I was having a pint in what used to be The Castle,
having just had lunch in what used to be the Augustine Cafe.
I then walked out to Salthill, past what used to be Mulligans,
Apostasy, Le Graal, Taylors, The Oasis and CJ's nightclub.
I left and ducked into what used to be the Promenade Hotel and
put ten euro on what used to be a good Brazil team to win the World Cup.
Later, I took a taxi back to my friends house in Knocknacarra,
down the Clydebaun Road, past what used to be nothing.
While waiting, I thought about a chat I could have with the taxi driver,
trying to avoid that ‘have you been busy?' guff, or the ‘bet you're glad of the rain?'
for the two-hundreth time this weekend.
When I sat in, he was listening to a podcast of a gospel church preacher
prophesising the planned mass murder of three billion people through
controlled diseases and controlled wars, to ensure survival of the fittest.
He probably wouldn't have given a flying fuck about the Races had I brought it up.
So I asked him instead where he was from. He glanced across and said
“I am from Liberia”, for probably the two-hundredth time this weekend.
All rights reserved.
Summer 2014, Galway. For the Galwegians out there.