floor and the music is fucking rotten. Place reeks of b.o. and red bull. I picture my Jameson at home. Being drunk is the only way to get over this. The jacks floor is covered in piss, the smell has changed to that of sweetened vomit. When I get back, there he is with two Scottish girls, sitting at their table. He winks at me. I sit down. He makes introductions, both girls are called Kristine. I smile. They talk. I can’t hear them over the din, I cant understand what they’re saying anyway. I can feel sweat trickling down my back. He buys the round, I sit there drumming the table. I need a smoke. Kristine leans over to smell, to shout something in my ear. I can feel her breath, so warm, like a chiffon duvet is being dragged across my neck. It’s inviting, it’s like being coaxed into a sarcophagus. She has bad skin and smells, but I’m horny. He comes back, I wave me smokes at him, just need a quick fix ladies. The lay into their vodkaredbulls like coyotes.

Outside, mercifully chill. I dunno about them, they’re kinda rough he says and laughs. I grin at him, I’m pretending to make a call. I casually drop Cathy into the conversation. I thought she was gonna come out tonight, jesus, I’m glad she didn’t, ha ha. Just us guys, you know.

“I fucked that” he says

“what?”

“cathy”

“I meant, who…” I say, but I wasn’t expecting him to say that. My vague plan was to catch him admitting it, record him on my phone, saying, oh I’d love to ram one into her, in oreder to show what a dodgy cunt he is, and instead I’ve got him saying this, recorded for posterity, and it’s making me feel hairy inside my brain, and feel like I’ve been kicked in the guts and I’d like a real big and long shit and why? Why? Why do I care. I don’t like careing.

“not bad, nice fucking tits.”

“yeah, you can. Eh.”

“these two are game and all”

“what?”

these two scot birds. They’re fuckin dirty, those scots.”

“sound” I say. I’ve lit another smoke, he’s started in. “I’ll follow ya” I say.

Fuck.