I remember being 18 and being fed up with everything - fed up

Host: The night hung heavy over the city — a mist of drizzle and neon coating every window, every streetlight, every face that passed. Election posters clung to lampposts, some half-ripped, others shining defiantly through the wet. The hum of cars and the faint crackle of a nearby radio filled the air — the city holding its breath, waiting for results that might change nothing or everything.

Host: Inside a small corner pub, the walls glowed with the amber of old wood and low lamps. The air was thick with beer, conversation, and tired hope. A TV mounted above the bar played the results in fragments: red, blue, green bars climbing and falling like the pulse of a country uncertain of itself.

Host: Jack sat at a table near the window, his coat slung over the back of his chair, a cigarette burning down between his fingers. Across from him, Jeeny swirled the last of her cider, eyes on the screen but mind elsewhere. The smoke from Jack’s cigarette curled like a question between them.

Host: On the pub radio, in the lull between updates, came a voice — Irish, thoughtful, edged with sincerity:

“I remember being 18 and being fed up with everything — fed up with society, fed up with the political system, fed up with myself — and then you kind of go, ‘Actually, this voting thing is amazing,’ because you have a chance to change it, right?” — Cillian Murphy

Host: The voice faded, replaced by static, but the thought lingered like an ember — the soft burn of conviction rediscovered.

Jeeny: smiling faintly “He’s right. It’s amazing, isn’t it? The idea that a mark on a piece of paper could matter.”

Jack: exhaling smoke “Yeah, until you realize how small that mark feels against the size of everything that’s wrong.”

Jeeny: gently “It’s still a voice. Even a whisper can shift the air.”

Jack: dryly “Not if no one’s listening.”

Jeeny: looking at him “But that’s the thing — enough whispers make a roar.”

Jack: smirking “You’ve been reading too many campaign slogans.”

Jeeny: grinning “Maybe. But tell me you didn’t feel it once — that frustration, that hunger to make things better.”

Jack: pausing “Yeah. When I was eighteen, I thought rebellion meant burning the system down. Now I just vote and hope someone else has a lighter.”

Host: A burst of laughter came from the other side of the pub — a group of students, their jackets soaked, faces flushed with the warmth of first-time voters. One of them raised a pint to the TV as if the country might toast back.

Jeeny: watching them softly “You see that? That’s what he meant — that feeling. You get older and cynical, but somewhere, that spark’s still there. You remember what it felt like to care.”

Jack: grinning faintly “Yeah, until the bills come in and the news breaks you again.”

Jeeny: gently “You’re not broken, Jack. Just tired.”

Jack: sighing “Same difference.”

Jeeny: quietly “No. Tired means there’s still a fight in you. Broken means you’ve stopped believing.”

Jack: after a pause “Maybe. But belief’s dangerous. It makes you hope.”

Jeeny: softly “That’s exactly why it matters.”

Host: The bartender turned up the volume on the TV. Numbers rolled across the screen; colors shifted, commentators spoke in excited, exhausted tones. Someone groaned. Someone else cheered. The world moved, just a little.

Jack: half-smiling “You ever notice how elections are like theatre? Everyone performs conviction, promises miracles, and in the end, we all clap or boo like it changes the plot.”

Jeeny: smiling back “That’s because it does change the plot — maybe not the whole story, but the next scene.”

Jack: raising an eyebrow “You think one vote can rewrite anything?”

Jeeny: firmly “Yes. Because the story’s not written by one. It’s written by millions who decide the ending together. That’s the power of it.”

Jack: quietly “You talk like someone who still believes in democracy.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “I do. Because believing is an act of rebellion too.”

Host: The rain hit the window harder now, streaking the glass like veins. A group of old men near the bar argued about results — names and parties blurring into emotion. A woman stood up, placed her ballot sticker on the bar, and said, “I did my part.”

Jeeny: watching her “You see? That’s it. That’s the quiet courage of ordinary people. It’s not the speeches that move nations — it’s moments like that.”

Jack: softly “Ordinary people doing extraordinary things.”

Jeeny: smiling “Exactly. Like caring when the world teaches you not to.”

Jack: after a pause “You know, when I was eighteen, I didn’t believe in anything but the noise. Anger felt like power. But looking at them — these people, this mess — maybe calm is stronger.”

Jeeny: softly “It’s not calm. It’s conviction. Different kind of fire.”

Jack: smiling faintly “Guess I’m not completely burned out then.”

Jeeny: teasing “See? The system hasn’t beaten you yet.”

Jack: chuckling “Not for lack of trying.”

Host: The TV announcer’s voice rose — a candidate giving a victory speech, thanking the people, promising change. The room grew quiet for a moment. Everyone listened, not because they believed, but because belief was the one thing they still wanted.

Jeeny: softly “You ever wonder if Cillian was right — that maybe cynicism’s just the first step toward engagement? You get fed up, then you realize the only way to fix it is to join it.”

Jack: quietly “So rebellion becomes participation.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Exactly. The revolution wears a voter’s sticker now.”

Jack: after a pause “That’s… kind of beautiful.”

Jeeny: smiling “It’s real. And real’s better than perfect.”

Host: The camera would pull back now, through the window fogged with rain, showing the two of them sitting in a pool of golden light — surrounded by strangers, all watching, all waiting, all a little bit hopeful and a little bit scared.

Host: Outside, the city pulsed — taxis, puddles, and posters, all reflections of the same restless dream.

Host: And as the sound of the rain softened and the screen behind the bar flashed “Results Pending,” Cillian Murphy’s words seemed to echo in the air:

that to be fed up is human,
but to still show up —
to still mark that box,
to still believe that your one voice might matter —
that’s amazing.

Host: The lights dimmed, the rain slowed,
and in the small quiet of that pub,
two tired souls smiled —
not because the world was fixed,
but because it still could be.