The former manager of the Jordan Formula 1 team Eddie Jordan was teaching me how to fly a plane and I nearly had it down. I was reaching for the throttle with only his words to guide me when I said...
"Do you know something, Eddie? I'm completely indifferent to Formula 1 and I don't think I'll ever need to fly a plane. Why are we in Iraq? Fuck off."
And he did, morphing into the actor Dennis Hopper splicing out weeds with me in my back garden, and then my front garden, in Charleville Road, before of a sudden I was drinking a pint with my Granny in Downey's across the road.
"Haven't you been dead for 13 years? Isn't brandy your drink? Hang on, you gave up the drink before I was born..."
Then the fucking students singing happy birthday to one of their brethren through the paper walls. No dream this. Inglorious, sleepy reality. In my fugue I thought about the couch. I've often pondered moving to it during the parties next door but never actually have, but Falco's 'Rock Me Amadeus' was my imperative.
I looked at the clock. 3.30am. I took my duvet and two sunken Dunnes Stores pillows to the sitting room and covered my face in seventeen layers of cushion and fluff, drowning out their middlenight chorus. I slept soundly, perfectly. I may make the move full-time.
McMuck's wedding today. I'll sleep tonight and all, the brandy will see to that.