I remember way back in 1994 when I was just a wee lad and me da had been cooking a nice stew for the family just before Saint Paddy's. As an Irish family, we often spent many a day toiling around the bars and brewrooms and whiskey was often the closest smell. I can remember the soft singing of me nan as she toiled away on her latest brew. I suppose it was around that time or near abouts that I became infatuated with a man name Desmond McKinney. See the thing about Des was he never knew when to stop. Whether it be jokes about your mum or your nan or even your bird he would never cease his constant buggery. We use to call him Beagán buachaill, which in Irish roughly translates to funny boy. Of course, Desmond wasn't always funny and when he did take it too far we had to scold him.

One of those rare auld times was back in the cold winter of 21 January 1995. As I recall it was one of the coldest most blustery winters I ere saw. The whiskey chambers fell silent and the soft dew which often filled the air around Upper Baggot Street fell faint. Replaced now with a biting cold like the teeth of a shark across a school blackboard. Annoying and persistent yet jagged and hurtful. As I recall it were early in the morn' when I walked upon Desmond out in a field in nothing but his knickers. Covered in snow the young lad had yet noticed me so I let out a loud holler.

"DESMOND!" I yelled, "Yer' gonta freeze like a ciúb oighir if ye' stey owt here much more!" I don't reckon he heard me, now that I'm looking back on it. Especially now considering the howling winds prevailing like starved wolves in the night. Yet he turned and looked. Not in a way that bespoke a heralded mate but instead the one given as if in deep anguish longing for assistance. I suppose to him it must have just sounded like murmurs falling through an avalanche of thick snow. Yet he called out, "Aye you wee nobby spacka' am in a sherp ned of sumthin' fierce!"

Desmond was a wiley fellow but I ner took him for the one to yell for help. So I had supposed he had gone on in his usual way, disregarding myself and those around him and instead, continuing on in his trivial pursuits. I, therefore, took a sharp turn and just waved goodbye to the lad as I made my rounds before the next blanket of snow came through, How I long now for a return to this day. If perhaps, I had only just been able to run to him, to yell out to him, maybe things could have gone differently. That's not what happened, however, and instead, I carried on down the road to the turn leading to Wellington. Then I thought I heard the sound of some distressed being muffled by a myriad of attackers. I whipped around only for a second as the snow began to blind what was left of my vision and the sound disappeared with the wind.

I didn't see Desmond after that, I don't know what became of him but I remember the days we used to spend in the pubs along St. Mary's. I wondered that, in the wild circumstance of this infinite universe, one day he might appear, just as he had back in those lustful summers all those years ago. Maybe, like an apparition haunting the lost isles, reveal himself just like he was rarely changed from days past. I frequented these pubs until they, much like him gave way to the new Ireland, filled with many a concrete covered slab. The memory of him much faded along with the beauty of Dublin and the trades that gave me father and his father their wealth. Likewise, I was forced into a differing lifestyle than the one foreseen in my destiny foretold by my ancestors dating to the time of the celts. And as the years went by so did I, leaving the areas I once so cherished in search of better tidings amongst a more guilded society.

I found myself in the town of Birmingham in 2004. That year toil had long befallen me and yet somehow I felt that with each passing day a momentous occasion may yet still come to pass. I wished away each day like the last ever hoping for that whisper to materialize and sweep me away in its soft bosom as a loving doe would coddle her fawn. However, the days passed into weeks and the weeks to months and before I had realized it the year had long past me by. It was then on the anniversary of Des's disappearance on a day not unlike that one that a happenstance did occour.

I found meself alongside a young bird with a black velvet band tied tight round her neck. 'Fore I could steal a glance at her she took me in her arms and kissed me lightly upon the lips.

"Martin," she said as I fell back with wide eyes. "You mustn't fret for I have come with great tidings." My heart began to race and I could feel my pulse vibrating such a chorus I found myself wondering if she too could feel it.

"But... But why have you done that and what is it that you want with me, lassie?" I said softly and with great curiosity. My skull filled with a question and my mind buzzed with thought. "Unless yer' tryin' to start a family I suggest you open yer' gabber." Her white skin flickered in the light and her bright red hair scorched like the sun during a midsummer's day.

"Nye ay I spose yer' wonderin ere I hail and t'nature of me callin', but ye' must hold fast and follow me lead for there as nowt much time." She then took my hand and hustled us up the cobbled road toward the grand manor which sat steadfastly upon seemingly Birmingham's lone majestic hill. I felt there were many questions to ask yet I held back for I had supposed that if I were to break my code of shrouded silence she would end the escapade just as it had begun. Once we reached the gates of the manor, she took me in her arms tight against her breast and whispered warmly in my ear, "Martin McKonnely, you have longed for somethin' so extensive if ay' were t'walk yer' ambitions I'd find meself amongst t'brightly lit and ruckus surroundings the yanks call New York City. Can you find int' your dearest heart of hearts that one thing you hold with such ire?"

I spoke then to her only to be cut off by the sound of what I presumed to be the angels calling down to me much as they would have Jesus on Easter day. The lady of wistful mystery was singing a tune which found its home in my heart as well in the souls of my fellow countrymen. I listened closely as she hummed, whistled, and musingly recited that auld number.

"But a lonely prison wall,
I heard a young girl calling
Michael, they have taken you away,
For you stole Trevelyann's corn
So the young might see the morn,
Now a prison ship lies waiting in the bay"

Low did lie those fields of Athenry and the tune began to sing within me building wrathfully through every cockle of mine own being out into the world like an arrow from the bow of a hardened marksman. The song we carried within our hearts and about our airs began to set out into the world around us and though the Britons of this country knew naught the plight of the song they surrounded us one and all just the same. As we carried on in harmony the lady turned to me and said, "Martin, the one ye seek lies in and amongst t'banks o' t'Roses. With all due haste make yer' way t'Pimlicoe and find it."
It was in that moment when I sat back in anticipation of the reunion with my dearest long lost friend, I remembered that back in 1998 The Undertaker threw Mankind off Hell in A Cell, and plummeted 16 ft through an announcer's table.