I had a few auld bits to do around the place last week and didn’t I find meself in Crumlin! I hadn’t been there for a while and I was a bit worried after reading that American article about yer man McGregor.
That was saying that the place is a “project” – like South Central LA or one of them places – and ye couldn’t even walk on certain parts of the street for fear of getting a hiding.
So, I think I had every right to be worried, given that I thought I was walking through a scene from Boyz In The Hood, but ye know wha’? It was grand. Same as it ever is.
No drive-bys or any of that carry-on. A young fella even held a shop door open for me. Them Americans get some mad ideas at times.
But then I was thinking, maybe McGregor fed yer man a bit of a yarn. Him and his mates were probably winding yer man up a bit, having a laugh, like.
And the McGregor fella seems to live in a bit of a fantasy world. Paschal reckons he’s a genius.
“Look at the publicity he gets. And all the money,” he says to me later that day when I nip in for a quiet one.
“Yeah, but he’s gone a bit far with all this wrecking the bus business,” I says. “Even all the young fellas who thought he was the mutt’s nuts are starting to say he’s a bit of a tulip. Think all that money is going to his head.”
“Going to his head!?!” says Paschal, laughing at me. “He’s overdone the whole showman thing a bit and acted the maggot, but I bet you if you had all that money at his age, you wouldn’t be sitting here to tell the tale.”
“If I had all that money I wouldn’t be drinking in here,” I says, taking the wind out of his sails a bit.
He’s right though, if I’d have had all that money in me twenties I’d probably have ended up on first-name terms with the staff in the Betty Ford Clinic.
“Still though,” says Paschal. “I’d rather have money going to me head and more importantly, me pocket, than be queuing for a week to try and buy a gaff in Blanch.”
Which is a fair point, I suppose.