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From WikiStory

Sitting at the otherwise empty bar, he was a figure of desolation. His face betrayed a misery so deep that it seemed exaggerated and cartoon-like, as if any moment now the tears might begin rolling down his cheeks and into his pint of Guinness.

It hadn't always been like this. There was a time when he was the life and soul of the party. Every weekend people were known to travel from as far afield as Doon, Cappamore, even on occasion from over the Tipperary border, to be in the company of the man they called 'Goodtime George'.

But it all changed the day he bought that sofa.