Читать книгу Is Shane MacGowan Still Alive? - Tim Bradford - Страница 31

I pop into an Internet café on O’Connell Street to pick up my e-mails and send some stuff back to Andy, Editor at When Saturday Comes. It’s run by a posse of young cybervixens (the cafe, not WSC – more’s the pity), equally adept at making espressos and using Internet Explorer. There’s a queue so I get a cappuccino and flick through the Irish Times. Five minutes later one of the girls shouts my name and I’m on. I have an Internet e-mail account with Hotmail – irishtim@hotmail.com. It means you can pick up messages on any machine wherever you are in the world. It’s busy, so I tap in a number that I remember saving. I get in. A dopey-looking guy with a goatee beard wearing shorts is sitting next to me, cursing. He looks over.

‘Hey meean, like how dja git inta hartmayerl?’

I tell him.

‘Coooooool!’

The place is full of young Americans, Spanish, Germans, Italians and Australians. I appear to be the oldest person there by at least five years. I think of Dublin changing, then I get an image in my head of the singer from last night appearing on one of the computer screens singing ‘Ring a ring a roses, on my ISDN line, I remember Dublin in the rare old times’. Really coooooooool!