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Street, where pints of sherry and rum flowed. If a ballet group were in town, inevitably they ended up at
Dave’s, where young Russian ballerinas skirted across the sticky tiles to Dusty Springfield. It was hedonistic and heady, and a million miles from the rail tracks in Ennis. Dave once moved to
the flat downstairs, 10 A , and when I asked why, he replied, with acerbic wit, ‘Oh, because I didn’t like the neighbourhood, dahling.’ It was that kind of
vibe.
    Because we didn’t start till late on a Saturday night, often I was well oiled behind the bar during work, but so was everyone else. Many nights the drinking only really started after the
last customer had left. This was probably the beginning of the most consistent period of my drinking, where tolerance levels rose and other areas of my life began to take second place to getting
sozzled. I got a few small parts on the Everyman stage, decided I was the next Liam Neeson, ditched the postgraduate studies and the world of academia and waited for Hollywood to call.
Surprisingly, the phone never rang.
    ——
    In the years that followed I worked various jobs to make ends meet, including nighttime work in a cash-and-carry and weekend shifts impersonating Charlie Chaplin at
children’s parties. Things shifted in my personal life when, at the age of 23, I became a father. My son had barely entered the world when I was wetting his head, downing shots bleary-eyed,
while baby and mother tried to get to sleep. I was out of it—a combination of the pressures leading up to the event and the copious amount of free drink offered by well-meaning acquaintances
after. I ended up in hospital for two days, thanks to a run-down system which shouted stop. It was a pattern that would repeat itself later. Rather than embrace the responsibilities of fatherhood
head on, I sought refuge in drinking binges, mostly at weekends and almost always with consequence. I had just about held onto friends from college, but my behaviour when drunk became more erratic,
including running around the backyard naked when guests came over for dinner (I still can’t figure that one out), and getting quite abusive and incoherent on nights out. I was unfaithful and
untrustworthy and blackouts were becoming a regular occurrence. More and more I was getting frustrated with my personal and professional life. I started to blame others—luck, fate and
circumstance—for the lack of opportunities afforded to me.
    At the time, it seemed everyone was getting work in the information technology industry, and so I thought if I got myself on a career ladder, life would level out. Therefore, I signed up to do a
programming course through FÁS , and half way through was offered a job as a computer programmer with a new startup company, which is just as well because I would have
failed the course hands down had I stayed. My only contribution to the company was producing their annual pantomime, after which they realised I was no threat to Bill Gates and had to let me go. I
began substitute teaching, mostly primary schools, and enjoyed the short days and lack of ongoing responsibility life as a replacement teacher brought with it. I also began to write articles and
started to be published on a regular basis for the Irish Examiner , after the editor there, Tim Vaughan, took a punt on me. The media world was an attractive one, with liquid lunches and
brewery launches still a feature of the scene. I got pally with a few editors who had the use of company credit cards, and long afternoons often turned into two-day binges. And yet no one at any
point told me to cut down on my drinking. There was lots of other advice about getting a qualification or perhaps rethinking my domestic situation, but never once did someone refer to my drinking
as cause for concern.
    Several years in, the relationship with the mother of my child ended; I moved into an apartment I clearly couldn’t afford, and lost myself in weekly