I was idly contemplating the passing of Martin McGuinness when it came to me how much his

existence resembled the famous Dublin drink that his own name so nearly replicates.

In his life's glass was poured the black swirling mixture of the horror of the bombings and

shootings that butchered and brutalised so many lives; of the terror at the knock at the door,

the bundled body into a car...

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