The Irish Post

After another superstitious half-an-hours slow sup of a Stella and a browse through the Irish Post down the club, I entered the-worst-pub to find her in an odd mood.Cool Hand was on his mobile underneath sky television. As my boys were about to kick off, I squeezed in next to a delightfully fine-fettled Wilson at the smoking-table. I placed my paper on the empty chair with it's back to the TV screen. While talking with Wilson, I was suddenly aware that I must have put my paper on Cool hand's stool as he lifted it up and dropped it on the floor in a fit of drunken, queeny pique. I picked it up and placed it on the empty table behind me without saying a word. I stood watching the eleven men I love with my back to the smoking-table. After a few minutes I was aware that Panic Attack was laughing not unlike a young girl at her first party. I turned around to discover that the source of his merriment was my copy of the Irish Post. Embarrassed faces turned away as he ridiculed each and every legitimate headline. What on earth was all that about?