Gilbert was from Dublin. He was thirty five, they said, but he looked like Catweazel. He played the guitar on the corner when he was pissed, which was usually. He carried a wee bottle of Metaxa inside his jacket, and would sip from it after each Bob Dylan murder. He put the bite on me one night. I glared at him. 'You bastard!' he shouted. 'You're workin'!' What a tosser, I thought. Aye, I'm working. But I haven't eaten since Tuesday.
Those were the times when one Amstel gave me a three day hangover.