Poor 'Ol Harry Sack ... ... (from 2006)

MY GREYHOUND IS BLIND DRUNK.

“Change is inevitable ...... except from vending machines”

                                        Harry on why he always pays two euro for a coke.

Wednesday 28th October.

It’s taking me 8 days to come around. A week and a day to get over the complete and utter shock that some insane banking institution has seen fit to grant me credit. A quarter of a week to realise some mad person in an office has decided to trust me repaying a bill when every other financial money lender in town has mug shots of me on every wall. 8 days to drag myself off the floor from faint and come to terms with the fact I had a credit card.

Now I could live a little. For one some new clobber was needed, and now I could indulge myself in a little luxury - a telephone betting account. No more for me the endless trudging up and down to a bookmakers. The standing in line, and moaning tellers. No. Now Harry Sack was moving up a notch.

Friday 30th October

I’m scared to death of Halloween. Oh it’s not the goblins, evil spirits, or wino’s at the local bonfire. It’s trick or treating. Every year a gang full of two foot Dracula’s and midget witches invade my doorstep looking for teeth rotting crisps and candy with enough sugar in it to keep them awake for five days. And since I’d be home alone again this year (and boy did the kids know I was a dateless Romeo of late) they’d be staking out my place for hours to find the right time to strike. I’d normally oblige each year with a few packets of cheap Salt & vinegar crisps and some past their sell-by-date nuts. Hey I’m a loveable kinda guy!. All Hallows Eve however had changed since I was a nipper. One time a manky bed sheet and two cut out holes would suffice for a scary ghost. Nowadays if you’re little monster isn’t dressed up with a costume that costs a weeks wages ,they were going to look like their parents where on welfare. I used to have a empty flower pot in which I’d collect my candy. These days the blood sucking vampires aren’t happy unless they’ve got a suitcase full of goodies. There taste buds have changed to.

“Oranges and apples are so 1984 “ - one six year old smart arse told me last year.

Normally it’s the parents that end up coming off best. Mrs Frisby at number 17 can feed

her sugar addiction with the stash her three kids land each year. And it’s junk food heaven

down at the McCarthy’s with their 7 children. Although I went trick or treating as a young kid I never cared much for the taste of sweets. You see I was force fed as much insanely rotten vegetables since the day I first saw light. I was brought up on the turgid taste of turnip. At age three I was a connoisseur of cauliflower. By four I had turned green from so many brussel sprouts, and by aged eight I had been told cabbage was a delicacy that only my family had the fortune of eating. Resistance was futile. Any attempt to shy away from my daily dose of despairing veggies was met with being chained to a chair, mouth , held open, and some god forsaken broccoli rammed down my gob. This generation of little terrors didn’t seem to have this problem. They craved anything that was tooth-decayingly bad for them. To a kid sherbet was like crack cocaine to a drug addict. Liquorice was their coffee to a caffeine addict. Crisps -the cigarettes to a forty a day man. They didn’t need any drugs - they had sugar. Although I’d be terrorized for the entire night tomorrow I said I'd enter into the spirits of things and stock up ahead of the little cannibals arriving at my door tomorrow night. After all I was a man of means now. I had a credit card.

Saturday 31 October - Halloween

Oh Magoo you done it again. Yep I‘m just one hour into my telephone account with my bookmakers and already I‘m chasing money.. Everyone has had that day at the office, or in my case - at the fire with a phone in my hand. I’ve just lost over 200 euro on a disaster of a morning. The day started with a coffee in hand, browse through the racing post and a philly named Into The West. Trying to impress my bookie with my first ever bet over the phone I lay down 70 notes. My horse lay down to... on the second fence. As I speak their still trying to cut the jockey out of the ditch his four legged fool catapulted him into before doubling his pain by landing on top of him. Only in a race that I bet on would you see an ambulance and a fire brigade on a race track - and my horse lying on top of it’s jockey. Correct me if I'm wrong but I think the traditional way is the horse as the mount not mounting the jockey.

I’d been starving myself on betting since my Vegas scheme, and it was bearing fruit as there was over 800 in the kitty and a Christmas bonus at work would top that up nicely, so I could

splash out a little. The last thing I needed to be doing now was chasing money. And as bad

as that last bet was I’d come across another sign. The 2.40 at Lingfield- a 20-1 shot called The Sure Thing. It had good form and a good jockey on board. This was crying out for me to put a wager on. Money in the bank.

15 seconds later....

Well he got out of to a flier alright. So did his jockey. Yep flew out of the stalls, hopped, skipped, jumped, and threw a little man in green and blue polka dots off his saddle with the force off the ejection seat in 007’s car. My jockey Mr. Thomas was about as much a novice as a virgin in a Texas whorehouse. Within seconds he’d pulled too hard on the horses bridal and taken to the air without the use of wings or any magical powers.

Cock-Knobs!!

I’d gambled from the safety of my house and to no avail. I may as well have been down the bookies screaming with the other lunatics and pulling my hair out. In trying to look like a big time Charlie I’d ended up looking a total idiot. And you just knew everyone in the bookies

would be saying I was on it. You could hear them falling around the place as I speak. I

dare not open the door for the sound of rapturous laughter coming from Ladbrokes at

the end of the road. The ironic thing was the horse actually ran faster without his jockey.

He was still circling the course evading capture from his owners as we speak. The day could still be saved. I switched my targets to the greyhound track. I may have been a curse to every horse, jockey, and trainer for the last 33 years but the dog track has at least given me some joy of late. So convincing myself again with this awful unshakeable misguided self belief that things would still have a happy ending I turned on, tuned in and got the lowdown the latest from the afternoon’s greyhound meets.

Although I’d lost close to 150 euro today there would be at least a couple of lovely four legged creatures with wagging tails that would even things up and with practically a race

every ten minutes I’d have my money back before your could say “reverse forecast”. So many races, so much money (well borrowed credit). If I was cute I’d probably win it in just under and hour.

Just under an hour later......

It never ceases to amaze me the astonishing ways I can loose money. It wouldn’t be a bet of mine unless it involves some sort of astounding chronic bad luck . Don’t believe me? Ladies and gentleman of the jury I give exhibit A - Trap 3 at the 3.02 from Perry Barr. Out of his trap like a speeding bullet.  Well in front at the half way, and first coming to the final turn, where he temporarily losses a vital component  - his eyesight. Instead of turning into the last bend, my lummox of a mutt carries on it a straight line , clatters off the advertising hoardings and breaks its spine in about 27 places. Goodnight.

Bad stroke of luck I here you say? I present exhibit B - Trap 6 at Wimbledon ten minutes later. Again a solid start from my bet, and takes the first two turns well . He’s fighting for a share of the lead by the third and it’s down to the wire at the finish. I’m shouting and screaming at the Television when my dog decides he’s ran enough over the first 500 meters and decides to jog for the last 25 and get caught on the line by a three legged flea infected 50-1 (yes 50-1 folks) old timer of an outsider. Very charitable of my dog I must admit. He must have known that even the slowest moving animal on the face of God’s green earth would have beaten this dog so he taught he’d do his good Samaritan bit for the day and let him win.

I hope your owner makes cat food out of you, you vicious mongrel.

Lighting striking twice- but surely not thrice. Ladies and gentleman I will close proceedings with my third and final exhibit. Trap 2 from the 3.34 at Sunderland. A slow break for my dog and by the first turn he’s just about fighting for third place. However by the midway point he’s found a new lease of life to get himself in position to strike in the closing stages.

By this stage I was just thankful the thing was still on four legs and moving in direction of the finishing line when the hare stopped (that’s even a first for me). That stupid mechanical hare which vaguely looks like a half eaten rat ,jammed and came to a shuddering halt at the end of the last bend, with my dog in front. It took me twenty solid minutes to take my head of my hands. Ironically in that time I then missed the re-run race which my dog won in  a canter.

I rest my case. Verdict - Harry Sack strikes again.

Guilty as charged. My sentence - a ban from every dog track in western hemisphere.

I was a total fool. No sooner had I got some much needed luck with my flexible friend arriving in the post that I was in danger of throwing it all away again and going back to my old bad habits. And if I was ever to sit at a roulette wheel or blackjack table I needed to get some sense. And quick. The novelty of an account with a bookmaker and phoning in my bet had worn off quicker then I expected. Two hours. Normally I can last a little bit longer then that. Sure there was still 1800 euro left on the card, but there was also about another 1800 races in the next couple of months. If only my grandfather were here. He’d give me some sterling advice. Oh who am I kidding. He was as good at getting winners as a blind man playing darts and about as useful as a one legged man in an arse kicking contest.

I needed to get some air. Luckily enough I needed to do my weekly shop and I suppose I had to stock up on some goodies for the invading hoards of little terrors that would be roaming the streets in search of candy, crisps and all sorts of crap later. I wasn’t going to be the killjoy, and if their lovely bundles of joy didn’t get a fistful of candy from my door, you can

be sure the word would get around about mean ’ol Harry Sack. Tighter then a ducks arse. I couldn’t have that, specially with Christmas around the corner, and I didn’t fancy be labelled the street scrooge.

4.30 - same day

Hooray for the pound shop!. It’s amazing how much cheap imitation crap that can be sold between it’s four walls. Not the type of place you do you’re weekly shopping but if it’s cheap sugar laced candy and rip off crisps brands you need - I’m first in line. And since itsthe good kids of Mincey’s Bush that will be scoffing it down I’m not worried in the least. I stock up with six pack’s of Cheesy Nak Nak’s , Munchie Joe’s Salt & Vinegar and

McFoy’s Cheese & Onion. I go for my usual past sell by date nuts (75 cent off - how bad), and a few liquorice whips and a bag of apples later and I’m off home.

Of course Halloween doesn’t just mean pumpkins, witches, and kids trick or treating. It also meant bonfires. This I loved. I was a bit of a historian in my school days and knew thatAll Hallows Eve actually originated in Ireland, back in the day when our  pagan forefathers scarified animals and lit massive fires to ward off evil spirits. As a child I adored  collecting for our bonfire. We used to have one every year in my Aunty Eileen’s back garden. She had a massive plot of land with flowers and vegetables, but right at the end of the garden there was always a disused plot where we’d have our annual ritual bonfire in keeping with our ancestors (apart from the scarified animal bit - don’t think

Aunty Eileen would have taken to kindly to Rover been chucked on the old bonfire). Then

my uncle John would bring out the cheap Chinese fireworks he got off the back of a bus and add an element of danger to the proceedings. Anything that had fumes or was dangerous to the environment John was up for it. We called him Mr Ozone ..He  single handedly put the hole in the ozone layer by burning every known chemical to mankind.. I tried to tell him generations of new born kids would feel the effect of his crime. John was more philosophical about it.

“Harry I burn plastic- and I don’t give a fuck”

Uncle John  always had a way with words.

His firework displays were pure lethal. Sod this going up the air lark, these things took off alright but were more like a heat seeking missile. If you had a hot cup of tea inside you or had been sitting at the bonfire you were a target. Aunty Eileen’s cat Ripple accidentally caught fire in ‘85 after a firework followed it for ten minutes. We found the poor moggy in a ditch later, half dead and knackered, and a burnt out Chinese firework alongside it.

Even now the cat stays indoors for October 31st. Our bonfires came to an end with the great fire of 1987 - that was the year Farmer Pat decided he’d grow corn in the field next to my Aunt’s back garden. That Halloween night was one to remember. We lit the fire at 8.00. By 8.15 we had two of them.  Our bonfire rose high into the cold dark night and Uncle John got ready to start his annual death trap firework display. My Aunt noticed the wind had taken hold of a few sparks from our towering inferno and moved them in the direction of farmer Pat’s corn field.  Within seconds the bone dry ground had caught alight and now we had two fires on our hands. Water was the order of the day . We worked diligently for   the next hour putting out both our bonfire and the accidental one in the corn field. We’d just about snuffed them out when one of John’s stray fireworks  zoomed into the field and started mass panic. Luckily the cheap Japanese dud  went out on contact with the ground.

That marked the end of innocence and I’ve not been involved with wood, the burning of plastic and lighting of crazy fireworks since. Nowadays kids seem to want more than a few simple sparklers and a ghost story. Why Bob for apples  when you can douse a cat in petrol and watch it burn like a four legged fireball ?.

6.45pm

For a Halloween night it’s extremely quiet. The only visitor to my door so far has been the milkman, and since I owe him money I hid behind the sofa and turned the lights off. My stupid greyhound - Fistful of Dockets, nearly gave the game away by barking and biting my ankles to answer the door. A swift kick to the head sent him retreating back into the kitchen. The lack of little monsters coming to my door didn’t worry me though. It was the calmbefore the storm. Right now they’d be in their houses getting their costumes on, making sure their make up was right, with just the perfect amount of fake blood added. And then they'd be out - roaming the streets like a pack of midget zombies , intent of sucking the fridge clean on me or the cash out of my pocket. That’s right. The kids of the 21st century couldn't be happy with a pear and some monkey nuts. No- they wanted money to. It wasn’t deemed a good haul unless there was some coin in your trick or treat bags. Old Mr. Miller would always be caught for his pension book and Mrs McCarthy at number 52 even had to cash a personal cheque to one of the little runts two years ago. Some parents were not even happy with the kids collect candy. It’s a known fact little Johnny Malone gets a shopping list put in his bag by his alcoholic no -buying grocery mother at number 74. Why did young Johnny bring back liquorice allsorts when he can get a cooked chicken and some frozen peas.

Although I wouldn’t be rotting my gums with cheap candy for the night I thought I’d join in the festivities and pop down to the bonfire at the end of our road. The planning on this towering inferno had been going on for months. Every back yard in Mincey’s Bush had been raided for tyres, wood, or anything that was in the least bit flammable. Even if you had a barrel of toxic waste with a skull and cross on the front say “Do not touch - EXTREMELY FLAMABLE” it didn’t matter - it was going up in flames. I had done my bit by digging out an old car tyre that was buried at the back of my garden. Seemingly this wasn’t good enough of  an effort , and last week I had to shot three kids in the arse with my pellet gun  for coming back into my yard to try dig up  the other three tyres off my imaginary car. It was the only bonfire on the block and would literally attract hundreds of parents and kids.

And the all other usual suspects. You know, wino’s ,drunks, and some homeless guys who knew a bonfire’s blaze would keep him warm overnight. Or in the case of this one - 3 weeks. The word was out among them that this years bonfire was going to be a scorcher, so come lighting time at 8 O clock it would be like cardboard city down there. I had also

treated myself to a bottle of cheap wine that would certainly do a job on me for the night that was in it. The last time I’d ever touched wine was at a local street fair where I got hammered on a half bottle of burgundy, picked a fight with a bouncy castle and got bet to death by a pack of 5 year olds. I woke up an hour later in a dustbin. I’ve tended to stay away from the vino every since. However I taught since I would be drinking it in the confines of my four walls, and couldn’t pick a fight with anyone but the dog I said I’d have a vat of it whilst watching a marathon of horror movies on the box that night.

7.31pm

Little Lindsey Wallace is my first visitor. I’m met by this wonderful wide eyed grin in a pumpkin suit. She is rewarded with three packs of Munchie Joe’s and a packet of gone off nuts. I do try my best to please. It’s not long before the rest of the gang are out. Some will even try to visit you more than once . It’s a winning tactic. Unless you standing with a Polaroid in your hand to check every little ghost or goblin that visits you, how are you going to know who’s who?. I thought about the camera option but I’d look a bit of a weirdo giving them candy then asking them to pose for a photo. Me thinks the police might have something to say about it.

Within the hour I’ve run out on apples and oranges, I’m dangerously low on crisps and the half packet of nuts I’ve left the dog has half eaten. I opened my wine, sat down and relaxed, at which point a barrage of knocking on windows and bell ringing started again. Young Johnny Malone has arrived dressed as a pirate, bag in hand, and a shopping list from his mother.

Seems she’s after a few frozen pizzas this year. I give Johnny the last of my food and pawn his pals off with some old Irish money that’s completely useless. One of his friends cops this but I quickly buy his silence with and extra packet of Cheesy Nak Nak’s and two euro.

 As I send them on their merry way I can feel the heat from the bonfire at the end

of the street. Deciding it wasn’t wise to go out drunk again with so many six year old thugs around I leave my wine till later and join in the festivities at then end of the street.

The bonfire is in full swing. A blazing inferno that swirls into the cloud dark October night air, and billows smoke high over the chimney tops and off into the distance. Some brave kids have some marshmallows on a stick whilst some homeless guys have already whipped up a batch on toast from their slice pan. A multitude of swirling sparklers can be seen in every kids hands whilst some old timer is getting ready to start of a fireworks

display. My mind harked back to my Auntie Eileen’s house. Right about now twenty years ago Mr. Ozone would be trying to read some foreign instructions on some lethal Japanese fireworks whilst every living animal within five miles of it would be hiding indoors . The closest Uncle john ever came to death was the year he attempted to light his cigarette with the flame from a rocket that was three seconds from taking off. He’d just about

got his face out of the way but still got his eyebrows burnt from the flame. Auntie Eileen hadto paint one of them back so they match but it still look freaky. For weeks I was convinced he was a closest cross-dresser.

I grab a few swigs of some cheap cider, eat a couple of burnt marshmallows and bask in theheat of the fire. It’s not even nine o clock and there’s still enough pallet’s and tyres left to make three more bonfires. The fire brigade will be doing a roaring trade tonight.

The flaming e mbers fly higher and higher as I stand to watch rockets shoot off into the skyand explode in a thunderous clap. Old Mr Miller runs a tight ship and his display is professionally run and every firework takes off. No back alley cheap Chinese goods for him. He imported the fancy stuff. He’d been a fireman himself back in the day but secretly I knewhe was a bit of a pyromaniac. The type of guy would be called out to a house fire and then sit and watch it go up in flames. I saw the look of devilish glee in his eyes when h saw the bonfire start, he’s not following me with this old codger routine.

9.40

Black from the fire, and high on two can’s of Dutch Gold, I return back to the house. The plan was now to rest my tired bones on the sofa and watch a succession of cheap 80’s slasher flicks. I love bad horror movies. The acting is so incredibly inept they become comedies which most of them unintentionally are. Top of my list- Slumber Party Massacre.

A top notch tat movie from 1982. I’d follow that with Sorority House Massacre and end the night on a high with Cheerleader Massacre part 5 (the uncensored version). Only there now seems to be a much bigger problem. It involves an empty bottle of wine, an open door, anda useless greyhound.

Yep. Just as I thought. Fistful Of Dockets is totally plastered. The stupid mutt knocked my bottle of plonk and licked it clean off my living room carpet. Dazed and confused he’s staggered out to the back yard and is now running around in circles off his head. This does not look good. I’d got myself out of sticky situations before but how in the name of Christ do you deal with an alcoholic greyhound?. The lads who used to own it will think I tried to kill the poor thing. I had to act fast. The last thing I needed on a day I’d lost a fortune was a dog being pumped out in hospital after drinking a bottle of cheap red wine. I needed a vet.

And fast. I checked my phone book but it was a Saturday evening and no local vet was going to do a house call tonight. They’d think it was a prank.

“Hello doc, I’ve got a greyhound off his tits in my back yard and he’s just got hammered on a bottle of burgundy and a packet of rotten nuts, can you come to my house immediately?.

See where I’m coming from?

I rushed for help. My next store neighbour said let him vomit for the night and give him two Alka Seltzer in the morning. I phoned my friends but they were all out getting drunk or partying at their bonfires. I was panicking. I love the poor mutt and didn’t want to see it’s last few hours on this earth spent in a drunken haze. I rushed back outside where I was pleased to see he’d start to vomit his little heart out. If he could get this stuff out of his system now he’d at least have a 50-50 chance of living.

I had a bedside vigil that entire night with my greyhound. I kept nodding off asleep, he kept vomiting his heart and soul up. I knew he’d dehydrate so keep him stocked up in water.

I wasn’t worried about his DT’s the next day, I’d be just happy if the poor thing could stand on its four feet. By 4am he was showing some signs of improvement and manages to doze off asleep.  I know he was asleep and not actually dead from his snoring. He woke up half the block, Between him and CP gathering the remains of every crisp packet in the neighbourhood it was daylight before I got some proper shuteye. I stayed awake long enough to see his dark browns eye’s greet the morning sun. He had survived his night on the piss. Stunned, still shook but among the living. If his liver was damaged and there was anyway in doing a human to dog liver transplant he could have mine in the morning, though since I’m a walking bag of allergic reactions, the poor thing would be better off on his own.

Sunday 1st November

All is quiet in the Sack household. It’s a Sunday morning, my greyhound is still recovering from Halloween night, and I’ve got a carpet that smells like an 1989 bottle of Burgundy in the living room. Today would be some extra late Spring cleaning for me. The house was a bit of a pig sty so I needed to sort it out before my dog got lost under the mounds of newspapers and cardboard boxes   thrown around the room.

I’m still smarting from the licking I took at the bookies on Saturday morning so today was a day to lay off the telephone betting. It’s very tempting when you’re a chronic gambler like me and you’ve got a free day to yourself to spend it down in a bookmakers with your other tragic gambling pals, but when you’ve got a house that looks like Hurricane Charlie has just hit it, you tend to go with the one that doesn’t cost you a weeks wages. So I put my phone off the hook, grabbed a dustpan, but my apron on, and got to start on the rubbish tip that is number 47 Mincey’s Bush. I also made sure my greyhound took some painkillers in case.

I’m not sure how long a dog takes to get over a hangover but if he’s anything like his owner he'll be suffering for a least a week.

It’s amazing the amount to dirt that gathers in the space of a week. Well rather six months. I'vejust spent SEVEN HOURS cleaning my house. Between the noise of my 1957 Hoover and my greyhound snapping at me (still effects of the hangover there) I’m gone partially deaf in one ear. Ever wandered what had happened to that kebab you left fall down the back of your armchair three months ago?. Well I’ve been that soldier today. And man have I come across some classics. I found a three year old yoghurt , a mouldy block of green cheddar cheese,and a packet of pasta that nearly talked to me it’s been living under the sofa so long. There was enough bacteria in the garlic chip I found in the garage to kill seven horses. But food was not the only thing hiding in my house for the last half a decade. My black cardigan that had mysteriously gone walkabout last Christmas turned up...under a rock in the back yard.

For the last year it had endured hail, rain, and snow and was now so stiff you could break

a window with it. Hit someone with this thing and you’d shatter every bone in a man’s pelvis. You could rob a bank with this cardigan. I wouldn’t fancy being a guard at the local building society if you tried to rob it with this thing in your hand. Don’t ask me how it got there but it was going in the bin. I had to chop it up first it was so stiff, but it was history. My old barbeque had so many slimy things on its grill I thought there was a snail convention in town.

For years I’d been convinced the dog would take care of the growing mounds of grass out the back by eating it. Cows did. I think horses do. Christ I even went through a phase in ‘82 when all I’d ever eat was grass. Gravy and potatoes? Sod that - I had the backyard. If it was good enough for me it should be good enough for a recovering alcoholic greyhound.

Later that day....

After a good rest and an hour in the bath washing off the build up of grime on my body from my rather late Spring clean I decide to get some fresh air. I think my four legged friend could do with a walk as well. He’s been grumbling to himself all morning and snapping at my heels in the afternoon, so maybe a brisk jog will get him over his marathon bender. The streets are covered with litter. Burnt out sparklers, left over fruit that’s now turned black asthe ace of spades, and a sea of empty crisp and candy packets. No doubt CP had a field day last night. Even as I drifted off to sleep in the early hours of Sunday morning I could here the all to familiar crunching of Walkers Prawn Cocktail flavour snacks been dragged up the street by my furry four legged friend. Although it’s now a full almost a full 24 hours after it was lit, the bonfire is still lighting. Smouldering and flickering embers it may be but there's still a dedicated group of twelve years olds on stand by with some pallets, a couple of tyres and a wardrobe that’s so new I’m convinced it’s been swiped from the showroom of a furniture store. It’s getting dusk again so no doubt these amateur pyromaniacs will be keeping that item to liven things up again after dark.

There was a bit of commotion down these parts last night .Apart from my crash course in animal first aid last night, it seems I’d missed a bit of a firework display - of the human kind. Apparently some nut job set himself alight in protest to the recent bin charges on our street. A brave daredevil of a statement. But if the poor deluded sod thought his actions would be met by horrified onlookers who would run to his rescue with water he was sorely mistaken. The crowd thought it was great fun - and watched him burn!. It was only after he uttered the words “Jesus Christ -Water!”, on his third death roll that the gathering crowd decided it might not be a human torch show for their benefit and thought it better to actually help the poor bastard. He’s now in hospital with third degree burns. The only two words he’ll understand for the next few years are - skin and graft.

Ever since I’d moved to this street five years ago its been a non stop Coronation street saga wherw everyone’s got a story to tell. Who needs television when you’ve got guys who  can set themselves alight because the council puts 70 cent on a plastic bin. God help us if they ever put the electricity up again. The ESB could get a wave of kamikaze grannies with strap on dynamite hurtling themselves through the local office in Matty’s hill. It was a beehive of constant activity. As working class citizens we mightn’t have much , people of a higher class may look at us like a bunch of losers. But we’re anything but. And I’ll tell you why. That’s because every day we get up at the crack of dawn , get a bus, catch a train, or run from the neighbourhood dogs ,to go to work 9 to 5 , six days a week to pay for the house that we rot in and the pub we get drunk in each weekend. We pay or bills and get one more day deeper in debt and nearer the grave. And that fact most have us have not strapped a rock to our leg or taken a gun to or head makes us winners. We survive the everyday grind with theonly defence we have - humour. It’s the working class golden ticket. The one thing that keeps us ticking over in times of trouble. I might not ever own a fancy car. I may never live in a mansion. I may again never know the touch of a beautiful woman (or any woman for that matter), but I was never born with a silver spoon in my mouth and worked for everything I own now. A semi detached with a crippling mortgage, a fucked up toaster and an alcoholic greyhound mightn’t be much but it’s mine and nobody can take it away from me.

Tuesday 3rd November.

The choice of meat in your sandwich is extremely important for your dinner break. Things have been pretty tight over the weekend  thanks to two horses and a couple of dogs so to punish myself I’ve made luncheon sandwiches, or as we call it - red lead. This truly is a crime against your taste buds. I know a lot of my friends wolf it down but it looks horrid and tastes like the soles on my shoes. Normally I’d rather a can of prunes or a week old tubof yoghurt but this was my punishment for needlessly wasting nearly two hundred euro the weekend. The next time I’d think about pumping a ton on some horse because of it’s name, I’d remember the rubber tasting red foodstuff I was now shovelling down the

back of my throat. That would be enough for me to stop reaching for the phone or running downto my local bookmakers. You see there is a method to my madness.

Tuesday is possibly the worst day of the working week. If you’ve been out on Sunday night then you’re still on a high (or plastered) Monday morning when you’re in work. But that quickly evaporates come Tuesday morning. Statistics say that it is the most popular day of the week to take your life, and if you’d seen some of the patients here this morning the  company would be seriously thinking of having a weekly suicide watch. Nothing fancy , just a couple of doctors and an ambulance crew on standby in case Dessie McFarrell decides to take his life by way of throwing himself into a furnace.

Robbie bob-a-job is floating around the factory and stops for a chat.

“Good weekend Harry?”

“Oh, slightly eventful you could say Robbie?”.

“Why’s that buddy?”

“Oh the usual really. Lost a fortune.  Watched some movies. Dog got plastered”

“Yeah, know what you mean “.

And off he went again. As fast as he’d came. Plodding along with his daily chores completely unaware I’d just told him the greyhound he once proudly part owned had just drank a vat of wine the weekend. That I’d played Florence Nightingale for the last 24 hours to a mutt that can;t hold it’s drink.

It’s been an eventful year for A fistful Of Dockets. Ten months ago he was seconds from a bullet in the head, now he’d survived a bottle of cheap wine and a  massive hangover.

Still..... whatever don’t kill you, makes you stronger.