I’m Moving To Costa Rica. Here Are Some Things I Wrote In 2015


I’m leaving London. Bye!

When I first arrived in the Imperial City, with the gleaming eyes of a child, I stayed on the floor in my sister’s flat and also, periodically, in the bath tub of my aunt’s high-rise in Kilburn, a district still popularly known as the 33rd county of Ireland despite now being composed more of Eastern European newcomers than anyone else. These places have been seared in my memory as wondrous disembarking-grounds, the likes of which you find in massive online RPGs, where you learn how to click on things in the correct order. But in London, the tutorial encompasses the use of Oyster cards, the Job Centre’s XP system, and navigating shops stocked exclusively with Polish lager.

One evening in those early days, my sister told me, from her lofty position above ground-level, that it takes time to get to like London. The common saying was that “it takes three years” to know it well enough to enjoy it. I recognised this logic from my formative months in the muddy trenches of videogame reviewing. London was like Final Fantasy XIII. You have to play it for at least 20 hours before it was any good. I can now report that this idiom is false and politely request that all current users stop repeating it. Having spent almost five years (note that this is much longer than the requisite three) trying to enjoy the place, I have found that the highest level of familiarity and kinship I can attain with the capital is that of Tolerance. I tolerate London.

Well, not for much longer. I am moving to Costa Rica. Don’t ask me why, I haven’t fully deconstructed all the incidents which have led to this moment. All I know for certain is that it involves my girlfriend. She has told me that she is being thrown out of the UK because her Canadian Visa is due to expire and we need to decide on a new temporary domicile. I have since become aware of many legal schemes one may use to extend one’s visit to the UK as a Canadian citizen and I dimly suspect she has known about these all along. But I have ignored these suspicions in order to achieve my own dark motives RE moving to a country where it is never below 16 degrees Celsius.

Why Costa Rica? Well, the PR line I have been feeding people is that we considered many places, almost scientifically, and one by one we each vetoed the places we thought unsuitable. She suggested India because she has been there before and enjoys the privilege of understanding approximately 10 useful words of Hindi or Urdu or one of the other languages, I’m not sure. I vetoed this because I enjoy defecating in a seated position, atop a cylindrical bowl i.e. I am a small-minded Westerner. This reasonable elenchus continued over many months, covering a vast array of countries and sub-countries. Eventually, a continent was decided upon (Latin America) and then a country (Costa Rica). Did you know Costa Rica has no standing army? It’s true. I will never be conscripted there.

In preparation, I am learning Spanish (yo aprendo Espanol) and we have both been stabbed multiple times in our arms with tiny amounts of tropical diseases in a bid to ward off Typhoid, Hepatitis, and other illnesses that are so tropical I can’t spell them with any reliability. I am also in the process of hawking my room out to strangers on the internet, like some petty administrator of a crumbling property dystopia. One of the species I have grown to despise in London are the Estate Agents and it sickens me to think I may be adopting their likeness. I have nightmares that I have grown mandibles and that my wallet is absolutely stuffed with cash, all stained with the blood and mucus of my past self, whose body lies dead, eyes still gleaming like a child, looking up at the famous London skyscraper, the Shard.

Did you know that in Costa Rica the average monthly rental cost for a  two-person casa is the equivalent of about £200?

Anyway, I leave toward the end of January (SURPRISE!) and I will miss the many amazing people who made London bearable and sometimes even enjoyable. I love you. Not with an intense familial love, you understand. That’s disgusting. I mean with a scholarly, intellectual love. The most under-appreciated of the loves. We are having a party to celebrate our leaving. If you have not been invited, it is because I do not like you, I have never liked you, and I will be glad to be free from the social mores of this grand, grey city that, for some reason, dictate that I should pretend we are friends. Either that, or I have forgotten and you should definitely get in touch and ask me where it is.

I will still be serving in the vast army of videogame journalists (periodistas de los videojuegos) and my writing will still grace the glowing screens to which we now live in continual serfdom. So do not panic, I am not really going anywhere, if you think about it, since we all live as words on blog posts and communicate exclusively via Snapchat videos of passing scenery on trains. With this in mind, here are some of the things I did in 2015 which are OK. There will be more.

So long

(Hasta luego)




A story about learning to play chess again, and all the associated devilry, fear, cunning and accomplishment


An article about how fast travel is rubbish and overused and you should be more adventurous you awful, awful person


The first of my Ridealongs, where I go for in-game journeys and conduct interviews a la Louis Theroux, with citizens of “Cyberspace”. And an audio version of the same


My new weekly column on free games, which is something you should check every week because it is weekly and that is how it works


A review of else Heart.Break(), one of my favourite games this year, as well as one of the smartest, most stylish and most overlooked


A memoirish compendium of all the dumb games I have played as a child and semi-adult, and a eulogy to their loss


A top ten list article on hacking and computing games because top ten lists are excellent, let’s stop lying to ourselves



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How (Not) To Write About Videogames


It is a question that has tortured many. Just how do you write about videogames? Well, do not worry. Writing about videogames is easy. All you have to do is avoid cliché.

So, here are some words and phrases that you should consider carefully. Sometimes, they are worth using because everyone knows (or seems to know) what they mean. Sometimes, you should delete them. But you should always think about it.

The Big Ones

Immersive. My childhood home had an immersion heater, which meant that any time you wanted a shower you had to put on the immersion and wait 100 hours for the water to heat. Does that sound immersive to you? Games that are immersive take you into their world and away from your own. Immersive is what all games want to be. But very few actually are.

Intuitive. A game is never intuitive but parts of it can be. Intuitive controls are great. But an intuitive user interface is boring. Intuitive fighting mechanics may sound excellent but describing the sound of a breaking bone as a punch connects to the ribcage of your foe may read better.

Games are often deep. How deep? It is difficult to say. Depth of a game is hard to measure because those who explore such depth can easily become lost. It is possible they are trapped in the game’s living, breathing world.

Gameplay annoys a lot of journalists. Arguably, it fills a gap in language for the concept: “moving bits of a game”. Players miraculously appear to understand what it means, even if editors and angry columnists can’t agree on a definition. If you don’t want to type gameplay, you can use mechanics. But you’ll just be replacing one overused word for another, slightly less overused one.

Visceral is a joke word. When a journalist uses the word visceral, they mean that the game is not very good. Or that the trailer for the game is not very good. Or that the marketing department for the game is not very good. Usually, when something is visceral it is an…

Experience. When was the last time you had a truly visceral experience? You probably earned some experience points. That’s fine. But filling a sentence with abbreviations like XP may have an effect on the reader’s AP and cause him to write to his local MP.

OR HERS. Do not assume the reader’s gender.

Content is important. If a game had no content it would be a completely empty game and the player would be discontent. Games with lots of content or even downloadable content are highly sought. If you are stuck, another word for content is stuff.

Marketing Loan Words

IP means Intellectual Property. Everybody loves new IP, and fresh IP is just as good. Established IP is a stonker because nobody can destroy it, not even with guns. If an established IP gets big enough, it might become a…

Franchise. The best franchises release new content onto the market for loyal consumers every year. If they did not do so, the loyal consumers would be not only discontent but also disenfranchised.

The Next Gen is what everyone was waiting for in 2013. It is currently 2014. Next Gen hardware is available now from certain retailers. But it is not yet current gen. That’s the last gen. To afford Next Gen hardware you may need to…

Monetise. The process of monetisation is going to increase your position well into Q1. Then you will be in a truly great position for Qs 2, 3 and 4.

Some other things you should probably avoid:

To be clear/Let’s be clear/Let’s be absolutely clear about this
This is a phrase used mainly by politicians who want to emphasise a point, in order to bolster the lie they are telling. When you use it, you sound like David Cameron.

Possibility space
What is a possibility space? I guess it is a space in which things are possible. There is another word for this. A space.

Other or otherness
If you are writing for an academic journal (or EDGE magazine) writing about the Other will go down very nicely. If you are writing a preview of the next Call of Duty game for Shortlist, leave it out.

A not small amount of X / Not unlike Y / Not unenjoyable
A large amount of X. Like Y. Enjoyable.

Going forward / Going forward in this space
This is a phrase used by managers and people whose job is to boss others. It means ‘in future’ but also includes some vague implication of progress. The speaker believes this lends them a sense of authority and foresight. After all, they have seen the space into which we are going forward. Maybe it is a possibility space. Hopefully it is not an impossibility space. In reality, the person who says going forward is usually the asshole nobody wants to follow, forward or in any direction.

Note: To my shame, I have used some of these words and phrases myself. I hope to be forgiven someday. Until then, I can only post this as a guideline, so you can learn from my mistakes. The list isn’t a complete one. As always, break any rule of language if it makes you laugh.

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On Scratchcards: The Correct Way To Scratch


[There is an audio version of this essay available here and on YouTube]

Scratchcards – the most worldly and humble of the lesser gambles. Although I am far from being one of the people who are inexplicably and tragically addicted to them, scratchcards nevertheless maintain a power over me. I was talking about them with some friends recently and concluded that my enjoying a scratchcard has more to do with ritual than money. Although, let’s be honest, like all forms of gambling, the money is at the nucleus of its strange charm.

I like scratchcards because there is a very particular method of playing a scratchcard, which goes far beyond the simple physical act of searching for gold beneath the layer of coarse latex, scouring away at that grey scum of possibility. No. The correct – the ONLY – way to play a scratchcard is to adhere with fearsome loyalty to the Caldwell System of Gambling, which I will now describe.

Firstly, you must buy a scratchcard only as an impulse, when buying other things. Arriving one day at the checkout, with your hands full of milk, bacon, chilli-coated peanuts, you will glance absent-mindedly at the stand of colourful cards and be immediately shaken with the intense feeling that you are alive and that nobody can stop you from winning everything. Although, that is not to say you feel confident. This is a feeling more wistful and playful in nature than confidence. It stands to reason that what you are feeling is a sense of fatefulness. If you are an atheist, this is the closest you will ever come to detecting providence in your life. Put down your milk for a moment.

Now the decision comes: which card to choose? This is a simple matter. Do not make the common mistake of believing the £5 scratchcard is in some way superior to the £2 scratchcard, itself more honourable than the £1 scratchcard. This is wrong. All scratchcards were made equal, except the ones with money in them, which have been made rich. The people that create these cards have the most beautiful name – the Scientific Games Corporation – beautiful because such a name is one more glinting jewel of evidence that we live in the Future and that dystopia is redundant. In any case, the Aryan myth of the £5 scratchcard’s nobility of breeding probably stems from the increased odds of winning. However, as we shall see, these odds (fluctuating approximately between 1 in 4 to 1 in 3.5) simply do not matter, as success is mostly incidental to the following proceedings. In fact, to the untrained eye, the Caldwell System appears to want nothing to do with winning. The process can be more likened to ‘having the craic’ or perhaps theatre. Remaining mindful of the excess of customers forming behind you (carrying their milk, bacon, chilli coated peanuts) you should therefore choose the scratchcard with the most modest character, invariably of the £1 variety. This is a part of the story foundation process. If you should ever win big (the Top Prize on these purple ones says £100,000) you will want the story to begin thus.

YOU: I won £100,000 on a scratchcard!

MOTHER: Good God! Was it one of thon £5 behemoths?

YOU: Nay. Twas but a quid. A punt in the dark.

MOTHER: The purple ones! You don’t say?

YOU: I do, I do.

MOTHER: You are a meek one, to be sure. You won’t forget your roots as a rich man.

YOU: I certainly will not.

However unlikely this scenario may seem, it is important to stay honest by buying only the £1 cards. Any other species and a win – no matter how great – is inevitably  polluted by the grandiose gesture of spending five whole pounds on a single card, not to mention aligning yourself with the Übermensch bigotry of the more unsavoury scratch theorists. No. You will recognise the card for you very easily. The £1 cards are plain of colour and font, simple of conceit, sometimes adorned with ungainly mutant scrawls masquerading as cartoon pigs. You should buy only one.

The following phase is difficult for those to whom it does not come naturally. You must put the scratchcard into your back pocket (this is very important) and, as soon as possible, forget entirely that it exists. The reason the back pocket is used and not the front, despite the obvious disadvantages, is that, above all, the principle of fatalism must follow the course of this card for as long as it remains unscratched. This means putting it in your back pocket to allow for the slim possibility that bodily motion will cause the card to slip out unnoticed on the pavement, in the restaurant, in the restroom. Yes, you will lose the card in this case – but this too is a part of the process. Like I say, this phase is difficult for many people to grasp but allow me to put it to you like this: have you ever found an un-scratched scratchcard lying on the ground? (On the pavement? In the restaurant? In the restroom?) Did you pick it up? And did you smile to the blue and white canopy above you as if the sky itself had provided the card? And did you spare a brief thought for the man or woman who adhered to the back pocket routine, understanding all the while the possible costs? If the answer is ‘yes’ then you will understand this adherence to karmic fate – it is an almost Eastern feeling of universal destiny and the acceptance that one is subservient to Events. This includes losing the scratchcard, which you have anyway entirely forgotten about. Never mind, for someone else may find it and win, while the world spins on.

Some time later (days, a week?) something will occur or some words will be idly said and your brain will crack like a sparkplug. The scratchcard! The sensation of reaching into your back pocket to feel the thin sliver of theatre and hope and finding it still there, with all its attendant possibilities, is remarkable. Do you see now? It is for this intense (if short-lived) smile that the previous phase is indulged. This is an important point: the practice of deferred gratification can apply even to the gambler. A person imbued suddenly with a fateful and dreamy impulse at the checkout can also contain within them the most wonderful cornerstone of discipline – a calm forgetfulness. Only now, when the mixture of remembrance and delight has compelled you into your back pocket for the card, is it time to scratch.

The mathematics behind the scratching drill itself are difficult to describe in any brief way. You should be aware that this is a very precise, mechanical operation. The preparations are the easiest part to detail. You will need to find a penny, or a two pence coin. It is IMPERATIVE that you use only these coins. No other coin will do. As an American or other nationality, the smallest equivalent denomination is to be used. The reasoning behind this is similar to that which prohibits the purchase of £5 cards under the system. In fact, a disdain for all ostentation (buying multiple cards, scratching them with gaudy £2 coins) runs through the whole process. Scratching with your house key or car key is certainly out of the question. Using your thumbnail or fingernails is allowed but only if they are not glossy with bright paint or adorned with tiny jewels. However, should the fingernail paint be flaking off, days or weeks after application, then by all means: scratch away. Ignore these caveats and conditions at your own peril.

Get your brown coin or plain fingernail ready. Many minds will have tried to reduce the optimum order of scratching to its base mathematical formula. Yet, there is no perfect ‘Tic Tac Toe’ solution to these flaky grids, and the system I am prescribing cannot be said to be perfect by any means. Nonetheless, it is rooted in a simple emotive idea: that you must keep yourself in suspense for as long as possible, especially while scratching. In the spirit of this suspense, it is perhaps wise to put down your coin so that we may take some time out to describe the ‘Ten Percent’ rule.

The ‘Ten Percent’ rule is simple. If a family member is in the room when the scratchcard has been remembered and retrieved, then etiquette demands that you agree to give them ten percent of the winnings, should Fortune rule in your favour. However, they should refrain from demanding their cut outright, as it is impolite. Still, it is equally, if not MORE offensive to play the card without any comment at all, or with a brusqueness that implies you did not care who won anything. Please practice caution if there is more than one family member in the room, as things may become dangerous.

Now that royalties have been mostly covered, the scratching can finally begin. Take the brown coin, or unembellished fingernail, and scratch the card’s grid methodically, taking time to consider each revelation separately. Remember that suspense is the key to the technique.


Since there are likely to be onlookers and the process involves a certain air of theatricality, it requires statements be made (“Let’s do this thing!”), updates be given (“Oh! We have two £1000s!”) and summaries be provided (“Okay, we’ve got a £10 and a £100 as a possibility”). This is all not to mention the final flourish when the last possible digit is scratched and revealed, which should always be accompanied with a gambler’s battle-cry – a guttural, growling “come ooonnnnNNNNNN!” descending to a “NNNAAaaghh fuck it” when loss is incurred.


Should you win, remember to honour the Ten Percent rule, but beyond that the celebration is yours. I know of no process for winning, nor for being rich. Fate has either delivered you to riches, or placed you back in the line for the checkout. If you have lost, look over your card one last time and remember the final act of the ritual, more important than any other. You must tear the scratchcard directly in two.


The Tear is colossally significant. In this way you have dismissed it all. You have dismissed the riches, the consumption, the possibilities. All the energy of the process may have led up to the point where a gruff cry of hope resounded throughout your home. Yet a shrug and a single swift tear is all that is needed to dispose of it. Do not tear the card again, into quarters – you do not need to. Once is OK. The cars, the holidays, the clothes, the things. They are not for you. You did not want £100,000 anyway. This is perhaps the most necessary part of the process. The final salute to Fate. At the end of a scratchcard, as in all of life: remember the Tear.

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The Unenviable Insomnia of Halloran Kin


Hallo there.

For the past few months I have been working on a poem. No wait! Don’t go! This isn’t like those other poems! No, this one is good. You know those long, sprawling, spooky poems, like The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Coleridge? Or twisting, dastardly misadventures like The Shooting of Dangerous Dan McGrew by Robert Service? They’re good poems, aren’t they? And you know why. Because they are long and they RHYME GOOD.

I have always admired a piece of poetry that rhymed and told a mysterious story at the same time. Much more than the cryptic, interpretive stuff that people click their fingers to (although that can be fun too). I thought I would do one of these narrative sagas myself, imbued with a tint of gothic modern life. So, I set out to write a long poem that RHYMES GOOD.

The result is a piece called The Unenviable Insomnia of Halloran Kin. Here is the blurb:

“Out to the churn, you will depart,
out to that London din.
And don’t return, without the heart,
of the man called Halloran Kin.”


Halloran Kin lives in Belfast as an idler, just one of a clan of 1001 cousins. But when he finds himself hounded and criminalised by Djinn, he is forced to make a stumbling escape that will take him all across the North Atlantic nations of Europe – from the frozen tundra of Iceland to the foggy wilds of Galicia.

Inspired by poems like The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge and The Cremation of Sam McGee by Robert Service, Halloran Kin is a long rhyming poem set in a dark world of monsters, animals and Ghasts. Told in seven parts, this macabre fugitive’s story spans a decade of chronic remorse, sleeplessness, betrayal, friendship and faith.


There you have it. Most of the tale is related by Halloran Kin himself, as he sits in a bar inhabited by strange creatures. At 1433 lines, the story is over twice as long as the Ancient Mariner, so strap yourself in for a long ride. At the same time, I understand that this can be quite daunting, so please have a read of the extract below, to see if it is something you feel you’d like to check out.

Or, if you’re already sold and want to avoid SPOILERSThe Unenviable Insomnia of Halloran Kin is available now for Kindle on Amazon for about £1.50 or on the Kobo ebooks Store for the same price. If you prefer, you can simply buy a file containing 6 different formats (.epub, .mobi, .awz3, .lit, .htmlz & .html) totally DRM-free from Gumroad! (Even if you do not have a tablet, the .html file will still allow you to read the poem as one long scroll on your internet browser). If you want an EXCELLENT PERSON DISCOUNT, just tweet me saying so (@Brendy_C) and I will send you a promo code! This will get you the book for 99p! 

That’s all the salesmanship I can stomach for now. If there is a little interest I would like to do an audiobook version of the book at some point. But this depends on many Things. Anyway, if you enjoy my writing and fancy a little adventure, be sure to pick it up!

Thank you.


An extract from The Unenviable Insomnia of Halloran Kin, in which our protagonist, for certain reasons, has escaped to a strange city called ‘Sheffield’: 

“A dark, dark place, an urban waste,
I’d been run down to a run-down,
but not a face the law would chase
into that ferocious town.
A firm of Adders and of Newts,
needed tough folk for a task,
they’d give you gloves and give you boots,
and questions they’d not ask.

They put us in a warehouse deep,
and told us not to shirk,
but ‘cause I could not eat nor sleep,
all I did was work.
We worked all night, our chests were tight
and there were plenty faintings,
our job for that dank reptile mob,
was framing fake oil paintings.

We’d graft the wood as best we could,
and sand the splinters gone,
varnish the grains, and fake the stains
– the ‘history’ – it shone!
And I filled crates, with two workmates,
called Gallagher and Jones,
and we’d make frames between our games
of Klax and Knucklebones.

Gallagher was kind and round,
and loyal to a fault,
Jones was skeletal but sound,
and drank her pints with salt.
At knucklebones Jones was the best,
she threw the bone so high,
that she could sand and sculpt and dress,
a frame while it did fly.

And skinny Jones, her face so wan,
of this skill she was proud,
and Gallagher, that jolly man,
was always laughing loud.
A year soon passed, with these good two,
in service of the Adders.
When we were asked, ‘what work y’do?’
we said: ‘We’re making ladders.’

And just when my guilt let me by,
and peace I thought I’d gain,
I took some oak, and set to stroke
some grimace from the grain.
And just when I thought, by and by,
I’d left behind my sin,
There formed a face, of that cramped race,
the second of the Djinn.

‘It’s Kin! It’s Kin! It’s Halloran Kin!
It’s him, that very same!’
The Djinn, the Djinn, his hateful twin!
I threw down the frame.
And still it spoke, with funny croak,
‘Kin! You’d best listen true!
I’ve come for craic, with six-a-pack!
I’ve come to humour you!’

With caution now I spoke,
approached the magic oak,
propped up the frame,
and asked the name,
of this merry Djinny bloke.

‘Call me Sofa, call me that,
I’m not what I appear,
I’m a wastrel, but no rat,
come see, just look in here!’

The frame, it shuddered,
the corners stuttered,
there grew a sudden canvas.
A shining screen, was all-between,
and filled with … sneezing pandas?

He played me GIFs, and funny clips,
of cats and dogs and bats and frogs,
and videos of falling down
and getting drunk,
and spinning round,
and children biting children’s fingers,
drowsy dancers, lousy singers,
and though not exactly profound,
the laughter in me lingers.

‘What say you?’ he said with flair,
that living, laughing oak,
‘Though Djinn you are,’ I said with care,
‘you can stay here and joke.
But ‘gainst this wall you will be lashed,
and if you harm these folk,
your canvas will be wholly smashed,
and your frame will be broke.’

And so he watched us as we worked,
and larked with us at breaks,
he played us vids, and yes we smirked,
while finishing the fakes.

He bet on Klax and, with wisecracks,
our games of Knucklebones,
became fast friends with Gallagher,
and solid pals with Jones.

For all his craic and all his fun,
I first did naught but spite him.
But since he was a funny one,
I too came soon to like him.

He watched our games, and learned our names,
told us of merry memes.
And with his ways, the next few days,
was cause of many screams.”

Halloran clasps at his eyes,
as if he’d tear them out.
I would bet there’s more regret
“Barman! A pint of stout!”

His eyes are veined, his eyes are strained,
his eyes are bloody-shot.
He needs another drink, you think,
to really hit the spot.

And here the barman comes along,
some creature made of cloth.
He fixes you with linen stare,
and a feather pillow cough.

“How much drink, d’you have to sink?
What time d’you call it quits?”
Kin just grins: “I’ve had one tin,
and I’ll not sleep ‘til six.”

He sips.
He stews.
He continues.

“There was a day, the Adders came,
and came with Newts et al.
They slithered in, but all the same,
they looked professional.

‘All right, you three, now listen close,’
they slipped around our shins,
‘Two of you have got to go,
That’s how the market spins.
Two of you are fired chums,
you’re to be sacked next week,
we’ve crunched the numbers, done the sums,
output has reached its peak.

Please accept this book token,
our deepest of contritions,
although we hope you three do ken,
our Terms and our Conditions:
There’s only one position hence,
but all three must apply.
Newts! Let’s go talk to our fence,
and sort these issues of supply!’

Yes, we three already knew,
the Terms of this damp, rotten zoo,
not by the skilled,
the position’s filled,
but the one who killed the other two.


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Top 10 of Everything in 2013

What a year. What a bumper, crazy year. We saw a lot of strange and scary events take place across the world, from civil unrest to unusual animal behaviour. But there was also a lot happening in the entertainment industry and huge leaps forward in technology. To mark the wondrousness of 2013, here is my personal list of the year’s highlights in games, books, film and more.   

1. Top Videogame: Slug Me A Dram

Slug Me A Dram was a surprise hit on the videogame circuit. Following the difficult post-war life of hardened Interstellar Navy SEAL Chad Mathers, players were taken on a rough and difficult ride through explosive flashbacks. Highlights included the section titled ‘Siege of Lava Planet X’ which saw the player wade through the crisp corpses of his child-soldier victims. But what made the game really unique was that these flashback sequences happened only in sharp, infrequent bursts of 30 seconds or less. The majority of the game (a one-hundred hour epic) was spent playing out civilian life on Earthlike Moon IV – getting the bus, buying your groceries, sitting in silence at the dinner table in your mother’s house. All the while terrified that a sudden party-popper might explode, sending poor Mathers into another violent FPS seizure. Much of the game is spent in the bar and it is no surprise that the ex-SEAL’s catchphrase (and title of the game) “Ack slug me a dram willya Kimberly?” became an internet meme within days of release.

2. Top Movie: Kill Them

Kill Them was always going to be big news. No film can be in production for 17 years without the weight of expectation crushing it into the ground on release day. When thousands of cinema-goers bought tickets for the opening screenings, explaining that the movie was likely to be “so bad it’s good”, they were universally disappointed to discover the reverse – that the movie was so good it was bad. Critics slated it, with a review in Empire describing it: “Spectacular, for fuck sake.” The story focused on the existential angst of Drill Sergeant Grisham Wells who has lost his lust for the march and begins to take an interest in Massively Multiplayer Games in an effort to rekindle his militarism. One after another, the games become dull and lifeless to him, until he tries a children’s game called Pony Hunter out of sheer curiosity. The tale of friendship, care and laughter that follows is possibly the most heart-warming film of the past decade. The derision and contempt that surrounded its release was perfectly summed up by award-winning film critic Silvia Ornst: “It’s excellent,” she said. “Sickening, really.”

3. Top News Story: Calrax’s Entrance

This was a year when civil wars raged throughout many lands and the mass surveillance of an entire globe became known, first as breaking news, then as a Broadway musical in the form of ‘Stop! Whistleblower!’ (see Top 10 Musicals of 2013). So when life from a dimension beyond our own first appeared in the cavernous tunnels beneath Switzerland in February, many people were nonplussed. Calrax, as she preferred to be called, was unusual in stature, being a digitised body of infinite wisdom and cynicism. But that did not stop several tabloids from photographing the blemishes that appeared on computer screens all across the world at the time and splashing these photos across their front pages with headlines like: “CALRAX’S CELLULITE NIGHTMARE” or “The self-proclaimed ‘Bodyless Goddess’ can’t hide THESE snaps”. When Calrax retaliated by removing the email and bank accounts of all Daily Mail reporters from existence, many were worried that she had descended into a tyrannous rage. But these fears were fortunately misplaced. After her rise to power in Belgium, where citizens were glad of a computer to fill the reopening power vacuum, she put forward a global law to the UN which suggested all operating systems come with a built-in ‘Kitten Switch’, replacing all error messages with images of fluffy creatures. The law was unanimously agreed upon and Calrax won the admiration of millions of ordinary citizens. Reports of strange ethereal noises coming from circuit boards across the world have yet to be directly attributed to the Goddess’ interference.

4. Top Fiction Book: ‘Who’s A Sour Mash Man?’ By George Lambast

Fiction in 2013 was riddled with bestsellers. But only one piece of work stood out as a truly clever literary sensation. ‘Who’s A Sour Mash Man?’ was the story we had all secretly expected to exist somewhere in the world but which authors, up until now, had all been too fearful to write. George Lambast took that fear by the scruff of its neck and told it to stop misbehaving. Then he murdered it. ‘Who’s A Sour Mash Man?’ is the semi-autobiographical tale of an East Asian parrot called Barker who emigrates to Texas, where he falls madly in love with a pitiful rogue whom the locals have nicknamed ‘Benny Cough Syrup’. The blossoming relationship between the parrot and Benny is one of both tenderness and cruelty, as we begin to see the psychological warfare that consumes the pair. Increasingly ostracised from the rest of Houston, they turn on each other, resulting in a psychedelic cough medicine-soaked finale in which Barker the parrot states, with a deep, philosophical wisdom beyond his years: “Only a bird in love can know true terror. Caaaw!”

5. Top Non-Fiction Book: Compendium of Fierceness 2013

If autobiographies were the ubiquitous winner of publishing in the year 2012 (and every year before) then the rise of the Compendium is surely all the more notable. This year publishing house ‘Wrodsmiths’ launched their collections of miscellany to the cheers of billions of enthralled readers. The Compendium of Alertness was quickly followed by the Compendium of Morbidity and, while the Compendium of Lethargy saw a less enthusiastic reception, the Compendium of Malice broke August sales records in every country except Belgium (where the Calrax autobiography, ‘My Plan’, was eagerly bought by 107% of the population). But it was the Compendium of Fierceness which captured the imagination of inquisitive readers everywhere. Filled with comprehensive lists of beasts, monsters, mythical heroes, Amazonian tribespeoples, warriors, sharks, eels, spine-covered trees and hailstorms – all categorised in order of severity – the voracious consumers of the world lapped it up. Next year will see the release of many more Compendiums, according to Wrodsmiths, as well as the launch of an international ‘Compendiana’ – a deadly contest of memorisation and list-building, the exact rules of which are yet to be revealed.

6. Top Poem: ‘When I Yield, If I Yield’ by Charles Quail

A winner of the prestigious Heartbleed Poetry Prize for more than 10 years in a row, Charles Quail exceeded all expectations in November, when he released this resolutely non-rhyming epic into the wilds of the Kindle Store. Who can reliably remember a time when this poem’s great power did not save them from the ultimate destruction of hopelessness? (“I am in a wind. / The gale goes fast. / Oh God, it is not a gale at all. / Help. / Help. / I have fallen off a high building. / I wish I had not fallen off this high building.”)

7. Top Board Game: Party Knife

This was an unusual gambit for veteran board game creator Stanislav Pike, who enjoys almost universal acclaim for his previous party games. In Party Knife, six or more players are dealt hidden role cards. Five of these cards are blank. But one card is coloured a deep shade of crimson and emblazoned with the words: ‘You Are The Party Knife’. Players must then disperse into the house, occupying one room each. They have to barricade themselves in as quickly and efficiently as possible. The ‘Party Knife’ will seek to make his or her barricade less sturdy, as he or she will soon try to leave and begin the Lurking Phase. During this time, the Party Knife will take a meat knife from the kitchen (or other instrument of equivalent sharpness) and stab holes in the doors of the other players. Players who receive a stabbed door must shout out: “Party Knife, Party Knife! I see you! / Spare my life, spare my life! Please won’t you!” then make a guess as to who the Party Knife is. If they are correct, the knife is slid under the door and THEY become the Party Knife. If they are wrong, the Party Knife will continue the Lurking Phase until he or she has been correctly guessed and replaced, or until all other players have been killed, whichever comes first.

8. Top Television Programme: Bust A Crime

When Netflix was bought out in September by the newly formed Calrax Initiative, along with 88 other companies of the FTSE100, television viewers were concerned that the quality of TV programmes would suffer. They need not have worried. Bust A Crime had every age group enthralled from its now iconic pilot episode. Who could not have instantly fallen for the charms of Pleasance White, the gruff but lovable non-gender-specific whisp of intelligent smoke, who solved every baffling police case using only the power of rhyme? Only the Belgian gameshow ‘Execution Live!’ received a higher viewer count than Bust A Crime’s bombastic season finale. Three more series are planned, with scripts for a movie doing the rounds in Hollywood among writers well versed in Rhyming Criminology. Poet Charles Quail invited the wrath of Pleasance fans everywhere when he said in an interview that the series was “Absolute twiddle-twaddle and quite shit” but later rescinded his remarks after meeting Calrax herself at a Royal Ball in October. What did he think of the digitally displaced being of ultimate power? “Absolutely charming,” he chuckled, “I concede she has done great things for television.”

9. Top Music: ‘This Room Stinks & You Can All Go To Hell Especially You, Jerkwad’ by The Elegants

After quickly establishing themselves as the big chiefs of featherpunk in 2012, The Elegants’ second album actually passed many critics by unnoticed. Many theorised that their quieter, less practiced and instrumental direction alienated fans of their post-grank cyber ballads. TRS&YCAGTHEYJ was a shocking tonal shift. Part whamrap, part krumpstep, the album initially baffled listeners by including ten 5-minute tracks of total silence, before finally squeezing every song they recorded into the final two tracks, two minutes apiece. A strategy that many music journalists have now concluded was ludicrously ahead of its time.

10. Top New Technology: The Shuffler

Admit it, you thought the Shuffler was a silly name to begin with. We all did. It sounded like a toy that would come into your house and mix up your alphabetised mineral collection. But it isn’t! The Shuffler, even though it has only been out for a month and a half, has revolutionised the way we think about pets. Before, our furry little friends were stable but bland. Our cats stayed cats, our dogs stayed dogs. But along came the Shuffler – another amazing species from the Calrax Initiative’s pet shop branch. As you read, your wonderful swordfish Fluffy may be cocooning right now, ready to start her fifteenth ‘cycle’ as an adorable stick insect, or perhaps a rattlesnake. The real genius was the decision to remove the customer’s choice from the regeneration process – you just don’t know what you’re going to get! Other technologies came thick and fast this year through the Calrax Rift above Belgium (the Twangboard, the Filth Ray, The Lazzzzer) but the Shuffler took humanity by storm in a way no others could, filling up Vines and Tweets with footage of humourous quadrupeds and the concerned faces of animal welfare officers. When the Shufflers began to mass cocoon over the Brussels skyline, locking the city into a huge humming cone of whitish fibre, some customers were annoyed. But when they saw that the 200ft chimera which emerged was under the caring command of Empress Calrax, the world breathed a sigh of relief. Better still, to celebrate the birthing of the ‘Skyhound’ (as Calrax affectionately named the creature) humanity would be taken through the Calrax Rift by the truckload, where we would all start our new lives as digitised ether in another world. It is my pleasure, dear reader, that when I passed through the glowing purple rupture I was immediately designated the form of the text in this article. I could not have asked for a more enriching and rewarding existence. And it is all thanks to the wondrous Shuffler.

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This Heart Which Once Was Owned

[Wrote story. To be filed among the annal(s) of Journohaus, cross-referenced under the sub-sections ‘adventure’, ‘strange’, ‘odd’ and ‘impossible’. Read on … ]

A strange thing happened to me today. Or rather, a number of strange things happened to me today, and in so rapid and consistent a fashion that I have barely had time to determine whether or not the strange things have ceased happening. I half expect that, any moment now, some new puzzlement will raise its head above the parapet of mystery and charge straight through the doors of Journohaus – this infamous, much-maligned abode of my housemates and myself.

But I am getting ahead of myself. You see, it all started when I went in to my local Oxfam. I walked in during my leisure time (Wednesday) and listened, with a smile on my face, to the hollow tinkle of the broken bell on the door. I had barely begun to say “Hello, Simon!” when I looked up to discover that Simon, the regular Oxfam boy, was not at his post. There was some other person – a giant in dungarees, who was assaulting stacks of Patricia Cornwell with a pricing gun, and riveting them with price stickers in an almost hypnotic manner.

I didn’t think much of it, except that it was a very hot Wednesday to be wearing dungarees. Like every visit to my local Oxfam second-hand book shop on Streatham High Street, I perused the collectibles section with a silent, focused verve and it wasn’t long before I found a first edition of Kendra Redford’s excellent debut ‘This Heart Which Once Was Owned’. I hope I do not shame myself too much when I admit that I had still not read those illustrious words. Though Redford is possibly the most lauded literary woman of the past three decades, within certain circles, I had been thwarted by chance and laziness when it came to sitting down to read her works. Well, no longer, I thought. For the fair price of three pounds sterling I was certain to finally enjoy this much-honoured story of Miss Valerie Fore, impoverished child entrepreneur, who becomes an eminent flautist and gentlelady, before being laid low by society’s fickle whims, then brought back to her previous station (and then laid low again). I had heard so much good about this stormy narrative that, in my enthusiasm, I leapt over the piles of paperbacks toward the checkout desk, forgot all about the giant in dungarees, and shouted, “Simon! Look!”

“Simon’s not in today,” said the giant, as he went on stamping Patricia Cornwell books with an invincible rhythm.

“Oh, yes, of course,” I said. “Well, in any case, I’d like to buy this, please.”

I handed him the copy of ‘This Heart Which Once Was Owned’ and he held it in one hand as he peered down at me over the rim of the hard, brown cover. All the while the stamping of the plastic pricing gun continued, like the tick-tock of some terrible pocket watch.

“Three pounds sterling, please,” said the giant.

During the exchange which followed I would see, at separate times, each of the giant’s hands as they individually engulfed various coins and calculated change. But the plasticated hammering of the pricing gun never ceased its once-a-second pattern. Very strange. It was only afterward, when I stepped outside the Oxfam and examined the tough, threaded texture of my newly-acquired precious first edition, that I realised I had not even inspected the inside of the book!

In a panic I clawed open the volume and as I flicked through, searching for the exploits of Miss Valerie Fore, her upbringing in rural Hampshire, her musical awakening with the gypsy spoons band, her abduction by villainous landowners, the correction of her posture by successive schoolmistresses, the distressing episode with the otter-men and the eventual rescue by a well-meaning fisherwoman – all this, as I flipped through searching for all this, I saw instead printed, on each and every page, the words: ‘This Product Is Pre-Owned. Please Purchase Full Book For £7.99’, followed by some vague encoded instruction on how to buy the 259,751 missing words.

Well, you can imagine how I felt. I was overcome by a fury so intense that it was a full ten minutes before I could express myself in English to the giant without resorting to huge roars and calamitous belches.

“This book has no words in it!” I said.

The giant looked inside and held the pages open with his non-pricing hand.

“Yes it does,” he said, “but I can see they are not very interesting.”

I breathed deeply and suppressed a furious screech.

“No,” I said. “They are not very interesting at all. Where are the chapters? Where is the story? Where is the part with the Walrus trainer that I read about in the Guardian Online Review Supplement? I paid three pounds sterling for this!”

I held the book aloft and slammed it violently against the counter, before immediately regretting it and cradling it apologetically to my chest.

“I can arrange a refund, if you like,” said the loathsome, helpful giant.

“I don’t want a refund, I want my book!”

“I think you might have to follow the instructions inside then, sir.”

“But but but…”

My fury was fading, replaced by a sense of falling. I was succumbing to the worst of all possible modern afflictions – consumer despondency. I could feel myself crumbling into a state of tearful helplessness.

“But… but… listen, where’s Simon!? He’ll sort this out, he always knows what’s what. Why isn’t he working today?”

“Simon has a new job now, sir.”

My lip began to quiver.

“A new job?  But Oxfam boys work for free,” I said, comprehending less and less of the dungareed creature’s continued pleas for calm.

“Yes, exactly,” he said. “He got a job and now he gets paid. It’s something to do with books as well, I think. Look, I will write down the phone number for you.”

The giant looked around for a pen and found nothing. When we had both exhausted every corner of the counter and had lifted every askance copy of Patricia Cornwell in our search, he decided that there was no pen or pencil available. It was then that he took the rickety plastic pricing gun and, after a few adjustments to the dial, began to stamp the stickered digits of a telephone number onto my arm. With an affirming, synchronised nod we both agreed it was an ingenious workaround and in that way we made our peace before I left the Oxfam to find the part of the pavement with mobile phone reception.

A few dozen women with Caribbean accents had crowded the three slabs where the reception in Streatham is brightest and were talking excitedly into their phones and to each other about the latest Patricia Cornwell release. As a result I was isolated to the outside of the receptive zone, where I would get only a single bar of phone service. I crushed up against a large Polish lady with a tremendous grin and a pram full of tiny human fingers and called the number on the stickers, which were by now beginning to peel off in the bright Wednesday sun. As I idled and waited for my call to be answered, I opened ‘This Heart Which Once Was Owned’ and shook my head accusingly at the words which had enraged me so. ‘This Product Is Pre-Owned’. Indeed! ‘Please Purchase Full Book For £7.99’. Well! ‘For Purchasing Queries Please Call…’

Wait! This number in the book… Why, it was the number I had been given by the giant in Oxfam, to phone Simon. The very number I was now calling. What was going on here? Who was doing all this? The Polish lady and all the other Caribbean-voiced women saw the consternation and terror in my face and began to laugh beautifully and boldly.

“Hello, you’ve reached  Uberbooker, my name is Simon, how can I hel –

“Simon!” I cried down the receiver. “Simon, it’s me!”


“It’s me, the man who comes and buys the collectibles at Oxfam. Where are you? I need to speak to you urgently!”

“Oh… Oh no, listen. Listen,” he said, lowering his voice, “You need to not call here. They’ll be listening! Don’t chase this up. Please, collectibles man. If I know you, you’ll be trying all sorts and messing this all up!”

“But –

“No, listen! You’ve got to trust me on this. Don’t. Worry. I’m fine, really it’s ju – shit! I have to go.”

“But Simon!”

It was too late. He had hung up on me. I tried calling back several times but I could only get through to an automated switchboard which read out several business haikus and asked me to press the number on my keypad which best reflected how many kilos of Patricia Cornwell books I wanted to be sent to my nearest Uberbooker warehouse. I pressed nine-zero-zero to see what would happen and the automated switchboard told me: “Thank you. You have ordered. Nine. Zero. Zero. Kilos of. Patricia Cornwell. To. Nineteen. Broadswamp Avenue. Soho. London. If you would like to review your order, please press. One.”

I hung up, looked up at the burning Wednesday sky and memorised the address. Simon was in danger, and I was sure he didn’t even know it. Whoever this shadowy Uberbooker company was, it was certainly not going to cheat me out of my first edition Kendra Redford. As I stormed towards the bus stop I found myself clutching the book and wondering what Redford herself would do – a woman so courageous and mighty that she would have stopped at nothing to save her local Oxfam. A woman who had not once but twice won the Colman Watts Literary Prize for Feminist Ghost Fiction. In truth, I thought as I stepped on the bus and swiped my Oyster travel card, she is the strongest lady of them all, and simply would not stand for this.

“Lobster card, please.”


The bus driver had called after me. I walked three measured steps backwards to face his booth and said, “L-l-l-lobster card?”

He sighed and pointed to a row of bright card-reading machines that ran along the gulley of the bus’ interior, like a row of tiny bongo drums, each bearing a different colour and strange symbol. The bus driver swivelled as best his twisted spine allowed him and pointed to each machine in turn.

“Lobster card. Mussel card. Urchin card. Prawn card…”

“Wait wait –

“… King Crab Card. Krill card. Deep Sea Anemone Card…”

“But an anemone isn’t a crustacean! That doesn’t even fit the pattern!

The bus driver sighed again and closed the bus doors. He pulled away from the bus stop and drove on, impatiently. He glanced once or twice at me with a glare informed by years of customer hatred. When he saw me still standing there looking hopeless after three stops of professional card-swiping passengers he took a deep breath and, still driving the red monster into the centre of the city, began to explain the new technical intricacies of London Transport.

“The Lobster Card is like the Oyster Card,” he said, “in that it deducts from your sum. But it uses Travel Points instead of cash. The Mussel Card is like the Krill Card, which is an iterative card that adds Travel Bonus Points, except that the Mussel Card is for Travel Credit Points. The Prawn Card and the Urchin Card are similar, in that they both deduct AND subtract from your Extraneous Stationary Credits, with the only difference being that the Urchin Card takes a higher proportion of Contemporary Creditable Reserve Travel from the users, in accordance with TfL guidelines. The King Crab Card, well! That’s for banking Creditable Travel Credits and the Deep Sea Anemone Card is simply for cashing Travelable Crediting Points.”

I blinked and said, “Yes, I see now. Where can I purchase these cards?”

“You can purchase these cards,” he said, “at any reputable Crustifarian outlet, or in TfL stations.”

“Thank you,” I said. And with that we both spent the rest of the bus journey ensconced in a thoughtless silence until the bus arrived in Soho, under the blistering mid-week sun. I hopped off and walked up and down the crowded street until I discovered a distended TfL Crustifarian logo hanging outside a small alleyway newsagents. I approached and saw that the sign – the silhouette of a subspecies of Brazilian ghost crab, if I was not mistaken – was drooping and melting in the heat, so that it no longer resembled the transport trademark but a long-limbed yellow alien. I went into the newsagents and promptly collected all seven travel cards, happily paying the £7.99 deposit for each.

“Would you like the new Scampi Card?” the woman behind the counter asked in a broad Punjabi accent. And she grinned at me in such a matriarchal and knowing way that I instantly answered that I did, and would be very glad for it. “It is in beta,” she said, smiling. “So there may be a few minor issues.”

I paid the extra and left, forgetting to ask exactly which type of currency the Scampi Card functioned on or what was the card’s particular rate of deduction, retraction, complementation, or sub-addition.

I consulted a map stand and discovered that Broadswamp Avenue was nearby. Finally, I would discover who exactly was behind all of this and what they had done with my friend Simon, who was surely under strict observation and subject to any amount of infernal tortures. If I wanted to alleviate his pains, I had to hurry!

“Pasty, sir?”

“Oh, yes please.”

I took the pasty and napkin from the travelling pasty salesman and began to chew as I mulled over which direction I should walk in.

“That’ll be £7.99 please, sir.”

“By feh gloreh uff feh Almighteh!”

“I know, sir, I know. But it’s inflation you see.”

“Thiff pafty if RULLY HAWT,” I said, handing him the money.

“I know sir, I know. But it’s taxes you see.”

I got my bearings and started to run down the streets of Soho, regaining some of my former urgency. It was only when I reached the corner of Broadswamp and started to waddle purposefully down the dreary cobblestoned avenue that I began to suspect, chew by chew, that the pasty I had bought contained no meat or vegetables, only a thick brown sauce that had substituted flavour for an intense heat. I simultaneously began to sweat and regret my purchasing decision.

I looked up and saw that I had arrived at number nineteen, the entrance to which resembled the backstage door to some clandestine theatre. I finished off the sauce pasty and wiped my hands on the napkin, then made my way inside. After travelling through several ill-lit corridors and passing three creatures I can only assume were urban foxes made good, I arrived in a wide-open warehouse floor densely packed with dark blue, dark red and dark white paperbacks. They all bore the name ‘Patricia Cornwell’ in bold, stark lettering, apart from a small stack in the corner which was written by Glen L. Feol and titled: ‘The Complete Patricia Cornwell Companion’. I looked across the books and saw that they continued into the horizon, where my eyes dimly perceived some movement. There were several more of the fox-like creatures scavenging among the volumes, trotting atop the piles with nimble, long-limbed strides.

I rolled the legs of my jeans up to my knees and began to paddle through the books. But soon the tide was up to my waist, and then my wading through the endless warehouse became not just difficult but frightful, as a rollicking storm began in the rafters overhead and shook loose several of the lamps. I thought I heard the ‘beeep-beeep-beeep’ of a reversing lorry. Suddenly, the waves of books began to crash over my head and I was in danger of drowning. Out from the gloom I saw an oncoming swell – a huge crime thriller tsunami. It impacted my body like the force of a bomb. In the resulting tumult I saw two of the animals from before helplessly dragged into the pulpy depths. I saw too late that they were not urban foxes, but the South American Maned Wolf, a rare and beautiful species, known for its timidity and intellectual prowess. I felt, in that moment of papery jeopardy, an odd kinship with the drowning wolves, who were surely investigating the warehouse with the same aim – to discover what unassailable malignance had defaced the inimitable works of Prof Kendra Redford BD MPhil OBE MEP. Why else would the Maned Wolf clans be here? Patricia Cornwell, prodigious as she may be, was not to that species’ particular taste – as everyone knows.

I fought through the tempest and, miraculously, reached the opposite shore of the warehouse just as the squall in the rafters subsided and the lamps dangling from the ceiling began to reassert their former dimness. I shook off the dry leaves of crime that clung to my body. My arms, neck and face were the victim of countless tiny slices, none of which I had noticed until I stopped to inspect them on the way through the warehouse door.


Someone shouted at me from a steel staircase in the concrete hollow on the other side of the divide.

“You there! Come here!”

I walked towards the shadowy figure. His torso was held taut as he leant on the railing of his staircase. As I came closer, I saw his hands grasping the rail. The left hand was fat, with fingers like Cumberland sausages, and the right hand was thin and riddled with angry green veins.  He lifted the thin hand and I saw the shine of a spittle-glistened smile break through the glum surroundings.

“Hello!” he said. “You must be the fellow who has come for the klaxon, yes?”

I nodded and tried my best to reign in my gasping. I was still tired from the book storm and thought it would be best not to interrupt this man’s order of thought.

“Yes,” I said. “Where is the klaxon?”

“Thank the Heavens,” he said. He grinned and wiped his nose with the thumb of his fat hand, then motioned for me to follow him up the steel steps to his boxed office. The sign on the door said: ‘Gregorio Trimble, CEO – Uberbooker, UnLtd’.

“Take a seat,” he said, waving at a bean bag in the centre of the room. I rested myself as graciously as I could into the flump of cushion and polystyrene while Gregorio went to the cupboard and took out the following objects: one pen, one sheet of paper, two small glass cups without handles, one bag of ice, one bottle of courageous purple absinthe, one large beanbag, and one blue hand-sized object of undeterminable origin. He threw the beanbag into the empty space opposite my own and bombed onto it with such force that several of the beads inside popped out and pinged past my head like stray bullets in a warzone.

“I apologise!” he boomed. “Now, here is the klaxon.”

He gently handed me the blue object of undeterminable origin.

“Could you sign for it please? Be careful.”

He reached over with the pen and paper. I saw the ink dripping out of the bottom of the pen’s nib, like blood, and the legalese on the sheet and it was at that moment I saw my chance and took it. I grasped the klaxon by the handle and shook it as fiercely as I could.


“Wh-what are you doing?” Gregorio said. He stood up, aghast.


He began to cover his ears and sweat. “Please, let’s talk about this!”


“No!” Gregorio yelled, “No! Please stop!”


“Anything! I’ll do anything!”

“Will you help me with a customer service problem!?” I shouted, over the noise of the fearful klaxon.


“Yes!” he said. “Yes, customer satisfaction! Complaints!  Queries! Anything!”

K-K-K-k-kh-kh-kuh… kh-kuh…kh.

“Okay!” I said brightly. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” said Gregorio, sitting down on his beanbag again and wiping the yellow sweat from his lips with his thin hand. “Jesus.”

I felt bad about making him take the Lord Our God’s name in vain, so I gave him a sympathetic look and poured us both a glass of the purple absinthe. I put three cubes of ice in his glass, to be sure of his refreshment.

“Let’s get our breath back,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, looking grateful and somewhat more cheerful. “Yes, thank you.”

We took a drink and talked about the week’s markets, mostly in vague, base terms because of my comparative lack of stock broking knowledge. When he saw that I was happy with the situation and was waiting for him to become comfortable again, he remembered why I had come and diplomatically changed the subject to helping me with my problem, true to his word.

“But you have come because of a customer service query,” he smiled.

“Yes. You sell books, correct?”

“That’s true.”

“And you sold this book once, correct?”

I took the copy of ‘This Heart Which Once Was Owned’ from my back pocket and held it out to him. He took it and squinted at the blurb.

“Oh yes,” he said, “that’s undisputable.”

“Well, I bought this book for three pounds sterling.”

“Oh yes, that’s beyond doubt.”

“But it’s asking me to pay £7.99 now to read.”

“Oh indeed, that would be the case.”

I was puzzled.

“But I have already bought the book for three pounds sterling,” I said.

“Oh yes, you bought the book, of course.”

“So the book is mine.”

“Oh no, the book is ours, of course.”

“But I bought it in the Oxfam shop second hand.”

“Oh yes, you bought it certainly.”

“So that I could read it whenever.”

“Truly so. Whenever you like. Now, even!”

“So it’s my book.”

“Oh no, it’s our book, you see.”

I sat and mulled this over. A few minutes passed and he hummed an Uberbooker patented tune as he waited good-humouredly for my response, which came within six minutes sharp. I put my fingers together, crossed my legs and pursed my lips, and was generally very careful to get my words in the correct order. I began.

“But… when one buys something… it becomes one’s own… so, I bought the book, therefore I own it. Because of the law.”

He looked astounded. As if I had accused him of the most shameful robbery.

“Oh no, we don’t own the book! That’s yours, of course!”

“You see!” I said, lying back in the bean bag and smiling gracefully. I had finally explained things to him.

“We just own the ink.”

I sat up straight.


“The book is, of course, your own. You can pick it up, put it down, put it on your shelf…”

He held up the book and moved it around as he mimed these various actions, glassy-eyed with wonder and business acumen.

“…you can feel the spine, feel the cover, flick through the pages, and even smell the pages! Everything like that, it’s all yours, yes! We wouldn’t try to take the book away from you. Goodness gracious, no. We’re not monsters!”

He smiled and breathed out a deep relief.

“We just own the ink, that’s all.”

He handed the book back to me with his thin hand and stood up. “Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?”

“Simon,” I said, standing up to meet the canopy of his bulbous outstretched arm. “Do you know where my friend Simon is? I think he is working here.”


“Yes, but it is a mistake. He is an Oxfam boy.”

“Oh, I see. Well, if he is here, he will be on the factory floor. This way!”

Gregorio, with his arm on my shoulder, took us out into some damp concrete corridors where the halogen lights threw down two distinct shades of luminous violet with such potency that it gave our eyesight a kind of bluish double-vision. All at once there were four persons webbed together walking down the corridor – two Gregorios and two myselves – and every one of us clasping their glass of absinthe, which emitted an icy rattling, as we tramped down the quadruple hallways of the Uberbooker warehouse.

We left the violet-lit labyrinth and looked down from a railing onto a factory floor where five figures, surrounded by wooden crates and shiny books, typed feverishly at refurbished Dell laptops.

“This is the factory floor,” said Gregorio, swaying. He fanned his fat and thin hand out in a great salute to industry and told me several facts about the procedure.

“This branch focuses on Patricia Cornwell novels,” he explained. “She is by far the most popular author in Christendom, not to mention one of the most desirable women in the northern Hemisphere.” He paused. “No, every hemisphere. I make no apologies for the lustful indignities I would subject her to, were she to arrive here in person to plant her voluptuous seal of approval on our operation – which she is indeed certain to do, once she hears of the success of our Patricia Cornwell Apprenticeship Scheme.”

“Apprenticeship Scheme?”

“Quite. These books of hers are the most valuable paper objects in existence this week, with the singular exception of the newly issued Sterling Bank Note, which is doing swimmingly good things for the currency on the stock exchange, as we have already discussed.”

“Yes, of course,” I said, taking a sip of absinthe.

“Did you know, for instance, that only today we have received orders exceeding nine hundred kilograms of Patricia Cornwell? And that is not an irregular amount. We have averaged twenty-five thousand kilograms every week since the beginning of the Apprenticeship Scheme. Each of these young men and women, you see, is a participant. Why, they are pumping out more Patricia Cornwell with their fingertips right now than you or I could read in a lifetime.”

I peeped down at the five workers, tap-tap-tapping away at their machines. When I saw the humble, mousy hair that I recognised as belonging to my good friend, I blinked three times.

“Simon!” I called.

I saw the figure beneath us freeze and twitch, then continue to type. He was ignoring me.

“Simon!” I called again. “Simon, I’ve had an absinthe!”

“Yes!” Gregorio cried. “Absinthe for everyone!”

The other four workers, dressed like Simon in custard-cream-coloured overalls, looked up and stopped typing. They hollered an inside joke to each other and made their way to a well-varnished crate in the corner of the room, sodden with webs and derelict spider eggs. “If you say so, Gregorio!” one of them said with a wink as she fished a bottle out of the crate. They sat down on a single damp pallet and began to pour out the purple liquid, singing songs about the old country.

“Well, the old country’s glum,
the old country’s sweet,
the old country’s smells of teak oil and peat!
The old country’s bright,
the old country’s cold,
The old country’s in-con-tro-ver-tuh-bly OLD!”

The workers began to laugh and clink their glasses.

“Damn the old country!” said Simon. He had still not moved from his Dell laptop, and now he raised his head to look at Gregorio and I, before thrusting an accusatory finger our way. “And damn you, collectibles man! This is the fifth job you’ve ruined for me!”

Gregorio looked at me, clearly shocked by the revelation.

“It’s true,” I said.

“Well, that does it then,” screeched Simon, his throat choking up with distress. “I’ll have to just leave this one as well, shall I?”

“Damn it all, Simon,” I yelled, smashing my glass against the railing in rage. “You’re an Oxfam boy! You know other jobs affect your performance at the bookshelves! What about Oxfam? What about your integrity?”

“What about my blasted bills, collectibles man? What about those! The gas and electricity board alone are charging £7.99 a day! It’s contemptible. I need to support myself as well, you know.”

“Don’t talk to me about support, you charlatan!” By now I was fuming at his consistent betrayal. He was always doing this, swanning off to earn money. “Where was my support when I was rushing here to rescue you from your corporate shackles! Where was my support when I burnt the roof of my mouth on a hot saucey pasty? Where was my support, I ask you, when I was on Streatham High Street, searching my guts out for Kendra Redford’s seminal work of romantic crypto-modernity!? WHERE WAS MY SUPPORT WHEN I OPENED IT TO DISCOVER THIS.”

I threw the book down at him with as much might and purpose as I could muster, and found myself breathing heavily, facing the shocked and thoughtful faces of Gregorio, Simon and the other Apprentice Patricia Cornwells. Simon picked up the frayed book at his feet and inspected the insides. His face dropped and within a second his expression had morphed into one of abject terror. He looked up at Gregorio, who shifted uneasily in his immaculately pressed trousers. Simon stuttered as the sorry conclusion calcified in his mind.

“You… you’re… you’re behind this!?”

The other Apprentices began to gather round the book. I could see their lips move as they silently read the internal message. ‘This Product Is Pre-Owned. Please Purchase Full Book For £7.99.’ Eventually, every one of them looked up in disbelief and disillusionment.

“I… I’m sorry,” said Gregorio. “I didn’t think it would come to… you weren’t supposed to find out like this… it just got out of hand…” He began to sob. “I’m sorry. My sweet Patricias, I’m… I’m so sorry…”

I found myself pitying the old CEO, but before I could console him he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his pocketbook. With his shaking thin hand he gave me a single £7.99 Bank Note, sniffed and began to walk back the way we had arrived. “I know it won’t make up for all I’ve done… but at least it will cover the price of the book,” he said. He slunk toward the double-visiony glare. His frame moved with the slow limp of a gentleman disgraced, one who had learned all too late the virtue of humility. Gregorio Trimble stopped only once to say quietly over his shoulder, “I am truly, deeply ashamed.”

I heard a door slam behind me and turned to see that the other workers had already grabbed their coats and left the warehouse in disgust. I was alone. Even Simon had left without saying a word – an act I have since forgiven, knowing as I do the trauma and disenfranchisement he must have undergone upon reading those words. I still think about him, and I wonder if he will ever come back to Oxfam – if he has the will to, if he has the hope. Something was taken from us all that day, you have to understand, something of our innocence, our sincerity, our simplicity. I hope, not for my own sake but for Simon’s, that we will be able to find that lost something once again. I trundled down a few steel steps and picked up my copy of ‘This Heart Which Once Was Owned’ from the dusty floor where Simon had dropped it in his grief.

Leaving the warehouse by the employees door, I could hear faintly the sound of that terrible klaxon coming from beyond the violet vale and I knew that Gregorio, in his profound contrition, had taken it upon himself to exact his own punishment.

It was still quite light outside, but the blaze of the Wednesday sun would soon die behind the towering London pubs. I stepped into the doorway of my bus and waited behind a man wearing an outfit comprised solely of black leather, ready to pass every one of my Crustifarian Travel Cards across the reader. The man in leather had stopped in his tracks. The bus driver thumped his Oyster Card reader with his open palm.

“It’s broken,” he said. “I think it’s these new Scampi Cards. One moment.”

The crowd behind me swelled to a state of enormity and the pressure of that growing herd willed the leathered man to take tiny incremental steps further into the bus, yet at the same time he was vigilant not to cross the invisible demarcation that separated the paying part of the vehicle from the Double Decker proper. The bus driver slapped and cajoled his Oyster machine, his eyes flickering worryingly between the growing crowd and his inside mirror, through which he could see the red lights of the other Crustifarian machines – red lights which indicated that they too would fail to function. The crowd grew. And grew. And grew.

Suddenly, the driver’s eyes glazed over, as if he were focusing not on the visible world but on some distant, dormant instinct. I recognised at once the look of philosophical epiphany. Without a second thought, the driver lay back in his seat, breathed out a huge sigh and laughed. Then he waved the leathered man past.

“Never mind,” he said. “Just go through.”

The leathered man was confused. He suspiciously put one toe across the threshold, then a foot, then his whole leg, and eventually he leapt with his entire body into the passenger area without paying a single £7.99. The crowd was silent. Everybody looked to the bus driver (who was still shaking his head with embarrassed laughter) and then to leathered man. The leathered man turned around to address the tense and silent crowd, which by now must have numbered in the thousands.

“I’m O.K!” he cried.

All around us a huge cheer broke out. Confetti rained from the rooftops and people began to hug one another and pass onto the bus giving warm handshakes and broad colourful smiles to the bus driver. One young beautiful woman with a baby in her arms brought the gift of red wine, and another young mother the gift of gold. The bus driver took the wine but refused the gold, saying: “Spend it on the child, and I will consider that the most thoughtful of gifts I have today received.” As I walked onto the bus (paying nothing!) I could see him still waving people past and shaking his head and laughing his embarrassed, happy laugh. I pondered why it seemed that he had the wisest most human look to him and I realised that he was a man who had stopped his work, briefly considered the consequences of a broken rule, and saw that they were non-existent. He could now live forever in a state of wise and embarrassed bliss, knowing that a thousand tiny rules could each day be broken, and nobody – not a single human soul – would be any worse off.

I sat down on the top deck of the bus next to a pensioner who was smiling benevolently at the confetti snowing down through the sunset and opened my copy of Kendra Redford’s magnum opus ‘This Heart Which Once Was Owned’. I slipped the £7.99 Sterling Bank Note in between some pages, as one would do a book mark, and watched as the message I had been worrying about all day faded away, replaced by the authentic words of the magnificent woman herself. It would be a peaceful ride back to Journohaus. I found the beginning of the book and began, finally, to read.

‘This heart, once owned, will not fade. Nor will it grow with passion and fill when faced with greater loves, nor empty and wither when faced with lesser ones. It will instead become perfumed with an inexpensive history, whereupon it will afford each successive owner a sense of victory, until the day comes when the heart, and all its attendant freedoms and desires, will sadly cease to be. And although this heart, which once was owned, will be poor in strength that day, it will be rich in history, and rich in liberty, and rich in love.’

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On Craic: I’m Telling You, There Is No Word For ‘Yes’ Or ‘No’ In Irish

This essay is mostly about the 'craic', not to be confused with the 'cráic'

This essay is mostly about the ‘craic’, not to be confused with the ‘cráic’

At school I disliked learning Irish. Mostly because the teacher was stern and angry. When I discovered that he moonlighted as Santa Claus in a local shopping centre at Christmas, I was pretty much done. He clashed with my traditional concept of a kind and joyous St Nick, so that was me finished with Santa and, subsequently, the Gaelic tongue.

Not that I would have necessarily carried on learning it anyway. Gaelic as a language was so obviously ugly, guttural and unwieldy that everything sounded like it was the same foreign, unpalatable dish of intestinal slop. With its ‘fuinneog’s (windows) and ‘peann luaidhe’s (pencils) it isn’t a language that appeals to vain schoolboys, unless those vain schoolboys are fans of Lord of the Rings for whom Elvish proves too tricky. As a teenager this dislike was compounded by the observation that everyone associated with the language was infested with patriotism or an intense religiosity – and often both. Since the time of the Celtic Druids, Ireland has been the victim of a priest class who interfered with superstition in the political and social life of the country. Inevitably, this religious influence has found its way into the nation’s dictionary. The Gaelic language shares with Arabic, among others, the puncturing of sentences with religious sentiments. You can’t even formally say ‘dia duit’ (hello) without technically having just said ‘God be with you’. (The characteristically verbose response to this welcome is to say ‘dia is muire dhuit’ – God and Mary be with you).

But then I got a bit older and, maybe, a little more forgiving of spiritualism. I still find the priest class to be a void of moral authority – but I no longer extend that lack of credibility to the Irish language, even if it does pay homage to a Christian god every once in a while. As an adult, I’m interested in the language, not because I think it pleasant – it still sounds brutally unattractive – but because its quirks and cogs more than make up for its uninviting tone.

For instance, there are no words for ‘yes’ or ‘no’ in Gaelic. It’s the truth. If you want to answer somebody in the positive or negative, you actually have to refer back to the question itself in the form of a positive or negative statement. So, when somebody asks you ‘ar mhaith leat cupan tae?’ (would you like a cup of tea?) you cannot just say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ – there simply aren’t any words for that. You have to keep up the chatter by answering: ‘ba mhaith liom cupan tae’ (I would like a cup of tea) or if you’re feeling lazy you can reduce this as far as ‘ba mhaith liom’ (I would like) but absolutely no further. Never mind the possibility that you could just answer with the word ‘please’ and nod your head – because this course of action is just as long-winded by English standards, requiring you to say ‘le do thoil’ (literally: with your will).

The concept of possession is a similar peculiarity. The common way of saying you can speak or talk in Irish is to say ‘ta Gaelige agam’ which means ‘I have Irish’ – as if you carry the language around with you in your bloodstream as a kind of benign infection. This possessiveness doesn’t restrict itself to pursuits of knowledge, obviously, but becomes more confusing when talking about things which actually are attached to you. To say the colour of your hair is black you would say ‘ta mo chuid gruaige dubh’, which translates to something like ‘my share of hair is black’ or ‘my portion of hair is black’. The same goes for teeth: ‘mo chuid fiacla’ (my portion of teeth).  This word ‘cuid’ is used when there’s an indefinite quantity of something in the world over which you do not have full ownership. Which makes it seem like hair is only ever spoken about in its ethereal Platonic Form, and it is everybody’s ‘share’ of it which differs in colour, probably according to personality. All of this adds to the impression of exuberance and lengthiness which the Irish language leaves on the non-speaker.

The suggestion is that, historically, the Irish people often had nothing better to do but talk to one another, and as a result have developed an unusually long-winded mode of speech. To adopt a single word for ‘yes’ or ‘no’ during a conversation with me as an Irish person would be bordering on rudeness – I would instantly accuse you of ‘being awful short’ with me. You impolite fucker.

Of course, if I really did want to call you an impolite fucker ‘as Gaelige’, I would literally be lost for words. This is because there are no swearwords in Irish. Like ‘yes’ and ‘no’, they simply don’t exist. Every Irish teacher I have had has been adamant about this point, even proud. Although if you turn on TG4 – the Irish language TV channel broadcast throughout Ireland – you’ll probably discover the occasional soap opera character saying ‘cac naofa!’ (holy shit!) or even ‘bud ceann’ (dickhead). Strictly speaking, these aren’t swearwords either, because the words involved are the anatomical words. ‘Bud’ is the word for penis and doesn’t really hold the same forcefulness as ‘dick’ or ‘cock’. ‘Cac’ is likewise closer to the English word ‘poop’. All this means the words are funny in their own way, but it’s a silly kind of humour as opposed to anything tinged with anger or playful aggression. (If you’re curious, the Irish word for vagina is ‘pit’ – pronounced ‘pitch’ – and you can have as much or as little fun with that factoid as you like). Ultimately, if the English language is a vulgar one, with all its ‘cunts’ and ‘shits’ and ‘bollocks’, then Irish is a prudish language, in which it is impossible to summarise your absolute distaste without seeming like a clown yourself.

At least, it is impossible to show your disdain for someone in any terse way. Once again, the talkative nature of the language comes out. Should it be necessary to curse at someone, you would have to do just that – curse them. There are any number of websites that will tell you the phrases to use in these circumstances: ‘Imeacht gan teacht ort’ (may you leave without returning), ‘go n-ithe an cat thú is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat’ (may the cat eat you, and may the Devil eat the cat), ‘Go mbeadh cosa gloine fút agus go mbrise an ghloine’ (may you have glass legs and may the glass break). Sadly, such elaborate cursing is more common as part of the explanation of the ‘no swearwords’ rule. You’d be hard-pressed to actually hear an Irish-speaking person say these things. They’re far more likely to simply switch languages and swear at you in English, possibly because – as the film Lord of War pointed out to us – people tend to revert to their first languages in moments of pain, frustration or ecstasy, and the first language of many Gaelgors, though they might be loath to admit it, is English.

Of course, it is the opinion of many linguists that language is a malleable and generally untameable thing, and although swear words might not be recognised by purists, that doesn’t mean they won’t find their way into the language. Any language is in constant flux – always evolving – and new words will insert themselves into our vocabulary as irrustobabrously as they please. It’s just that, so far in Gaelic, no swearwords have seemed to stick. Possibly this is because forceful swearwords are a very English Thing. And the Irish are nothing if not ‘Not English.’ The language’s dislike for English loan-words or general English influence is noticeable in the creativity with which such loan-words are destroyed. When the escalator was invented, there was no Irish equivalent for the word, so it became the barely-altered ‘escalator’, pronounced esh-cah-lah-torr. But this was much too close to English for comfort and was soon replaced by an Irish substitute – ‘staire beo’ – which literally means ‘living stairs’.

Which brings us to the unusual case of the word ‘craic’. The origin of this unmistakably Irish word isn’t Irish at all, but Anglo-Saxon. ‘Crack’ was a slang term for ‘news’ or ‘gossip’ in England as far back as the 19th century and only became really popular in Ireland, primarily in Ulster, in the 1950s. As late as the 1970s it was still spelled the English way in songs and writing. For whatever reason the word has recently been Gaelicised and then re-borrowed into English, giving the distinct impression that it is an Irish word through and through. Most young Irish people today are convinced of its Gaelic purity. If you’re English, why not try writing ‘what’s the crack?’ on your Irish friends’ Facebook walls, and when they indignantly try to correct your spelling, you can give them a lesson in etymology. Your Irish friends will be very grateful for this.

That being said, craic is now an Irish word, simply by virtue of its quintessentially Irish definitions. It no longer simply means ‘news’ and is distinct from English counterparts. You can still ask somebody ‘what’s the craic?’ to ask what the news is, but ‘having the craic’ has come to encompass a wider concept of ‘good times’. A direct English equivalent doesn’t exist. Having ‘fun’ is too frivolous and civil, while having ‘a laugh’ is close but still too limited in its meaning. ‘Banter’ is sometimes put forward as an equivalent, being a similar mixture of conversation, joking and story-telling. But this doesn’t work either because there is a subtle difference between the two – banter involves jibes and insults and is more frequently practiced between work colleagues, who might not necessarily have been friends otherwise. Whereas real craic is more common among very close friends or family members, contains a lot more story-telling, anecdotes, reminiscing and fewer jibes at each others’ expense. Banter is essentially combative – craic is essentially co-operative. When having the craic with your friends, you ‘pass’ the laugh on to somebody else, who then keeps it ‘flowing’. When indulging in banter, you ‘serve’ a laugh like a tennis ball and wait for the rebound. Neither of these concepts is restricted to one culture – there is English craic and Irish banter – but my experience is that each culture appears to prefer its own particular blend.

Craic can also extend far outside of a single group in a way that banter cannot. Say a group of young men and women (mostly English-speaking but culturally Celtic) gather in a house for a drink. They sit in a circular fashion, enjoying the chatter and tales and generally catching up with whatever misadventures have occurred. At this juncture there is ’some craic bai’. This is not a diminutive phrase. ‘Some craic’ is still a good amount of craic. But it’s at this point the drinks are finished and the group must move from the house to another venue, almost certainly The Pub. Here, the group will undoubtedly split off into several cells, mingling with the other patrons and night-outers. Intermittently, these cells will meet up or run into one another, trade members and generally shout amusing things. Of course, the other patrons and groups in the bar have unwittingly brought their own craic to the bar. The usual effect is that all the craic becomes compounded until somebody stands on a chair or something and gives an impassioned speech about nothing in particular and everybody laughs and shouts ‘yerrrooo’. It can now be said that the craic is ‘mighty’. It is no longer simply a conversational concept, but an atmospheric one. The danger now is that somebody ‘kills the craic’ by saying or doing something sorrowful or aggressive. But for the sake of argument, let’s say this doesn’t happen. Instead, somebody’s cousin arrives through the door with a violin and a friend of his follows with a bodhrán (an Irish instrument – a handheld drum). The bar is small but packed and yet somehow there is room for the cousin and friend to sit on a stool in the corner and play what will be referred to tomorrow as ‘a blinder’. When the music reaches its peak and everybody is enjoying themselves – but not necessarily dancing – it can then be said that the craic is ‘ninety’. This, the consensus goes, is the craic at its absolute peak. If the craic has ever passed this point, it has never been documented or recalled. Thankfully, ninety is the optimum level of craic. Craic is at this point an atmosphere and, simultaneously, an experience. The craic cannot be killed at this level – it will only fade away slowly. Furthermore, it continues to exist as a moment in history long after the fact.

Retrospectively, you might expect the craic to be nullified by the force of the resultant hangover – but this is not so. Craic is simply cemented and preserved by a hangover, so long as the hangover is sustained by a large enough group and the night’s oracular chronicle set straight. The previous night’s craic now exists outside of space, time and the group(s) in which the craic was conceived. At this point, the craic has ebbed gently and the language used to refer to it must be reflective and respectful, usually in the manner of the previous night’s pre-drinks. It hereafter reverts to its conversational form. The collection of young men and women have had ‘some craic bai’, which, as I have said, is quite some craic, let me tell you.


With thanks to Colly Madden for the language lessons. Most of the Gaelige here is Ulster dialect.


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