'There's a hole in my neighbourhood down which of late I cannot help but fall'
Two years earlier. London, June 2006. A tube tunnel between Camden and Chalk Farm stations.

The train has stopped dead in a tunnel during the middle of a record-breaking heatwave. Beads of sweat roll down the back of necks. Limbs twitch. Bodies move restlessly. No-one can hear what the announcements are saying because the air-con units are blasting so loud they drown out the driver's voice. Fight or flight. What did he say? Jesus, how hot is it in here - 45? 50? The back of my neck is burning. How hot? No, it can't be that hot. Yes, it can. How long before you become de-hydrated? Can heat like this induce fainting? Can it induce a heart-attack?

A man in front of me is pouring sweat, looking irritated, his hands massaging his face. A bald, hawkish-looking man in a suit and tie, seemingly oblivious to the cattle transport-like conditions, sits reading the FT nearby. How the fuck can he not be dying in that ridiculous suit? A woman sighs and shifts her bag on her shoulder. I can't breathe. I can't fucking breathe. My heart is hammering like a bass drum on speed. I'm going to have a heart attack. I'm gona die down here. Here - in a fucking tube tunnel. Like a rat. Like a shithead. I never wrote that book. Why didn't I write that book? Cos you're a useless cunt, that's why. A useless waste of a good fucking liver. Open your sleeves. Let some air at your skin, you useless bastard breathe man breathe, just breathe. I am not going to die down here. Not today. No fucking way. Not today.

Press play.

'I've been working on a cocktail called "Grounds for Divorce"'
June 12th, 2008. Eason's book store, O'Connell Street, Dublin. 12 pm.

'Hi there' I say to the lady behind the information desk.
'Hi, what can I do for you?'
'Well' I begin, pulling my camera out of my bag, 'I was wondering if it would be okay to take some pictures of that book over there'. I point to three rows of 'A Load of Blather' which are sitting on the top shelf of the new Irish section. 'I wrote some of that book and wouldn't mind getting a snap of it - you know, just for myself'
'You wrote that?' she asks.
'Uhm, yeah'
'Could you sign them for us? If you sign them, you see, we can put a sticker on them - helps them sell sometimes'
'Sign them? Uhm, sure, yeah, why not...'
'Okay so, hang on there and I get you a rolla stickers and a pen'
'Thanks' I say, genuinely pleased with myself.
Beside us, a middle-aged Dublin woman is eyeballing me suspiciously.
'What's yer buke about?' she asks.
I pause. I honestly have no idea how to answer her. 'Ehm...' I begin and then stop. 'Here', I say, thrusting a copy into her hand, 'read the back cover - that explains it really.'
As she begins to run her eyes over the back-cover blurb, I start signing the pile of copies that the information desk lady has brought me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the second lady shifting on her feet, her face scrunching up as she reads the cover. She looks like someone just insulted her.
'Nah' she drawls through her nose, handing me back the book, 'not really my type of thing luv'.

Minutes pass, and I stand at the desk signing a giant pile of books, my signature becoming ever-more illegible with each passing copy. It suddenly occurs to me that no-one has actually asked me to prove who I am. I mean, I could be anybody. I could be some random nutter that spends his days going around bookstores, claiming to be the author of books he never wrote and scrawling foul, lewd comments on the inner sleeves of new publications. As I'm thinking this, I suddenly become aware of one of the queue of people who are lining up for the information desk. It's an elderly man, his leathery face a road map of Dublin pubs.
'Is the bathroom still closed?' he asks the lady.
'Yeah, it is luv' she says sweetly.
'Oh' he says, his voice dropping in dissapointment. 'I thought the fortnight was up?'
'No' says she, 'It isn't'.
'Okay so' he says, and shuffles off.

'There's this whispering of jokers doing flesh by the pound'
June 12th, 2008. 9.30pm. Dice Bar. The book launch.

'I voted no'
'Why?'
'Cos I didn't understand what they were askin' me.'
'That's no fucking reason to vote no, you stupid fuck'
'Yes it...'
'No it fuckin' isn't'
'Yes it is - it's a perfectly good reason to vote no. That shower of arseholes in the Dail assume that'll we'll vote yes on any shite they put in front of us - without ever having to explain what it is. Well, sorry - they do have to explain it to us. And if they can't see that - well, then they're not fit to run a game of fuckin' monopoly'
'Jesus you make wanna puke. I'm serious man - this kinda shite shouldn't be brought to referendums. The government should just sign the things for us'
'Really? Ah sure fuck it then, let's just get rid of elections while we're at it then and let them run the place for us, yeah?'

Twenty minutes later.
'He's a cunt'
'We know that - I mean we've always known that. He was a cunt when he arrived - I mean look at his fookin' haircuts for God's sake. But he's brilliant. 42 goals in a season? Player of the year twice in a row? Champions League Final goal? I mean, he's a genius...'
'All true. But he's still a cunt.'
'Hmmm...'
And do you know why?'
'Why?'
'Cos he's a cunt'.

One hour later.
'I am not signing that'
'Yes you are'
'I'm not'
'Sign it.'
'I am not signing your...'
'SIGN IT'
'I am not signing my name on your...'
'SIGN MY BREAST'

'To a chorus of supposes from the little town whores'
One hour after that.
Standing outside the Dice Bar, there are now something in the order of fifty people smoking. The air is thick with the stink of grass and people are slobbering into pints. Music thunders from inside where a scrum of bodies are battling to get to the bar. I don't think I've put my hand in my pocket in two hours and I've been refusing pints for almost forty minutes. I'm aware that I'm getting too drunk too fast and that I need to calm down. I notice that several people around me are weeping laughing at something across the street. My eyes follow their gaze and I spot a figure of a man, topless, bald, dancing in a second-storey window. Like a maniac. He's got a tin of beer in one hand and a rolled cigarette in the other and seems to be having his own private party. Shouts are ringing out for him to come down and join us. Five minutes later he does - dancing in the middle of Benburb Street, dodging the oncoming trams and cars, he gyrates and bounces like a loon, his arms and legs flapping in a hideously glorious breakbeat symphony. I laugh like a braying ass. I laugh so hard I lose my breath. And then, slowly at first, almost impreceptibly, it starts...

'There'll be twisted karaoke at the Aniseed lounge'
I stagger around the corner, away from the crowd, my hand grasping at the buttons on my shirt, trying to prise them open. I can feel it starting - the rushing blood, the racing thoughts, the irrationality of your own body behaving like someone else is pulling your strings, the sensation of your whole being squirming to burst out of it's skin, like it doesn't belong there, as though it's all wrong, all outside, all pointless and too high to climb. I gasp. I wretch. I feel the heat burning up my arms and the back of my neck. I can feel my heart rate increasing, beating louder and louder, the rhythm becoming more and more erratic, the hairs on my head feel electrified, my eyes starting to...
'So, you had a book published then did ye?' he says, tipping the brim of his hat back from his eyes. He sits on a ledge, outside the side of the pub, away from the thronging mass of people, a small glass of whiskey beside him, a copy of the book in his hand. Beside him, on the ledge sits what looks like an ancient copy of the Irish Times.
My eyes swim as I try to focus on his face, my breath too fast. Do I know his face? I recognise it. Is that someone's father? Is he a critic from a paper? Jesus, I'd better be polite.
'Well, sort of,' I said, in between gasps of air, 'I didn't write all of it. Only bits'
'But you were published?'
'Well, yes. I was, I suppose'
'And now you can't breathe because you're too pisht, too high and too excited?'
'I think so. I mean, I don't know'.
He starts flicking through the pages, a little suggestion of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, 'I wouldn't get too carried away with yourself just yet.' He snaps the cover shut and looks right at me. I notice the slightly prominent teeth and start to hear the accent. Where is that? Is it Monaghan? Donegal? Tyrone maybe?
'It's a load of shite, if you ask me' he continues.
'You reckon?' I say, my breath coming back to me now.
'Yep' he says, 'but then again that's what the fuckers told me for ten years'.
He takes a drink and sniggers as he looks at the back cover. 'Although I do like that picture of the Big Fella on the back. Very good. He was a right prick you know.'
'Yeah?' I wheeze.
'Yep - a pup. Although he did have a healthy respect for bicycles. Anyway, what you gonna do now?'
'Well, I was going to have a pint...'
'No, I meant, what are you going to do now'
I look at him, again conscious that I recognise his face but just can't put a name to it. 'You mean, after tonight's over?
'Yep'
'I don't know'
'Yep, neither did I. Never could quite finish that novel'
'Why not?'
'Cos I couldn't let anyone read it. Cos if they read it - then I'd have had to stop writing it'
'Ah. I see'
'No you don't. Not yet anyway'
I let a moment pass. He drinks. I breathe - easier now.
'Can I get you a drink?' I ask him.
'No thanks, fine here' he says draining the glass. 'I'd best be off.'
'Okay, so' I say.
He stands up, shifts his hat down and turns to walk away, pausing for a moment. He looks back over his shoulder and says 'Nice pilgramice'.

+Music+

These words were written whilst listening to 'Grounds for Divorce' by Elbow from the album, 'The Seldom Seen Kid'. Visit their myspace page or buy the album here. Find out more about Elbow at their site.

+Image+

Photo: ©Kim Haughton. Our thanks. See more of Kim's photos of the book launch here.

+Words+

The book A Load of Blather is on sale now for €9.99 plus post and packaging. Click on the cover for more.

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