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Double Vision ran in physical newspapers from 1992-2019. Other works here include features from the Irish Times, Irish Examiner and Irish Post, with a shmattering of fiction and autofiction.

Have a browse around.

Thanks!

Thanks - you gave me a home!

Fall, 1998. We’re walking through San Francisco’s Marina District. My beautiful friend Meg stops, turns to face me, upright in relaxed yoga goddess style, Scandi bob and shardic blue eyes.

“Here’s what I don’t get. You spent all those years travelling around, living all over, looking for somewhere that felt like your home. And then you finally found it. And then you left it.“

I stare down at the sidewalk.

Beneath lies the wreckage of the 1906 quake. The Marina was built on top of and out of that rubble, so these sterile mansions have foundations as precarious as their millionaire owners. The Marina is incubating the gentrification that has destroyed the Bay Area’s liberal artistic heritage.

None of us like being delivered harsh truths about ourselves. Life decisions are built on strata more complex than one simple fact. 

Yes, I loved Ireland and I left Ireland, because I loved her more.

No it didn’t work out, but The Beatles lied. Love is not all you need.

You need a home.

A year before I left Ireland for California, I felt my first explosion of joy. I didn't realise, but before I moved to that tiny house in Connemara, I’d felt at best happiness.

In that house in Connemara I felt joy and it was dangerous and powerful and it made me stop and breathe different as I walked.

A home.
A house.  
A house on my own. 
A house on my own in the place I love.
Off the road.
The ocean on three sides and a lake behind.
Less than two miles from the shop and pub.

My god but I loved her.

That’s why I left my home. Yet America was never home; not mine. You know it’s home when it feels like you’re swimming with the tide.  
In America I discovered how it feels when the tide goes against me, and after 4 years I broke.

Came back to Ireland.
Back to Galway.

 

I'd never been back anywhere, but went back to Galway three times.
That was my second time back, and the most extraordinary of them all; stronger and stranger than the first, because I was utterly committed to her and it and us and never envisaged any return.

Before Ireland I’d lived (earned a wage) all over North West London, in Cambridge, Bradford, Melbourne, Barcelona and Otaki.

As a teenager I’d felt at home hitching around the baked landscapes of rural France. I loved the long green avenues, the peeling plaster rustic walls, the plat du jour and carafe. At 17 I reckoned I’d probably live there as an adult.

A village somewhere.

On Friday 10th April 1992, the day after the Tory’s fourth successive general election victory, I went to to the local travel agent and asked for the cheapest one-way ticket out of the country.

Malaga, £39. That’ll do nicely. Check out Granada, up to Barcelona for their incredible Olympics, and then let the road lead me to my French village.

I make no apologies for sounding a tad hippy dippy. I’ve hitched to the moon and I trust the road.

End of.

JB still talks about the Road To Vic. After he nobly hosted me throughout that outstanding Barcelona summer (JB might well choose a different adjective) he drove me all the way out of the city to a motorway junction, concrete underpass glowing pink pumping 45°C, and left me roadside with the dust and Blue Bag.

At last, my French life awaited, but the road had other plans.
Saturday night I slept out on the lush long grass of French Pyrenean foothills, to awake covered in mountain dew.

Heavy dew for a heavy Jew puns aside, I knew Sunday was a terrible day to hitch, with families packing cars and Grandma behind the wheel for her one drive a week.

Perfect. I was in no rush. I’d stick to D roads, avoiding anything with a hard shoulder and HGVs.

I’d meander and - 

and that night I was in Rennes, way up in Brittany. Every lift had rushed me North. Instead of my desired dawdle, I’d dashed through to plans anew.

Much as I love Brittany, if I’m moving to France I’m going to warmer climes, somewhere south of a line from the Vendée to Dijon.

 

It’s absurd to say I was running out of countries, but that’s how it felt. I’m still yet to set foot on Africa or South America, but in my life’s hunt for a home, Ireland was looking like my destination.

I loved the irony of going around the planet twice and ending up in the country next door, of which I knew nada zip.

Disembarking at Cobh, walking through the streets of Cork City on a damp August afternoon, I was excited that I knew nobody.

I didn’t have a single connection to this new country, this final country, this country that really had to become my home, otherwise I’d be back where I bloody started.

I had no idea.

No idea how madly I would love Ireland and the compassion of the Irish. No idea how I would rip the skin off a tiny slice of Galway life in the early ‘90s, and fall deeply in love with Connemara: my soul’s home.

Then yes, I left, as we established, but I came home, and knew I was home because I had left and grieved and mourned.

I moved to live the second time in a house on my own, this time by a river in Killala, where I felt joy for the second time in my life.

Years later, back to Galway and married again, but in 2018 that all fell apart in crushingly unwelcome circumstances.

The following year I fell apart physically. Not enough there’s a global pandemic. Oh no. His Maj here has to develop an incredibly dangerous, ridiculously rare bacterial infection that tried to kill me several ways.

It started off with pleurisy and double pneumonia, and then there were months of empyema, with a litre and a half of pus in my chest cavity. Then I was coughing up blood.

Despite the best care and a zillion scans they didn’t know what was wrong with me (who does?) so they cut off half a lung to find out, and then there was another year of intense treatment, that involved giving myself intravenous antibiotics at home, with a van driving up from Galway weekly, delivering fresh medicines.

During this time I was also trying to deal with a divorce, a complete loss of income, my life savings already gone on keeping us afloat years before, and an eviction notice given on the day I was told about my lung surgery.

Didn’t have to make it up. Dark would be an understatement. I joked that if reincarnation is real, I must’ve been some special kind of arsehole in a previous life.

My friend in Killala offered me her stable conversion, and that was my home for four years. Were it not for her I would’ve had nowhere to live.

Nowhere.

I couldn’t pay rent, even if there had been anywhere to rent, which there was not.

She saved me, and then four months ago, Mayo County Council offered me a home.

A one bedroom bungalow in a quiet estate 300 yards from the village centre.

A place of my own.

A place where I can stay.

Joy.

Ireland became my home, and now Ireland has given me a home. 

No greater gift to this scribbler. 

Thank you.
 
 

©Charlie Adley

12.04.2025

Have we been Pep-a-ruined?

 

       He led Chelsea to The Double, so we fired him.

Welcome to Chelsea Anonymous.

My name is Charlie and I’m a Chelsea Fan.

As Chelsea fans we are used being tested, tormented and tortured. We suffer because along the way we celebrate, win more than any other London team (pretty much all of them combined!) or play incredible creative exciting football and lose with honour. Or Costa.

Watching the last two games with Young Richard, over 100 years of True Blue between us, we both felt as low as we ever have as Chelsea fans.

We don’t care if we lose, as long as we play with passion. We know there are as many downs as ups; that the notorious midwinter Chelsea ‘Bad Moment’, as coined by our greatest ever manager (himself Ancelotti The Eyebrow), can last for two months; that being a Chelsea fan is worrying often if the team will turn up.

But this bunch of young exciting talented players are pretty much the same crew who were blowing teams away before Christmas. I was in shock at how quickly Maresca gelled us into an attacking unit that scored for fun, from all over the pitch.

That - as we know - is how you win titles. And when I say titles, I don’t mean the foreign manager description of the Community Shield.

I mean Premierships.
The league.
League Division One in the old money.

A mere four months ago we were fearless, focused and - but for the lack of a mature striker, a fit Fofana and the return of Petrovic  - as good as I could hope for.

So what happened? Some ideas: not even opinion. Just trying to make sense of this drivel we’re playing.

No leadership. We look clueless, but Maresca is a great tactician, so I’m sure there is a plan. If we’re not executing it then somebody on the pitch must make it happen.

Nobody’s shouting or pointing out there. Nobody's taking charge on the pitch. Young players without a mature mix, desperate for a kick up the backside during games.

What happened to change our season? Well, Maresca played to type, a mini-Pep, and started playing Moisés Caicedo at right back, inverting with possession.

All very clever, two shapes for when you have and haven’t the ball. Mind-blowing when introduced by Pep years ago, but now teams know how to exploit it, so don’t do it.

Anyway, Moises is the best Midfield Destroyer since St. Claude ‘Wot Moi?’ of Makelele, so leave him at the neck of the spine to bite like a vampire.

Stop tinkering with the centre backs and goalie. That triangular three is the rhythm section of all great teams, so choose and stick, as much as injury allows. Then everyone knows their job and players start to trust each other.

Anyone in goal but Sanchez or Kepa. Bring Petrovic home from loan. If it ain’t broke blah blah blah. He did well enough last year.

I know Fofana is injured, Disaster’s out on loan, Badiashile turned out to be an anagram of his name and yuk, it’s ugly, but choose and stick.

The reason our defence has been so shite is that nobody feels safe in their position. Play there every week. Tackled by Terry. Cleared by Carvalho. Allow it to evolve.

A hedge fund doesn’t change its spots. In this world of bottom lines and pure profit, fans are clients and academy players a commodity.

It’s never going to change but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Excel will always be more important than Footballing Excellence, yet we fans know that academy players will put in the extra 7 minutes after a long bruising 90, to win with the team they love.

Watching a True Blue play for the first team transports us fans down onto the pitch. It's an empathy exchange that clings to the core of club loyalty.

Elephant in the room: how do you spend over £1bn and fail to buy a viable striker? If a frustrated wasted miserable Ice Cole has to masquerade as a false 9 again, he’ll be off to Real Madrid come the Summer, before you can say “Buy-Out Clause.”

Finally, in that vein, don’t give players eight year contracts. Alongside large salaries it makes them unaffordable to other teams, thereby removing jeopardy from their status as Chelsea players.

A goal up after 20 minutes and they think they've done enough. They’re under contract for another 6 years. Crazy and then some.

So have we been Pep-a-ruined by our very own Guardiola clone? 

Tinkered from simple success to complex catastrophe?

How long is this season's ‘moment’ going to be?

©Charlie Adley

18.02.2025

She was golden kindness on legs!

“If you’ve got power back tomorrow I’ll drive over to you. If my power’s back I’ll meet you off the usual bus tomorrow afternoon. One way or another we’ll watch the match together.”

“Sounds like a plan, Stan. Cool. Talk tomorrow morning then, bruv. Cheers.”

Next day I’m calling him from the chilled darkness of my electricity-free home.

“Hi. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

Straight to voicemail.
Bugger.

Same an hour later.
Double bugger.

Didn’t know what to do.
Brain not functioning after such a cold night.
I needed heat inside me.

The wind had eased, but world outside was frozen solid, so after chiselling my way into Joey SX, I drove him through a snowy icy North Mayo, in search of a cooked breakfast.

In a pub near Ballina they bought to me a large pot of strong hot sweet tea, which arrived at my shivering core with the pleasure and power of an illegal drug.

After two eggs, two rashers, two sausages, black and white, beans and toast, I tried calling my mate again.

“Hi. Leave a message and I’ll -"

Then I sent a text, saying if I didn’t hear from him, I’d drive to his gaff (an hour away in Co. Roscommon), ‘cos my spare room was like an igloo, whereas his sofa bed was by the stove in his cosy living room.

I’d be warmer at his place without power than he would be at mine.

Yeh but no but, ‘cos I’d no way of knowing if he'd seen any texts or heard any messages.

What to do?
Where to go?

No point driving through that dangerous winterscape, all the way to his town, only to find he’d already jumped on the bus to Ballina.

I’d have to meet that bus, just in case he was on it.

The 22 bus comes from Dublin Airport, stopping at 5,379 towns and villages on its merry way. It was due at 14:16 (not 14:15, oh no) but even on a good day, I know from experience, it arrives at least 20 minutes late.

You’d think that this mélange of knowledge and experience might cocktail into some wisdom, but sadly we can’t escape who we are.

Even though I’ve lived in Ireland for 33 years, I’m still very English, and can’t arrive late for anything. I pulled into the tiny lay-by outside the bus station at 14:10, and sat in Joey, watching the drab damp world progress outside.

The sky was as dark as daylight allows. The freezing wind smashed huge wet snowflakes onto the windscreen.

After an hour I ran the engine to get some heat into the car. As I defrosted I suddenly and urgently needed to go to the loo. Zipping up my coat I headed out into into the weather.

Bloomin' heck! Before I made it into the bus station, that wind cut clean through my layers of weatherproof clothing, pierced my own fatty cladding, slashing shards of ice onto my innards.

Relieved, a few minutes later I came out to see another car had squeezed into the lay-by behind Joey. Drawing level I glimpsed through the window a middle-aged woman in the driver’s seat, texting.

Without hesitation I knocked on her window and asked if she was waiting for the 22 bus, and if so, was she texting someone on board?

Despite the freezing cold wind smashing into her face, she wound down her window and smiled as she explained that yes, she was. Apparently the bus was crawling along at two miles an hour, and was only in Swinford now.

Thanking her profusely I climbed back in Joey SX, wondering for the umpteen-kabillionth time how lovely the people are, here in the West of Ireland.

It is of course possible that an English person might’ve responded with the same warmth, care and smile, but equally it’s very likely that, had I asked them to lower their window and enquired whether they were waiting for the 22, the response would've been something along the lines of 

“What’s it to you? Fuck off and mind your own business.”

Half an hour later I heard doors thumping, and saw through my rear window two young people climbing into her car.

Had I somehow missed the bus arriving? No, even given the appalling conditions, I’d’ve seen a whacking great bright red Bus Eireann Expressway coach turning into the station.

Nearby, other people were walking past, rolling their suitcases and carrying backpacks.

What was going on?

Behind me her car was now full, and I expected her to drive off, but instead she climbed out of her warm dry environment and walked over to Joey, tapping on his window.

“The bus broke down half a mile down the road, so your friend should be here any minute."

“Oh right. Broke down? Bloody hell! Thanks so much for letting me know. I was wondering what was going on.”

“All the best. Stay safe, now.”

And she was gone…

I waited a short while longer, and then climbed out to look down the road. Nobody in sight, but I’d hate to drive off now and miss him, after waiting an hour and three quarters.

But no. He wasn’t there.

Off I headed, back to my cold dark home, only to find - yippedy dippedy dingle dongle dooooo!!!! - the power was back on, and bliss: light and cheer and whiskey followed.

We won’t talk about the football, but that woman and her kindness stayed in my head.

She could’ve simply driven off, but instead she decided to venture from the warmth and safety of her car to tell a stranger what was going on.

In the majestic order of the universe, it might look like an insignificant gesture, but not to me.

She walked through that cold wet wind, just to tell me about the bus. She didn’t have to, but she wanted to.

Now, instead of remembering a wasted miserable wait and an absent friend, I’m thinking only of a golden beam of kindness on legs. Her humanity shone through the coldest of wet afternoons.

I’m so glad I live here. The weather is a challenge, but the strangers are the finest.


©Charlie Adley
26.01.2025

A tale of two Santas - and two buckets of Jewish generosity!

Many thanks to zazzle.co.uk

Snow fell onto the sodium-lit London street outside my Rats Alley flat. 

 

The Winter of 1986 was so cold the water in my loo froze over. All down my road, cracked toilets bowls lay dumped outside the flats, like rejected Christmas presents.

Chris and I sat in my living room for hours, staring at each other in silence, hunched against the old plastic sofas, wrapped in layers of clothing and blankets.

 

Broke.

 

Utterly boracic and lint: skint, the pair of us, with only two days to go until Christmas.

“Hey Charlie, have you got any old whiskey bottles?”

 

“Yeh, there’s two empties in the kitchen. Why?”

 

“Aha! Bring them to me, and get out that fan heater you hide in your bedroom. We’ll have a drink yet!”

Ten minutes later, we were lying on our bellies, eyes at carpet level, watching whiskey seemingly appear from nowhere. 

 

Chris had stood the two empty bottles in front of the fan heater, which was running at full blast. The heat from the fan was hitting the cold glass, thereby condensing the holy juice out of the bottle. 

 

Where before there was nothing, we suddenly had a couple of inches of Christmas Cheer. 

 

So we did.

“Yay! Nice work mate! Happy Christmas to you and your cunning ways! You’re a bloomin’ genius!” I exclaimed.

The phone rang. It was my landlord, who also owned the shop below my flat. He was sorry to ask at such short notice, but he wondered if I wanted to earn some cash? And did I know anyone else who needed some too?

Did I?

He explained that the shop owners of the street were looking for a couple of guys to stand outside dressed as Santa Claus. They would be collecting money for the Great Ormond Street Children’s Hospital.

“Sure, yeh, 'course we can do that!” I told him, “But how can you pay us if we’re collecting for a charity? We wouldn’t stoop so low as to take money from the sick kiddies!”

He explained that our presence was going to attract punters to his shop, one way or another.

Well, fair enough then. More than fair, but just one more thing. This was Golders Green, at that time the most Jewish suburb in North London. 

 

How kindly were the locals going to take to Father Christmas?

“Well, he was Jewish, wasn’t he?” came the inscrutable, irrefutable reply.

Yes, Jesus was born, lived and died a Jew. 1,986 years later, in the tiny back room of a shop in frozen London, Chris and I were falling about laughing as we tried on our costumes. 

 

We were unsure if Santa was meant to be naked underneath his regalia, but the freezing air settled our minds on that issue.

Somehow, fitting the tights over our jeans felt more than a little Superman-ish, but the beard was another matter entirely. 

 

It got up my nose, tickled my lips, and after a minute or two of breathing, returned to my senses the less-than delightful scent of the previous night’s Rogan Josh.

And so, out onto the streets, followed by a gaggle of giggling girly shop assistants.

 

“Cor! Look at those two sex bombs!”

 

“Yeh, don’t fancy yours much though!”

We asked the boss if it wasn’t a little excessive having two Santas out there together, but once again, his answer was beyond reason.

“Most places they get one, so in Golders Green, they get two!”

Chris and I started to shake our buckets, trying to catch a generous eye. People were ready and eager to give. Great Ormond Street Children’s hospital was a cause that crossed the barriers of race and religion, although I felt a little saddened to have to treat a hospital like a charity.

We had been provided with bags of lollipops, which we were meant to give to sweet little kiddies who came up to us. 

 

Unfortunately, (or maybe most fortunately) children are trained to stay away from strange men bearing candy. The combination of my costume, and the ultra-deep voice I adopted for my role seemed to scare the hell out of the wee darlings.

All it took was “Hellow lickle girlie! Do you want a lollipop?” and I was instant pervert, children scurrying away to hide behind their parents, safe from the nasty red man.

Suddenly, off in the distance, we heard a strange commotion. Two police cars were creeping slowly down the street, followed by a massive demonstration by Hassidic Jews, they who sport the long hair curls, blue raincoats and big floppy velvet hats.

Hundreds of them were marching down the Golders Green Road, carrying placards written in Hebrew. Chris and I stepped back to watch this strangest of sights unfold, and then all of a sudden, it dawned on me that each and every one of them was a potential punter.

Leaping into the fray, I frantically shook my collection bucket. Each side of me, every which way, hats, raincoats and beards glided past, the marchers temporarily blinded by my flash of scarlet ripple in their ocean of dark blue.

I felt I was inside a roll of Pathé News film, and was sorely tempted simply to savour the moment, but there was work to be done.

“Cough up for the kiddies! Great Ormond Street Hospital needs your help! Dig deep!’”

Dig they did. Hands reached into pockets, coppers started flying into the bucket, followed by silver coins and then notes. 

 

To my left wallets were hurriedly opened, to my right a passing beard, a glance of spectacles, everywhere hands putting notes into the bucket, fivers, tenners, twenties. 

 

It was wonderful to stand there and watch them give wads of cash; enough to bring a tear to my eye.

 

There was no question of Old or New Testament here, just a river of raincoats on a mission from God.

 

Two full buckets, a happy shopkeeper, and two very merry Santas in the pub that Christmas Eve.

 

May your God be with you.

 

©Charlie Adley

22.12.2024