GG OSullivan

Conor O'Sullivan farms hill sheep above the Atlantic on ground his family has grazed for longer than the records reach, and he reads the weather himself because the forecast, in his experience, is a fine work of fiction. He books the back room of a bar in Clifden on the first Tuesday of every month and calls it a club night. Four people came in January and two of them were his brothers. He has neither cancelled it nor advertised it, and the boards go into the car regardless. Most of his real play happens by the fire against the same three neighbours. He judges a position by feel, doubles more freely than you expect and offers no account of either.