It was just as well it was a quiet Monday because “Himself” was no use for the whole day after the night before, up in Johnny’s. He didn’t surface until one o’clock in the afternoon. He heads up to Johnny’s every Sunday night. He wouldn’t be a pub man normally. It’s too noisy on the Friday and Saturday as they have a fella with a keyboard and huge speakers he doesn’t need at all.

Johnny’s is barely the size of our sitting room. On summer nights you’d see most of them outside in the smoking area listening from there because they could only tolerate hearing through the wall.

The Sunday is a different story; a much quieter affair. ’Tis actually a gang of them. Himself, Conor Hartigan, Dinny and Phonsy Saddlier (two brothers, never married; I used to think they were too mean but since Patrick came out I don’t know was anyone ever a confirmed bachelor), Henry Coughlan, Jackie Walsh, Tony Geoghegan and a couple of others.

They would never admit it was an arrangement. They’d all sort of just turn up around nine-ish and then watch whatever is on the telly. All men.

“It’s the only time they’d be able to watch it without women talking over it about their feelings,” Himself says.

One time they were caught rotten. Love/Hate was on and there was a fierce long sex scene at the start of one episode and the whole lot of them were glued to it when in walked Father Donnegan. (Into the pub, not into Love/Hate – although you wouldn’t know with Father Donnegan. If he thought it’d raise money for doing up the church then he’d turn up anywhere.) Anyway, in he walks into Johnny’s, took one look at the telly and said: “Ye’re hard at it lads.” And no one could look anyone in the face for a couple of weeks after that.

Sunday night is so regular with them that if one of them didn’t turn up, the rest’d nearly be worried. Matter of a fact, that’s how they saved Dotsy Duggan. When there was no sign of him one night, Johnny rang up and when there was no reply didn’t he drive up only to find Dotsy lying in the yard after taking a stroke. Although Johnny says now he doesn’t know whether it was the right thing that he found him because Dotsy was practically dumped in Silverthorne House by the daughter and he’s gone a bit doolally with the loneliness.

“Whatever we do,” Himself says, “we’d better make sure that any rows we have with the children are sorted out before we get crabbed. Because one of them will have to look after us and I don’t want to be up in Silverthorne with someone feeding me soup in a straw like a gom.”

The last few weeks they were going up early to watch Francis Brennan going around India. Anyway, there was no Francis this Sunday night, or rather there was but no one could hear it. A gang of tourists came in. Tourists! In Kilsudgeon. They were all staying in the houses that used to be in the Ghost Estate, but they’re all Airbnb now.

And that was the start of it. According to Himself: “I was sort of cut off from the other lads because they were too far down along the bar so I was drinking a bit faster than normal. The next thing one of the tourists asks to see Johnny’s beer menu. I was laughing to myself. But then Johnny comes back with a little menu I’d never seen before and starts going on about the Belgian ones and I said to Johnny: ‘Where did you have them beers all along?’ And he said: ‘In the fridge, but I wouldn’t tell the likes of ye because ye wouldn’t be much for changing yere habits.’

“Well I got insulted by that so I was going to show Johnny my palate was as good as anyone out of an Airbnb so I started on the craft beers as well.”

“And that Belgian stuff is strong. You’re not supposed to drink it like you’d drink a normal pint,” I said.

“I know that now,” he said.

“And how are you?”

“It hurts worse than the man with the keyboard.”