RYAN DENNIS

“Don’t worry,” I told my girlfriend. “There are a lot of 18-year-olds who live around us. They’ll get eaten first.”

Preparing for the zombie apocalypse is one of my side hobbies. When I drift out of a conversation, usually it is because I’m evaluating the surrounding space and considering how to bolster it against the infected hordes.

Southern Italy can be a tough place to live. My girlfriend is a hardened product of its streets. She rode the public bus two hours to school each day while ignoring the perverse catcalls of nefarious men (and once a slap in the face from an old woman).

A dodgy-looking drifter in a visor hat gives Kevin Costner a tiny lime tree and insists, “This one is for free.” Kevin Costner stares at him blankly and then epically states: “Nothing’s free in Waterworld.”

“Now look at the sitting room. Big sitting room, big sitting room. Very comfortable. Look at the couch there. Go ahead and sit on it. And look at the light. Lots of light, those windows. Now look at the kitchen.”

I’ll admit to being proud when someone would look at my shirt and start laughing, or say ‘Huddersfield? Why?’ I didn’t care. We were beautiful and ironic and Huddersfield fans. There was only one thing left to do: go to an actual match.

Ronan puts his hand on my shoulder. “Ryan,” he says. “Do you have the soul inside you?”