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Before last night, Deccie, like everyone else in Ireland, had slagged off Bono. Damn bleeding-heart do-gooder. Tax-dodging so-and-so. He didn’t do enough; he did too much. The new music was shite; the old music was shite. The new way they played the old music was shite. Say what you wanted about the fella, he provided an invaluable service in being somebody everybody could hate, even if it was for reasons that were diametrically opposed.
Just as lockdown finished, he’d had his accident and ended up stuck inside for a whole different bunch of reasons. He’d completed Netflix, he was certain of it. He’d seen every last thing on there. He’d watched it in all languages, too. For a couple of days the week before, he’d become convinced he could actually speak Korean.
The problem with the human brain, thought Brigit, is that you couldn’t stop the bloody thing from thinking. In particular, you couldn’t stop it thinking certain thoughts even if you really, really didn’t want to be a person who thought those thoughts.
“He’s older than your dad.” “Only in human years. Not in movie-star years.”
It was an example of why Jimmy Stewart had always told his kids to tell the truth in life – not for strong moral reasons, per se, it was just that in the long run, the possibilities for embarrassment when getting caught out by your own lie were far worse than the truth could ever be.
“Who I should have gone for,” continued Deccie, “is Lassie or, ideally, Mr Ed. I mean, Lassie is a bona fide tracker who can bite your leg, but Mr Ed could talk, and I don’t care who you are – if a talking horse corners you and starts asking questions, you’re going to crack and confess.”
