The Boys Are Back In Town. 1976.

2020. St Patrick’s Church.

Of all of them, I loved him the most. He was a decent man underneath it all, underneath all the bravado, underneath the unkind eyes, underneath the fear that walked into every bar a second after he did.

Last time I saw Johnny was the last time I came back here, the last funeral I went to. He was - who’d have guessed it?! - pissed. He still looked pretty good, still looked thin and sharp and hard, still looked like he was just back from Dublin or New York, like he was gracing us culchies with his presence. He was sitting in the back bar on his own, had a pint and a whiskey and a table-full of empty glasses in front of him. I was going to talk to him, but decided against it. He had that look about him, the look that said ‘I’ll argue with you about whatever you’ve got.’ I turned round and walked out. I don’t think he saw me.

Right up until she died, my mum sent me the local paper every week. I remember thinking about Johnny when I saw they’d bulldozed Dino’s and built flats. I surprised myself feeling so sad about the end of a shithole I never even liked. I suppose I was going through a bad time myself then: it was just before I had the baby. His baby.

When I get home after the service, I’m going to listen to our song on Spotify. Just the once, like. Just the once.