The Blindboy Podcast - A short story about Love and Greyhounds

Episode Date: March 26, 2024

A short story about Love and Greyhounds Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Squeeze the sheep's knees you Easter-neishas. Welcome to the Blind Boy podcast. I've been up and down Ireland all week filming a documentary. I'm very excited about it but I can't tell you what it is yet. I missed the phone on the crack of being on a television set working with lovely professional passionate people. Last time I worked on TV would have been my BBC series in fucking 2019 before the pandemic. The pandemic kind of took a hammer to everything. TV work, journalism, the whole entertainment industry changed radically post-pandemic. Before the pandemic, when Donald Trump was president of America, I used to have a feature

on this podcast that people keep asking me to bring back. I used to read out President Donald Trump's tweets as your drunk limerick aunt. Because that's how Trump used to tweet. He used to tweet like a drunk uncle or a drunk aunt. So I used to read out his tweets as this character called Drunk Limerick Aunt, and y'all grew very fond of her. And when Joe Biden became president of America, I stopped doing Drunk Limerick Aunt.

So I have a little treat for you this week. I'm reading you out a short story, a short story from my book, Topographia Hibernica. And the story is called Pamela Fags, and it's written in the first person, from the perspective of a character called Pamela, who's a solicitor, and she smokes loads of fags. And I read this entire story out in the accent of your drunkly regant, because that, when I was writing this character Pamela, my internal, my internal voice as I was trying to inhabit her character was drunk limerick aunt. I love the playful

lyricism of the limerick accent, I fucking adore it. And limerick women in particular have a wonderfully flat song in their voice and a warm, compassionate, with in their turn of phrase. It's similar to a cork accent, but the cork accent has more melody, much more ups and downs. The limerick accent is a flat diaphragmatic rhythm. It's not nasal. It comes from between the throat and the chest. Are you gonna up getting yourself a latte in Starbucks? Often a complete abandonment of vowels and an emphasis on consonants. We don't have time for vowels in Limerick. Too busy trying to figure out why the Terry Wogan statue looks like he's mid-shart.

Took me a long time to come to that conclusion. I stare at the Terry Wogan statue a lot, and the look on his face and his posture is, was that a shart? So I'm going to read you this short story, Pamela Faggs. Now if you're from America, the word fags in Ireland and in England and Scotland as well I think, and maybe also in Wales, the word fags means cigarettes. It's not a slur. And I use it in this story.

The context and intent of how it's used in this story is referring to cigarettes. And I used it because that's...that's how my character speaks, that's the limerick vernacular, that's the word she would have used. And if I changed that word it would be, the lyricism of the dialogue wouldn't feel right, the prose would be clunky. Certain elements of this story are biographical. Only a tiny bit, because you might remember it from a previous podcast where I spoke about how my father was obsessed with sniffing the crotches of rented tuxedos. My dad used to do that in a kind of a playful way, a playful funny way.

He was self-aware of how ridiculous it was. He was convinced that the smell of another man's sweat would never properly be dry cleaned out of a suit, and that it would stay in the fabric and then rise with the warmth of your own body. And when I was a child, if any of my older brothers were going to a debz or a wedding, I was brought down to sniff the crotches of rented trousers because I was young and I had the best nose. So I incorporated elements of that into this story. This story is also about greyhound racing. A very popular sport in Ireland still. A bizarre sport that

kind of should be illegal. It's very cruel to these strange little nervous dogs. Well, these long nervous dogs, these greyhounds. I know many people who adopt greyhounds that were once professional running greyhounds, incredibly sweet, loving dogs, who are quite obviously traumatized from their long lives of chasing mechanical hares. Greyhound racing is bizarrely popular in Ireland and it receives a huge amount of government funding, which doesn't make sense at all. Well it does make sense, there's a certain type of rural Irish

politician who's also known as a good dog man. He's a good dog man. Give him your vote. I don't want to give away too much about this story, other than I adored writing it. I adored living in the mind of the character of Pamela, painting pictures using her words. And I entered full flow state while I was writing this story. And it was easy to dip back into flow state, because it would have taken me a couple of weeks to write. But each day I sat down at the laptop, I'd enter back into this character and into flow state. And writing this story felt like... It felt like being at the cinema

and I was watching a film that had already been written. And that's the best feeling. That's why I write. That's the reason that I write. That fucking feeling. That's the dragon that I chase. That fucking feeling. That's the dragon that I chase. If I'm writing or creating anything and I have that feeling afloat, then my life has meaning and purpose and I love being alive. And that's why I do it. The end result is only a bonus before I read the story.

Because it's long. It's like, it's nearly an hour long. Before I read it, let's get the little ocarina pause out of the way, so I don't disturb the story. I don't have an ocarina because I'm side my office. I'm getting a new computer soon. My current computer, you can't hear it, but the fan is incredibly loud. So I'm getting a new computer. It's loud because it's full, and it's old, so I'm gonna get a new computer that isn't as loud. A noisy fucking computer is not pleasant when you're trying to record a podcast.

But I don't have an ocarina so what I'm gonna do is... I've got a little bottle of water that I've been drinking. I'm gonna blow gently on the top of this water bottle and you'll hear an advert for something. on the top of this water bottle and you'll hear an advert for something. Pull apart only at Wendy's. It's ooey, gooey, and just five bucks with a small coffee all day long. Taxes extra at participating Wendy's until May 5th. Terms and conditions apply. Will you rise with the sun to help change mental health care forever? Join the Sunrise Challenge to raise funds for CAMAGE,

the Center for Addiction and Mental Health to support life-saving progress in mental health care. From May 27th to 31st, people across Canada will rise together and show those living with mental illness and addiction that they're not alone. Help CAMH build a future where no one is left behind. So, who will you rise for?

Register today at sunrisechallenge.ca. That's sunrisechallenge.ca. That's nice. Pour out some water and see if it changes the pitch. No? That was the plastic bottle pause. Support for this podcast comes from you the listener via the Patreon page, patreon.com forward slash the blind buy podcast. This is my full-time job. This is how I earn a living. I adore doing this job. This is how I rent my office.

It's how I buy a new computer to record the podcast. It's how I pay my bills. And if this podcast brings you distraction, mert, merriment, whatever the fuck, please consider paying me for the work that I put into it. All I'm looking for is the price of a pint or a cup of coffee once a month. That's it. But if you can't afford that, don't worry about it. You can listen for free. Listen for free.

Because the person who is paying is paying for you to listen for free. So everybody gets a podcast, I get to earn a living. It's a wonderful model. Patreon.com forward slash the blind buy podcast. Plug a few little gigs. My tour of England, Scotland and Wales in April almost sold out. I cannot wait for this tour. I cannot wait to get back to the cracking tens and do some live podcasts. Starting on the 21st of April, Newcastle, then I'm in Glasgow. That's sold out. Nottingham, that's as good as sold out. Only a tiny amount of

tickets left. Cardiff, there's tickets left for Cardiff. I have a phenomenal guest in Cardiff. I don't want to tell you who it is. She's from Cardiff and I cannot wait to have a chat with her. And if you miss it you're gonna say it to yourself, for fuck's sake why didn't I go to that? That's all I'm saying. Brighton on the 28th of April, only a few tickets left for that. Cambridge on the 29th, there's tickets left there. Bristol is sold out. Bristol on the 30th. And then the fucking Hammersmith Apollo in London on the 1st of May, alright?

That's fucking setting out. I did not think that was possible. I still can't believe I'm playing at the Hammersmith Apollo. I think I'm a fucking, I'm like a British podcast now, I think. I don't do venues like that in Ireland. I think I'm becoming a British podcaster. I fully take in the soap. So then in June...

June is the sixth month. Yeah, in June on the 18th, Vicar Street, Dublin. Ah, it was great craic in Vicar Street in Dublin. And then July, doing two gigs in the Set Theatre at Kilkenny. Lovely little venue, can't wait to come back to Kilkenny, haven't been there since 2019. I'm gonna visit the castle. There's a castle in Kilkenny and there's a little statue of a man from the 14th century who looks like Keith Duffy from Bison. So I'm gonna go and lick that. Those are my gigs. Without further ado, please enjoy this short story

called Pamela Fags from my most recent book, Topographia Hibernica. Pamela Fags. No reardon silver hair had gone yellow from neglect. Every Friday, he'd arrive to me in the same suit, a sandy tweed job with a rip on the shoulder, biscuit green short underneath. It looked like it was the only suit he ever owned, very pinty leather shoes, and today he dragged a streak

of green farmyard shit in on top of my fire retardant carpet, I left it there. He was forever tonguing his false teeth around in his mouth as a nervous tick. Sometimes I'd look up at him and his teeth were upside down. And when he'd sit across from me, I'd stoop over to reach his documents, his eyes beyond me. He didn't have any fingernails for some reason I hated representing him, but he never objected when I smoked cigarettes in my office. He liked the smell and said that he used to be a whore for the cigarettes before they put the stent in his heart. I jied listening to the names of the Greyhounds that he brought up too.

Names like Seaside Trembler, Alton's Comet and Doggy's Comeuppance. He was attempting to sue the Limerick Greyhound Association who had banned him from entering competitions. His dogs had failed drug tests and they showed high amounts of caffeine in their blood. He'd slam his fist down on his tie and shout things like, actually his brackets were the fucker for the tea bags and you couldn't keep the bitch out of a kitchen bin. I might have my reputation as a dog man varnished for that.' And I'd have to swivel my chair around and bury my face

in a filing cabinet to hide my smock. He was the type of case that could last two years and still go nowhere. Because he was driven by a loss of face and those were the clients who paid the bills. Before he'd leave my office, he'd take off his little cap with the sausage fingers of his disgusting red hands and ask me to go over across the road to Neeson's hotel for a toasted sandwich and a glass of sherry with him. I couldn't possibly tarnish our professional relationship with Romance, Noel. I look forward to seeing

you next week, I'd say. "'I suppose you're right, Pimely,' he'd say back. He'd leave my office with the head down, and from behind, his bald patch reminded me of a dog's anus. Earlier that day, my brother Brendan rang me. He was putting a deposit on a suit in order to go to a wedding next Saturday. And as was always the case at my family, on any type of formal occasion it became very dramatised and I got quite involved in it unnecessarily. He said the wedding was for some cunt of an architect who was marrying a lesbian, so he's coming into the city centre to pick out the suit. I asked him how he knew the bride was a lesbian and he said, I've no phone credit, can I come to your office or not? If this meant the bride was an ex-girlfriend and the architect was a friend who didn't know that he hated him.

Brendan had one of those mad red heads of curly hair and he looked like a circus clown at the best of times. And if I'm being honest I'm afflicted with the same appearance, my whole family are. Brendan was sixteen years older than me, well into his fifties. I loved him dearly. But when he came in my office door, he puffed back his shoulders and strutted around the carpet in a judgemental performance, scanning the mess of papers and boxes of files like it was my old bedroom and I was still a teenager. He picked up the coffee mug on my desk that was full of mould and when he put it back down a puff of green spores rose up and landed powdery on a pile of documents that I kept on the floor. I didn't care. I could tell by the way his lips pursed that he was thinking of teasing me but he

chose not to because he was unimplied and was currently standing in my office, which I own. He took one of the benches and hedges from the packet on my desk. He only ever smoked when he was in my company. I expected him to have a nosy question about Nol, the dog man who fed tea bags to greyhounds like he usually does, but he coughed and said, How on the fuck are you a solicitor and you can't even clean up the fag butts from your window sill? Do your clients not complain?'

"'They can go fuck themselves,' I said, and we laughed so hard I heard the single-glazed window pane vibrate.' He told me about his morning. He had gone to an outlet store and put a deposit on a suit for the cunt of an architect's wedding. They're okay suits, but you know, it's an outlet store like, so something is bound to be off. The suits could be old or damaged. They might just be out of fashion.

Anyway, he parked in the multi-storey car park close to the outlet store and as he was exiting, his eye caught a crisp fifty euro nought beside the ticket machine so he was like, fucking excellent 50 euro, the sun is shining on Brendan today, I'm gonna use this 50 euro to put a deposit on a new suit in the outlet store, one of the good ones, so he did, and he was telling me all about the wonderful suit that he picked out and how he put down a deposit for this suit and how he's gonna buy it next week. I'm so pleased with this suit, it's a Hugo Bass suit, an incredibly discounted Hugo Boss suit, but still a Hugo Boss suit and so on and so on. I told him that Hugo Boss were actually designed

for the Nazis. He didn't like that. He took more cigarettes from my packet and we bought Flick-der-Ashes on the floor. And my office was thick with smoke. It was like the 1960s. And Brendan was so animated and giddy when he told the story. I had one client after, but I considered cancelling on her and asking my brother to go day drinking with me over in Charlie Malone's pub, because I really do love him. He's hilarious. He began telling me all again about the 50 euro that he found, with such a glow in his face, like this was the most important thing to ever happen to him. Then I said,

You found this fifty euro on the ground, but did you ask anybody in the carpark if they dropped it? Maybe that fifty euro was incredibly important to somebody, and they might have been in your immediate vicinity and you could have found the owner, but you didn't. You only thought of yourself." And the jay dropped from his eyes and he left the cigarette barn longer in his hand. I didn't think it up, Emile, eh? He said, "'There's a client coming shortly and I have to open the windows so you'll need to go. Maybe think about what you've done.' I said. He left. I peeked my head over the mug with

all the mould and wondered if those spores could make me sick. My job was easy, and my office was a cramped pack of shit that I never cleaned. It didn't bother me. It was above a subway. The smell of sandwiches made my clients hungry and they'd want to leave early. I only ever accepted the type of clients who should be bringing their problems to a psychoanalyst. The fallout from a divorce, for instance,

or daughters, who have such heated arguments with their mothers at Christmas time that their mother shakes them or slaps them so the daughter asks me to litigate against their own mother. But really, deep, deep down, what they want is their mother's approval. they just don't know it. I'll take neighbours who have a dispute about a boundary fence in a tree. I eat those cases with no salt. It's always men. And the litigious man is usually jealous of the other man's wife.

In compliance with common law principles, it is incumbent upon you to prevent your flora from extending onto a neighbouring premises. I urge you to rectify this matter promptly by ensuring the over-growth is prone back within a 30-day period. In the event of non-compliance, my client will be compelled to pursue legal remedies which may include, but are not limited to, seeking damages and an injunction for nuisance. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Your prompt action is highly recommended to avert unnecessary legal proceedings.

I'll make three hundred quid a pop for that class of fart talk, back and forth with some other solicitor for as long as we like, and it'll never see a court. I could solve all the world's problems if I just told people the truth. It was Friday afternoon. Noel Riordan sat across from me, teary-eyed, revolving his dentures in his mouth. Un-shaving today, silver stubbly jewels like a gang of teenagers had vandalised his face with carpaint. Bestuts, bestuts, best bastards. He was shouting it in a

whisper. He spat all man spit on my fire-retardant carpet. I didn't care. And when he said bastard, the asses spluttered through his teeth. Have they forgotten that I'm the dog-man who reared Henley's fiasco from a pup? What need had I to drug those powerful beasts with caffeine? And what about Dunphy's bunting? And Dalmio Hairstyle's, the two-spotted twins?" he continued. I practically tit-fed that litter. And wasn't their mother half as spastic, wasn't she, wasn't she?" He said that bit directly at me like I'd know the answer, and I imagined his two long geriatric nipples and swivelled my chair around again with the giggles.

All champion dogs, he went on, all champion dogs, and those bastults have the nerve to disrespect me like they did Cyril Tainan and his puppets and the committee, bastults. We'll have our day in court with them, Noel,' I said, knowing full well that we won't. I lit another cigarette, and Noel licked his lips when the smoke left my mouth, and he followed the plume up to the big yellow stain on my polystyrene ceiling tiles. "'We'll be sending another letter, Pimela,' he inquired. "'Oh, I'll be sending very strongly worded letters, Noll. I will serve another notice to

formally communicate the severity of this issue, your determination to assert your rights, and our intent to take the fullest legal action if a satisfactory response and resolution are not achieved.' He salivated at me like I was a cavalry lunge. Noel then informed me that he had been refused access to Limerick Greyhound Stadium last night, effectively banning him from even attending a Greyhound meet as a spectator, which was a little harsh in fairness. And it might even constitute actual grounds for a court case, if I was willing to put that type of work in. It was the last straw, he said. He won't be responsible for his actions, he said. He has

a Civil War revolver buried in a condom full of grease, he said. The last bit was whispered like he wanted to impress me, and it did impress me, but I wouldn't let him see it. I took in a judgmental breath, sighed, and reminded him that he was in the presence of a solicitor. I instructed him to refrain from unilateral action, as this dispute must be approached within the purview of the established legal framework. He swallowed and said, "'I suppose you're right, Pimla.' I could tell that he enjoyed it when I scolded him like that. He stared down with self-pity into his terrifyingly

swollen hands and told me that he had named a colleague's greyhound after me and I said, "'Excuse me, Noel.'" "'I did,' he replied. "'Dinny Ryan has a promising pup and she needed a name so I christened her Pamela Fags.'" "'Pamela Fags,' I said. "'Yes, you've been so helpful to me, Pamela,aggs. Pamela Faggs!" I said. Yes, you've been so helpful to me, Pamela. Sending off those letters to the bastards. The bastards above in the committee. And putting the fear of God into them. You deserve it. She has her first race tomorrow night, and she's a fine car too. There'll be a champion

in her yet. He said this with a very serious expression of certainty. I won't lie, I was unbelievably flattered that Noel had named a Greyhound in my honour. Even if a separate part of me sensed that it was a new attempt to get me to go to the hotel with him. But when he left this time, he didn't even ask me to go to the hotel. He just kept repeating, Cyril Tynan will pay, we'll get the best stuts, we'll have our day in court, while clasping his palms around my fingers like they were an injured bird that he was trying to euthanise, and there was a strength in his bloodshot eyes,

and I wondered if I'd have let him seduce me if he were forty years younger. I closed the door and was shook with a sudden desire to clean my office, but when I scanced over the mess, it ceased to be a clutter of physical things and instead became a feeling of hopelessness, followed by murderous anger, buckled folders over stacks of memos and depositions with withery ears. The whole lot, slightly yellowed by cigarettes, butts of different ages everywhere all at once, smoked down to the filter, fag-burns galore, all surfaces and objects dulled with a fine grey powder of ash, multiple steplers that I thought I had lost. There was one particular manila folder that had been rined on after I left the window open. It must have been four years ago. Anyway, the pages inside had

formed a single lump of turquoise fungus. It wasn't a forder any more, it was a living thing. It should have been paying me rent. Post-its posted to stacks of papers with notes that I couldn't understand even though I wrote them. Paperclips, calendars, newspapers. Those leaflets that get thrown in the letterbox. The charity ones about secondhand clothes. Loads of them. Tangled wires from the PC on my desk. Old bird shit from that time with the seagull. Coffee mugs. A fucking hair straightener from Argos.

All towered over by overflowing fat bastard filing cabinets behind my desk that I wanted to crush me some day. Among the chaos, a little island of fire-retardant carpet was scoped out where my client's chair was. I rarely examined the mess in all its constituent parts like this. I wouldn't even know where or how to begin cleaning it. So I sat back in my chair and smocked the absolute bollocks off a Benson and Hedges instead. I relaxed. And I noticed that Noel Reardon had forgotten his tweed jacket and left it hanging around the back

of the chair. There was a loud knock on the door. I went to answer, assuming it was Noel Reardon returning for his jacket. It wasn't Noel Reardon, it was my brother Brendan. He pushed straight past me with a plastic bag in his hand and began smotting my cigarettes. He was uneasy, taking rapid puffs, blowing nostril smoke and tiptoe stepping over the mess on the floor like a flamingo. This is what he proceeded to tell me, in more or less these words. He went back to the outlet store and retrieved his 50 euro deposit like I had asked him to. Now I'd completely fucking forgotten about all of this if I'm being honest, because it was a week ago and I have a job.

But anyway, he took the money to the security guard who worked in the multi-storey car park. And the security guard looked at him like he had 12 horses and said, how in the fuck are we supposed to locate the owner of a 50-euro note? No one reported it missing. It's not in a wallet. There's no ID. Could be anyone's money. It might even have blown in from the road. If you want my advice, pal, just keep it.

It's yours, man." And that was enough to clear Brendan's conscience, he said, and his forehead sweat frizzled his curls and made him look particularly clown-like. He was still jittery with anxiety, and then he infected me with his anxiety, and I said a bit loud, "'Then what's the problem, Brendan? What are you doing here in my office all upset?' And he took another fag from the packet and tried to light it with a stapler. "'I thought it was one of them novelty lighters,' he said, so I lit the fag with my fag and

called him a useless prick.' He went on with his story, recounting it like a little boy. So he had returned to the outlet store today. And he said, hello, I was here last Friday. I'm ready to buy the suit that I put the deposit on, the Hugo Boss one. And then the outlet store were all, we sold the suit, sir. It's gone. And then Brendan was like, but I put a deposit

on the suit, you can't sell the fucking suit, I put a deposit on it. And then they said in response, you did put a deposit on it, but then you took the deposit back, and during that time we sold the suit. So he was like, I know I took the actual 50 euro note, but I still had a deposit on it, so then they were all, that's not how deposits work, sir, but we have another suit that's similar, and it's much cheaper, do you want that instead?' And Brendan was awful disappointed, but he swallowed his pride and bought the cheaper suit, and that was the end of his formal wear saga, or so I thought.

"'Ah, you got the suit for the wedding well done,' I said, relieved. "'What's your specific problem then, Brendan? What's bothering you? Why you here?' We had both worked each other up at this point. Brendan didn't say a word. He stood there with a big serious face on him. He reached into his plastic bag and held the trousers of the suit in the air like they were a severed head and he says,

Sniff that Pamela, sniff the crotch, sniff it. Tell me I'm not going mad. Go on, sniff that. He spoke the words in an affected English accent. I knew immediately what was happening. So I buried my face in the gusset of the sootpants and began inhaling and there it was. The pain in my tummy. Actually no, pause this. Before I continue sniffing the crotch of these sootpants, I need to give you some details about my childhood. I grew up in a house with four much older brothers. When I was five years of age, they were in their late teens and early twenties, a lot older. So they were forever attending debes and there was a plethora of graduation ceremonies too, maybe a wedding or three,

can't fully recall, numerous situations where my older brothers had occasion to rent suits or tuxedos. It was a significant part of my early years compared to other children, all incredibly stressful and unnecessarily dramatic events, instigated and exacerbated by my daddy, God rest him, who was very passionate about stains and odours. He was quite an eccentric man, you could say. My father would become deathly serious when there was a risk of rented formal wear smelling like someone else's sweat. The sweat of a strange man, so to speak.

He had two theories about this, aptly named the first theory and the second theory. One of them I completely agree with. The other one is quite far-fetched and brings the pain to my stomach. The first theory concerned dry cleaning, which my father didn't consider to be real cleaning at all, because, in his words, the fabric was merely agitated by a solvent as opposed to being deeply cleansed at a molecular level by a detergent. Dry cleaning, he maintained, was a form of masking, which could never truly eliminate the lipids and proteins that were present in human sweat. So if there was even the tiniest hint of another human sweat on a rented suit or tuxedo,

it must be returned. As soon as you put on that suit and attend the formal occasions, you are in serious trouble, he'd say. Especially if you have a couple of pints to heat up the blood, or maybe chance a bit of dancing. The moisture and warmth of your own body will awaken the odour of the previous wearer. The dormant stench blooms with the catalyst of your sweat. You start to really stink. And it doesn't matter how thoroughly you've cleansed your body or how much deodorant you've worn, it's not your sweat, it's someone else's sweat. Now you're the smelly person at the function,

you, smelling like someone else's sweat. And that's just the truth of it. There is no acceptable aggregate of another person's sweat that can be permitted to acquiesce in a rented suit or tuxedo, send it back and demand a fresh one. He'd repeat that throughout my childhood like a mantra to all of my brothers. My father was correct about dry cleaning. It can be a risk, but it was his second theory that consumed him. My father formulated the second theory while watching

David Attenborough nature documentaries. He grew tormented by footage of wild animals and how they would mark territory using scents and pheromones. Leveraging this knowledge, he asserted that humans subconsciously glean information about others' mental states, dispositions or personalities through scent and sweat. So if you arrive at a wedding and the suit begins to smell like the sweat of another man, if that man was a bit of a prick we'll say, or if he was an aggressive man, other people will then act aggressively towards you. You can be as polite as you like, but the sweat will override all rationality, or worse still. The smell of the other man's sweat can rise up into your own nose,

and you will take on aspects of his personality and behave accordingly. All occurring beyond your awareness or control, absolutely insane stuff. And of course my mother disagreed. She reasoned that my father always drank too much and would consistently make an arse out of himself at formal occasions. And his theory was just an excuse to avoid accepting responsibility for his drinking. You're poisoning your children with nonsense! she'd scream. And then he'd be on the verge of tears with her howling. Then how'd you explain the job interview with the Porridge people, Marion?

Was there any drink taken when I met the Porridge people?" Referencing an incident in his thirties, where he self-sabotaged a potential role as a contamination chemist at Adlam's Porridge because he believed his suit had been previously worn by a man with low self-esteem. I don't even think my father had faith in the second theory himself. It was just something he held onto so my mother wouldn't win.

He was saving face. And this is what I had for a childhood. My daddy would spend the day times dressed in a three-piece suit, cleaning the house impeccably, pretending he wasn't hung over. He'd rubbed the surfaces down with a rag of

industrial alcohol so you couldn't smell it on his breath. My mother waiting to pounce. I'd be getting pains in the pit of my belly watching them. I must have been six years old when my youngest brother Andy returned home one evening with a rented tuxedo for his debs. I remember him dragging the smell of cold winter air in the door when it closed. My father used a poker to anxiously molest the fire and waited in the living room with a grave set of eyes on him. I didn't understand how fucking stupid it all was back then. My father used to put on like kind of an English accent in these situations and he'd tap on the coffee table with his wedding ring and he'd say, Did you inspect the undercarriage? Did you inspect the undercarriage of those

trousers, Andrew? Brandish the garment hither. And then he would take the suit between the tips of his fingers like it might bite him and sniff all around the crotch and underarm, in a loud, performative way that communicated a level of expertise and experience, puffing his nostrils, we'd all be watching. He'd make us go quiet, too. He'd say, I'm currently receiving olfactory information, and I require serenity, which made no sense. Who needs silence to smell?

All of my brothers staring at him with red clown heads, believing in his theory, waiting for his judgment. I need alternative counsel, he'd say, and the soup was passed along to my brothers in order of age, and they would each have their turn snorting at the fabric. Occasionally the suit was impeccably dry cleaned and neither my father nor my brothers could agree on whether they detected an odor of sweat or not. Furious arguments arose in those situations and my mother would get involved. It must be pointed out that she refused to participate in the act of suit sniffing and instead she'd scream

You're all mad. I'm not smelling that fucking suit I'll wash it I'll wash the fucking suit with hot water and soap just stop talking about it and my father would reject the offer get the child bring forth the child he'd say all Dickensian and I was the child and he would hold the crotch of the trousers in front of my nose and instruct me to inhale and report my findings an extension to his pheromone theory was that I had the most acute sense of smell because I was a child, and as a prepubescent girl I possessed no context for the odor of adult male perspiration and thus could not be enchanted by its persuasive effluvium. His words. All of this meant that my assessment was the final ruling.

If I said yes, I can smell something bad, my father and brothers would cheer, and my mother would let me know that she expected better from me. If I said no, I smell nothing, my father would be heartbroken, and disappear for two days, and my mother would scold him and call him a whino. I remember it all being a terrible amount of pressure. I usually lied,

depending on who I didn't want to upset that day. So where was I? Yes, my office. Brendan is stood there with a big serious-looking face on him, and he reached into his plastic bag and held the pants of the suit in the air like a severed head and said, Sniff that, Pamela. Sniff the crotch. Sniff it. Tell me I'm not going mad. Go on. Sniff that. And he spoke the words, with the same affected English accent as my father. I know immediately what was happening. I felt that old funny pain in my stomach. I instinctively began to sniff the crotch of his outlet store soot and searched for testicular musk around the gusset. Sniff sniff sniff. But my experience

had altered somehow. There was nothing. Not that I couldn't smell sweat specifically. I couldn't smell anything at all, not a thing. It must be the fags, I thought. The years of smoking fags had done away with my sense of smell. To tell you the truth, I felt a relief. I can't smell sweat, Brendan, but if you think you can smell sweat, then return the suit, I told him. I smell balls, Pamela, that's some other fellow's balls. Some fucker bought it and then returned it after he had his way with the crotch. A full week-end's worth of balls,

too, all this trick in the book. Them gangsters in the outlet-store sold it to me as if it was new. He whimpered. Well then, Brendan, as per the Sale of Goods and Supply of Services Act 1980, you are legally entitled to return the suit. The fact that the suit is pre-warned is a breach of implied condition under section 14 of the Act, which states that goods sold must be of merchantable quality. Given that the outlet store affirmed this suit was no. This action further constitutes misrepresentation under the Consumer Protection Act 2007. Therefore, you have a rightful claim to redress, either in the form of a refund, replacement

or repair." Brendan crumpled the trousers back into the plastic bag and smoked another one of my cigarettes. I joined him. "'So you'll send him a letter for me? He said. I laughed. If you weren't my brother, I'd happily waste your money, Brendan. Just go back to the shop and demand a new suit that doesn't smell like arseholes or whatever. They'll probably get all embarrassed and replace it. They might even throw in a little dicky, but... I can't do that, he said, looking down at my fire retardant carpet. It's half four, the shop is closed for the weekend now, and the cunt of an architect's

wedding is tomorrow. I gestured towards the office door and said, "'Just wear the fucking suit to the wedding, Brendan. Just wear the fucking suit and cop on to yourself. Give the crotch a once-over in the sink and go at it with a hairdryer if you're paranoid." And Brendan took on a childlike gait. He looked directly into my eyes and said, But Daddy's second theory, what if I take on the personality of the previous wearer

and disgrace myself at the wedding in front of my ex? The pain in my tummy dissolved into anger and I said, The man was a roaring alcoholic, Brendan. He was lying to himself, there's no second theory, wear the suit and go to the fucking wedding and don't be getting rat-harsed and whatever you do, don't be ringing Ma about it tonight, she's in her eighties and she doesn't need more crotch discourse at this hour of her life. You're right, Pamela, he replied, and turned to leave.

Before he got to the door, he spotted Noel Reardon's jacket resting on the back of the chair. "'What's that?' he said. "'I could wear that.' "'No, no, no, you can't wear that. That's my client's jacket. That's not mine to be giving you,' I said. I inserted myself in Brendan's eyeline, and he gaped around me

with his red clown's head to see the jacket. Why not, Pamela? Which client? The old dirty fella who feeds tea bags to his greyhounds? Let me wear his suit jacket to the wedding. I'll make a real statement with it." What statement would that make, Brendan? I said. That you've had a nervous breakdown and robbed a pensioner, is it? Fuck off home and wash the suit around the spicy areas I told him." We hugged. I left the office shortly after.

The next morning, I took a trip to Tesco to buy two rolls of bin bags, cleaning spray, those yellow sponges with the hard green bit on one side, and a packet of disinfectant wipes. As I fully intended to get the office into a presentable state, I found myself stunted with that feeling of confusion again. I didn't know how to begin the process. Should I wipe the windows and move to the mouldy mugs? What if I cleaned the desk first and moved outwards

from there, maybe collect all the cigarette butts before I had to go at anything else? I definitely couldn't hire cleaners, because all of the legal documents strewn around the floor contained confidential information about my clients. It would violate their GDPR if a third party perused them. I sat at my computer and searched for cleaning tutorials on YouTube. The videos were mostly made by American teenagers with magnificent looking bedrooms. The video I chose was made by a girl called Cassie from Philadelphia. She was 19. She thanked her subscribers. She asked me to follow and told me not to forget to smash the like button.

I did. She had a boyfriend named Traegerar. They had been on a break, but now they were back together. She showed me a montage of Traegar skateboarding over royalty free ukulele music. I didn't like him. He looked like a cartoon drawing of a pigeon. He was too feminine for me. Our bedroom was super messy, but she was going get it spick and span before Traeger came to visit this weekend. Whore. Her bedroom had pink LED lights on the ceiling and a fish tank. She lived in one of them big Yank McMensions. I grow envious of her bedroom and her life. She had perfected a decluttering technique that involved placing all of her itinerant clothes and objects

on the bed in a large pile. This freed up space on the floor and on her desk. She then vacuumed and wiped all of the surfaces and sprayed her pillows with jasmine oil, finally folding away the clothing until her bedroom looked immaculate. I hated her. But when I watched the video of Cassie tidying her bedroom, it satiated my desire to clean the office. I put my feet up on my desk and smoked cigarettes and stared up at my law degree from the University of Limerick. My attention turned to no reardoned suit jacket that hung limp from the empty chair opposite me. The torn sandy tweed mesh ravaged by the misery of time.

I thought about sun-burnt soldiers in World War I traversing the yellow deserts of Mesopotamia with those black and tan guns that look like leaf blowers. I thought about young Noel Reardon's beige corduroy flares falling around his fanny ankles, having a knee-trembler with a Greyhound stadium bent in a red brick piss alley, mutton-chopped and brittle-creamed, bee-hived. She wore too much Elizabeth Arden. I smelled it all in my head. I became transfixed with the desire to snort the oxters of Noel Reardon's jacket. It no doubt had an acrid hum that could cut through whatever the fags had done to the nose of me. Just one sniff, Pamela, just one sniff. A hero's dose of Noel. So I rang Noel on his mobile to tell him that he had left his suit jacket in my office.

A man answered, who wasn't Noel, it was his son, Manus, who told me that Noel had died of a stroke during the night. He told me how much Noel spoke of me, and he thanked me for how helpful I was to his dearly departed father. Oh Jesus, Noel! God bless us and save us all. The wind at Limerick Greyhound Stadium would cut you in two, but Noll's jacket kept my ribs warm. I wore a formal dress underneath, lavender satin. The jacket hung baggy like it had been nestled on my shoulders by a man who was concerned

about my temperature. I was dying for a pint, and they only served fosters in pint classes. Tina Turner blasted from a loudspeaker high above. I queued up at the bar behind all the Greyhound people. They didn't really queue. This was rural money. Tweed-jacketed pink shirted all men with hairy ears and Cuban link gold chains. Grubby wads of cash in their fingers. Younger men would paint it on skinny jeans and extremely large pinty-tan leather brogues. The women were caught out much better. Bright colours, pinks and highlighter greens, wearing Irish designers, Heidi Higgins and Caroline Kilkenny. Some of them wore feathered fascinator hats that had made their heads look like expensive cakes. I couldn't sport a hat like that with my

hair as loud and curly as it was. The Greyhound people spoke at a fast country pace so that the collective sound of the crowd was, Hura Hura Hola. But still, not one of them looked in judgment at the oversized tweed jacket that hung raggedy around my shoulders. They probably just thought I was touched in the head. My pint of fosters tasted like fizzy metal. The thin plastic crumpled and froze my fingers until they stung, and the

wind didn't help. The drink was so cold that I had to swap it between hands. I held the pint in my left, then reached into the big tweed pocket of Noel's jacket to try and warm my right hand. I grabbed an odd accumulation of papery lumps. I yanked out several tea bags. I stared down at them in the palm of my hand and pulled them back. Noll, you absolute devil! There was a flurry of activity when the crowd rushed towards the line of bookies beside the tracks. Red-faced men at kiosks with branding for Paddy Power and Ladbrokes. A more lily-looking throng huddled around the independent bookies who stood on small plinths. There was excitement about a dog called Wet Declan. I could gather that he was the favourite for the 915.

Starting bets on Gaslight Parsley for the long shot, 6-1, his grandmother was a champion at the Easter Cup. Over under for Brando's dartboard, cash was waved in the air in exchange for tiny dockets of paper. The wind fluttered the dockets and people pinched them between their fingers. I relished my Benson and Hedges and stood watch like an anthropologist. I texted Brendan and asked him how he was getting on at the cunt of an architect's wedding. Shitecrack he wrote back. Nobody talking to me. I think they didn't really expect me to come. The volavans were incredible though. First dance will be starting soon and then I'm robbing pints off tables. Forget them Brendan, I texted. I'm at the Greyhound Stadium.

It's insane. You have to see these people. Come here and drink with me. It's fifteen minutes in a taxi. I'll pay for it. I'm on my own. Come on," he wrote back immediately. Yes!

With a laughing emoji. The initial metallic taste from the fosters became pleasantly bearable. I huddled with all the punters at the bar for the second pint. We all rubbed off one another. I didn't care. I kinda liked it. A bland girl pulled the handle at the tap and fosters slushed into the plastic cup. It stopped halfway and spluttered. Beer foam spilled out of the rim all over her hands. Number four needs to be changed. She squealed into the ether. She looked to be 12 years of age. She didn't speak to the customers or make eye contact either. I noticed that all of the

bar staff were teenagers or children. The law didn't exist here like it did in the world outside the stadium. The child pulled me a new pint, I took a big gulp, and the warm buzz of alcohol made my face feel flush and gave me that comforting hug of drink confidence. Muzzled greyhounds were paraded out in numbered jackets like sick little horses. The oval racing track was smothered in beach sand. A small electric machine drove around it in laps and raked the sand in perfect soft for us. I wanted someone to care about me the way that machine cared about the sand. It was operated by a man with one arm who looked like Ross Kemp.

Brendan pushed through the Greyhound people in his navy outlet suit and a mismatched tie. All of it was two sizes too small. His ties fought the seams like he was trudging through deep mud. As he moved towards me, he began shouting, What in Christ's name are you doing wearing that big jacket Pamela? Is that the one from your office yesterday? You look like you've been in a car accident. You look like a paramedic tried to prevent you from going into shock." "'Piss off, Brendan, your suit is disgusting,' I retorted. I was trilled to see Brendan. I quenched my fag out of my drink and fucked it onto the ground. I brought both my freezing hands up against the warmth of his jowls and said, You've to catch up now because I'm ready for my third pint. Will we do shots?

His eyes lit up and he said, If you're paying, Pamela, yes, let's do shots. The only spirit they had at the bar was Jaegermeister. More of a liqueur than a spirit. We both did a shot. It was hot and medicinal. We ordered more pints of fosters. Fags were chain-smoked. We settled ourselves by a white metal fence, away from the rest of the crowd. I could hear the clatter of the first race, starting behind us, I didn't

care. Brendan began crying, but not real crying. He winced out a crying type of face to try and make himself cry, and he said, What if Cecilia was the one, Pamela? What if she was the one? I know we were only together for three months, and I know it was in college, but what if I just handed over the love of my life to that cunt of an architect? What does he have that I don't have? Tell me, Pamela. Be honest.

I can take it. Tell me." "'Fuck her, Brendan. She's a lesbian,' I said. She doesn't deserve you. Neither of them do." "'That's exactly what I was thinking, too, Pamela. But I didn't want to sound cocky,' he replied, flicking the flint of my lighter." Brendan drank the end of his fosters and placed the plastic glass on the fence on its side. He nestled his phone in it so that it served as a crude speaker. He played the song Beach Ball by Nalin and Kane. We danced with our fingers in the air and

smoked. I didn't feel cold anymore. The merriness was creeping up on me at this point, so we went back to the bar for more shots and pints. I didn't want to lose the buzz. Brendan walked ahead. The left leg of his pants was taut around his calf and a yellow sports sock winked with the rhythm of his steps. The ground of the stadium was littered with those white betting dockets from earlier. A boy with a gigantic sweeping brush was pushing them into neat piles, and I ran at one of the piles and kicked the dockets into the air and they flittered down all around me like confetti. The boy called me a redheaded

bitch. The Greyhound people's faces were a mismatch of delight and disappointment. Wet Declan had won the first race. Joyful punters collected their cash from the bookies' kiosks. A group of men huddled near Wet Declan and his trainer. The dog was steaming in the floodlights, with his tongue hanging out. They were on the other side of the track, and they looked like important men, so I walked towards them and said, Which one of ye is Cyril Tynin? A tall fella in a long cream raincoat and a moustache stepped forward. He said with a concerned tone, I am Cyril Tynin. Who is asking, may I inquire?

My name is Pamela Farlong. I'm a solicitor and I represented the late Noel Riordan. Oh Pamela, Miss Farlong, I recognise your name from the letters. It's nice to finally meet you in person. We were terribly sorry to hear about the passing of poor Noel. He was a greatly respected man in the Greyhound community at one point, all things considered, he said. The other men grumbled in agreement behind him. My client, Noel Reardon, was an innocent man, I replied, and you are very lucky that he

is no longer with us. I was prepared to drag your committee through the highest courts in this country. My client has consistently upheld the utmost standards of ethical conduct and commitment to the welfare of Greyhounds under his care. We are firmly of the belief that the decision to ban Noel Riordan was made on the basis of unsubstantiated claims and are an erroneous interpretation of the events in question. It is sadly too late now, but you were wrong, sir. And you and the rest of the Limerick Greyhound Association committee before me should be ashamed.

I kept repeating the word ashamed four or five times, drawing out the vowels. There was a deathly silence. The men of the committee communicated with each other using their eyes and faces only, cautious of libelous words. A few Greyhound people had gathered around to watch. Drawn in by the conflict, I could tell that they were highly impressed by my legal speak. I felt like a barrister at my day in court. A lady in a lilac fascinator hat broke the silence with an affected posh accent over a country brogue and said,

"'This one is absolutely steaming drunk. Look at the state of her. With that big hair and the stolen jacket she's no solicitor. What solicitor presents themselves like that?" The crowd agreed. They whispered hurrah hurrah hola. The mood was turning against me. There was another contribution. It was the little bland child who worked at the bar. She quipped with an adult passive aggression. I've had to serve that woman with the jacket all night and there's a stink of sweat off her. Sir U Thainan smirked quietly at this comment like a mustached ferret and I fully lost the

plot. I screamed. Ye fucking killed him, ye slithery cunts. Ye bastards. He's dead because of ye. He reared Handley's fiasco from a pup he had a revolver buried in a condom full of grease and ye'd all be shot dead tonight if God hadn't taken him first, ye bastards. I felt two hands on my shoulders. I half expected it to be security. It was the hands of my brother Brendan.

Jesus Christ, Pamela, you're making a fucking show of us. Stop, I'll be the one to get my head kicked in not you. He dragged me away from the absolute bastards. Brendan offered to take me home in a taxi. No I said we'll get two more pints I'm not shook by that. The committee needed to hear out of that I said. Brendan began to whisper in a high pitch. You told me yourself that you found the tea bags in the jacket, Pamela. He was guilty. He was dousing the dogs with caffeine. That's not the pint, Brendan, that's not the pint. You don't understand justice. You

don't even have a job. I'm a solicitor. Shut up, you're buying the next round. The drink had us starving. We bought slobbered on horrendous burgers that were more wild than fried and the grilled onions splurged out the back end and landed on my shoes every time I took a bite. I imagined how dinnery it all smelled. I didn't care. We settled back by the white fence with our pints and my cigarettes and danced the Neil Diamond on Brendan's phone speaker. The wind had turned to that greasy drizzle and it sparkled like glitter in the floodlights of the stadium. Hora, hora, howla. A country vice farted over the tannoy and announced that the last race would begin in 15 minutes. The vice listed out the dogs who would race. Final bets now. An excitement jumped up through

me and I turned to Brendan and said, That's Pamela Faggs first race, Brendan, listen, Pamela Faggs, Pamela Faggs. He looked at me like I had twelve arses, but when I explained why there was a greyhound called Pamela Faggs, he insisted on placing a bet on her. I didn't think he had any money until he launched into his breast pocket and took out the fifty euro note that he'd found in the multi-storey car park. He'd kept it for good luck, he told me. Brendan rushed over to the red-faced bookies for twelve-to-one odds on Pamela Faggs. When he came back, he said, This has fuck all to do with a dog, Pamela. This is me betting on you, because I believe in you.

I couldn't be prouder to have you as a little sister. We're all so proud of you. And all that you've become, and Daddy, would say the exact same if he was here. He was shit-faced. We hugged furiously, and he told me how much I smelled like sweat and burgers. I hung over the side of the fence, absolutely ratt-arced.

I got my first squint at Pamela Faggs. She was slender and noble, with a sandy coat and a little white triangle on her forehead. Her body was immaculately clean and marbled with tight musculature. Black startled eyeballs, the type of eyes you want on a greyhound. I could tell there was a champion in her yet. She wore a purple jacket with the number four on it. I watched her breath rising up through the wire of her muzzle and I blew smoke out of my nose. We were one and the same. Her handler gently caressed her hindquarters to keep her calm. He wore a white coat like a doctor, and I imagined that he was Noel Reardon,

spinning his teeth around in his mouth. God rest his soul. The six dogs were led into their traps for the race to commence. Silence came over the crowd, until all you could hear was the electrical hum of the mechanical hair being switched on. The dogs were pised like springs in the box.

They barked with excitement. Number one gelded Emmet his 7-4 giant favourite with canary warp. Continental Breakfast in a pint at 5-4. 8-1 Strokes Town Viager. 20-1 Elvis Has Risen. And the promising new bitch, Pamela Faggs, trained by Dinny Ryan and named by the late Noel Reardon, outsider of the party, Pamela Faggs, in at 12-1. There was a solemn clap from the Greyhound people when Noel's name was called out over

the stadium, the absolute bastards. The hair comes round the bend and they're off. It's a very level break. Number one, Gael de Demet makes a head start. And Stroketown Viager, coming up on the inside, Stroketown Viager, Elvis has risen. Elvis has risen, tracks him on the outside, and it's Elvis has risen with his eye on the hare, and they're running on the thunder now and down the far side. Number four, Pamela Faggs emerging from the rear, and it's Canary Warp and continental

breakfast, bringing up the in-shop. Gaeled Emmett shows in front there now and Stroketown Viager up between them to split on the inside it's Pamela Faggs and then three on the few lengths clear it's Elvis has risen again overtaking Pamela Faggs from the rear but a Stroketown Viager and Gilded Emmett who are neck in neck racing up towards the finish Continental Breakfast falls to the back Pamela Faggs is trying hard Elvis has risen Elvis has risen overtaking Pamela Faggs. trying hard. Elvis has risen. Elvis has risen. Overtaking Pamela Faggs. Canary Warp is rearing up the catch now.

Not looking great for Continental Breakfast, but it's great battle tonight here now. At Limerick Greyhound Stadium and Stroketown Viager takes the finish line. A good run there from Gilded Emmett in second place. And Elvis has risen. Who managed to snatch third place? The whole thing only lasted a minute. The dogs still chased the hare even though the race was over. The mechanical hare disappeared behind a green paddy-power advert and all the hounds gathered

aimlessly beside a breeze-block wall. Pamela Faggs jumped and barked at her trainer, staining his white coat with her muddy paws. Her tail wagged in excitement, like she wasn't a loser. Steam rose from her muscles and there was a joyful madness in her black eyes. Her pink tongue hung long like a luncheon meat and she drolled on the perfectly furrowed sand. She was pathetic. She was disgusting. I hated her. Brendan stood beside me in defeated silence. I watched his fist crush the bed and dock it in his hand. Fuck! He roared.

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Oh shut up Brendan it wasn't even your fifty euro to begin with. I snarled. Pamela Faggs was ushered away on a leash. Off to have her hindquarters caressed and lavished with expensive dog food, no doubt. I couldn't look at her any longer. That all-familiar pain stabbed at my stomach, and I vomited on the concrete, and my heaves were hurrah hurrah holla.

I wiped my mouth with the sleeve of Noel's tweed jacket. The retching awoke my olfactory senses, and a stench of pints and burgers and puke and all-man sweat paraded through my nostrils. I turned to Brendan and said, If we ring a taxi now, we'll make last orders on Charlie Malone's. We left the Greyhound Stadium and Brendan played me Linkin Park in his plastic pint glass. That was Pamela Fags. I'm gonna just let that lovely ambient synth bed play out, cause it's nice and relaxing.

I'll catch you next week. I hope you enjoyed that short story. I adored writing it, and I adored reading it as well. I'll catch you next week. I don't know what with. In the meantime, Rub a dog, genuflect to a snail, Salota Sparrow. I'm sorry. Only at Wendy's. It's ooey gooey and just five bucks with a small coffee all day long. Taxes extra at participating Wendy's until May 5th. Terms and conditions apply..