Billy Keane: There's roadkill on my face, but it's not as hairy as a late diagnosis
THERE'S roadkill on my face. A terrible, prickly, hedgehoggy growth with a separate existence of its own. I can feel the alien within, working its way remorselessly out. It's like pins and needles with real pins and needles. Inside out acupuncture.
I'm sure it was a covert Failte Ireland dirty tricks op. Back in the Sixties it happened, right in the middle of the Cold War, but this was a Hot War or a Wet War, depending on which trench you were in. And it was fought between Ireland and Spain.
The urban myth was all about the poor young Irish girl who went to Spain on her holidays. Before she left, the mother ordered her to place a telephone book on any boy's lap she might happen to be sitting on and warned her never to eat any foreign food.
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