In the town of Belfast, née Béal Feirste, there lived a man known only as Paul’s Mate. Paul’s Mate led a troubled life that could be quieted only by getting totally and publicly sloshed on Saturday nights. Like, can’t walk kind of sloshed. Like, you better lean your ass against this street lamp or you’re going to choke on your own vomit kind of sloshed. Like, I’m going to pathetically live up to your basest prejudices regarding Irish people kind of sloshed.

Anyway, Paul’s Mate had one glowing beacon of hope in his life: Paul, his best mate. This enigmatic Paul wouldn’t be found laying on that sidewalk beside Paul’s Mate, but Paul’s Mate’s pure passion for Paul created the sense that Paul is, in fact, always with us. Paul’s Mate described Paul as “brave”, “so brave”, “courageous”, and “on his way right now”, with clear and enviable admiration. Paul’s Mate’s adoration of Paul was only compounded by his complete contempt for all other people, who he emphatically described as “stupid” and “not Paul”.

Never content to wallow in the rain gutter of the sidewalk for long, Paul’s Mate would burst into fits of clumsy energy, running, in a very loose interpretation of the word, all across Belfast’s City Centre, occasionally with his genitals breezing in the wind, having failed to return them to his trousers after publicly urinating. He would often find a lonely perch at one of Belfast City Hall’s sidewalk corners, curl into a fetal position, and await Paul’s glorious arrival. Sometimes, Paul would come, surely. But, oftentimes, he did not.

Some say Paul’s Mate is still cradling himself on that Belfast City Hall corner, waiting for Paul to bravely and courageously rescue him from his drunken stupor.