Best not to be disingenuous, though. Anyone might start in a small town, but if you looked like Dessie and had the effect that Dessie had on people, then you weren't going to stay there long. Either your own self-perception or gumption would get you out, or, if not that, someone else would look at you and realize there was a buck or two in it for them. In Dessie's case, it was the latter.

     Dessie O'Connell was 6 feet 3, thick of bone, and naturally muscular. Unlike almost all of the actors with whom he'd first competed for parts, he hardly needed to work out in order to resemble a Hellenic god. All he had to do was just not let himself go. But 'all' was not as easy as it sounds. Not for Dessie. For while he wasn't quite on the edge, he was certainly near the edge of the edge. And, in a place where every ounce of flesh was counted, it wouldn't go unnoticed for long.

     Hunks were fifty a dollar, though. With Dessie, it was mostly about the face. That was what Merle Cunningham had noticed when she first laid eyes on him while he was drinking with a bunch of pals on a night out in Galway. She was a low-level executive in a talent agency in Los Angeles who was accompanying her husband on one of those 'find your roots' expeditions that are so beloved of a certain type of American. And while Jack P. Cunningham went digging, Merle found a greater treasure. One that was destined to make her a mint and shove her up the Hollywood ladder big time.

     Dessie had the look. Merle saw it instantly. And what was it she really saw? Bond, of course. James Bond. She'd have Barbara Broccoli on her knees begging for this kid within ten years! Those cheekbones. The dimpled chin. The unruly black hair. The emerald eyes. Oh, and that boyish smile. So what, as she quickly discovered after she'd introduced herself, that he was fundamentally aimless? Merle thought she could handle that. And for a while - a good while, in fact - she did. Now, though, the grip was loosening. The Hollywood polish that she'd applied to him was beginning to crack and chip off. He was becoming Dessie O'Connell again and not 007.

     And today, he was a Dessie O'Connell who didn't even have to remember his lines; he just had to read them, and, as we saw earlier, he was making a right dog's dinner of it.

     "Maybe go and get something to eat, eh Des? That'll make you feel better."

     Dessie was tempted. Probably more than tempted. But … "Nah, better get on with it. We've got a lot to do."

     "Right you are then. Well, whenever you're ready …"

     Back in front of the mike, Dessie blew out his cheeks, raised his eyebrows, and went for it.

     "It was the farthest north they had ever been."

     It wasn't perfect, but it was recognisably the voice of Lieutenant Commander Wilt Stryker of the superluminal Lightship 99 in Exoplanet Explorers, the TV franchise that had brought science fiction to a new generation of eyeballs.

     "The farthest north anyone had ever been."

     It was one of Stryker's portentous voiceovers. Episodes always began with those. And, surprisingly for all those who knew his feckless and frivolous side, Dessie was remarkably good at delivering them. Typecast as he now was as an alpha, Dessie was actually quite a respectable actor when he had the chance. And he certainly had a gift for accents - to such an extent that millions of audience members didn't even know he was Irish.

     "All we were told was that it was a race against time …" Dessie hadn't liked that line. He hadn't liked a lot of the lines. And not just in this episode or this season, either. Come on, he was from the land of W.B. Yeats and Oscar Wilde for Chrissakes!

     He pressed on.

     Luckily, the episode was in the can. Even though he was setting the whole thing up now, he could barely remember what it was all about, or what (if anything) had happened. And that wasn't because his memory had been flooded by the booze. IT WAS BECAUSE EXOPLANET EXPLORERS WAS A PILE OF STEAMING SHITE!

*

     The one good thing you could say about recording studios was that they were dark. Respectfully dark. The LA sun was no respecter of eyes, that was for sure.

     "Bloody hell!" Dessie exclaimed as he met Brendan, his best friend/minder/driver, on the sidewalk.

     Brendan laughed and handed Dessie a pair of thick-framed Tom Fords.

     "Cheers, man."

     "Decent morning's work?"

     "Mind if I plead the fifth?"

     "That good, huh?"

     They got into the electric vehicle that Dessie was rarely able to drive, either legally or physically. Not that he particularly wanted to. In truth, hardly a day went by that he didn't insult the thing and lament the facts that a) you were almost compelled to buy one just for the optics of it, and b) that back in the day, the likes of Steve McQueen had been able to zoom around the city in a Jag or Ferrari that looked like a piece of blown glass. Oh, and without a seat belt, too.

     Brendan, while basically sympathetic, had heard it all before. He simply stuck to the details. Well, someone had to.

     "Reckon you must be up for a bite to eat. O'Malley's?"

     "O'Malleys? Yeah, why not?"

     O'Malley's wasn't one of those touristy Irish pubs. No, it was the real deal. By design, as close to a dive as you could get without being closed down. And, most importantly for Dessie, it was the kind of place where nobody asked you any questions. Or, if they did, those questions would soon be politely withdrawn.

     Dessie checked the huge bronze Panerai that Sly had gifted him. "Bit early, but a few of the lads might be there."

     Of course, they were.

     Among them Michael H, Jimmy, Eamon and the Stick. Others appeared throughout the day, along with steak pies, pints of the Black Stuff, and generous measures of Redbreast 12.

     By 10.30 in the evening, Dessie was 80% proof.

     He stood up from his chair, swaying ever so slightly. "That's it for me, fellas."

     And those were the magic words. There was, by unanimous agreement, no objection and no attempt at coercion once that phrase was uttered. You drank as much or as sparingly as you wanted. And stayed for as long or as little as you wished.

     Unless you were Brendan, he wasn't much of a drinker anyway. Didn't have the taste for it. Didn't need it in any case to get him in the mood for a few high jinks. Not that high jinks were particularly on the menu these days. He and Dessie had enjoyed plenty of those back in Athenry. Now, though, his unofficial role was To Save Dessie From Himself. And it really was a full-time job. He did most of the driving. Managed Dessie's security. Cooked for him. Acted as his double/stand-in, even though he was blond, portly and about a foot shorter. In return, Dessie gave him thousands and basically access to anything or anyone that he himself had access to. That was their deal, and it worked a treat.

     So the sight of Brendan getting Dessie into the car that night, and especially the house, was rudimentary comedy at its finest. And, if you missed the show, not to worry because it was going to run and run.

     "You alright there, Des?"

     "I'm alright, Brendan!"

     Up the steps. And it was a grand place. With a truly grand gate and Spanish colonial architecture. Sometimes - come on, all the time! - the two of them just couldn't believe they'd ever been allowed inside buildings like this, let alone stayed in them or owned them.

     "Might have just one more … dram, you know, Brendan … just before …"

     But Brendan dumped him in bed, turned off the light, and went off to the little cottage he lived in on the far side of the pool.

     And that was the great Hollywood hero Dessie O'Connell. Spreadeagled across the satin sheets of a vast round bed. Snoring already. Stinking of liquor. Bereft of female company since the divine French supermodel, Sasha, had walked out on him for the fifth and final time three months earlier.

     But Dessie was never destined to be alone - just ask Merle. Wherever he went, people always wanted a piece of him. And not only people.

*

When you go to bed under the influence, you often wake up after twenty minutes of solid slumber and congratulate yourself on having slept soundly for hours. That's when you find out you're drunker than you thought and that the fuzziness you felt in your head has turned into an infernal contest between cymbals and drills. In Dessie's case, there was the added complication of a gaggle of green creatures at the end of his bed.

     "What in the-"

     Normally, you'd try to put the lights on if you were aware of an intruder in the house in the middle of the night, but Dessie didn't need to. They were glowing enough to illuminate the room and for him to be able to discern that there were seven, eight - no - nine of them! He sat upright with a speed that would have surprised anyone who'd witnessed him lurching an hour earlier.

     He looked at them all in turn. "Fellas … I don't know what you think you're doing. But a man needs his sleep." Through his drunken fog, Dessie managed to recall one of the supposedly ironic episodes of Exoplanet Explorers, 'The Little Green Men'. He guessed this was an elaborate attempt by the boys at O'Malley's to recreate that notorious nadir of his professional life. Then he realised that they weren't his buddies in disguise. They couldn't be. They were only about three feet tall. Suddenly, Dessie smiled. "I got it. I got it. Very funny. Eamon put you up to this!" He looked at them. They looked at him. He knew that Eamon was pals with a gang of - what do you call them nowadays? - diminutive actors. Obviously, Eamon had got them to dress up as leprechauns. The trouble with that theory was that, short though they were, none of them were this short.

     Just then, one of them stepped forward. Dessie, ever the hero, sat out his ground.

     Whatever the creature was, it was shiny, almost to the point of sliminess. The color it emitted was the most iridescent green Dessie had ever seen (and don't forget, he was no stranger to St Paddy's Day!).

     The thing was holding some device that looked like it was made of granite, which it then pressed against its throat. Or maybe its neck. Dessie's appreciation of anatomy could be forgiven for being a bit askew.

     "Commander Stryker," it said in a gurgly voice that was totally without inflection, "please forgive our intrusion." Then, it paused. Dessie realised that he was meant to say something. It wasn't easy, as all he really wanted to do was laugh.

     "Erm … you're welcome …"

     The thing utilized the device again, and Dessie was reminded of that old bloke he knew from Limerick who'd had throat cancer.

     "Believe me, Commander, we would not have come if it was not a matter of the utmost urgency."

     Dessie was beginning to get the hang of it now. It speaks; you speak. "Ah. I see." He didn't, of course. But he had to say something.

     "We want your help."

     "Well … make yourselves comfortable." He looked at the other eight. "Can I get any of you fellas a drink?"

     The response was pretty much as you'd expect.

     "Commander, we need you to come with us."

     Dessie was amused but also a little annoyed. It always got his goat when fans thought he was the character. "Listen sonny, I'm not Stryker. I'm Dessie O'Connell. That's just a part I play. On a TV show."

     "We know who you are, Commander."

     "This is-"

     But the thing hadn't finished talking. "You are the only one on this planet who can help us."

     "Then you must be in some pretty deep shit, that's all I can say!"

     The device enabled the creature to communicate, but clearly no sense of humour facility had been built into it. "We have been on your planet for forty-three earth years-"

     Now it was Dessie's turn to interrupt. "Holy crap!"

     "Our captain has evaporated, and we are unable to leave."

     "Did you try Bill Shatner?"

     "I do not understand."

     "Er … look, guys, I'd really love to help you. You seem like a nice bunch and all, but I haven't got the first idea about flying a spaceship. It's just TV. All smoke and mirrors. You know what I mean?"

     The thing just stood there. It clearly didn't know what Dessie meant. "Commander Stryker, you are our only hope."

     "Tell you what I'll do: I know a bloke at NASA. I met him at ExoCon. I can give you his number-"

     "Commander, I hoped that it would not be necessary to say this-"

     "April Fool?"

     "But we are really going to have to insist …"

     Dessie burst out laughing.

     "We will, of course, ensure your safe return."

     Then, the laughter stopped.

*

Dessie had disappeared before, so it wasn't the biggest of deals.

     Except, that is, to Merle. She'd gone in there, fought for him, lied for him, and got him a meeting for The Big One. If that went well, a screen test was inevitable. And if he ever filmed a test, it was his. She knew it. Nobody else had a chance.

     "Don't worry, missus," Brendan told her. "Dessie's a rover. He'll turn up." And he was able to supply sufficient evidence to support his case.

     He recalled how he'd put Dessie to bed once, and the next he'd heard of him, he was visiting his folks in Ireland. How Dessie had once found himself eating breakfast in Honolulu with no recollection of how he'd got there. How another time he was discovered playing the bongos in a cheap hotel in Chihuahua. And these were simply the first events that came into Brendan's mind. (Well, the first ones that he felt able to reveal in polite company.)

     No, all things considered, it really wasn't unusual for Dessie to go west, east, or south. Maybe this time, then, the stars had taken him north.