Caryl Férey
La gamba sinistra di Joe Strummer

"...Mc Cash had lost his old friends along the way, companions of lost illusions, the IRA had officially laid down its arms, his colleagues got on his nerves, his last lover informed him via SMS that she was marrying someone else, and Joe Strummer had just died, leaving him orphaned of an era that, like his ex-wife, did nothing but take off".

Mc Cash no longer has a proper name, just as he no longer has an eye and a wife, and he has no more heroes, the last one just abandoned him, stopping banging his damn left leg on more or less rotten stages. Rotten like Mc Cash's soul, or like his phantom eye that weeps yellow and shoots stabs of infinite pain through his head and his (non)life. And now he is alone in an era that doesn't love him, that he doesn't love, and which he doesn't want to conform to, just as he doesn't conform to the treatments for the gangrene devouring him. 

Mc Cash is sick and tired of wandering around wasting away, slowly, he's sick and tired of his life as a cop, damn right, a cop, him who had once been in the IRA, but then gave way to the times, licking his wounds, his eye smashed by a rifle butt, and besieged by the demon of sex, which moved him here and there, and which placed him in the police, but always on the run, arriving in France, going through all the police stations, a restless ghost in disgusting times, he ends his run in Brest, there he stays, there he rots walking, rots living. Then he decides to look with his dead eye at the barrel of his .38.

From here the speed of the book takes on spectral hues, launched on the sound waves of the Clash’s lashes, there is the blood of punk and the black of tar from our holy society, it is Mc Cash's true enemy, it is an unpleasant enemy that only a filthy and unpleasant man devoted to the end can confront, the dirty money of sperm and blood licked by whores who want to elevate themselves on the pedestal of the filth set with diamonds that reflect a historical moment devoid of any value, reflecting in the glassy eyes of children floating on rivers of hatred their own blinding uselessness that turns the stomach and to which Mc Cash does not want to give an inch. Until the end. Until the last word. Breathless, cut off by the pain, but with the fury of the guitars lashing his brain. Until the last page.