Much to the chagrin of my friends (who still refer to him as Major Dad due both to his perceived occupation and his resemblance to Gerald McRainey {bottom right} who once played Major Dad in the sitcom of the same title), he is not a highly-trained killer; half-man, half-wild dog. It's an office job. It was an office job.
And it's a little strange how his job has plotted the direction for my life.
In 1989 my parents left Aylesbury, Tallaght with young moi and my sister in tow, to head to Galway, the city that the decentralisation plan at the time had decided was to be the new Department of Defense’s HQ.
I have no doubt that my knackery, mulleted little pre-teen self might have ended up doing horrendous things had I spent my teen years surrounded by the glories of joy-riding, glue-sniffing and coal-eating (Fact: a family up the road used to eat bits of coal they found on the street. I don't know why. Mineral content? It's a bit fucking Angela's Ashes isn't it?)
There are a few photos of young me knocking around at the family home from my Tallaght days and it’s clear that in my final year there as a 10-year old, obsessed with guns, violence and becoming a member of the SAS, I may have soon butchered my first small domestic creature and moved gradually onto drifters and/or prostitutes.
I base this theory entirely on my haircut and attire at the time, which was part Stefan Edberg, part hi-visibility hooligan.
Ah yes, I seem to have dodged a life of crime and now I work in the newspaper that reports on that same crime in that same area. A place that has drunken miscreants telling the gardai they will eat all the houses on the street and enter strangers' houses through the front window to bum a cigarette. True stories.
Oh Lady Irony, why do you mock me?
I leave you with Wilco (The Song) by Wilco from Wilco (the album).
This is for you, Pop.
Wilco(the song) - Wilco
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