“Did ya hear the one about the dragon who goes to a tattooist?”

He looked up at the speaker, a thin, wiry individual, and shook his head. He dreaded what he knew was coming next but no-one else was talking to him in this place.

“The dragon says ‘Will ya take this woman offa me. She’s driving me feckin’ mad!’”

Donald smiled weakly.

“That’s a good’un, ain’t it?” The man held out his hand, “The name’s Seamus.”

‘Of course it is’ thought Donald and shook the proffered mitt – a strong calloused one it seemed. “Mine’s Donald” he said.

“That’s a good Scots name,” declared his new companion, “do ya have connections to the place?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Names travel all over these days. Like the people, I suppose. Well Donald, if you’d buy me a drink, I’ll tell ya a real story.”

‘I should have seen that coming.’ thought the Englishman.

“Guinness is it?”

“No, but a pint of bitter would go down well … and, if you’re feeling generous, maybe a small Bushmills?”

Donald finished his drink and headed for the bar. He figured he was paying for some entertainment and just hoped it wasn’t going to be too expensive. But he’d been here before and reckoned he could get out if the situation became too weird.