Two a.m. - The Signal

Roy woke up with a jerk -The curse had struck again.

He lay still for a second, not entirely sure of what was happening but the signal pulsed again, tingling through his nerve center faster than a Scholesy pile-driver. He got up silently careful not to wake Gwendoline and paused. Yep, still there, still tingling. He slipped on a tracksuit dating from a time when United was sponsored by an infinitely less morally dodgy company. All was calm in the mansion but for Triggs who opened a quizzical eye at his master’s movements. Ah Triggs… good boy himself. What did dogs dream of, Roy wondered, was it a world without man, a planet of dogs? And was this planet a giant battlefield against cats? (More generally, how did it feel to be a dog in a humans world where the animal may spend whole days –if not longer- without seeing any creature of its own species...? What a terrifyingly lonely existence this must be.) Keano put a finger to his lips and the Labrador winked in response. “Down, boy, down”.

Keane tiptoed on the turf-covered corridor tiles. He checked the wall-mounted security screens for possible intruders. Nope, none had triggered his internal wake-up call, and there was no giant rabbit in attendance either. (A burglar had once tried his luck with Duncan Ferguson’s house of all places, little realising that the striker was in. The rest of the story belonged to the NHS.) No, the earth was still rotating its usual way (at 1,040.4 miles per hour), immigrant cleaners were still toiling in the dead of the night, and the Cheshire night was as tranquil as an American public library.

Still, someone, somewhere, had requested his help.

Roy made his way to the garage, mindful not to switch on too many lights on his descent. The low frequency of light-bulbs is said to evoke a sense of presence in those asleep and he sure didn’t want to alert the missus or the kids. In near darkness, he felt his way down the cavernous corridor. Left, right, left, left again down into the petrol flavoured cave. Roy delicately picked up some toys left on the stairs by one of his pride-and-joy. He made a mental note of having a word with them later on about the suitability of leaving rollerblades on staircases. Roy always enjoyed the old dialectical exchange of points of views.

Arrived at the bottom of the stairs, Roy stopped and glanced surreptitiously towards the strategically placed mirror. No, no-one had followed him. He was in the clear. He still waited on the off chance and then tapped in the secret code (1-9-1-6) on the Jesus Christ shaped wooden panel. The warts on Our Lord’s face mimicked Lemmy’s and were in fact a touch-pad. How he had laughed when he had demonstrated this little gizmo to Kylie -but that was probably a story for another day. The lift-up section of the wall rose without a sound. Roy entered.

It is often claimed that women are from Venus and men come from the pub but in truth, nothing beats a good cave if you can’t get planning permission for a bleeding shed in your own bleeding garden. It is essential for Modern Man to retreat from the hustle and bustle from time to time. You can take shelter in there, reflect, meditate, peruse your collection of exotic periodicals and re-emerge into the world fully reloaded.

When The Signal called on Keano, he repaired to his secret HQ and re-focussed. Fully insulated with microwave resistant tinfoil wallpaper and built in the shape of a Moebius knot, the cave provided respite from electro-magnetic interference and was the place for collecting one’s frayed thoughts. What you do is ionize a surface, stretch it over a pane of aluminium, and drape it over the partition: it blocks out the intrusive radiations emitted by nearby broadcasting devices such as mobile handsets and television sets. The Lord only knew how many of these infernal machines had invaded the private sphere as of late -four point five per family was the latest rough official estimate.

Roy’s cave was also furnished with a fridge, a darts board, and some rather funky super-flat three-D plasma screens plugged straight into Uranus.

Your man leaned on his favourite piece of furniture (the rocker was for soft-arsed Brit visitors), a penitent chair salvaged from a cliff-top monastery that had been razed to the ground by tea-drinking barbarians back in the days. Its design forced you to remain upright and uncomfortable and Roy had customised it to allow him to pace up and down (with his posterior screwed into it) when making his reflecting. There. Uncomfortable enough. Roy started his reflecting.

Truth be told, it had been some time since he had last experienced one of his visions… Nearly four years come June to be precise. It would have been on the other side of the globe, where the sun rises (cough cough, moving on). Something was not right then, the ether was a-calling and his attention a-requested but where? how? what about and who for? If it was about this 32 mph in a residential area surely he could explain, no need to switch him on in the middle of the night! Roy loosened his shoulders and counted backwards from 100 to 16. At peace in the subterranean dungeon, he concentrated.

The future was bright, and it took place in the sun. Something was about to happen, some terrible event, and it would take place in some location at a time to be determined. Well that was a start. There was a clue. It would probably happen shortly too, he could feel in his bones. Was it to take place tomorrow...? "Focus, Roy, focus" he told himself (but not out loud though cos’ he wasn't a nutcase was he!). Closing his eyes, Roy swiveled in his swivel-chair and let his fingers rest upon the computer map. The signal guided his hand. His fingers followed some strange contour as if guided by a superior force, and then slid in a definite direction -this must be the way. His hand finally came to a standstill. A complete standstill!?! This must be it Roy reckoned and, would you believe it, the signal faded into the ether. He allowed himself a deep breath before checking where was what. Aaaahhhhhh.... He opened his eyes. His index pointed to the Emerald Isle itself! Something ominous was about to happen to his native land!! Holy Mother of Christ, hadn't they suffered enough?? Roy let out a long sigh (pffffff........) and then blinked (blink!).

He checked more thoroughly. Hey, at least that yoke wasn't to take place in his native Socialist Republic of Cork! Oh no, the spot revealed was none other than the Irish capital (Dublin, that will be). Dublin eh... For a second Roy entertained the mischievous thought of letting them Dubs deal with it themselves, ‘would serve them right for farting higher than their collective arses! He instantly took it back though. Not because this would be callous and -dare he add- ungallant of him, but because such was not his prerogative. Not for him to question the course of celestial events. On the football pitch maybe, and sometimes in the tunnel, but on the ouija-board? No chance. No way Jose, what was dictated was to be obeyed. It was as immutable as the clouds in the sky, as transcendent as an eclipse. And like the referee's decision it was final.

Besides, should he fancy ignoring his wake-up call, he wouldn't get any sleep for sure. The Signal would come back to let him know in no uncertain terms; it would leave him in no doubt as to where his priorities lay. The angel of Fate was breathing hard upon him, and it was just like when Triggs decided he needed to go for walkies, the blasted beast wouldn’t take “no” for an answer! So... Dublin it was then. Right-so. Something was afoot and it wasn't attached to a leg!

No-one spoke and Roy fell into a dream.

Some John Peel discoveries and Moments: The Would-Be's "Hardly Ever Wrong"; Babes In Toyland; Silverfish "Hips! Lips! Tits! Power!"; "the Birmingham School of Business Schools" The Fall; The Orb's "ever growing ultra vibe from the essetera" causing half of the country to drop everything they were doing at the time to listen in awe, jaws firmly dropped; Big Black "Kerosene" ("the first time I played this, an aghast BBC producer ran down the stairs to holler at me: "you're not actually playing this live are you!!"); the Jesus Lizard; the exhilarating Diblo Dibala and Melt-Banana; Extreme Noise Terror; "why - are you - so -reasonable now" The Wedding Present; some oldie goldie "Doo Wap" or whatever it's called; 70 Gwen Party; the Pixies; the young PJ Harvey; Consolidated in session ("and we are honoured to welcome them"); some kind of hypnotic dub remix of Bl*r (good Lord!!) "Out Of Time"; a duo of Indian sisters (Sabrina and...?) covering Abba hits; Yo La Tango; LaBradford; Bark Psychosis; Guided By Voices; Mega City 4; Leatherface; Long Legged Something, a Butthole Surfers by-product; Ivor Cutler; moaning about a "novelty design" Melvins CD pack that he couldn’t open; calling a spade a spade re. that American "schlock DJ” wanker; King Tubby and The House Of Dub; Fun-Da-Mental; the Heads from Bristol; Flowered Up ("wee-kender, go out!"); the thrill of advance-hearing the new Sonic Youth album; Cat Power in session; Leadbelly; "Nothing Takes The Place Of You"; footy reports by Pete Hooton of The Farm; the first public hearing of Curve's "Ten Little Girls" (introduced with the words "And now the record you all gonna get crazy about"); he just had to play the most obscure instrumental on the new Fugazi album; Boards Of Canada; Low; Melys; declaring that he "would rather cut off both (his) arms than vote Tory"; the Birthday Party; the Crime And The City Solution; German FSK; the usual "fading away into nothingness" comment / seal of approval; refusing to add to the complacent hyperbole surrounding the all too unsurprising death of Kurt; Unsane; Palace Brothers; PWEI followed by Palestinian rebel songs; introducing New Order -"your friends"- on stage at the Reading Festival; Public Enemy; telling it like it is about Courtney Love at the Glastonbury Festival ("Frankly no, I don't find her attractive, I find her rather alarming" or words to that effect to a gushing Jo Wiley); Kanda Bongo Man; Truman's Water; The Jesus And Mary Chain; actually playing a Queen record ("Crazy Little Thing Called Love") on the night of Freddy Mercury’s death; playing the same faceless-techno-bollocks record at different speeds "just to try, dear listener" -and finally deciding that it sounded good at both (it sure didn't at either); DJ Dave Clarke being given carte blanche; the KLF; Electro-Hippies; Neko Case, "The Big O Motel" by 4 AD band Tarnation; "Geek Love" Bang Bang Machine; Dinosaur Jr; Half-Man Half-Biscuit; Vive La Fête "Noir Désir"; Aretha Franklin's preacher father; The Ragga Twins in session; Loudon Wainwright the Third "Father And Son"; playing Kylie and Jason's "Especially For You" at the Reading Festival; a touching near-complete ignorance of cinema but for an obscure episode of "Star Trek" in which Spock joins a hippy cult ("Can someone tape it for me?"); Cranes; The Inspiral Carpets Featuring Mark E. Smith ("looks like we've already found our Record Of The Year") and it was only March or thereabouts; uncharacteristically calling out ChapterHouse’s antics after they had played “silly bugger" with his engineers when contracted to record a session; Altern 8; the fresh voice of The Sundays; Kineckie; denouncing record companies that only sent the forthcoming New Order single to Steve Lamacq and no-one else; keeping faith with Morrissey ("You're The One For Me Fatty": "Well at least someone loves me!"; "It always annoys me when people describe Morrissey as miserable -he is anything but!"); Foreheads In A Fishtank; Orbital's stellar final gig; Rothko; obviously The Smiths, Joy Division and Cocteau twins etc. etc. etc.; his hand-overs to Giles Peterson (who never failed to thank him) and Mary "hot lips" Ann Hhhhhobs. It used to go like this: "So. ... Mary-Ann." (quick chuckle here) "What have you got in your program for us tonight?" "-Well." (exaggerated pause) "... John." (giggling like a schoolgirl) "We have an exclusive set by” (whatever risible heavy-metal band was on that night)."; his customary farewell greeting: "The news at twelve-midnight -as always, thanks for listening."

..................................

Roy considered going back to bed.
He checked the digital clock by the mantelpiece -Good grief Moncrieff, it was already half past five! He had zoned out for nearly two hours! But then Roy remembered: nocturnal Beta waves induced a different sense of time, all things being equal and vice-versa, so he may have drifted off at around three but he had not formally abstracted himself away from the space-time continuum paradigm –the one overriding proof that time travel was a physical impossibility: how could one place oneself outside the very paradigm one would pretend manipulate?- so that was grand then. No slacking had taken place. (Roy did not abide slacking.)

Now then, three o'clock had been the cut-off point... it made sense in its own way. It was not uncommon for mystics to go wander in the woods at three in the morning, the magic hour, in their bid to commune with the trees. Three a.m. was also the perfect hour for armies to mount attacks –this was the precise moment when their enemies' concentration level was at its lowest. Finally three was Irwin's squad number.

In any case, it was too late to go back to sleep now. If duty called, he might as well attend to it and illico presto too, what kind of a hero would he be otherwise! Pretty much like his trademark tackles, the signal was unequivocal ...but what was he supposed to do exactly? The answer was frustratingly not contained in the query. Skip over to Dublin? Well, that wasn't too far from Mancunia, mind you... Could be done in a jiffy, he reckoned. In and out, bish bosh, job's a good un. This being said, how hairy this new case might prove to be, there was no way of guessing. It might take days for all he knew! It might drag on for a while, present unexpected difficulties...
Roy tapped his fingers pensively. When you’re in the dark, light doesn't reveal anything but dazzles. He mentally consulted his official schedule: he had the day off until Southampton away tomorrow. Not an easy game at the best of times, that: the feckers had got into a habit of making things difficult for United. Then again, kick-off was a late one, one of these TV schedule specials, which made it about 36 hours away. Plenty of time then... There was only one way to make sure.

Keano didn’t hesitate any longer. He picked up his faithful mobile-telephone and pressed the No 1 selection. Five-forty, that was about right. Less than two rings later, a canny voice replied:

"Roy? Help ma Boab! That's a wee bit early for you, what's up?"
“Hey boss, I have a bit of a situation right now, something I need to attend to so… I may need to be excused for the day if that’s possible, I promise to be back as soon as possible."
“Crivvens! What's going on? Anything happened to the family? You alright, son?"
“No no, it's not that Guv’, everyone's grand."
“Och dannae tell me you got in trouble again! Do I need to come and fetch you out of a cell before the press gets to hear about it? Is that it? Where are you, I can drop by..."
“No no, nothing of the sort boss, it's alright really, I just need... I need about a day to see to a personal matter back home that requires my full attention. If that’s OK, I’ll jet straight back, promised. ... I won’t even claim it on expenses."

The unquestionably-authoritative-yet-fiercely-supportive presence at the other end of the line reflected for a moment. A shrewd leader, the phonecall receiver had learned to trust his men and not probe into what personal matter they preferred to keep for themselves. If Roy of all players had deemed it necessary to ask for a short break, it must have been important. By Jock, he could be trusted.

“Al...right then. I daennae like the sound of this much but… Hmm. If you promise to report back in due time. Is there anything I can do for you in the meantime?"
“No thanks I’m grand, I can manage."
“I take it that's between you and me then. I'll tell the boys I asked you to go and pay a personal visit to a promising lad from The Republic."

Your man worked his timetable in his head. It was 5.49, he was on his way to the ground; 6 to half-six, he would have a light jog up and down the training pitch; half-six shower; breakfast until 6.57; he would then scour the dailies until 7.05; get his blood pressure back to normal until 7.45; sort out his most pressing emails until 8h15; join the fellow Weegee groundsman for a short invigorating stroll around the stadium (with no jacket on) until 8h30 when he had to give this important confidential phonecall to Arsene concerning his succession; at nine, quick double-espresso, he would then welcome the lads and hand them over to Carlos at nine-thirty in order to catch a plane at 10.15 for Lyons regarding this exciting young midfielder; he would be back in the Red Republic of Mancunia at 5.10 (local time) just in time to jump on the train departing at 600 hours (6.11 to be precise) to arrive at Southampton 11.47 Southern Jessie time; check-in at the hotel; off to bed at 1 -1.30 after kissing Kathy “goodnight” over the phone and taking care of the most urgent email replies (1.30 till 2). Worst comes to worst, Roy could always catch up with them in Sou'ton. (Southampton has an airport.)

“Worst comes to worst, you can always catch up with us down there. Fly straight to Southampton if needs must be but make sure to keep your head down, get yourself a baseball cap and some sunshades and make your way to the hotel. You know the one, right? It’s the [******]."
United used to stay in London beforehand and hop over to the squaddies town right before kick-off but the last two times they had done so, the Underground had temporarily shut down with an infestation of shirtless Geordies which paralysed the entire network and they had nearly run in late as a result. They now bit the bullet and commandeered a local hotel. 
“Yep, I know the one. I’ll keep you informed should I run late. To be honest, I don't quite know how long I will take; hopefully I can get it all sorted this afternoon ...before night-time is the plan."

Before night-time... Crivens! The tough nut did nae like the sound of it, no’ one bit, but he refrained from making an intrusive comment. If Roy felt so exercised and hurried about it -whatever it was that bothered him-, that had to be serious. …He’d probably let him in on the confidence afterwards.

“OK then… you go and take care of business -But don't you get in trouble, you hear? Don’t get yourself tired out or unduly distracted! Can I count on you?"
“You can count on me."
“OK then, off you go… And don't hesitate to call me should you need anything, my line's always open."
“Thanks Chief, ‘appreciate. Bye now."
“Bye. (What da? Call that respecting the speed limit?? I’ll show you respecting the speed limit  yae litte)”

Feeling like the teenager unexpectedly allowed to go to the disco where the big boys light up and swear with not a care in the world, Roy clapped shut his portable telephone and jumped out of his seat, punching the air. Yay! He had been given permission! He could now totally go on his mission and kick arse to his heart’s content and this time, there wouldn’t be no referee to book him oh no, this time it would be –like- personal yeah! Ah... it felt good to be alive.

Mindful not to wake Gwendoline and the kids, Roy climbed back the stairs and grabbed his emergency bag from under the cupboard. "You be a good boy now Triggs and look after them" mentally mouthed he to the dog. The labrador emitted a conciliatory yawn in response and an ozone-unfriendly fart. "Ewww Triggs, why did you need to do that", ah never mind. Roy made for the kitchen -this hearth, this half-Eden, this... center of family life- and picked up the notepad next to the phone. Something about not forgetting to take out the trash and getting to the recycling bank had been scribbled in imperative capital letters. “Bo-ring” frowned Roy. Surely a superhero like him had no time for such pedestrian preoccupations! He tore the note off and hooped it straight into the wheelie-bin where it landed with a satisfying “shboiiing”. One-nil to your man! He then scribbled a quick message to the apples of his eyes, explaining that the auld eejit had sent him out on an urgent errand and that he would be back ASAP, l-u-v.

All was still quiet in the house when Roy let himself out. Hardly a quarter of a day had elapsed since the first premise of a tremor had threatened to strike and yet he was already on the prowl like a –er- tiger unchained or something. Who knew what thrilling adventures awaited him?
Nobody, and this is why continuing to read this book is strongly recommended.

“they're rounding up the families"

Roy's naturally sensitive nature had often been cruelly frayed by these unsettling callings. For as far as he could remember, something had often knocked on his window and he never knew where the door was. He usually got on with it though, he endured. Still, the constant battles were never going to win themselves.
A lifelong expat, he learned in time to ignore the occasional pangs of loneliness and homesickness. He managed to relegate them to the back-burner of his awareness, the place where teenage dreams and good intentions get diverted to slowly simmer and eventually evaporate like unrequited crushes... He bore with great aplomb the cheap jibes of those unlucky enough never to learn and won the undecided over with the immigrant’s trademark versatility. The beauty of being an in-betweener is that you can adopt one side’s point of view one day and the other’s the next. Roy soon learned to ignore, King Eric style, the ever-right locals’ lack of empathy and rose above the great unwashed’s ignorant jeers with magnificent style. It is an unsuspected privilege to pass through life without being ever challenged, he wisely reckoned.
Either that, or he would kick the shit out of the fuckers.

As years went by, the calls continued. They became more insistent, more pressing, and he often found himself sitting up in the middle of the night wondering whether there was not more to them than mere nervous twitches. The calls would come ringing in his ears, they would destroy his beauty sleep like you would not believe and he might as well write that night off altogether –hence his grouchy mood the following days. Something was definitely going down here and no mistake, there had to be a reason for this nonsense -isn’t there one for everything! Double-glazing had been a waste of money, DIY exorcism had proved no help, tests at the hospital had revealed nothing -Roy eventually came to the conclusion that he had no choice in the matter. He had to accept his destiny.
And so, slowly but inevitably, Roy faced up to his true nature. At night -and sometime in the Stadio delle Alpi, too- he turned into...................Keano.

“Kea-nooo! There’s only one Keano, there’s only one Keano! Kea-nooo!” (repeat – fade down)


Alone in the antiseptic hum of the carmobile, Roy remembered his discussions on the subject with Gary "Che" Neville. Nev', a staunch hands-on empiricist (and not just on the ball!), had little time for Roy's typically conflicted Catholic determinist education and was prone to offer robust rebuffs to his captain's spiritual misgivings.

“But, but, Roy, by maintaining you have to obey your -as it were- “unconscious imperatives”, you make a mockery of your intrinsic Free Will and ignore the prerogatives befalling you as a post-Fall free agent, do you not?"
“Not necessarily Gary, I don't pretend to be governed by my moral urges per se -even though these command me to go and restore Order, Justice, and the red flag adorned with GET DA FECKER WILL YA"
“No sweat, Rio's on it. (He's on him too, actually.) Well it seems to me -and don't get me wrong here, Roy- that such a obeying stance is dangerously tantamount to being facile –Let me explain. I don't wish to dispute the righteous nature of your sudden epiphanies -GEDDIM WES, MAN ON!!! Phew, close call, that- the righteous nature of your inopportune callings. Inopportune, or “intempestive” even -in the Nietzschean sense of the term naturally. In fact I am quite ready to accept the stated premise that they’re motivated by"
“FORFECKSSAKE, WHAT YOU EEJITS AT DA BACK PLAYING AT, DO YOUS WANT ME TO COME OVER?? HUH?? IS DAT IT?? IS DAT WHAT YOUS WANT?? ...thought not. So sorry to interrupt Gaz, you were saying? Please proceed..."
“No worries mate, my thoughts entirely. I was merely suggesting that, by and large and in the greater scheme of things, these moral imperatives you speak of and feel compelled to abide by, aspire to and contend with, may very well turn out to be validated in the long run -Fair do, different strokes for different folks, horses for courses and all that.
But even were that to be the case, this doesn't alter the fact that you are positing pre-determination as a sine qua non you manifestly feel unable to stand up to and turn away from. Pretty much like the "history as a nightmare one cannot extricate oneself from” Jimmy Joyce was banging on about, remember? And frankly, I feel inclined to find this highly objectionable. If not downright worrying."
“Hang on hang on, let me get this straight, so basically what you’re suggesting here is that the acceptability of my defining motives carries as little clout as, say, an equally potentially destructive and nefarious CAHM ON, RUN! GET DA FECKER!! No no, not you, ref, you’re grand, ‘was only talking about this fat bastard. And -Wayne if you please?- you watch your mouth son, what-kind-of-an-example etc. So. Gary. Basically according to your reading of the situation, it doesn't matter whether my callings may turn out to be ultimately justified, you still reckon they're fundamentally –as well as ethically- bollix."
“I certainly didn't say that boss (gulp!) and -Oops, sorry, got carried away here ref’, didn't mean to trip him up I swear! Awwww nooo, come oooon, come on ref', have a heart, I'll miss the next match now! Is so unfair, chief... Tackling’s not an exact science, you know?- I just propose that you take a more dialectic view of the challenge encountered and not regard it as a mere fait-accompli. Be more proactive, in not so many words. Adopt a more decisive attitude if you want."
“I see... be more decisive eh? I say, it's not every day I stand accused of relinquishing my prerogatives TAKE DAT YA KOONT"

up

Transition

down

"pockets full of shells"

Aer Lingus. The ever-moving thrill of traveling back to the native land, the classic white-and-green colour scheme, the two-hour delay.

Returning "home" -allowing for the paradox that "home" no longer was in fact the place one lived in- always was a special experience. It offered an existential thrill that positively tugged at one’s heartstrings and didn’t let go for the duration of the ordeal. Like millions on this planet, Roy had had to pack his belongings and bid his native land "adieu" in order to ply his trade and survive. He had upped and moved. He had opened accounts in strange currencies. He had turned his back on his childhood in the hope of attempting fusion with a foreign land.
And yet, and yet, despite these formal renouncements and notwithstanding the phenomenological acclimatisation that made a good job of plastering over the cracks, the place of origin still somehow felt like the natural place to be, it was the anchor to everything that happened later. To start with, this would always be the place where nobody would simply imagine taking the piss out of your accent, an experience any exile inevitably has to endure -"no offence, mate!"- with varying degrees of good humour.
The native land shaped your existence for good or bad, it set things in motion and sowed psychosomatic memories in the very core of your body (your nan’s cooking, your first girlfriend). Returning always was more than a simple action, it meant more than just traveling -there was something ontological about it. It was about re-assessing your allegiance, re-affirming your identity. Nation-shifters, how much did your homeland still matter to you? Which news items did you check out first? Would you be able to list the members of “your” government? Had familiar faces and names started to drift away? How much apart had you grown from your first circle of loved ones? ...Would you simply feel anything setting foot on national territory? And then the terrible, unspoken question that underpinned them all:

Had it been worth leaving ...or not?

This had to be the big question. Hand on your heart, be true to yourself ...had your exile been a mistake? Were you a failure under any other name? Where exactly did you stand with regards to your ever-fading past? Would you say you still felt a connection to those who were supposed to be “your kind”, how much did you still care for them?
Those you left behind, whom you once knew and even loved, these people were now frozen in time, only able to bring up obsolete anecdotes, remind you of irrelevant tribulations. They had leverage over you, they held your personal past to ransom ("and do you remember the time when you..."). Your former friends, it was impossible not to see them again without feeling guilty. When all was said and done, you had forsaken them. You had given them up in order to follow your own way and fulfill your destiny, a destiny which they couldn’t be part of nor provide for. Necessity is the enemy of sentimentality. No, a “trip home" threw up too many conflicting emotions to remain an innocent act. Returning home is never easy –let alone when your secret imperative is to get back out of there ASAP.
Roy was determined not to get worked up about it, he needed to apprehend the situation with as little sentimentality as possible. He had to keep his mind clear, right? and firmly trained on the nebulous task at hand.
Just like the song said, "he would not be moved", and if this bleedin’ eejit of a steward spilled white-hot tea on his inner leg (awwwwww), it was not worth losing his rag. These things happened. They happened when air personnel are rushed off their feet by inconsiderate alkies on stag parties such as the one presently gracing the airplane. "Not too worry, mate!" teeth-gritted Roy as nucular fusion progressed to his groin area. "Accidents happen." and he surreptitiously extended his scalded leg out in the central alley only for a little pisser to remark: "Excuuuse me Sir, but would you awfully mind not stretching your leg, you might trip someone up. Verily, I assure you nanny, these yahoos are almost entirely devoid of manners. Aren’t they supposed to walk around with pigs under their arms? About time we re-educated them I think. Remind me to tell Daddah, his friends might be able to arrange something at the Lodge or the Commons."

…This was going to be a long trip.

Airport transit fluctuat

Anxious to avoid detection, Roy had pressed his idiot cap all the way down to his eyebrows and had eschewed the use of sunglasses –the best way to make yourself look conspicuous, not least in an airport.
He had also lingered long enough to find himself at the back of the queue for the seats, making sure to steer well clear of the hen-night party currently providing most of the surrounding soundtrack:

"Wouldn't mind a bit of THAT, arf arf!! You don’t get many of these for a Pound! Give over, our Fiona! Not again, V'ronica! Where's Debbeh? Ah, here you are sweetheart. Now look me in the eye: are you REALLY sure Sheila gave you this purse huh??" (Reply unintelligible.)

Even though he was traveling light, Roy hadn’t been allowed to take his hand-luggage onboard lest his scanned personal effects should spontaneously turn into nitro-glycerine once above 3.000 feet (new ruling). Mind you, it hadn’t been as embarrassing for him as it had been for the ladies found guilty of wearing terrorising high heels. They had had to take them off and proceed through security shoed in squishy pink condoms (“squish, squish”).

At last they arrived. The existential thrill of blah blah blah? Duly registered –now let’s get on with it. Roy was now waiting for his hold-all to pass on the conveyor belt. Recently installed screens above the ramps announced and summarised the day's events –naturally intercut with generous servings of advertising. Of course. Multinational brainwashing had become an integral part of modern life, and nobody noticed anymore. Nobody minded. Advertising, the opium of the masses. The capitalist cancer that constantly claws at your attention and eats away at your mind.

But first here were the news:

some foreign big wig was in town to shake Bertie's hand and kiss his ring; the Leader of the Opposition had put it to the Taoiseach that, the Taoiseach hadn't judged it necessary to comment on, and the Leader of the Opposition could only as a result. Elsewhere, a new golf course had been opened on the banks of the Liffey, the Stock Exchange was hitting new heights again and the Bank Of Ireland, currently enjoying record profits, sadly had to thank 200 employees. Tony Blair had made a totally impromptu visit to the "Big Brother" house, the Pope has deplored something or another, and Jo-Anne Cantwell would be presenting the sports results tonight at around eleven (but it could already be revealed that Celtic (yay!) and Rangers (boo!) had won their matches). A Chinese cockle picker had been found dead up North, human rights protesters had issued a strong warning that, the authorities had simply laughed them off, wind was in the air, and the sun would probably come out during the day before being eventually replaced by the moon. Finally, a friendly warning: tourists were advised to look after their possessions. The airport could not be held responsible for any theft occurring on its premises nor for anything else, come to think of it. Innocents be aware: pickpockets may be operating in the area.
So it went, on a loop. On a loop, it went so.

Roy noted how many headlines referred to events taking place on the other side of the sea. Most economic figures, for example, were being quoted in relation to their UK equivalents -Who was having the last laugh now! 

A dozen lads in flip-flops and tattoos were larking about, back from somewhere or another. Most of them hadn’t bothered with jackets. Jackets were for normals who didn’t have ink work to show off, see. Ink work -and bulging biceps. Roy had the feeling that these guys didn’t mind seeing themselves in mirrors, although their overall shape suggested they didn’t bother working anything below the waist. They were the kind of Muscle Marys for whom leg-day was never-day. They might make housewives reasonably moist but wouldn’t scare the piss out of a midget if it came to a show-and-reveal. Still eh, whatever floats your boat... The lads were in high spirits and didn’t care who knew it, the world simply belonged to them.
Prosperity had brought about a whole industry of short breaks abroad and with these, whole half-weeks when fun lovers didn’t have to get their brain into gear for a second. Life was good, life was a riot, and they were making the most of it –fair play to them, guessed Roy... Then again, most of them had trimmed eyebrows and elaborate hairdos. This was even less to your man’s taste: never trust a clothes horse (male or female for that matter), he always said.

Sticking close to their group, a Latin looking man in brand new clothes was touching his stomach cautiously. He looked unwell and compassionate Roy naturally felt for him: a nervous flyer, clearly. A French looking bloke was arching an eyebrow, the little lah-di-dah missy was instructing her nanny about, and an African family was anxiously checking for signs of their bags.
The Manc ladies were simply ignoring the whole lot of them (“I wouldn’t touch him with yours!”). To be fair, the lads didn’t show much interest back either. Most of the lasses were already half-cut and, as a catchy jingle came over the TV screen, one of them did this thing that never failed to boil Roy’s blood: she broke into an exaggerated jig, making a big show of herself stomping about all pumped up throwing her arms in the air like she just don’t care for all of five seconds. Then stopped, exhausted by her own brilliance. Cheers all round (“That’s belting news, that! Janice says there’s a boozer just for coppers!”).

Our hero's bag finally arrived. In one swift movement, Roy picked it up and draped it around his opposite shoulder. Direction: exit. Now then, which one was it to be? The blue tunnel ("EU") or the green one ("Nothing To Declare")? Oh well, whichever. Roy opted for the green one and proceeded -when he got suddenly called over by a Customs officer!!

“Sssscuse me Sir, could I have a word?" the pressed-trousered long bean beckoned him over.
Oh, bugger.
“Most certainly, Officer."
“And-a-very-good-morning-to-you-indeed, Sir. May I see your passport please?"
“Me passport? Er... I don't have it on me I don’t think: I'm a national jetting over from England within the EU, why should I... I didn't think I’d"
“Sorry Sir, didn't catch that? I saiiid: May I see your passport, please?"
Eh? What was the feck going on here?
“Well er... as I said, I don't actually have it on me like, traveling within the EU and being a citizen of the Republic myself, you know..."
“I'm sorry Sir, but in the absence of your producing a identificatory passport as thereby requested by a bona fide State Servant, what exactly authentificates the veracity of your statement? For all I know, you could be an Arabic muslim!"
What??
"Come again?? Do I look like an Arab??"
“It's not for me to say Sir; it's for you to disprove. Mind you, now that you mention it... you are unshaved, aren't you Sir?"
“But but... what is this? Are you for real? ... You are, aren't you? You’re not even joking! Look, this is getting silly and I really don't want to be doing this but..." taking off his cap "Don't you know who I am? It's me, Keane, the Irishman!"
The official busybody merely crossed his arms and spread his legs apart.
“I don't care who you pretend to impersonate Sir. All I know is that, at this moment in time, you are not able to produce a passport as requested by this here present officer."
“Look, it's I, Keano! I come from Manchester! … ‘Tell you what, I'll show you me ticket!"
“With due respect Sir, you could have swapped it with some other gentleman in the wash-room en route from another location."
“What?? Hang on, what are you implying here, what's going on? Is this a wind-up?"
“Sir, I’m afraid I’ll have to inform you and apprise myself of the fact that you are currently attempting to enter the Republic without any proof of identification. Which is neither recommended not indeed acceptable in these post 9/11 days."
“Hang on hang on, if it's ID you want, let me show you, I've got ID! ... Here, here is my driving license. It’s an English one sure, but it's got a photo: see? Oh, and here are some credit cards, and my Mile High Club member card, my UEFA registration"
“Sir Sir, I will ask you please not to raise your voice in the presence of a member of the Armed forces of the Irish Republic simply doing his duty, I will not have that."
What da...?!????!!!
“...!!! .... OK... OK... Right-so. Let's start again. As you wish." (deep intake of breath) "Here, let me show you these valid documents if such is your pleasure: here - is -my - driving - license"
“Not interested in your life sad culchie Munich. Off you go, stop wasting my time."

And the prick walked off superbly, turning his back on a stunned Keano left to hand out his documents to thin air. Back on the plane, Roy had promised himself not to lose his rag and be totally Zen about the whole shebang ...but he clearly hadn’t reckoned with reality.