The more I write these blogs, the more I sound like a kill joy dry shite. The more I think about it the more I feel I am a sad boring old git, who just can’t cut it with the young kids anymore. It’s coming up in just over a week is Paddy’s day, and I just don’t feel like celebrating. What is wrong with me? How has everything changed so much? Who has given the fun a cull and put in the dull? All I want is a nice cup of coffee, some grub and maybe a shag wearing a leprechaun suit.
I rolled underneath the overpass of the six-lane highway. The midday Nevadan sun was beating down heavily. I needed shelter. I was severely dehydrated. My mouth was as dry as an Arabs’ sandal. My head was light and my skin tight and crawling. I had no water, no phone, no wallet,
When I was young boy I spent time in my Grandparents house in a tiny village in County Galway on the west coast of Ireland. I would stay in the guest’s room upstairs, sharing a bed with my older brother. At night there would be no noise at all, save the rain that would gently patter on the skylight, or the odd car making its way to some remote, far flung home. By day there would be little going on. There were fields filled with corpulent cows, sleepy sheep and dirty dogs. There were little lane ways filled with massive tractor tire markings. There were tree’s that belonged to the witches