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LUCK O’ THE IRISH
“Canya dew any bett’r?” said Frank. Listening to him, I had to admit I was impressed. His Irish accent was impossible to understand. That afternoon he had spent watching and rewatching The Commitments had paid off.
We were sitting in the small backroom of a gas station on the western coast of Ireland, across a wide wooden table from three men who couldn’t have looked more like stereotypical Irish gangsters if they tried. Each guy was shorter, skinnier, and tougher looking than the next. All three wore brown newsboy caps. They... see more
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