To Kill a Narking Dues

'In the Pickie pool hoards vied for the limited space. I plunged in festoon in my swimming trunks, which when wet and out of the water hung about me like a pair of oversized bloomers. Dried off we sat and ate fish and chips from the paper on the sea wall. Seagulls like Nazgul screeching above our heads. The salt air encrusting us like the chips we had just ate. The vinegar of dissent still sitting among us until our belly's full, our faces burnt, we made port in the Queens Hotel for...
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'In the Pickie pool hoards vied for the limited space. I plunged in festoon in my swimming trunks, which when wet and out of the water hung about me like a pair of oversized bloomers. Dried off we sat and ate fish and chips from the paper on the sea wall. Seagulls like Nazgul screeching above our heads. The salt air encrusting us like the chips we had just ate. The vinegar of dissent still sitting among us until our belly's full, our faces burnt, we made port in the Queens Hotel for refreshments.....Three pints and a couple of shorts later the world was at peace.'Its 1973. Belfast and the "Troubles" are in full swing. Martin Swallow now Sixteen navigates his way through the worsening violence sweeping across Northern Ireland. Punctuated with black humour, tall tales, lost love and family intrigue his narration carries us through the ever darking travails of growing up in a country riven with bigotry, hatred and violence.