down the boozer

Sitting in a quiet corner of Berneys Pub.
The place cacaphones pleasantly.
I'm not at ease in pubs but this is okay.
When the revel is at its height I espy a middle aged gentleman with bald pate approaching through the crowd.
He sits at my table.
It is Baldy Mongan, the tame trade unionist.
"James, do you mind if I talk to you?" quoth he.
"What do you want?" I mutter grimly.
"You know the National Union of Journalists is having awful trouble with the Johnston Press," he says.
"I might have heard something in that regard," I intone drily.
"We're at loggerheads with them all over the place, in Ireland and Northern Ireland," sez he in a rush.
"What's that got to do with me?" sez I.
"You were the only one they were actually afraid of," sez he.
I smile bitterly.
"Big swingin mickey," sez I "That didn't stop them firing me."
He leaned forward on the table.
"Will you help us?" sez he.
My face is a study.
I reply with a quote from Pastor Niemoller about the Nazis.
I speak loud enough to be heard at the back of the pub.
I tell him: "When they came for the Jews I did not speak out because I wasn't a Jew. When they came for the Catholics, I did not speak out because I wasn't a Catholic. When they came for the poor and the handicapped and the unborn child, I did not speak out because I wasn't poor, or handicapped or an unborn child. And when they came for me it was too late. There was no one left to speak out."
When I had finished this speech, Baldy Mongan sat bold upright.
"I'm asking for your help," he said.
I stood up.
"Burn in hell," I spat.