I had just fired my final Magnum 44 round at the last surviving critter and drained the last of the Wild Turkey when the phone rang.
ring ring ring crash!
How’s it goin Boss?
It was the Great Zucchini.
Do you want to go to Wales?
Wales. Do you want to go?
Yeah. It’s nice there. I might go some time.
No Bock. You’re not understanding me. Do you want to go to Wales?
I was beginning to sober up. Apart from anything else, it isn’t easy to sit stark naked on your patio in March, in the Irish climate, even if you are full of Wild Turkey and brown acid. Even if you’re oscillating gently in your rocking chair and firing occasional revolver rounds at your stupid neighbour. Blam! Blam!
Wales? I repeated. You mean – ?
Yeah. Zucchini said. That’s exactly what I mean.
Munster, he confirmed. It’s all arranged. You, me and four of the boys. In an eight-seater. On the ferry. Two nights in Wales.
Um, great, I managed. Count me in.
OK, Zucchini went on. What I want to know is this. Munster play Llanelli on the Friday night. How do you feel about goin to see Cardiff playing Sunderland on the Saturday? We got tickets.
Um, I said. Let me think about it.