Monthly Archives: November 2012

The Road to Damascus

You know when you’re just minding your own business and all of a sudden something happens and you’re like, Oh Sweet Jesus, because it’s totally unexpected and unwanted. So there’s me, walking back from the town, and I cut through … Continue reading

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Wild Iris

Mary and I go out walking every Wednesday evening. We try and vary the route so it doesn’t get too repetitive, although we usually get so engrossed in our conversation that we don’t take that much notice of the world … Continue reading

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Moon Child

During the winter it gets dark early in Belfast. You may grudgingly accept that this is the price you pay for those heady long summer nights, but even so, it’s December now, and June is a long way off. It’s … Continue reading

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Shoe

Me and my Italian friend Marco have been playing tunes in the Duke of York. It’s been a brilliant session: great tunes, no head-melters, and a few pints. Even better, there is talk of a party at the house of … Continue reading

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Butting In

It was momentous, unprecedented. Derry had won the All-Ireland football final for the first time, and the Sam Maguire cup was on its way north again. These were heady times for Ulster football. During the weeks leading up to the … Continue reading

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Special Delivery: a screenplay, in one act.

The characters:  John McCarthy: Journalist, and former hostage during the Lebanon Hostage Crisis, held captive for five years from 1986 to 1991. Now making a documentary series for the BBC with Sandi Toksvig called Island Race. Big Tony: Taxi driver … Continue reading

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Sweet Rosemary

Me and my mate Alan go busking every Saturday. He usually calls for me and we get the bus at Agincourt Avenue, where he dings me on with his travel card. We do alright from the busking; on a good … Continue reading

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Wifeless

I am waiting outside Botanic Station. I had been in Bangor earlier, playing some music for a charity event in a bar near the seafront. It was hosted by a TV sports journalist with a face made for Widescreen; it was, … Continue reading

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All changed

I was working in the Royal Victoria Hospital. I’d been given a room on the second floor of Bostock House – or ‘Bostick House’ as it’s known to the regulars. It used to be the nurses’ accommodation until someone burned … Continue reading

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