Story by Daniel O’Connell
In The Waste Land, T.S. Eliot called April the cruelest month. If last April was anything to go by, I'd have to agree. My ex-girlfriend had recently ripped my heart out of my balls. Life was a miasma of booze, confusion and loneliness. Welcoming any distraction, I accompanied a buck's party to the annual Irish Festival at Tullamore, a small town on the Central Western Plains of New South Wales. Never go there.