"They thought there was only one “F” in Mafia" Meet Jack Kelly. It is seven thirty in the evening. It is mid-March. He is in the middle of a rapidly darkening forest. He can see about ten yards in any direction. And, by the way, he is totally naked. Ten minutes ago he was holding onto his nuts because he was embarrassed; now he's hanging onto them because he's afraid they're going to fall off from the cold. Somewhere close by lurks a Russian gangster with a gun. What else could he have expected when pitching a bunch of weekend witches against the might of the Russian Mafia (Dublin branch)?