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The urge to set up a web page documenting the psychological stalking of Mr. Welsh is phenomenal. Some bald headed cunt, who isn't Mr. Welsh, walks past the window. I shall interpret this as the universe conspiring to have this page created. Is it Mr. Welsh or is it not Mr. Welsh?

Mr. Welsh moved onto our street recently. I read in the papers that he had been around town, getting into scuffles with a certain Mr. McGowan.

One day, when I was out pruning the roses and making adjustments to the elephant trap, Mr Welsh walked past. I thought I should take on the role of friendly neighbour and I decided to take a risk and introduce myself. I am no starfucker, believe me, but I certainly enjoyed his novel 'Trainspotting' and think it a modern masterpiece. The idea appealled to me to have Mr. Welsh over for tea ocassionally, to discuss literature, Joyce, Gogarty and drugs.

Mr. Welsh? - I enquired. He acknowledeged that indeed it was he, adjusting a heavy gym bag on his shoulder, so as to be able to shake my outstretched hand - I think we are neighbours.

Och Aye, he said - Sew whits et like living on Grove Park?

I like having Ugandans on one side and muslims on the other because I feel more like I am living in Shepherds Bush, or the East Village, rather than the Rathmines Road Lower - my stock answer.

Aye, yiv goat Be-emdubyas an shoapin kerts oan the one Street.

Parked outside the flat is my white 1990 318i BMW Estate, nearly 15 years old admittedly but not yet one hundred thousand k on the clock and almost paid for. In the garden next door, where the Muslim men live, is a shopping cart from Dunnes Stores.

This got me thinking. If Mr. Welsh has moved to this country, onto this street, to find his muse, to write his new novel, perhaps a worthy successor to 'Trainspotting' and is keenly aware of his surroundings. Is using the immediate area, people and objects as the raw material from which he will construct his new novel, perhaps it could be possible to inveigle objects into his conciusness. The horrific thought dawned on me, I could garden my way into Mr Welsh's concioussneess and into his novel.

He noticed the BMW and the shopping cart. He walks past the garden every morning, half asleep, his gym bag over his shoulder. I often spy hhim whilst I am half asleep in bed. Is it possible or not? This journal will document the attempt.


Last week, my roommate had his friend 'Stan' from London to stay. To say this guy looked crusty is an understatement. 'Stan' stank. As we were introduced I feigned indifference to his abhorrent smell and offensive fingerless mittens by shaking his hand and mentioning the fact that I had just introduced myself to Mr. Welsh.

'Stan' had some sort of an infection in his leg and he disappeared in the middle of the night to have it attended to. The next day, unusually, I locked the door of my room because I did not trust 'Stan' in the house on his own. When I arrived home from school with my daughter, 'Stan' was sitting on the couch with his gammy leg on the coffee table and the distinct odour of rotting flesh permeated the air around him. Now I live in a two-bedroom flat so I sat down at the table to do the Obair Bhaile with the little girl. The whole time 'Stan' sits there silently staring at the wall.

My roommate disappeared on a bender, without inviting his friend to join him but instead left 'Stan' asleep on the couch. The next day, whilst 'Stan' was 'out buying pasta' my roommate mentioned would I mind if he stayed another night. I asked him what 'Stan' was doing here, what was his business, where were his family and why did he need to stay another night? My roommate, already late for work, decided that he would ask him to leave and so we waited for him to come back.

An hour passed and there was still no sign of 'Stan.' My roommate was looking nervous and I was looking out the window of my room, stalking Irvine when five or six men walked past the window in quick succession. Now I haven't done much work in the garden for a while and it doesn't normally warrant such attention. But these guys were straining to see in the window. I went to the curtain. One of the men outside must have noticed the curtain move because he looked directly at me and there were suddenly eight guys out of nowhere banging on the door. I went out to my roommate and I said

- I think there's someone at the door for you.

It was the filth. An Garda Siochana drug squad and they turned the flat upside down. For four hours they held us there separately. We waited for another hour and a half till they got the sniffer-dogs. They said they found a bag of heroin in 'Stans' rucksack. I didn't see anything. There is a huge sack of polystyrene balls on top of the wardrobe in my room. I walked past the door on one occasion and a couple of ruddy cheeked Gardai were taking their pictures with a digital camera, holding up the sack of polystyrene, the biggest bag of smack ever hauled by Harcourt St DS.

They gave my roommate his bag of weed back. That's not doing him any favours. Left the place in a worse state than as if burglars had ransacked us. 'Stan' never came back to pick up his stuff. The next day a bill arrived from St James Hospital Infectious and tropical diseases Department addressed to none other than Mr. Irvine Welsh.