Last minute, thursday morning, I'm at work and I decide to go to a party that night, somewhere which can be almost described as 'on the way' from Cork to Galway. Rushing home after work I jump into the shower and pile what seems like all my belongings into the car for my Christmas stay in Galway. Wetsuit and bodyboard (10% chance of using), camera (5% chance of using), hiking boots (40% chance of using), hotwaterbottle (100% chance of using), Finlandia gift box (95% chance of using), laptop (40% chance of using), half-written selection of Christmas cards (20% chance of sending). Oh and some clothes too. The car's all packed, but where are the keys? Of course they're packed too. When I eventually hit the road I realise that I have left several Christmas presents behind. And my address book for those Christmas cards (5% chance of sending).
New Year's Resolution: To be Organised
So I arrive at this party. It's a party and a half. And it's 10.30. I've some serious catching up to do. I catch up and pass out quite a few stragglers over the course of the night. Like the boy who's fallen and split his head open (an ambulance is called), the guy whose nose suddenly starts to bleed as he sleeps (but only cos somebody else stuck his finger up it. And whoever has got sick in red all over the downstairs bathroom. My friend's got the biggest bottle of vodka I've ever seen. It's so big I can't actually pour it, I just kindof cradle it under my arm and point it in the direction of glassware and hope for the best. The red lemonade's flowing freely aswell and there's a load of dancing going on. I decide I smoke again ('go on, it's Christmas' encourages my cigarette dealing friend. What would Baby Jesus think of that?) and hang out with the cool gang. I spend most of the night meeting new people and talking rubbish. And when I'm not doing that I'm turning down hard drugs, being offered the way Father Ted's housekeeper offers tea, and fending off the advances of a boy 13 years younger than me who thinks I have a 'sexy phone voice'. 'You're much prettier than I thought you were going to be' he says as he tries to drag me away from the cigarette pusher.
When dawn comes up, a beautiful rosy glow over a frosty morning, I decide it's time for bed and stagger back to my friend's house where I sleep for three hours on the couch. Then I get up and drive the twisty roads of East Clare with an ambulance following me. How handy will that be? I feel strange, like part of my soul has been hollowed out with a giant ice-cream scoop. 'What's to become of me?' I ask myself, struck by the beauty of the waning day around the shores of Lough Derg. I listen to 'Kings of Convenience' and 'The National' to soothe my frazzled thoughts. Apart from mistaking some clouds on the horizon for a huge mountain range for at least 10 minutes I make it back to Galway without incident.
My parents, the dog and a huge pot of seafood chowder await me. No more parties, no more parties for me. Home has never felt so good.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Apologies
Sincere apologies for my recent absence. Today I realised it was either blog or quit. So I'm blogging. 'Ah too little too late' they will say.
It's just been so hectic lately. Good things, bad things, working too much, parties, gigs, secrets, lies, confessions, all manner of things I either haven't had time to write about or can't write about. 'Go on! Spill the beans, give us some dirt, spice it up!' I hear the fans shouting (all 5 of you). But not yet! There has been way too much blog fodder recently. That's the problem isn't it. It's the quiet times when you have time to reflect and blog, not the crazy times when you're busy partying and meeting Joan as Police Woman and half-carrying your colleague down Patrick Street while she tells you things you really really wish she hadn't. Things that she has no recollection of but which are etched on your brain. Forever I suspect.
Anyway, I promise to be more bloggish over Christmas. I'll have to be, because my sister won't let me watch anything I want on telly. It'll be all horse-racing and Celebrity This That and The Other instead of Star Trek and Beautifully Drawn Animated Features about lost children, snowmen or animals.
It's just been so hectic lately. Good things, bad things, working too much, parties, gigs, secrets, lies, confessions, all manner of things I either haven't had time to write about or can't write about. 'Go on! Spill the beans, give us some dirt, spice it up!' I hear the fans shouting (all 5 of you). But not yet! There has been way too much blog fodder recently. That's the problem isn't it. It's the quiet times when you have time to reflect and blog, not the crazy times when you're busy partying and meeting Joan as Police Woman and half-carrying your colleague down Patrick Street while she tells you things you really really wish she hadn't. Things that she has no recollection of but which are etched on your brain. Forever I suspect.
Anyway, I promise to be more bloggish over Christmas. I'll have to be, because my sister won't let me watch anything I want on telly. It'll be all horse-racing and Celebrity This That and The Other instead of Star Trek and Beautifully Drawn Animated Features about lost children, snowmen or animals.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
The Demon Drink
Truculent Horse was very well-behaved at the weekend.
Her friend on the other hand has the drinking capacity of a 12-year old girl. Combine that with a tendency to get over-excited and what you have is, well, a very special friend.
Picture the scene, as described to Truculent. A modest pub in a small market town in County Cork. A gathering of people, people he knows, people he knows a little bit, people he's only just met. It's early saturday afternoon. He walks out of the gents and announces to the assembled not-yet-drunk party that he has created an artwork of genius on the right-hand urinal. Out of his own pubic hair that he has pulled out in tufts and scattered around the cold white tiles. Their shock does not stop him repeatedly encouraging everyone to go in and view his artwork.
By the time Truculent catches up with him later that evening his 6 foot frame is swaying alarmingly. The only thing which appears to be holding him upright is an invisible magic thread which stretches tautly from the jauntily set tweed cap on his head to a point on a star far far away in a distant galaxy.
I make him drink pints of water and let him clutch my hand like a toddler. Not bothering to ask if he's washed his hands since the artwork incident.
Her friend on the other hand has the drinking capacity of a 12-year old girl. Combine that with a tendency to get over-excited and what you have is, well, a very special friend.
Picture the scene, as described to Truculent. A modest pub in a small market town in County Cork. A gathering of people, people he knows, people he knows a little bit, people he's only just met. It's early saturday afternoon. He walks out of the gents and announces to the assembled not-yet-drunk party that he has created an artwork of genius on the right-hand urinal. Out of his own pubic hair that he has pulled out in tufts and scattered around the cold white tiles. Their shock does not stop him repeatedly encouraging everyone to go in and view his artwork.
By the time Truculent catches up with him later that evening his 6 foot frame is swaying alarmingly. The only thing which appears to be holding him upright is an invisible magic thread which stretches tautly from the jauntily set tweed cap on his head to a point on a star far far away in a distant galaxy.
I make him drink pints of water and let him clutch my hand like a toddler. Not bothering to ask if he's washed his hands since the artwork incident.
Saturday, December 09, 2006
The Classic Text Blunder II
I forgot to mention that last Sunday saw an eerie replay of the classic text blunder. In exactly the same situation, on the train from Dublin to Cork, wrecked tired, texting away. I send the wrong text to EXACTLY THE SAME PERSON again! AND it's a text about him (and a pet sheep called 'Horse') again! God, the embarrassment of it.
And no, it's not that their names are beside each other, or that my phone makes an error, it's just that when I write a text about someone else it sortof lodges their name in my head and in my absentminded way I then trawl through my phone book searching for their name. Then I send it and realise almost straight away what I've done.
It's got to stop before I land myself in big trouble. Before I send myself one saying 'God that Truculent Horse is really annoying' or something.
And no, it's not that their names are beside each other, or that my phone makes an error, it's just that when I write a text about someone else it sortof lodges their name in my head and in my absentminded way I then trawl through my phone book searching for their name. Then I send it and realise almost straight away what I've done.
It's got to stop before I land myself in big trouble. Before I send myself one saying 'God that Truculent Horse is really annoying' or something.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Jim, Bob and Al
Feeling suprisingly grand the next day I get the train to Dublin. AGAIN. To meet Jim, Bob and Al etc. Oh wait, I think I'm Al. A few years ago, in college back in the early 90s, Jim, Bob and Al were loud, obnoxious lads who drank a lot of pints in the vomit and beer soaked UCD bar (instead of going to lectures) and made lewd comments at passing girls. Bob always shouted 'look at the jugs on her' but, being from the west I'd never heard of 'jugs' so Jim and myself used to settle for 'I'd give her one' and 'I'd stick one up her'. And we were not discreet. Our alter-egos may in fact be responsible for the birth of the ladette phenomenon. And the lad phenomenon. In fact I think Liam Gallagher may actually have modelled himself on Bob's shocking behaviour. I'd like to now make a formal apology. Sorry about that.
Oh and we also engaged in some petty crime. Nothing serious. Just vandalism and larceny I think.
Now I'm pleased to say that, even though Jim is a new mother and has some important job with a high-profile charity and Bob is masquerading as a science teacher, they haven't changed a bit and we're as over-excited and raucous as ever. Unfortunately, as Dublin seems to be populated exclusively by groups of males in their 20s and 30s (why am I in Cork?) there are very few girls to be rude to anymore. The Boy Who Loves Donkeys arrives too and I'm sure Jim, Bob and Al, the loudest people in the pub, aren't intimidating at all. Not at all.
Oh and we also engaged in some petty crime. Nothing serious. Just vandalism and larceny I think.
Now I'm pleased to say that, even though Jim is a new mother and has some important job with a high-profile charity and Bob is masquerading as a science teacher, they haven't changed a bit and we're as over-excited and raucous as ever. Unfortunately, as Dublin seems to be populated exclusively by groups of males in their 20s and 30s (why am I in Cork?) there are very few girls to be rude to anymore. The Boy Who Loves Donkeys arrives too and I'm sure Jim, Bob and Al, the loudest people in the pub, aren't intimidating at all. Not at all.
One Quiet Pint
The weekend started off with a bang after seeing 'Hal', 'a band in decline' on thursday night. Knackered at work the next day, I still gave a fabulous performance with a slideshow of my Iceland holiday snaps cunningly disguised as a lecture about Viking archaeology. I then curled up on the couch on friday night, so as to be sensibly rested for my big night out with 'the lads' Jim, Bob and Al in Dublin the next day. By 10 O'Clock I decided that, needing some exercise, a walk under the stars would be good. Yes, a walk. To the pub. Yes, for one pint. One quiet pint. Or maybe two.
A couple of texts later I'm brushing my teeth, pulling on my jumper with the whale on it, tying my shoelaces at the speed of light and walking briskly down to Mutton Lane Inn to meet Sarah. By the time I get there she's picked up a lost girl from Berlin. She's very drunk, but very friendly. AND she has two selection boxes. We cart her off to Crane Lane but all of a sudden it's become the most popular place in the universe and there's all sorts of random eejits queuing to get in. So we cross it off our list and, joined by a couple more friends, head for Charlies to watch a band with all the old alcoholics. There I meet The Crazy Man Who Was So Unbelievably Mean to me last year, when I was a fresh friendless face in Cork. Oh My God. And he's with a girl. Who's got a ring on her finger. Yes, that finger! And she looks ultra-normal (and not quite as pretty as Truculent Horse if I say so myself). Jesus. He comes over and starts to apologise at length for his behaviour a year ago. Damn right. 'There's no excuse for the way I behaved, you didn't deserve that'. 'Yes yes'. 'You're too soft ... but don't ever change'. 'Hmm'.
'Good Luck' I telepath the girl with the ring on that finger.
Jesus, I'm rattled, but luckily I've acquired a party invitation, so it's off again. I'm still kidding myself it's a quiet pint but next thing I know we're at this great party stuffed full of nice people who love my jumper with the whale on it. It's only when a large white dog arrives half way through the night and I don't bat an eyelid that I realise the time for quiet pints has gone. Long Gone. A girl comes up to me and whispers desperately in my ear 'I love her!' 'Who?' 'HER, don't tell anyone!' I immediately tell someone else (and then publish it on the internet). Why why why do people confide in me? When I finally finish off my friend's last beer (greedy greedy greedy) it's morning and new people are still arriving at the party.
Time to go home for this little horse. One Quiet Pint. Yeah right.
A couple of texts later I'm brushing my teeth, pulling on my jumper with the whale on it, tying my shoelaces at the speed of light and walking briskly down to Mutton Lane Inn to meet Sarah. By the time I get there she's picked up a lost girl from Berlin. She's very drunk, but very friendly. AND she has two selection boxes. We cart her off to Crane Lane but all of a sudden it's become the most popular place in the universe and there's all sorts of random eejits queuing to get in. So we cross it off our list and, joined by a couple more friends, head for Charlies to watch a band with all the old alcoholics. There I meet The Crazy Man Who Was So Unbelievably Mean to me last year, when I was a fresh friendless face in Cork. Oh My God. And he's with a girl. Who's got a ring on her finger. Yes, that finger! And she looks ultra-normal (and not quite as pretty as Truculent Horse if I say so myself). Jesus. He comes over and starts to apologise at length for his behaviour a year ago. Damn right. 'There's no excuse for the way I behaved, you didn't deserve that'. 'Yes yes'. 'You're too soft ... but don't ever change'. 'Hmm'.
'Good Luck' I telepath the girl with the ring on that finger.
Jesus, I'm rattled, but luckily I've acquired a party invitation, so it's off again. I'm still kidding myself it's a quiet pint but next thing I know we're at this great party stuffed full of nice people who love my jumper with the whale on it. It's only when a large white dog arrives half way through the night and I don't bat an eyelid that I realise the time for quiet pints has gone. Long Gone. A girl comes up to me and whispers desperately in my ear 'I love her!' 'Who?' 'HER, don't tell anyone!' I immediately tell someone else (and then publish it on the internet). Why why why do people confide in me? When I finally finish off my friend's last beer (greedy greedy greedy) it's morning and new people are still arriving at the party.
Time to go home for this little horse. One Quiet Pint. Yeah right.
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