Des Dillon

In the seventies, when you could get five pints of heavy or four pints of lager for a quid, me and Stevie Gallagher were in Mackenzies. In walks Jinky Johnstone, at the tail end of his career early because of the drink. 

God turned the voltage up in that room to the max. Jinky was being handed drinks, taking slaps on the back and signing autographs. Paddy Doherty was sent up the road to fetch a Polaroid. Even though we were only 15 we approached Jimmy and got him to sign across a pound note. It was a good signature, utilising all the paper and me an Gal raved about how much it would be worth in years to come. Should we frame it or not? And we argued over who would keep it. We decided on weeks about.

By the end of the night we had ran out of money and were down to that exact one pound note. I looked at Gal and Gal looked at me.

“Two pints of lager please, Alice.”

Maybe she put that note in the till on top of a pile of other Jimmy Johnston pound notes. Or maybe that was the only one. When we left Jimmy Johnston was lying on the floor between the seats and the tables. Snoring.