It was a dusty evening when I arrived in Corkablanca. I was tired from travelling, I was tired of this hot and sticky weather, I was tired of hoping this could be my last stop on this journey, and most of all, I was tired of teaching Tara how to put on a Cork accent so as not to draw attention to herself – “Langer y'all!” “No – Langer LIKE!”.

It had all started in May, when the first blitz we would all witness struck ALSAA. That had been an unforgettable day. I say this only because I wasn't there at the time, but the others assure me it was great. “We'll always have ALSAA,” they mused, “Except you, because you buggered off and left us!”.

After that, there seemed no end to the blitzes. They happened every month, except for June, because the World Cup was on the telly. And a scary theme ran through each one – there was never any food for us all. We were a hungry bunch of b****rds, and we were never full. We would suffer through a blitz, and then starve afterwards. Except for the Suspects blitz – they tried to over-feed us at that one.

And now, we were in Corkablanca. For some, the last blitz. For others, like us, a continuing search for decent food. I had gathered a squadron of Flyers, and we met in a bar outside of Corkablanca, where the proprietor – Isaac – was well known for helping people like us. He invited us in, gave us a place to stay and some drinks, and later on told us of a gathering planned in Bishopstown the next day, where there would be plenty of food. We resolved to check it out..