There is an old cliché that says that everybody remembers where they were when Kennedy was shot.
That is a load of b*ll*x.
I was young, footloose and fancy-free. I could have been anywhere. I could have been doing my homework, though that is very unlikely as I never did my homework. I could have been shagging Pauline from up the road [though now that I think about it, that was all in my mind at the time]. I could have been reading my brothers collection of p0rn that he thought I didn’t know about [that’s quite likely].
Quite frankly, at that age I didn’t give a toss about America or American presidents. That was in the time before television rammed America down our throats, so the U. S. of A. was just somewhere people went when they couldn’t get a job. I know there was a bit of a faff when he came to visit Wexford earlier in the year, but that was the extent of my lack of interest.
I remember the Cuban Missile Crisis all right, because we were all asked to pray for peace, and the world held its breath. I didn’t, personally, because I had more important things on my mind. Like sex. Testosterone was surging through my veins, and my number one priority was the fairer gender. World peace came way down the list.
I know I was in Ireland. But that’s not memory. That’s logic. I can even narrow it down to the eastern half of the country.
I know where I wasn’t.
I wasn’t in Dallas.
So it wasn’t me.