Once Were Cops

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“Where do I begin?”

Wasn’t that like a song?

And a pretty fucking bad one.

Like my story.

The old chestnut, and how did what started out so good, go so freaking bad?

The Yanks whine...

“Who you gonna call?”

God?

Do me a favor.

Whatever else is in this narrative, it ain’t Him.

Unless He was seriously fucking with us.

Somebody was.

My name is Matthew Patrick O’Shea.

And you’re thinking,

“Does it come any more Mick?”

Not a lot.

Course, everybody called me Shea.

Has a ring to it and the first thing I did in America, yeah, Shea Stadium.

Predictable.

Sure.

If only I’d stayed thus.

Right at the end, when the shite was coming from every direction, I’d have given a lot for a dose of me own predictability.

I grew up in Galway, the son of a Guard, and it was never for debate but that I’d follow in me old man’s heavy shoes.

I HAVE THIS SPLIT PERSONALITY GIG GOING, TRULY, good cop/bad cop.

You’ll notice the caps there, so you’ll know I told you from the off.