A bar on the outskirts of town was the meeting place to discuss our progress so far, and to outline the following days plan to win the trophy and claim the Corkese Falcon. The bar was a run-down joint. The type of place you'd expect to find 100 or so drunken Dubliners, pretending to be from Cork.

The following days plan was straightforward - about as straightforward as a Flyer drinking a beer - no messing around. We would win all of our games tomorrow and take home the Corkese Falcon. It seemed nothing could go wrong, but again I got that bad feeling. Looking at my glass, I realised the bad feeling was from drinking free Budweiser, so I switched to real beer and the bad feeling went away, replaced with bizarre recollections of trying to sing after 40 cigarettes and a gallon of booze.