I decided to head to Ireland rather than Norway for my Modern Noir square.

I'd heard good things about the Jack Taylor series, the one they made"> the TV series about. It can't be all bad if it's been on the tele now, can it?

The style is a kind of Nineties Philip Marlowe, if Marlowe had been an alcoholic from Galway who was well-read, didn't think much of himself or anyone else and constantly took the piss out of himself. 

Jack Taylor's main achievements in life so far have been drinking and getting himself thrown out of the Garda (although not for drinking).

So far I'm enjoying listening to Jack's self-mocking description of his first case as an unlicensed PI investigating the suicide of a teenage girl.

Let me share the close of chapter one with you. It'll give you the flavour of the thing. Jack is on his way home from too many glasses of Back Bush to recall and has stopped to pick up some chips, with a cod thrown in to make it seem more substantial.:

Is there anything more comforting than doused in vinegar chips? The smell is like the childhood you never had.

 

As I approached my flat, I was in artificial contentment. Turning to my door, the first blow caught me on the neck. Then a kick to the cobblers. For mad reasons, I hung on to the chips. Two men, two big men, they gave me a highly professional hiding. A mix of kicks and punches that came with the rhythm of precision. Without malice but with absolute dedication. I felt my nose break. Would swear it made a crunch sound,

 

One of them said, "Get his hand. Spread the fingers." I fought that. Then my fingers were splayed on the road. It felt cold and wet. Twice the shoe came down. I roared for all I was worth. They were done. The other said, "Won't be playing with himself for a bit." A voice close to my ear, "Keep your nose out of other people's business."

 

I wanted to cry, "Call the Guards", as they headed off. I tried to say, "Buy your own chips!" but my mouth was full of blood.