I was always known to say that there was a touch of the Samba about you, as though you were Carlow by accident. Your first touch on the ball, your way with the ladies, THAT jacket. Pure Brazilian magic.
Little old me? Little old me you ask? Well I'm just dandy. Went out for Dave's birthday last night to O'Neills on Pearse Street. An old haunt. It was very bloody merry, with pint after pint of brownest ale sunk in the man's honour.
A strange thing happened. I had just left Ollie to go and search for food, he in a taxi, me wandering drunkenly towards McDonalds when I was stopped by a young lady.
'Radge?' she asked.
I looked around to see the most pulchritudinous lass of my 30 years.
'Oh yes,' I replied. 'And who might you be?'
'I'm J, Lynn's friend. We met briefly before on Dame Street.'
'Ah. J. Yes. How are you doing?'
My better self would have taken this chance of a lifetime and romantically dazzled her, but my real self intervened, awkward and garbling with liquor. She disappeared to the night all too quickly and I went and had a quarter pounder with cheese, lamenting my shitness with very beautiful women.