Liam’s kid brother called by for a couple of days. These days he’s a very important businessman and had been attending a conference in Izmir. For some inexplicable, obscure family reason his name is Troy. The only other Troy I know used to be a stripper whose real name is Nigel and is hung like a Trojan horse. Our Troy inherited the entrepreneurial gene in the Brennan Clan and is doing very nicely whereas Liam will remain a penniless creative genius, to be applauded only after his demise. My brother-in-law wears his success in an unassuming, non-showy way. He shares our solid liberal values. I think of him as the acceptable face of capitalism, particularly when he insists on picking up the tab for his poor relations.

The Brennan brothers enjoyed a two-day fraternal love-in of liver failing proportions with me in tow. Naughty boy Troy has a desert dry wit, a mischievous streak and an unhealthy obsession with Kentucky fried chicken. Bodrum has already succumbed to the American cultural imperialism of Mcdonald’s, Burger King and Starbucks. The locals are lovin’ it. I must confess I’m partial to a Big Mac myself from time to time. It’s good for lining the stomach before hitting the sauce. I assume it’s only a matter of time before Colonel Sanders invades our shores with his secret blend of eleven herbs and spices.

We competed to see who could drink who under the table blending grape with the grain diluted with Rakı chasers. I can proudly declare that this diminutive English proddy romped home. So much for the legendary Irish reputation for hard drinking. My emerald lads conceded defeat with typical Celtic good humour. ‘I ain’t care,’ Troy slurred as we poured him into his cab for the airport carrying his liver in a jiffy bag.

Troy is a quality pro bro.

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