March 21, 2003:
We were in a smoke-filled pub when the most recent war started. Quiz night: Brit expats eating shepherd's pie, whooping and laughing, smoking, smoking, smoking.
On the big TV a scrolling message: "Coalition forces have attacked Baghdad. President to address nation at 10:15." The room grows subdued. As the hour arrives they crowd together with the volume up. Nobody speaks, nobody smiles, nobody cheers or boos or applauds. Quiet, still.
The President speaks and is done. There's a long moment of silence before conversations resume, at first hushed, only slowly returning to pub-riot decibels. On the jukebox the song playing is "Come on Eileen", now forever in your mind the soundtrack to this aggression.
No one is pleased. What were they all thinking? What you were thinking? How many will we kill this time? How many more times will we watch this speech in silence?
These people round here wear beaten down eyes
Sunk in smoke dried faces
They're so resigned to what their fate is
But not us, no not us
We are far too young and clever
Eileen I'll sing this tune forever
Come on Eileen well I swear
Ah come on, let's take off everything
That pretty red dress Eileen
Ah come on Eileen