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If you really want Ashley O'Connor, said Seamus Harrington, you'll have to change your tactics, bro. Scotus, who was twenty five at the time and never had a steady girlfriend, did want Ashling O'Connor. He wanted her so badly it hurt. Hurt so bad he howled like a lonesome wolf on a hill at night. Listen to you, said Scotus. What would you know about tactics? You wouldn't even know the tactics for washing a sock. Never mind winning the hand of the best-looking girl in Roscommon. I've been reading a lot of books lately, said Seamus. Image makeovers and the sort of thing. I think anything can be achieved with the right strategy and tactics. Look at us, Seamie. We are the two biggest losers in the land. No tactics can save us. That we are. But imagine, imagine just for one moment, if we could transform ourselves. You know, like the way alchemists can change base metals to gold. What I'm talking about, bro, is the total transformation of man. From loser to winner, from ugly to beautiful, from nervous to confident. Parading up to communion at mass, with her lovely mother and her renowned father, one of the foremost medical brains in Ireland, the hurl said. Was it any wonder the O'Connor's offspring was so divine? Butterflies and flowers and sunshine all came out to greet Ashtling wherever she went. Only gentle rains fell upon her head. Spring lambs would jump about in the fields, bucking with excitement when they saw her. At the discos he'd stand holding up the walls, drinking a spiked lemonade, watching her every move, and also watching the boys who started to edge closer and closer. Keep your dirty hands off, you bastards, he'd say to himself, and to Seamus Harrington, who'd stand by his side shoulder to shoulder, brothers in arms, watching over Ashtling O'Connor. The first thing I do is cut the hair. Cut the hair? That's sarcrilege, Seamus. You know that. That's my Francis Rossi look. Ashtling doesn't want to date Francis Rossi. I suppose you read that in that stupid book. This is the alchemy you're talking about, is it? Changing me from a hard rocker to what? A boy's own fan? All I'm saying is maybe cut the hair and retire your grandfather's waistcoat, bury the faded blue jeans and the seventies sneakers, clean yourself up a bit. That's a serious transformation, Seamus. Also, I think you need to stop shaking the dandruff on the dance floor and put away the air guitar while you were at it. I don't know you anymore, Seamus, said Scotus. I don't know you anymore. Muttering all kinds of maledictions under his breath, the sacred cows were sacrificed the following day. Scotus cut his pile driving hair. The dirty deed wasn't done without a tear or two. Harrington had some fancy name for it, a Samson reversal, or some such shite. His theory was that Scotus would gain strength from cutting his hair, unlike Samson, who lost all his strength. The jeans were also ditched. No more blue for you, no more whole rag blues. For the disco that Friday, Scotus brought a brand new white shirt and a black pair of trousers. In doing so, he danced upon the grave of his former self. Looking good, said Seamus Harrington at the disco the following Friday. A better five or you are going to score. To score? I need to summon the courage to ask her to dance. On hearing this, Harrington's strategy, or was it his tactics, went into phase two. He grabbed Scotus by the scruff of the neck and held him in front of the frosted mirror of the gents. The stagnant piss-denched gents of the Dampole dance hall, a parish hall used for bingo raffles and discos on a Friday night. Repeat after me. I'm a good looking bastard and I know it. Ah for fuck's sake, Harrington, let me go. Repeat after me, said Harrington, now starting to choke Olin. I'm a good looking bastard, and I know it. Alright, let go and I'll say it. Say it then. I'm a good looking bastard, and I know it. Say it now with more conviction, and don't be a fucking loser all your life, Olin. I liked you a lot better before you started reading these makeover books. You're turning into a right cob shite. It was the last dance before Scotus summons up the courage to ask Ashling to dance. Spurred on by a thump in the kidneys from Harrington. A group of other young men, the alcohol starting to take effect, had also found the inner strength to make their way across the dance floor to the lady's side to claim their prize, something to show for their night of angst. As a result, there was a mad scramble, a dash, to be first to Ashtling O'Connor. To the strains of an old ballad, Scotus won the race. She sat on a chair, like a princess, surveying the army of handsome soldiers charging her way. He bowed his head so she'd hear him. The words, Would you like to dance, were hardly out of his mouth when she began to rise, and such was his surprise that their heads clashed, and he was seeing stars, and she was probably seeing stars too. But before he knew it, they were in the middle of the dance floor, her arms thrown around his neck, their bodies so close that his heart was thumping away like Lancaster's bass guitar. You look different, she said. I decided to cut my hair. It suits you, she said. Thanks. He said back. All the girls were wondering who you were. I was getting a bit tired of the Francis Rossi look. Who? Just an old fogie. All around them couples were snogging away in slow dance. She threw her hands tightly around his neck, pulling him closer, before saying, Would you like to go for a walk? Scotus and Ashton left the dance hall hand in hand that night. He was a new man, transformed from base metal to gold, and Seamus Harrington gave him the thumbs up as they met for the door. Someone else brushed into him too. It was more than a brush. It was a dig in the sides. Scotus saw a big angry bogman by the name of Michael James McGovern glaring at him. He was just a jealous guy. Outside there was a full moon, and Ashley skipped before him. Let's go to the abbey, she said.