Aaah, my 100th post. Also, my 50th follower. Also, my 23rd birthday.
I am satisfied. Feeling like I've just eaten a big meal that I can still taste, hours after, with every burp. I'm sitting in my bed in my pyjamas and a Law Society t-shirt, smelling like mint after a very long hot bath and listening to my playlist. I just talked to my lady Lopez and I'm contemplating bed.
I imagined getting a tweet or a Follow Friday from the Queen, but alas...
QEtooooo : One wishes @conordarrall congratulations for his 100th blog post and for still being alive after all this time. Pity he's a bloddy Paddy lol :P #FF #Blogs
Plus, I hate her and her stupid punchable face, so I SO would have unfollowed her.
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The last 24 hours have been eventful.
I went out for dinner with an old friend Emma last night. I stayed with her while looking for the Uberflat last summer and we hadn't seen each other since Christmas. She didn't know it was my birthday, so when I told her (after a while) she was mortified and took me drinking.
This bar wouldn't be my favourite in the world, but it does have a barmaid, Chess, who is ridiculously pretty, and who I've never had the courage to ask out. Emma and I chatted and drank, and when she stood up to leave, she looked at the barmaid and said, 'You should totally ask her out' extremely loudly, so that in the wake of her exit, Chess was looking over. We eventually got chatting, and getting quite drunk, I asked her out. It was smooth...
Chess "Oh I don't usually date customers, I'm sorry"
Me "Oh no, it's alright, I never drink here if I can help it"
-awkward silence
Chess "Okay, so where should we go?"
Me "Um.............the zoo?"
So yeah, I asked a beautiful women to go on a date with me to the zoo. Perfect work, maybe next time that happens I'll see if she wants to go visit a recycling depot. The good thing is that I got the date, but I have a sneaking suspicion it was because it was my birthday and I was (technically) drinking on my own so she took pity. We'll see...
She is VERY nice though.
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TODAY, I woke up a bit hungover (read: very hungover) and stumbled into work, bleary eyed and useless. I didn't tell anyone that it was my birthday apart from a few of the guys who I've made friends with and my buddy Sean whom I got a job for. At about 3, the Big Guy came over and stood right next me.
Oh shit, he can smell that badness seeping out of my pores and wants me to clear my desk
"I've got a problem sunshine"
"Um, you do?"
"Yeah, I don't like it.........when people who work here don't tell us it's their birthdays and make us check Facebook!"
"Wha-"
He pulled out a few bags from behind his back, he had bought muffins for everyone in the office to celebrate. It was lovely. I was a bit embarrassed but hell, it was such a nice gesture. It's little rays of sunshine like that that make the place eminently bearable.
Also, another little ray, the Prohibitively Mean Secretary (PMS) got fired today. She's a compulsive liar, and had been causing a lot problems by lying and not doing any work. I'll miss her 8-hour-long monologues that chart her real-time thought process. The absence of that tinnitus buzz of shite that pours out of her mouth will be sorely noted.
ANOTHER little ray of sunshine. My ubercool uncle/godfather/musician Brian called to wish me a happy birthday and tell me he likes this wee blog, was thrilled to hear it. Then Mamo, my granny, called and we spent 20 minutes chatting about blogging.
It was surreal: in the meeting room, stinking of stale booze, the shakes, exhausted, on my birthday, with PMS leaving for good, holding a muffin, chatting to my gran about blogging. She thoroughly approves of it, but I've warned her off reading. My description of things and post titles (think HGFLMcP and the Work Life Skullfuck for example) do tend to have a bit of swearing in them sometimes. She wants me to collate all my posts together and try and make a book out of it. I'd love to do that, but the writing needs to improve I suppose.
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I write a little notebook on the commute to and from work. It's like an old fashion version of a blog that is in a little book made of paper that you type in by using a pen. I keep my notes in Irish so the nosy cunts can't read over my shoulder (and it's also private, and looks vaguely intellectual) and I just found the last thing I wrote, without thinking, as my train pulled up to the station
Is fíorr a rá go dtéim ar strae in ámanna, ach in aineoinn na crúachtáin a thiteann ar an bhóthar anseo agus ansiúd, ag déanamh iarracht mé a bhrú as an slí, tá an t-ádh orm go bfhuil mé in ann léim thart orthú agus leansaint ar aghaidh.
I think that's true, but only a handful of you will ever know how much you've done towards this, or what it means to me. Most of that handful aren't allowed to read this blog, and the others are too polite to stop reading :)
So, not the best of 'Century's and hardly deserving of my lovely 50 followers, but frankly the best you could expect after 23 years of baths and pizza. Maybe age brings wisdom; I know for a fact it brings grey hairs, a beerbelly and obscene levels of rage.
Perhaps the next hundred will see me finally get to punch my beloved racist, let's hope so.
Con
xx
ps - this is what I'm listening to as I try to go to sleep, it's such a beautifully mysterious piece
Showing posts with label hangover. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hangover. Show all posts
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Saturday, February 20, 2010
The Birds are Singing and the Trees are Swaying
I'm not exactly sure what I got up to last night, but I know that I was very very drunk. If anyone finds either my liver or my self-respect could you please forward them to me.
Hmmmm.
Monday, November 2, 2009
What I did last night
Just a short note from an internet cafe about what happened last night.
-i woke up with a hangover
-stumbled around the house looking for the bathroom and had to sit in the shower cos my legs felt like they were going to shatter like sugar-glass
-went into town to meet my amazing friend TV-Girl (not her real name) and her mates
-spent 2 hours on the Underground because of line closures
-arrived at the pub (2.30pm)
-had a glass of Coke and chatted to TV-Girl and her cool friend, Indian-Guy.
-had a pint of Guinness
-had another pint of Guinness
-scene deleted
-scene deleted
-TV-G's boyfriend arrives
-we drink Guinness.
-TV-G and Boyf leave
-Indian Guy and I drink Guinness - turns out he works in special effects.
-Indian Guy and I discuss geopolitics, we decide that by the time we're 75 years old India and China will be the Kings of the World because China makes goods and India 'makes people'. Europe will guide and the East will drive. South America will be a huge force under Brazil and North America will lose its 'I'm in charge' attitude. We both like Obama.
-I decide that Cuba will become a one of the more significant countries. 'The Switzerland of the Caribbean' (me circa 8.30pm)
-CuteTherapist Lady and her 'date' sit beside us at the table
-Indian-guy and I instantly start flirting with her, we discuss a ring she's wearing, her grandmother, Judaism in the UK and Vienna 1928.
-'Date' (who looks like an Asian Severus Snape) leaves in a huff, turns out he's a film-maker, but a massive bell-end who sponges off people. We all toast his departure.
-We drink Guinness
-CTL, IG and I discuss death, mortality, Catholicism, psychoanalysis, psychotherapy, Karma, religion and literature.
-CTL, IG and I drink Guinness (we seem to have forgotten that before this we'd never met)
-Turns out both CTL and I both went to Trinity and both speak French. She displays surprise that I'm only 22 and she's a bit older. We speak French some more.
-CTL, IG and I practice psychotherapy on a drunk woman, it works.
-CTL's friend, Kennedy (actually his name) arrives, he is too cool for school. He wears blue spectacles.
-CTL, IG, Kennedy and I talk about death and music. We show each other our tattoos.
-CTL likes that I have a tattoo of a Yew tree on my arm, tells me she has planned to get a tatoo of a yew on her arm. I offer to share the design.
-The bar closes.
-CTL (who is part-Irish and interested in trad music) exchanges numbers and goes on with Kennedy. Tells me to ring her.
-IG and I find another, later bar.
-CTL and Blue Specs show up too. We laugh at this.
-We drink Guinness.
-I dance the Twist with a 60 year old lady.
-Blue Specs gives me a title for my script (Masquerade) which I like.
-We go out to smoke and chat to old gangsters.
-We come in and CTL does the Twist with a 60 year old lady.
-CTL and I go out for a smoke and chat about life. She is definitely not Blue Specs' girlf (thanks to my subtle question of 'Is he your boyfriend then?' and her response of 'No.' We beging to dance in the street. Then we kiss. It's very nice.
-I go back inside and find IG almost passed out, he decides it's time to go home.
-Blue Specs and CTL leave, she kisses me and tells me to call her.
-I stay and drink until the bar closes, it is 2.30 am.
-It takes me hours to get home by bus.
-I can't find any change but the bus driver lets me on anyway because he doesn't want to break a note. We talk about prog-rock.
-I take the street chariot home in style.
-I try to grant a wish for the driver (not in a sexual way, I think more in a Genie/Casting a Spell way)
-The driver laughs and stops right at the top of my street.
-I stumble home listening to King Crimson.
-I watch 'The Good The Bad and the Ugly' until I fall asleep at 5.
Today I woke up and I'm afraid. Also got a text from CTL. She's really cool, but I think the age thing worries her, so I'm not sure if she really wants to go out.
So now, with rivulets of boozy sweat lashing off my back, I can only smile at what was a freaking amazing weekend. I've drunk too much, quit my job, met a few nice girls and made some new friends. Also Halloween happened. More to come on that.
I think I'm still a little drunk. Probably should leave the bank trip til tomorrow. I'm going to walk home and go back to bed.
Lots of love.
xx
-i woke up with a hangover
-stumbled around the house looking for the bathroom and had to sit in the shower cos my legs felt like they were going to shatter like sugar-glass
-went into town to meet my amazing friend TV-Girl (not her real name) and her mates
-spent 2 hours on the Underground because of line closures
-arrived at the pub (2.30pm)
-had a glass of Coke and chatted to TV-Girl and her cool friend, Indian-Guy.
-had a pint of Guinness
-had another pint of Guinness
-scene deleted
-scene deleted
-TV-G's boyfriend arrives
-we drink Guinness.
-TV-G and Boyf leave
-Indian Guy and I drink Guinness - turns out he works in special effects.
-Indian Guy and I discuss geopolitics, we decide that by the time we're 75 years old India and China will be the Kings of the World because China makes goods and India 'makes people'. Europe will guide and the East will drive. South America will be a huge force under Brazil and North America will lose its 'I'm in charge' attitude. We both like Obama.
-I decide that Cuba will become a one of the more significant countries. 'The Switzerland of the Caribbean' (me circa 8.30pm)
-CuteTherapist Lady and her 'date' sit beside us at the table
-Indian-guy and I instantly start flirting with her, we discuss a ring she's wearing, her grandmother, Judaism in the UK and Vienna 1928.
-'Date' (who looks like an Asian Severus Snape) leaves in a huff, turns out he's a film-maker, but a massive bell-end who sponges off people. We all toast his departure.
-We drink Guinness
-CTL, IG and I discuss death, mortality, Catholicism, psychoanalysis, psychotherapy, Karma, religion and literature.
-CTL, IG and I drink Guinness (we seem to have forgotten that before this we'd never met)
-Turns out both CTL and I both went to Trinity and both speak French. She displays surprise that I'm only 22 and she's a bit older. We speak French some more.
-CTL, IG and I practice psychotherapy on a drunk woman, it works.
-CTL's friend, Kennedy (actually his name) arrives, he is too cool for school. He wears blue spectacles.
-CTL, IG, Kennedy and I talk about death and music. We show each other our tattoos.
-CTL likes that I have a tattoo of a Yew tree on my arm, tells me she has planned to get a tatoo of a yew on her arm. I offer to share the design.
-The bar closes.
-CTL (who is part-Irish and interested in trad music) exchanges numbers and goes on with Kennedy. Tells me to ring her.
-IG and I find another, later bar.
-CTL and Blue Specs show up too. We laugh at this.
-We drink Guinness.
-I dance the Twist with a 60 year old lady.
-Blue Specs gives me a title for my script (Masquerade) which I like.
-We go out to smoke and chat to old gangsters.
-We come in and CTL does the Twist with a 60 year old lady.
-CTL and I go out for a smoke and chat about life. She is definitely not Blue Specs' girlf (thanks to my subtle question of 'Is he your boyfriend then?' and her response of 'No.' We beging to dance in the street. Then we kiss. It's very nice.
-I go back inside and find IG almost passed out, he decides it's time to go home.
-Blue Specs and CTL leave, she kisses me and tells me to call her.
-I stay and drink until the bar closes, it is 2.30 am.
-It takes me hours to get home by bus.
-I can't find any change but the bus driver lets me on anyway because he doesn't want to break a note. We talk about prog-rock.
-I take the street chariot home in style.
-I try to grant a wish for the driver (not in a sexual way, I think more in a Genie/Casting a Spell way)
-The driver laughs and stops right at the top of my street.
-I stumble home listening to King Crimson.
-I watch 'The Good The Bad and the Ugly' until I fall asleep at 5.
Today I woke up and I'm afraid. Also got a text from CTL. She's really cool, but I think the age thing worries her, so I'm not sure if she really wants to go out.
So now, with rivulets of boozy sweat lashing off my back, I can only smile at what was a freaking amazing weekend. I've drunk too much, quit my job, met a few nice girls and made some new friends. Also Halloween happened. More to come on that.
I think I'm still a little drunk. Probably should leave the bank trip til tomorrow. I'm going to walk home and go back to bed.
Lots of love.
xx
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Naughty Step Democracy and the Death of a Reckless Liver
I don't sleep well, it's a fact.
In the old brain, there's a weird chemical mix-up caused by Nature that dictates that no matter how long I stay in bed, I'll only ever get two or three hours sleep a night. I hate it, but I'm well used to it (as I've been like this for the last seven years) and it doesn't mean that I never rest. In fact, I'm such a lazy bastard that I will lie in until I absolutely have to get out of bed and (grumpily) greet the day.
Usually, the process of waking up is a phase-by-phase affair, with much swearing, rolling over and double-checking the clock. Then, when either my (often ignored) conscience or my (piece of shit Soviet-era) phone goes off, I eventually pad downstairs to s/s/s and have a cup of tea or an espresso. It's a routine that I know well, a certain comfort existing for me in the familiarity and daily annoyance of it.
Today was not one of those day. This is how I woke up. Obviously that's another metaphor, but this morning's hangover was so fucking awful that I yelped.
Yesterday, when I was uptown with my aunt, we decided to celebrate a successful trip to the bank with a pint. Well, two pints. Then, when we returned to the house, we had to celebrate getting home safely...by drinking a load of budweiser. Somehow dinner was prepared and eaten and we settled down to watch a RomZomCom with S&D and their friend Ola. Victorious at having beaten Death and lived for another day, we drank and made merry. Then Uncle D brought out Sambuca, and the evening took a turn for the worst.
The film over, I was sitting on S&D's lovely gargantuan sofa and suddenly I realised that we were all talking bullshit. Lots of shit. We moved to the kitchen and S and I smoked a lot, whilst continuing to promise myself that I was successfully quitting. As the two of us sat, smoked and talked shit, the conversation took a turn for the 'air family laundry' and 'talk about things that bring up waaaay too many emotions' and we both turned into tawdry, teary-eyed puddles of chemical imbalance and borderline alcohol poisoning. Then I made out with the toilet for a while, good bye curry.
Then, I got on the phone and texted AND called a certain young lady. I don't usually drink and dial (apart from an occasion where I called a girl to tell her she had "lovely, shiny hair and a pretty smile" that I don't need to discuss here) but last night I went ahead and did it. Smooooooooth.
Right, I can see you shaking your head in disappointment. Give me a break okay? Everyone's allowed to drop the ball every so often.
So this morning, I woke up feeling like a concrete pigeon had taken a crap on my head, and then the world of Facebook annoyed the fuck out of me. I saw lots of status updates from people I usually think are rational and fair-minded, people I love and respect immensely. Here's why I was annoyed: The Lisbon Treaty
Last summer, on the 12th June 2008, Ireland rejected the Lisbon Treaty. For months beforehand, the different political parties, interest groups, worker's unions and people of note had raped every signpost and spare inch of wall across the whole of the country with posters, clouded up the very finite amount of radiospace and television airtime and clogged up social networking sites, new sites and newspapers with their positions, whether pro- or anti-Treaty. Short films were made with cliché attempts at political satire, and the entire nation was bored fucking senseless with the entire deal. As with most politics, the general public were more-or-less oblivious to the vast majority of the proposed legislation. Most people got their opinions from the hysterics of the 'No' campaign, or the vague uncertainty of the 'Yes' campaign, using the misleading bias of the print media as a sort of ignorance grout, holding together vague notions of what the Treaty could mean. 'No' supporters decried the imminent loss of Irish neutrality (not at all possible under the Treaty without the Irish people ratifying that) and culture while 'Yes' supporters vaguely promised that everyone would become massively wealthy and that we'd all get to have sex with nubile Italian women with loose morals.
Now, personally, I would be in favour of the Treaty. I am a pro-EU guy and think that the streamlining of all the old Treaties by amendment and the coming into force of the Charter of Rights (which for example bans capital punishment) are things which should be embraced. I also wouldn't mind having sex with a lot of nubile Italian girls.
Here's the problem though: the Irish people already voted No, way back in the times of ancient history (last summer) that have gone from memory and passed into fable.
Legally, thanks to the 1987 case of Crotty v. An Taoiseach, any serious amendments to the European Union treaties have to be ratified by the government AND the Irish people at referendum. In 2008 we had a referendum, the people voted no.
Ireland is recognised as being one of the most democratic countries in the world but this seems to be highly undemocratic practice. It was a political embarrassment that Ireland said no, after it's politicians being some of the architects for this new European law, and there was a hell of a lot of pressure on the Irish government because of the reaction of the Irish people. Now another referendum has been organised for tomorrow, the 2nd October.
I ask you, how democratic is that? It seems like the Irish have been sat on the naughty step for the last year, and now will be expected to be good little children and vote as they're expected.What if the 'No' camp win again? Will there be a 2010 referendum? It seems that the silly Irish didn't get it right the first....silly Irish electorate.
It is widely considered that if the 'No' camp win out tomorrow, then the Treaty of Lisbon will die. I sincerely hope this is not the case, as I am a 'Yes' chap. However, the sheep of facebook who say "John Smith: voting YES! and if you say no yur a reetard" are really getting on my nerves. This naughty step democracy is contrary to the political freedom we Irish deserve and hopefully this is only a minor blip. What's more, those who try to beguile and mislead to sway people's opinion are scumbags, simple as.
I think my friend Helen has the most rehreshing insight into this situation, and I urge anyone bored enough to read my blog to follow it:
Helen C has read the Lisbon Treaty in full and come to a decision- you should do the same!
Damn straight Helen, way to go sista!
So in conclusion, I'm hungover and pissed off with politics. Quelle fucking surprise...
In the old brain, there's a weird chemical mix-up caused by Nature that dictates that no matter how long I stay in bed, I'll only ever get two or three hours sleep a night. I hate it, but I'm well used to it (as I've been like this for the last seven years) and it doesn't mean that I never rest. In fact, I'm such a lazy bastard that I will lie in until I absolutely have to get out of bed and (grumpily) greet the day.
Usually, the process of waking up is a phase-by-phase affair, with much swearing, rolling over and double-checking the clock. Then, when either my (often ignored) conscience or my (piece of shit Soviet-era) phone goes off, I eventually pad downstairs to s/s/s and have a cup of tea or an espresso. It's a routine that I know well, a certain comfort existing for me in the familiarity and daily annoyance of it.
Today was not one of those day. This is how I woke up. Obviously that's another metaphor, but this morning's hangover was so fucking awful that I yelped.
Yesterday, when I was uptown with my aunt, we decided to celebrate a successful trip to the bank with a pint. Well, two pints. Then, when we returned to the house, we had to celebrate getting home safely...by drinking a load of budweiser. Somehow dinner was prepared and eaten and we settled down to watch a RomZomCom with S&D and their friend Ola. Victorious at having beaten Death and lived for another day, we drank and made merry. Then Uncle D brought out Sambuca, and the evening took a turn for the worst.
The film over, I was sitting on S&D's lovely gargantuan sofa and suddenly I realised that we were all talking bullshit. Lots of shit. We moved to the kitchen and S and I smoked a lot, whilst continuing to promise myself that I was successfully quitting. As the two of us sat, smoked and talked shit, the conversation took a turn for the 'air family laundry' and 'talk about things that bring up waaaay too many emotions' and we both turned into tawdry, teary-eyed puddles of chemical imbalance and borderline alcohol poisoning. Then I made out with the toilet for a while, good bye curry.
Then, I got on the phone and texted AND called a certain young lady. I don't usually drink and dial (apart from an occasion where I called a girl to tell her she had "lovely, shiny hair and a pretty smile" that I don't need to discuss here) but last night I went ahead and did it. Smooooooooth.
Right, I can see you shaking your head in disappointment. Give me a break okay? Everyone's allowed to drop the ball every so often.
So this morning, I woke up feeling like a concrete pigeon had taken a crap on my head, and then the world of Facebook annoyed the fuck out of me. I saw lots of status updates from people I usually think are rational and fair-minded, people I love and respect immensely. Here's why I was annoyed: The Lisbon Treaty
Last summer, on the 12th June 2008, Ireland rejected the Lisbon Treaty. For months beforehand, the different political parties, interest groups, worker's unions and people of note had raped every signpost and spare inch of wall across the whole of the country with posters, clouded up the very finite amount of radiospace and television airtime and clogged up social networking sites, new sites and newspapers with their positions, whether pro- or anti-Treaty. Short films were made with cliché attempts at political satire, and the entire nation was bored fucking senseless with the entire deal. As with most politics, the general public were more-or-less oblivious to the vast majority of the proposed legislation. Most people got their opinions from the hysterics of the 'No' campaign, or the vague uncertainty of the 'Yes' campaign, using the misleading bias of the print media as a sort of ignorance grout, holding together vague notions of what the Treaty could mean. 'No' supporters decried the imminent loss of Irish neutrality (not at all possible under the Treaty without the Irish people ratifying that) and culture while 'Yes' supporters vaguely promised that everyone would become massively wealthy and that we'd all get to have sex with nubile Italian women with loose morals.
Now, personally, I would be in favour of the Treaty. I am a pro-EU guy and think that the streamlining of all the old Treaties by amendment and the coming into force of the Charter of Rights (which for example bans capital punishment) are things which should be embraced. I also wouldn't mind having sex with a lot of nubile Italian girls.
Here's the problem though: the Irish people already voted No, way back in the times of ancient history (last summer) that have gone from memory and passed into fable.
Legally, thanks to the 1987 case of Crotty v. An Taoiseach, any serious amendments to the European Union treaties have to be ratified by the government AND the Irish people at referendum. In 2008 we had a referendum, the people voted no.
Ireland is recognised as being one of the most democratic countries in the world but this seems to be highly undemocratic practice. It was a political embarrassment that Ireland said no, after it's politicians being some of the architects for this new European law, and there was a hell of a lot of pressure on the Irish government because of the reaction of the Irish people. Now another referendum has been organised for tomorrow, the 2nd October.
I ask you, how democratic is that? It seems like the Irish have been sat on the naughty step for the last year, and now will be expected to be good little children and vote as they're expected.What if the 'No' camp win again? Will there be a 2010 referendum? It seems that the silly Irish didn't get it right the first....silly Irish electorate.
It is widely considered that if the 'No' camp win out tomorrow, then the Treaty of Lisbon will die. I sincerely hope this is not the case, as I am a 'Yes' chap. However, the sheep of facebook who say "John Smith: voting YES! and if you say no yur a reetard" are really getting on my nerves. This naughty step democracy is contrary to the political freedom we Irish deserve and hopefully this is only a minor blip. What's more, those who try to beguile and mislead to sway people's opinion are scumbags, simple as.
I think my friend Helen has the most rehreshing insight into this situation, and I urge anyone bored enough to read my blog to follow it:
Helen C has read the Lisbon Treaty in full and come to a decision- you should do the same!
Damn straight Helen, way to go sista!
So in conclusion, I'm hungover and pissed off with politics. Quelle fucking surprise...
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Man Adventures with the Boys
So...France, aye?
I had intended to write a very detailed account of my time in the France, but to be honest, it would take faaaaaar too long. Instead, what I might do is just write down some of the notes that I took during my time of travel. Ah, the travel. Before I left, my friend Ste (whose house we were staying in) and I met at Beckett's in Derry for a pre-departure-to-the-unknown pint. Obviously that turned into four pints. Just an indicator as to how the week began...and continued. There were five of us on the trip: Stephen, Mark (Sparkle), Christy (Crystal), Eoghain (aka -OJ, Crystal's big bro) and I. These are all guys I went to school with, so I've known them since about 1998, and they're like my brothers. The main purpose of the trip was to give Ste and Eoghain a chance to get a lot of rock climbing done.
From my notebook: France Trip 2009 AUG.
Fri 7th: Leaving Derry-Pints in Beckett's with Ste before lift to Belfast-Drunk man on street while smoking - called us 'Lovely Boys' - shudder - Met OJ - drove to Claudy - picked Crystal en route - C has broken elbow "One Wing" - Drive to Belfast - party - mischief - Corona - sofa 4ft long - backache
Sat 8th: Woke up w/ hangover - Tongue like Ghandi's slipper - Hiking gear at Cotswolds - Bought book about Mongolia - fast-food breakfast.
--- --- --- ---
embarrassing story - Whilst hungover in KFC and feeling like I was still a little drunk, the lovely Asian lady behind the counter was short of change. She asked me did I have a 5. I fished in my pocket. Produced a 5 with a flourish and the phrase "I think I can make your dreams come true". She blinked politely. Felt awful, very 'colonial'. Friends looked at me like I was insane. NB: don't try to be swashbuckling with a hangover
--- --- --- ---
cont: car to airport - lots of security - difference between UK cops and NI cops = machine guns/pistols in NI - Burger King meal - hangover flight - awful turbulence - Ste hates flying - turbulence makes me giggle - won't sit together on way home I think. Toulouse - late for train - hotel for the night - area populated by drug dealers and hookers - expensive meal - wine - weird mafia bar - early night - shared a room with one wing - free porn in hotel - dancing girls on channel 8 - bizarre
Sun 9th: Early wake-up call - Breakfast (4 shot coffee) - Train to Perpignan - wait around in the sun - Ste's uncle pick us up - 5 boys, all 6'1'' and taller - Renault Clio - 4 free seats exc. driver - Clown car - 40 minute journey - one-wing in the front seat - lucky cripple - squash - arrive - cops next door to house - next door neighbour dead - balloon body - decomposed - 6 people emerge from the clown car - gun-toting gendarme looks confused - quick climbing session - return to house - 16 litres of wine - drunk - Ste shows climbing skills out window - third floor - pile-on Ste - booze - 1.30 am bed
(NB: Holy Fuck!! 16 litres of wine between 5 people. Not good.)
Mon 10th: Hangover - woke up with a fuzzy head - Ste and OJ went off climbing - Crystal/Sparkle and I stayed by the pool - Lilo wars - Sun Sun Sun - Factor 30 - no colour - C and M burn - me still pale - wasted day - built a BBQ - wood fire - felt manly - big big meal of meat (sausage and beef) - late night glow of BBQ with 10 litres of wine and a crate of beer - found Ste's brother's pellet gun - Sparkle passed out - shot Sparkle several times - sang lots of rebel songs - smell of dead neighbour still about - 3.00 am sleep on sofa
Tues 11th: Hangover - big salad for breakfast - BIG WALK - left St. Paul for Gorges De Galamus - swimming hole 3 miles from town -diving from road into a waterfall pool, 20 ft jump- lost hangover - more walking - took Hemingway-esque mountain track- formerly used by resistance Maquisards during WWII- approx. 6 miles, all uphill - 37 degrees C - scrabbling on rocks - glad of anklesafe boots - got to the Gorge - "vent violent" 100mph - road carved into mountain, gorge far below - walked another 4 miles, found route down to the river - scrambled through the rockpools and streams down the gorge - One-wing did okay for most of it - did a 25ft jump into a cold-pool - made for home - down the dirt path - detour to 'Love Making Spot' - most beautiful place ever - trees/waterfall/small bridge/ swimming - walked home - dead tired - ate grapes from the vine - collapsed into the sofa - went out for a meal "Le Soleil D'Or" - worst fucking meal of my life - boudain antillaise = dogshit in a condom - too expensive - ruined the evening - got drunk in the house - Ste and I did our usual wrestling thing - apparently got out of hand - more singing - late night
Wed 12th - BAD Hangover, Tautavel (for climbing), Crystal and I sat by the water side while OJ and Ste climbed, Sparkle and Ste's family in 2nd car - Me and C drank Heineken, drinking all day - watched OJ/Ste climb - larked about - deep convo - lots of sunbathing/jokes/chat - went hill walking - drunk - met some archeologists - excavation - tautavel = earliest human remains in Europe - caveman nonsense - still drunk. Beautiful views - very very happy with the day - spent the night drinking - last night in St. Paul - had a great time
Thurs 13th - Worst hangover ever - woke at 8 after 4 hours - got bus at 9 to Perpignan - train at 11.20 to Toulouse - Train from Toulouse to Pau - Arrived in Pau at about 3 - went on Funiculaire (olde worlde tram for going uphill) - Pau to Biarritz - arrive Biarritz @ 9.30 pm. Exhausted. Spent day playing 20 questions and trying to sleep off hangover - Annual saint's festival in Biarritz - biggest event of year - no hotel/hostel/beds/gites etc - obvi not booked ahead - sat at cafe until 2 - camped on beach - no camping gear - lit small fire - fantastic summer evening - Biarritz = most beautiful women in world - people having sex all round - bit porny- made a wagon circle with rucksacks on beach, lay in relaxed contemplation as the night fell away - gently nodded to sleep at 3am with balmy seabreeze in the company of my beloved friends
Fri 14th: woke at 5 - freezing cold - no cold weather gear- lunatic with tractor combing beach - tried to kill us - OJ and I decide to camp on a cliff = no seabreeze - sit for two hours - felt frozen - sun rise/morning/SUN - dying for bathroom - 36 degrees - walk about Biarritz for present for Ste's girlf - OJ and I give up and go to airport. Eat/Wash/Change/Bliss - give up smoking because of sketchy post-hobo sickness - look and feel like shit - feeling compounded by arrival of 2 full professional rugby teams - feel a wee bit scrawny. Others catch up - flight - all sitting together - ridiculous turbulence - giggles etc - arrive Ireland - run for bus - miss bus - get other bus to Belfast - get back to Crystal/Ste's/Sparkle's Belfast house - load up OJ's car - say bye to Sparkle - drive home - awful weather - late night driving with friends = amazing - home for midnight - been travelling for 40 hrs - bath - bed - snooze. Fucking great trip.
That's it, that's the holiday, and I think I've given you more than enough of an idea of the type of fun I had. Here's some photos to give you a wee visual:
St. Paul de Fenouillet from the mountain trail
Me sitting at a sheer 300ft drop with 100mph winds lashing me, really beautiful (if terrifying) spot at Gorges de Galamus
Tautavel, where Crystal and I srank beer in the water while the other boys climbed (the fools)
Sparkle having a rest on the floor after some wine.
l-r: me, OJ, Ste, Sparkle, Ste's Uncle, Crystal Mc One-Wing
All in all it was a fucking amazing week away, but for the next wee while, I think I'm happy to stay in Ireland for a while. At least until my liver heals.
I had intended to write a very detailed account of my time in the France, but to be honest, it would take faaaaaar too long. Instead, what I might do is just write down some of the notes that I took during my time of travel. Ah, the travel. Before I left, my friend Ste (whose house we were staying in) and I met at Beckett's in Derry for a pre-departure-to-the-unknown pint. Obviously that turned into four pints. Just an indicator as to how the week began...and continued. There were five of us on the trip: Stephen, Mark (Sparkle), Christy (Crystal), Eoghain (aka -OJ, Crystal's big bro) and I. These are all guys I went to school with, so I've known them since about 1998, and they're like my brothers. The main purpose of the trip was to give Ste and Eoghain a chance to get a lot of rock climbing done.
From my notebook: France Trip 2009 AUG.
Fri 7th: Leaving Derry-Pints in Beckett's with Ste before lift to Belfast-Drunk man on street while smoking - called us 'Lovely Boys' - shudder - Met OJ - drove to Claudy - picked Crystal en route - C has broken elbow "One Wing" - Drive to Belfast - party - mischief - Corona - sofa 4ft long - backache
Sat 8th: Woke up w/ hangover - Tongue like Ghandi's slipper - Hiking gear at Cotswolds - Bought book about Mongolia - fast-food breakfast.
--- --- --- ---
embarrassing story - Whilst hungover in KFC and feeling like I was still a little drunk, the lovely Asian lady behind the counter was short of change. She asked me did I have a 5. I fished in my pocket. Produced a 5 with a flourish and the phrase "I think I can make your dreams come true". She blinked politely. Felt awful, very 'colonial'. Friends looked at me like I was insane. NB: don't try to be swashbuckling with a hangover
--- --- --- ---
cont: car to airport - lots of security - difference between UK cops and NI cops = machine guns/pistols in NI - Burger King meal - hangover flight - awful turbulence - Ste hates flying - turbulence makes me giggle - won't sit together on way home I think. Toulouse - late for train - hotel for the night - area populated by drug dealers and hookers - expensive meal - wine - weird mafia bar - early night - shared a room with one wing - free porn in hotel - dancing girls on channel 8 - bizarre
Sun 9th: Early wake-up call - Breakfast (4 shot coffee) - Train to Perpignan - wait around in the sun - Ste's uncle pick us up - 5 boys, all 6'1'' and taller - Renault Clio - 4 free seats exc. driver - Clown car - 40 minute journey - one-wing in the front seat - lucky cripple - squash - arrive - cops next door to house - next door neighbour dead - balloon body - decomposed - 6 people emerge from the clown car - gun-toting gendarme looks confused - quick climbing session - return to house - 16 litres of wine - drunk - Ste shows climbing skills out window - third floor - pile-on Ste - booze - 1.30 am bed
(NB: Holy Fuck!! 16 litres of wine between 5 people. Not good.)
Mon 10th: Hangover - woke up with a fuzzy head - Ste and OJ went off climbing - Crystal/Sparkle and I stayed by the pool - Lilo wars - Sun Sun Sun - Factor 30 - no colour - C and M burn - me still pale - wasted day - built a BBQ - wood fire - felt manly - big big meal of meat (sausage and beef) - late night glow of BBQ with 10 litres of wine and a crate of beer - found Ste's brother's pellet gun - Sparkle passed out - shot Sparkle several times - sang lots of rebel songs - smell of dead neighbour still about - 3.00 am sleep on sofa
Tues 11th: Hangover - big salad for breakfast - BIG WALK - left St. Paul for Gorges De Galamus - swimming hole 3 miles from town -diving from road into a waterfall pool, 20 ft jump- lost hangover - more walking - took Hemingway-esque mountain track- formerly used by resistance Maquisards during WWII- approx. 6 miles, all uphill - 37 degrees C - scrabbling on rocks - glad of anklesafe boots - got to the Gorge - "vent violent" 100mph - road carved into mountain, gorge far below - walked another 4 miles, found route down to the river - scrambled through the rockpools and streams down the gorge - One-wing did okay for most of it - did a 25ft jump into a cold-pool - made for home - down the dirt path - detour to 'Love Making Spot' - most beautiful place ever - trees/waterfall/small bridge/ swimming - walked home - dead tired - ate grapes from the vine - collapsed into the sofa - went out for a meal "Le Soleil D'Or" - worst fucking meal of my life - boudain antillaise = dogshit in a condom - too expensive - ruined the evening - got drunk in the house - Ste and I did our usual wrestling thing - apparently got out of hand - more singing - late night
Wed 12th - BAD Hangover, Tautavel (for climbing), Crystal and I sat by the water side while OJ and Ste climbed, Sparkle and Ste's family in 2nd car - Me and C drank Heineken, drinking all day - watched OJ/Ste climb - larked about - deep convo - lots of sunbathing/jokes/chat - went hill walking - drunk - met some archeologists - excavation - tautavel = earliest human remains in Europe - caveman nonsense - still drunk. Beautiful views - very very happy with the day - spent the night drinking - last night in St. Paul - had a great time
Thurs 13th - Worst hangover ever - woke at 8 after 4 hours - got bus at 9 to Perpignan - train at 11.20 to Toulouse - Train from Toulouse to Pau - Arrived in Pau at about 3 - went on Funiculaire (olde worlde tram for going uphill) - Pau to Biarritz - arrive Biarritz @ 9.30 pm. Exhausted. Spent day playing 20 questions and trying to sleep off hangover - Annual saint's festival in Biarritz - biggest event of year - no hotel/hostel/beds/gites etc - obvi not booked ahead - sat at cafe until 2 - camped on beach - no camping gear - lit small fire - fantastic summer evening - Biarritz = most beautiful women in world - people having sex all round - bit porny- made a wagon circle with rucksacks on beach, lay in relaxed contemplation as the night fell away - gently nodded to sleep at 3am with balmy seabreeze in the company of my beloved friends
Fri 14th: woke at 5 - freezing cold - no cold weather gear- lunatic with tractor combing beach - tried to kill us - OJ and I decide to camp on a cliff = no seabreeze - sit for two hours - felt frozen - sun rise/morning/SUN - dying for bathroom - 36 degrees - walk about Biarritz for present for Ste's girlf - OJ and I give up and go to airport. Eat/Wash/Change/Bliss - give up smoking because of sketchy post-hobo sickness - look and feel like shit - feeling compounded by arrival of 2 full professional rugby teams - feel a wee bit scrawny. Others catch up - flight - all sitting together - ridiculous turbulence - giggles etc - arrive Ireland - run for bus - miss bus - get other bus to Belfast - get back to Crystal/Ste's/Sparkle's Belfast house - load up OJ's car - say bye to Sparkle - drive home - awful weather - late night driving with friends = amazing - home for midnight - been travelling for 40 hrs - bath - bed - snooze. Fucking great trip.
That's it, that's the holiday, and I think I've given you more than enough of an idea of the type of fun I had. Here's some photos to give you a wee visual:
St. Paul de Fenouillet from the mountain trail
Me sitting at a sheer 300ft drop with 100mph winds lashing me, really beautiful (if terrifying) spot at Gorges de Galamus
Tautavel, where Crystal and I srank beer in the water while the other boys climbed (the fools)
Sparkle having a rest on the floor after some wine.
l-r: me, OJ, Ste, Sparkle, Ste's Uncle, Crystal Mc One-Wing
All in all it was a fucking amazing week away, but for the next wee while, I think I'm happy to stay in Ireland for a while. At least until my liver heals.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Untergang Part 3 (Day 3) plus a COMPETITION!!!
Day 3 - Wednesday, 10th June 2009: Prague; Huge Snails, Punchy Barmaids and Racist Texans.
So...when BigBro came back from work on Wednesday noon-time, I was washed, tea'd and packed. Hanna (BigBro's Girlf) came back soon and made the day for me by asking me, in her thick Welsh accent, "Con-or, would you like some roc-ket in your baguette?". That's right! She's that cool that she was making me a sandwich roll for the bus - what a legend.
BigBro and I went down to the bus, and I had my final sight of all the great parts of Karlovy Vary that I hadn't touristed (at all) and the pubs that I vaguely remembered. The bus soon came and we clambered on, with our sandwiches and bottle of coke, like two schoolkids on a trip.
Watching a frankly disturbing film, and listening to the terrible secret, I munched on the fantastically tasty baguette as the Sudentenland sped by; ruminating on what I could remember of the past few days. The shock of having finished the exams sank in, and I watched as the coming-of-age film made the two of us squirm in embarrassment at the story. The hangover from the previous day had finally gone, and by the time that the big yellow fun-bus pulled into the stop, we were both eager for a good ole session.
The Prague underground system is great fun. Combining an overwhelming stench of piss with the steepest escalators in the cosmos, it's the most fun in the world on a Wednesday before happy hour. We sped along, surrounded by the Czech versions of all the hipsters, nuts, fatties and tourists that we all know and love from our separate underground worlds and before long we were coming to ground and walking towards the super-hostel. As we came to the door, a goddess of a young lady opened it from the inside. I whispered "I love you bro" to the BigBro and, yes, she heard me and yes, she had perfect English. I blushed (for the first time in years) and didn't stop til we'd landed our bags and she'd left. Smooth.
We quickly scanned the room; pristine beds, immaculately elegant bathrooms etc. It was perfect, the best hostel I've ever stayed at. Luckily there were no mental psychopaths or visible sex offenders, so we changed, left our stuff and ventured out.
Now...my memories after that are a little muddled. Suffice to say we went to a lot of bars. About 16 or 17 in total I think, including two wine-joints (which, in the bathroom of one I definitely threw up) and a goulash restaurant. There are only a few bars I remember. One was an Irish bar.
Rocky O'Reilly's is quite an odd place. It was the closest bar to our hostel that BigBro had been to, and one about which he will likely someday write. Apart from the usual bar stuff all over the show, the weirdest things about the bar were the webcam (which probably picked up the jist of some of the horrible jokes I was telling) and the fact that the bathrooms had the facade of a children's toyshop. A bit weird when you're breaking the seal. We went to other places too; including a bar where the owners were smoking loads of weed, a bar were we played darts for hours, the aforementioned wine bar (no.1..not the emo one where I was sick), a gothy cavern of a bar that kept a tank of giant snails as pets and a great little bar called O'Che's, which is a Cuban-Irish goldmine of a place. Soon we were a pair of carousing sots, drunk as a bucketful of badgers and flitting between jazz bars and restaurants, we talked a lot of bullshit and had a great night. A few memories of specific events remain from this mad evening. I remember being punched in the back by a barmaid because I had forgotten to pay and left. I told her I would "buy and sell her like she was on ebay" before laughing like a nutcase and trying to play tag with BigBro. In another bar we ordered the drinks and then, realising how shit and cheesy the place was, we ran away. Another bar had a tropical theme. Wine bar 2 was full of middle-age swinger types all gloomily chatting away, and I think we might have been asked to leave. My memories are a bit hazy drawers, but I shall consult with BigBro, and if they return, write a supplementary entry.
Now, the COMPETITION. Near the beginning of the evening, we went to a great wee pub called The Dog's Bollocks, that had an amazing liquor selection and the best music videos ever. Whilst trying to take this lovely photo of me and the brosef, for the mammy to go "Awwww" over, I somehow managed to take a film-shot. Now, I have no idea what was being said, but would like to hear people's theories... I will write a lovely poem/haiku for the person who comes up with the best one. It's been annoying the fuck out of me.
Here's the film...
Now...what are we saying?
The final event of the night, as far as I can remember, was a bit more weird. We were in a goulash bar, eating goulash. BigBro and I were by now very drunk. But, oddly, we were also very lucid. Munching away at my, yep - you guessed it, meat and dumplings, I became very engrossed with the table cloth when I heard a voice. A large, fat man across the room was chatting over to me. I answered that it was indeed a jolly lovely evening and that yes, the goulash was lovely. Before we knew it, there was a conversation and we had been joined by a family from Texas.
We chatted for hours, I think. They quickly realised that I was a conversational liability and focussed the attention to my BigBro. They asked me to convince their daughter into going to law school. It wasn't as fun as it sounds. She was about seven. She was a better conversationalist than her folks though. After a while, BigBro suggested that we return to O'Che's, the great little Irish-Cuban place from earlier. The big fat father needed to go to the ATM and for some reason, BigBro took the girls and I was to take the Dad. Problem was, I got lost.
We spent about 45 minutes walking around the Astronomical Clock, chatting about the differences between the sidearms of the Irish and US armies (apparently the Irish rifle is better, but EVERYTHING else that the US have is better) and talking about how much fun it was to be lost. Well, I was. He wasn't.
When we arrived at O'Che's I bought the father a pint, and we settled to chat. I was slightly more sober now, and the chat turned to politics. It was slightly congenial at first until we started talking about Obama. The Texans didn't like Obama. When I asked why, the father said
"Well, first of all, he wants to limit gun ownership and secondly, he wants to socialise Medicare."
We sat, staring, expressions of 'your point being?' across our faces. BigBro looked how I felt, a sudden realisation of what had been said, and by whom. Silence fell and the wife, as if to explain further to the silly micks pitched in,
"Plus, he's not even THAT black."
Even the daughter pitched in about how necessary it was to have guns. They had that 'you know nothing because you're not American' tone and look and I played along, trying desperately not to take the piss, and watching my Bro look more and more incredulous at the shite that was streaming from their mouths.
The conversation soon deteriorated. BigBro left the table, rather pissed off, as our company took a turn off Rational Street and travelled ever faster down Right-Wing Avenue, all reason long abandoned. I was just about to ask them whether they believed that Palin and her 5000 year old dinosaurs really should have been allowed to bomb China when they left. Thankfully.
Before they went, there were handshakes all round and the Fat Father gave us each a business card. Afterwards, we soon went back to the hostel, too drunk and pissed off to continue, with only a short pub detour on the way. We passed out quickly, absolutely drained with our exertions and the absolutely horrible way our great evening had been squandered by the religious right. The following morning, looking for a coffee shop before I got the bus (there were none - a million pubs - but no coffee shops) to the airport, we were waiting for the light to go green so we could cross when I brought up the arsehole family from the night before. He took the business card from the night before out of his pocket and smiled.
"Somebody's going to be getting a lot of porn subscriptions."
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The journey home was hellish, and I don't remember a lot about it.. One of the worst hangovers of my life and lots of KFC. I waited at the airport for hours, listening to the secret, I barely noticed the flight and by the time I arrived in Derry, having got the bus from Dublin airport, I was dead on my feet.
Thus began the summer holidays.
Lots of tea, sleep-ins and lazy days.
So...when BigBro came back from work on Wednesday noon-time, I was washed, tea'd and packed. Hanna (BigBro's Girlf) came back soon and made the day for me by asking me, in her thick Welsh accent, "Con-or, would you like some roc-ket in your baguette?". That's right! She's that cool that she was making me a sandwich roll for the bus - what a legend.
BigBro and I went down to the bus, and I had my final sight of all the great parts of Karlovy Vary that I hadn't touristed (at all) and the pubs that I vaguely remembered. The bus soon came and we clambered on, with our sandwiches and bottle of coke, like two schoolkids on a trip.
Watching a frankly disturbing film, and listening to the terrible secret, I munched on the fantastically tasty baguette as the Sudentenland sped by; ruminating on what I could remember of the past few days. The shock of having finished the exams sank in, and I watched as the coming-of-age film made the two of us squirm in embarrassment at the story. The hangover from the previous day had finally gone, and by the time that the big yellow fun-bus pulled into the stop, we were both eager for a good ole session.
The Prague underground system is great fun. Combining an overwhelming stench of piss with the steepest escalators in the cosmos, it's the most fun in the world on a Wednesday before happy hour. We sped along, surrounded by the Czech versions of all the hipsters, nuts, fatties and tourists that we all know and love from our separate underground worlds and before long we were coming to ground and walking towards the super-hostel. As we came to the door, a goddess of a young lady opened it from the inside. I whispered "I love you bro" to the BigBro and, yes, she heard me and yes, she had perfect English. I blushed (for the first time in years) and didn't stop til we'd landed our bags and she'd left. Smooth.
We quickly scanned the room; pristine beds, immaculately elegant bathrooms etc. It was perfect, the best hostel I've ever stayed at. Luckily there were no mental psychopaths or visible sex offenders, so we changed, left our stuff and ventured out.
Now...my memories after that are a little muddled. Suffice to say we went to a lot of bars. About 16 or 17 in total I think, including two wine-joints (which, in the bathroom of one I definitely threw up) and a goulash restaurant. There are only a few bars I remember. One was an Irish bar.
Rocky O'Reilly's is quite an odd place. It was the closest bar to our hostel that BigBro had been to, and one about which he will likely someday write. Apart from the usual bar stuff all over the show, the weirdest things about the bar were the webcam (which probably picked up the jist of some of the horrible jokes I was telling) and the fact that the bathrooms had the facade of a children's toyshop. A bit weird when you're breaking the seal. We went to other places too; including a bar where the owners were smoking loads of weed, a bar were we played darts for hours, the aforementioned wine bar (no.1..not the emo one where I was sick), a gothy cavern of a bar that kept a tank of giant snails as pets and a great little bar called O'Che's, which is a Cuban-Irish goldmine of a place. Soon we were a pair of carousing sots, drunk as a bucketful of badgers and flitting between jazz bars and restaurants, we talked a lot of bullshit and had a great night. A few memories of specific events remain from this mad evening. I remember being punched in the back by a barmaid because I had forgotten to pay and left. I told her I would "buy and sell her like she was on ebay" before laughing like a nutcase and trying to play tag with BigBro. In another bar we ordered the drinks and then, realising how shit and cheesy the place was, we ran away. Another bar had a tropical theme. Wine bar 2 was full of middle-age swinger types all gloomily chatting away, and I think we might have been asked to leave. My memories are a bit hazy drawers, but I shall consult with BigBro, and if they return, write a supplementary entry.
Now, the COMPETITION. Near the beginning of the evening, we went to a great wee pub called The Dog's Bollocks, that had an amazing liquor selection and the best music videos ever. Whilst trying to take this lovely photo of me and the brosef, for the mammy to go "Awwww" over, I somehow managed to take a film-shot. Now, I have no idea what was being said, but would like to hear people's theories... I will write a lovely poem/haiku for the person who comes up with the best one. It's been annoying the fuck out of me.
Here's the film...
Now...what are we saying?
The final event of the night, as far as I can remember, was a bit more weird. We were in a goulash bar, eating goulash. BigBro and I were by now very drunk. But, oddly, we were also very lucid. Munching away at my, yep - you guessed it, meat and dumplings, I became very engrossed with the table cloth when I heard a voice. A large, fat man across the room was chatting over to me. I answered that it was indeed a jolly lovely evening and that yes, the goulash was lovely. Before we knew it, there was a conversation and we had been joined by a family from Texas.
We chatted for hours, I think. They quickly realised that I was a conversational liability and focussed the attention to my BigBro. They asked me to convince their daughter into going to law school. It wasn't as fun as it sounds. She was about seven. She was a better conversationalist than her folks though. After a while, BigBro suggested that we return to O'Che's, the great little Irish-Cuban place from earlier. The big fat father needed to go to the ATM and for some reason, BigBro took the girls and I was to take the Dad. Problem was, I got lost.
We spent about 45 minutes walking around the Astronomical Clock, chatting about the differences between the sidearms of the Irish and US armies (apparently the Irish rifle is better, but EVERYTHING else that the US have is better) and talking about how much fun it was to be lost. Well, I was. He wasn't.
When we arrived at O'Che's I bought the father a pint, and we settled to chat. I was slightly more sober now, and the chat turned to politics. It was slightly congenial at first until we started talking about Obama. The Texans didn't like Obama. When I asked why, the father said
"Well, first of all, he wants to limit gun ownership and secondly, he wants to socialise Medicare."
We sat, staring, expressions of 'your point being?' across our faces. BigBro looked how I felt, a sudden realisation of what had been said, and by whom. Silence fell and the wife, as if to explain further to the silly micks pitched in,
"Plus, he's not even THAT black."
Even the daughter pitched in about how necessary it was to have guns. They had that 'you know nothing because you're not American' tone and look and I played along, trying desperately not to take the piss, and watching my Bro look more and more incredulous at the shite that was streaming from their mouths.
The conversation soon deteriorated. BigBro left the table, rather pissed off, as our company took a turn off Rational Street and travelled ever faster down Right-Wing Avenue, all reason long abandoned. I was just about to ask them whether they believed that Palin and her 5000 year old dinosaurs really should have been allowed to bomb China when they left. Thankfully.
Before they went, there were handshakes all round and the Fat Father gave us each a business card. Afterwards, we soon went back to the hostel, too drunk and pissed off to continue, with only a short pub detour on the way. We passed out quickly, absolutely drained with our exertions and the absolutely horrible way our great evening had been squandered by the religious right. The following morning, looking for a coffee shop before I got the bus (there were none - a million pubs - but no coffee shops) to the airport, we were waiting for the light to go green so we could cross when I brought up the arsehole family from the night before. He took the business card from the night before out of his pocket and smiled.
"Somebody's going to be getting a lot of porn subscriptions."
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The journey home was hellish, and I don't remember a lot about it.. One of the worst hangovers of my life and lots of KFC. I waited at the airport for hours, listening to the secret, I barely noticed the flight and by the time I arrived in Derry, having got the bus from Dublin airport, I was dead on my feet.
Thus began the summer holidays.
Lots of tea, sleep-ins and lazy days.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Untergang Part 3 (Day 2)
Day 2 - Tuesday, 9th June 2009: A Town Called Elbow, the Rebirth Churchwarden and Late-night Scrabble.
I woke up on the Tuesday with the most curious sensation that I was either dead or dying. There was a hangover, certainly, and it was certainly going to be harsh, but this was more of an out-of-body feeling, somewhere between a dream and being fully woken. Around me, BigBro and his girlf were bustling about, getting ready to go to their jobs as English teachers, passing from bathroom to living room to bedroom in an attempt to dress, wash and eat at the same time (y'know... the morning routine) as I lay there, face down on the sofa, in a post-lobotomy limbo.
Soon, the chat seemed to fade, and it took me a while to realise that I was alone again. I lay there, in my weird stupor, enjoying the quiet, and sort of fell asleep again. I say sleep, but I could hear the birds outside, and the noises of children playing in the street, so some part of me must have been awake. I could see myself lying there, face down on the sofa, the flowery bedspread over me, and my silly canoe feet sticking out at the far end.
It was like when you go into a shop and see yourself on the cctv monitor, from a different angle. Except this time, it was a bit more like Big Brother, or some weird avant garde student short film. I tried to move, and could see my own leg shift slightly. It was fascinating. Kinda like watching The Fountain whilst very very very stoned, or watching a spider build a web. I had completely forgotten that I wasn't in Dublin, and it wasn't until I heard some old crone screeching in Czech outside the window that I remembered where I was.
Soon, of course, I had spent about four hours doing this, and as I watched, I saw my brother come through the door and was forced to make some attempt to appear alive. A wash, a cup of tea and a lunch roll revived me a little, and I was able to regain the power of speech and recollect on the previous night's happenings. BigBro wasn't exactly looking like the picture of health, but we were determined and before I knew it, I was walking with sea legs out to BigBro's car, trying desperately not to fall off my shoes.
BigBro has two cars, given to him by his job. Both are Skodas, and both have names. Today, we were riding in Bryn, on the first rainy day they had had in about three weeks (Irish = bring bad weather with you). Being a modern sort of chap, Bryn only had a tape deck, or dodgy Czech public radio, and the only tape BigBro had was Take That's Greatest Hits. I obviously made quite a lot of jokes about this, but within three minutes was doing my best funboy dance to the strains of Could it be Magic? as passing drivers stared at the two weirdos out for a Tuesday noon-time jaunt. The hangover was pretty bad. My stomach felt like a walnut and my eyesight had a permanent magic-eye effect going on, so Bro thought it would be good to get some food.
The Czech people love a few staples of food. Chief amongst them are Meat & Dumplings, Goulash and Pickled Cabbage, which they eat ALL THE TIME. Yum. (NB: I may have just used a lolcat there in that last link, and the feeling for having done so is approximate to having a failed wank)
We went into a weird ranch-style place, and soon the fear descended upon me. Of course, all the men and women conformed to the Czech standard of bouncer-esque men and statuesque ladies. The place was so amazingly New European that I was really surprised that no-one was naked and having loads of sex, as the background music, the people and hell, even the decor seemed mildly...porny.
The bric-a-crap beloved of Irish pubs was all there; threshing handtools, bridle pieces for horses, saddles, old instruments and of course the oversized radios that look like tables. With all the crazy shit on the walls, the gorgeous ladies, the scary men and the mental oversized radios, my neck was almost cricked right off. Not to mention the cat. There was this huge tortoiseshell, (obviously the mascot, or the owner's pet, and probably beloved by all and sundry) stalking between the tables and looking at everyone eat. When I wasn't falling in love with the waitresses, or trying to see if my feet were still attached (they were) I could see this malicious cat just stalking closer and closer, like a horrible black cloud. I tried desperately not to burst into tears over my Meat & Dumplings (with 2 types of dumpling, and approx. 9lbs of starch per portion) and chugged my sparkling water like a dead man walking as the malicious little fucker came closer. BigBro (who was in the bathroom) would have laughed at my feline-induced freak out, but I was very hungover, and my wee mind wasn't working too hard. As I sat there, for some reason my arm twitched, and BigBro's glass was knocked over. I'm pretty sure it was me, but I don't know how it happened.
Later, having not died, and having eaten my share of starchy dumplings. We got back in the car and headed off once more the the sounds of Want You Back. The rain was pretty heavy and as we drove, BigBro pointed out the little huts and the ladies outside them (yay, hookers!) and also all the wee gypsie shops, selling icons and Christmas decorations (in June). At one point he stopped for a turn-off, between the path of two crossing lorries, with a half-jellyfish hungover freak-victim in the car beside him. This fear (of truck-induced death) cleared my head more than any starch OD, or even my own favourite hangover cure of a shot of tabasco, or the tawdry glances at cheap prostitutes and turned me back into Conor again. Adrenaline pumping, and mind now fixed, we sped along the windiest roads in Chrisendom towards our destination, Loket.
Loket (or 'Elbow') is one of the few places in the world that seems almost automatically defensible in the event of a Z-virus outbreak. It also set the scene for Casino Royale by masquerading as Montenegro. Other than that there was really not much to the place. We arrived to the genius of Lulu and Co. belting out Relight My Fire somewhat scared by the crazy twisty car-journey and the hangovers, walked across the bridge and into the square. There were a disproportionate amount of little cafés and closed shops and the place was entirely empty. We walked along, looking for somewhere to sit and have a coffee, but everywhere seemed closed and depressed. As we turned around to go back to the car, BigBro pointed at a shop and told me to go in, a barely concealed smile on his face.
It was without a doubt the SADDEST SHOP IN THE WORLD. It looked like the set of a crappy student production of a Chekov play; all empty shelves and grey light. There was a solitary apple on the counter, and in the little chewing gum racks was a sole packet of Orange Orbit. Yes, they make it in orange flavour apparently. The woman in the shop looked like she didn't quite know how everything had gone wrong, or as if she thought she had a babybell in the fridge only to discover someone had eaten it. So very, very sad. I tried not to laugh...then realised that I was sad. The shop was sad...sad sad sad (NB: Might be saying 'sad' too much) I quickly grabbed the (lonely) packet of gum and when I gave her a few coins, she looked almost surprised that I wanted to purchase something from her. I left...feeling a tad empty, to find BigBro laughing heartily at my shocked expression.On the bridge back to the car, we played some games like Walking Game, Being on Bridge Game and Spitting From Bridge Game. I was still pretty deadened from Sad Susan.
On the way back from Elbow, I saw a sign that made me laugh gleefully for about 10 minutes. Globus!!
We went inside and while Bro was showing me around the (many!) ketchup aisles, the separate wine and beer sections, the fruit counter (and adjacent auto-parts region) and the rows upon rows of pickled meats. It very confusing. I saw a pipe shop, and, in honour of my New Year's hobby (which is also a shameful secret), I decided to buy a lovely churchwarden pipe. It only took a few hours for her to bag it up and take my cash, during which time the queue had swelled from me and BigBro to a load of surly Czech chaps. The whole ordeal of point, say 'please', give money and take bag had turned into a horrible joke.
We got back to the casa and sat, exhausted from our day. I was still a bit hungover, shocked by the sad lady and happy about my new pipe. We watched some great videos from home, really making us proud to be Irish. When BigBro's girlf came back, we played Scrabble for 100 hours (I'm really shit at it btw) and I read my horrible secret for a while before going to sleep, ready for my trip to Prague the next day.
I woke up on the Tuesday with the most curious sensation that I was either dead or dying. There was a hangover, certainly, and it was certainly going to be harsh, but this was more of an out-of-body feeling, somewhere between a dream and being fully woken. Around me, BigBro and his girlf were bustling about, getting ready to go to their jobs as English teachers, passing from bathroom to living room to bedroom in an attempt to dress, wash and eat at the same time (y'know... the morning routine) as I lay there, face down on the sofa, in a post-lobotomy limbo.
Soon, the chat seemed to fade, and it took me a while to realise that I was alone again. I lay there, in my weird stupor, enjoying the quiet, and sort of fell asleep again. I say sleep, but I could hear the birds outside, and the noises of children playing in the street, so some part of me must have been awake. I could see myself lying there, face down on the sofa, the flowery bedspread over me, and my silly canoe feet sticking out at the far end.
It was like when you go into a shop and see yourself on the cctv monitor, from a different angle. Except this time, it was a bit more like Big Brother, or some weird avant garde student short film. I tried to move, and could see my own leg shift slightly. It was fascinating. Kinda like watching The Fountain whilst very very very stoned, or watching a spider build a web. I had completely forgotten that I wasn't in Dublin, and it wasn't until I heard some old crone screeching in Czech outside the window that I remembered where I was.
Soon, of course, I had spent about four hours doing this, and as I watched, I saw my brother come through the door and was forced to make some attempt to appear alive. A wash, a cup of tea and a lunch roll revived me a little, and I was able to regain the power of speech and recollect on the previous night's happenings. BigBro wasn't exactly looking like the picture of health, but we were determined and before I knew it, I was walking with sea legs out to BigBro's car, trying desperately not to fall off my shoes.
BigBro has two cars, given to him by his job. Both are Skodas, and both have names. Today, we were riding in Bryn, on the first rainy day they had had in about three weeks (Irish = bring bad weather with you). Being a modern sort of chap, Bryn only had a tape deck, or dodgy Czech public radio, and the only tape BigBro had was Take That's Greatest Hits. I obviously made quite a lot of jokes about this, but within three minutes was doing my best funboy dance to the strains of Could it be Magic? as passing drivers stared at the two weirdos out for a Tuesday noon-time jaunt. The hangover was pretty bad. My stomach felt like a walnut and my eyesight had a permanent magic-eye effect going on, so Bro thought it would be good to get some food.
The Czech people love a few staples of food. Chief amongst them are Meat & Dumplings, Goulash and Pickled Cabbage, which they eat ALL THE TIME. Yum. (NB: I may have just used a lolcat there in that last link, and the feeling for having done so is approximate to having a failed wank)
We went into a weird ranch-style place, and soon the fear descended upon me. Of course, all the men and women conformed to the Czech standard of bouncer-esque men and statuesque ladies. The place was so amazingly New European that I was really surprised that no-one was naked and having loads of sex, as the background music, the people and hell, even the decor seemed mildly...porny.
The bric-a-crap beloved of Irish pubs was all there; threshing handtools, bridle pieces for horses, saddles, old instruments and of course the oversized radios that look like tables. With all the crazy shit on the walls, the gorgeous ladies, the scary men and the mental oversized radios, my neck was almost cricked right off. Not to mention the cat. There was this huge tortoiseshell, (obviously the mascot, or the owner's pet, and probably beloved by all and sundry) stalking between the tables and looking at everyone eat. When I wasn't falling in love with the waitresses, or trying to see if my feet were still attached (they were) I could see this malicious cat just stalking closer and closer, like a horrible black cloud. I tried desperately not to burst into tears over my Meat & Dumplings (with 2 types of dumpling, and approx. 9lbs of starch per portion) and chugged my sparkling water like a dead man walking as the malicious little fucker came closer. BigBro (who was in the bathroom) would have laughed at my feline-induced freak out, but I was very hungover, and my wee mind wasn't working too hard. As I sat there, for some reason my arm twitched, and BigBro's glass was knocked over. I'm pretty sure it was me, but I don't know how it happened.
Later, having not died, and having eaten my share of starchy dumplings. We got back in the car and headed off once more the the sounds of Want You Back. The rain was pretty heavy and as we drove, BigBro pointed out the little huts and the ladies outside them (yay, hookers!) and also all the wee gypsie shops, selling icons and Christmas decorations (in June). At one point he stopped for a turn-off, between the path of two crossing lorries, with a half-jellyfish hungover freak-victim in the car beside him. This fear (of truck-induced death) cleared my head more than any starch OD, or even my own favourite hangover cure of a shot of tabasco, or the tawdry glances at cheap prostitutes and turned me back into Conor again. Adrenaline pumping, and mind now fixed, we sped along the windiest roads in Chrisendom towards our destination, Loket.
Loket (or 'Elbow') is one of the few places in the world that seems almost automatically defensible in the event of a Z-virus outbreak. It also set the scene for Casino Royale by masquerading as Montenegro. Other than that there was really not much to the place. We arrived to the genius of Lulu and Co. belting out Relight My Fire somewhat scared by the crazy twisty car-journey and the hangovers, walked across the bridge and into the square. There were a disproportionate amount of little cafés and closed shops and the place was entirely empty. We walked along, looking for somewhere to sit and have a coffee, but everywhere seemed closed and depressed. As we turned around to go back to the car, BigBro pointed at a shop and told me to go in, a barely concealed smile on his face.
It was without a doubt the SADDEST SHOP IN THE WORLD. It looked like the set of a crappy student production of a Chekov play; all empty shelves and grey light. There was a solitary apple on the counter, and in the little chewing gum racks was a sole packet of Orange Orbit. Yes, they make it in orange flavour apparently. The woman in the shop looked like she didn't quite know how everything had gone wrong, or as if she thought she had a babybell in the fridge only to discover someone had eaten it. So very, very sad. I tried not to laugh...then realised that I was sad. The shop was sad...sad sad sad (NB: Might be saying 'sad' too much) I quickly grabbed the (lonely) packet of gum and when I gave her a few coins, she looked almost surprised that I wanted to purchase something from her. I left...feeling a tad empty, to find BigBro laughing heartily at my shocked expression.On the bridge back to the car, we played some games like Walking Game, Being on Bridge Game and Spitting From Bridge Game. I was still pretty deadened from Sad Susan.
On the way back from Elbow, I saw a sign that made me laugh gleefully for about 10 minutes. Globus!!
We went inside and while Bro was showing me around the (many!) ketchup aisles, the separate wine and beer sections, the fruit counter (and adjacent auto-parts region) and the rows upon rows of pickled meats. It very confusing. I saw a pipe shop, and, in honour of my New Year's hobby (which is also a shameful secret), I decided to buy a lovely churchwarden pipe. It only took a few hours for her to bag it up and take my cash, during which time the queue had swelled from me and BigBro to a load of surly Czech chaps. The whole ordeal of point, say 'please', give money and take bag had turned into a horrible joke.
We got back to the casa and sat, exhausted from our day. I was still a bit hungover, shocked by the sad lady and happy about my new pipe. We watched some great videos from home, really making us proud to be Irish. When BigBro's girlf came back, we played Scrabble for 100 hours (I'm really shit at it btw) and I read my horrible secret for a while before going to sleep, ready for my trip to Prague the next day.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Untergang Part 3 (Day 1)
So,
I've decided to go ahead and jump over Part 2 and talk a little bit about what happened after my exams. Not immediately, mind, but about three days after. I've decided that part 2 is going to be more a treatise about the feasibility of defending several Dublin locations in the wake of phase 3 of a Z-virus outbreak. Not much to do with debauchery and adventure, more of a strategic exercise.
Anyway...
There was the usual panoply of end-of-days roleplay: the goodbyes, the sincere (and patently not-so-sincere) promises to keep in touch, the many retroactive wishes that "we'd gotten to know each other better" and the inevitable messy leavers dos. All par for the course, and suitably corrosive on the old liver. I had been unceremoniously thrown out of my old gaff on campus (the cell that overlooked the methadone clinic and the homeless shelter that I'll talk about later) by the day after my final exam by the putrid, money-grabbing whores of the TCD administration and my pal R's boyfriend let me crash in his super man-pad while he stayed over. Serious comfort. I caught up with some of my 'tribe' and discussed zombies (stay tuned for all this later...) and after a few days of hazy post-exam delirium, I found myself at 8.30 am at the architectural beauty-spot that is Dublin airport.
My parents, in one of my occasional telephone talk-conversations, had somehow gleaned that I was somewhat stressed and that I needed a break. When they suggested this, I had of course growled at them, but they were astute enough to realise that the exams were taking their toll. Thus, they gamefully paid for air tickets to the Czech Republic, so that my swashbuckling (quote hottie unquote) older brother, Ruairí could get a visit from...well, me.
What follows is a three-part attempt to chronicle what happened when I went to visit my brother...
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Day 1 - Monday: Homophobe-Baiting in Transit and Operation Anthropoid.
The flight was the typical affair. Ryanair doing their absolute best to treat everyone like complete shit in some weird form of Pavlovian conditioning designed to make us feel claustrophobic and greasy when we hear ice-cream van, funboy europop, but I was seated in an exit seat and there was plenty of space for my legs. I settled down to listen to my TERRIBLE TERRIBLE SECRET in comfort and watched Ireland zoom away, dreaming about someday meeting Ilyana Kadushin...
As I listened, lazily watching the beleaguered cabin crew telling us how not to die, I noticed the man sitting two seats away. He was one of those 50's-born midlanders, made mostly of devout Catholicism and fried breakfasts, and still high on the fumes of Brylcreem from his tame, agrarian youth. He sat, his bushy beard quivering, a look of puzzlement on his face as he stared at the tanned, toned and very camp steward. The 'how-not-to-die' class ended and soon the food was rolling up and down. The steward, a lovely guy (as much as over-worked, under-paid air staff can be lovely) who looked like the 'Hallo? Salut!' guy from Ozone (and possibly was him) bustled past us with his cart, when the bearded prick beside us muttered 'faggot'. I say muttered, but in the sense of someone trying to mutter during a gale, beside a rock concert, whilst riding a Vincent Black Shadow, and to an elderly relative, expecting to be heard clearly. The poor guy stopped, his shoulders dropped, he gave a shuddering breath, and then slowly walked on, clearly hurt.
Not cool.
I was pained to say (a brief) farewell to Ilyana, but a plan formed in my mind, and I was hell-bent on giving this guy the most uncomfortable flight of his life, so I had to stop listening. I dug deep inside, channelled my inner culchie-baiter and camped up:
-First of all; I thought that if I kept leaning across him, ordering lots of food and drink, getting things from my bag in the locker, going to the bathroom and loudly clearing my throat, he wouldn't get too comfortable.
-Secondly; I gently touched his arm, shoulder and, once, his knee, each time I did this.
-Thirdly; at the slightest shiver of turbulence, the horrible prick clutched the arms of his chair in terror and began to sweat, a lot. I began to giggle loudly everytime this happened, saying 'Oh my goodness me' in a slightly camper version of the carrying whisper which he had previously used.
-Fourthly; when the turbulence got really bad, I put my ipod up to full volume so that he could clearly hear me listening to (and harmonising and air drumming with) one of the few pop songs I actually have, 'Since You Been Gone', through my earphones. On repeat.
That flight was lots of fun.
-----------------
I arrived in Prague, got my stuff and walked to the kiosk for a bus ticket to Karlovy Vary (where my bro lives) and see if I could get a student rate. The first thing I noticed was the police. Most European airports now have the usual staff of part-gorilla neckless wonders, sharking about with submachine guns and suspicious eyes. In Prague, they seem to have supermodels doing the job too. Leggy blondes in high heels walking about with MP5s and Glocks, accompanying the brick-shithouse gentlemen and looking equally tough...but also a tad really sexy. Most distracting. It was my first induction to the Czech laws of how couples appear. The men look like bouncers, the women look like models...very unfair for a Casper-white cross between Gollum from LOTR and Shaggy from Scooby-Doo.
Anyway,I had been standing at the counter for about five seconds, looking at the kind assistant in a sort of post-security-babe daze, when I suddenly realised that I wasn't saying words. Also, that I spoke basically no Czech, and still wasn't speaking.
Somehow, i managed to buy a ticket, then went for a pint of (ridiculously overpriced) airport Pivo and a smoke to get myself relaxed before the bus. Bright yellow, it was a bit of a weird experience; watching 'Chicago' (I was having a very gay day) and sipping coffee in utter comfort as the Czech Republic zoomed past. When I reached KV, I was more interested in what was going to happen to Roxie than get off.
Big bro/Hugs/Skoda/Apartment/Shower/Drinking excursion.
Drinking with my brother is almost intimidating. He is one of those people who can drink beer...really drink it. He writes his own blog about Irish pubs abroad, and is a connisseur. I can go on the rip as good as the next bloke, but I was always more spiritsy and cocktailsy (NB: seriously, gayest blog post ever) in my drinks...and this was the Czech Republic, one of the birthplaces of our modern beers. The bro took me first to a small bar (that may very well have been the seediest place in the world) for our catch-up chat, then we went on a walk through the bars. We had tankards at a 'pour-your-own' bar, (apparently) ate a meal of meat and dumplings in a weirdly wood-pannelled bar. Took shots of Becherovka (the devil) then, inevitably, went to an Irish bar. We apparently went by cab, and I apparently insisted on speaking to the driver the whole way. FML.
We met Hannah, BigBro's girlf, in the Irish bar, along with her class. She and BigBro both are TEFL teachers, and I had the best crossed-wire conversation (with a bunch of frankly mental Czech forty-somethings) that I've had for a long while. Hannah (who I was meeting again for the first time in like six years) is a very sweet Welsh girl with the most amazing Valley's accent and a great match for the bro. Conversation flowed.
More Becherovka, more beer. I started a conversation with one of the class about the assassination of Reinhard Heydrich, that lasted for a few hours, and Ruairí wandered home. Finally, Hannah led me back to their apartment and (when I wasn't leaning out of the fourth story window, smoking and admiring the Soviet architecture) I dozed off.
Hell of a first day.
I've decided to go ahead and jump over Part 2 and talk a little bit about what happened after my exams. Not immediately, mind, but about three days after. I've decided that part 2 is going to be more a treatise about the feasibility of defending several Dublin locations in the wake of phase 3 of a Z-virus outbreak. Not much to do with debauchery and adventure, more of a strategic exercise.
Anyway...
There was the usual panoply of end-of-days roleplay: the goodbyes, the sincere (and patently not-so-sincere) promises to keep in touch, the many retroactive wishes that "we'd gotten to know each other better" and the inevitable messy leavers dos. All par for the course, and suitably corrosive on the old liver. I had been unceremoniously thrown out of my old gaff on campus (the cell that overlooked the methadone clinic and the homeless shelter that I'll talk about later) by the day after my final exam by the putrid, money-grabbing whores of the TCD administration and my pal R's boyfriend let me crash in his super man-pad while he stayed over. Serious comfort. I caught up with some of my 'tribe' and discussed zombies (stay tuned for all this later...) and after a few days of hazy post-exam delirium, I found myself at 8.30 am at the architectural beauty-spot that is Dublin airport.
My parents, in one of my occasional telephone talk-conversations, had somehow gleaned that I was somewhat stressed and that I needed a break. When they suggested this, I had of course growled at them, but they were astute enough to realise that the exams were taking their toll. Thus, they gamefully paid for air tickets to the Czech Republic, so that my swashbuckling (quote hottie unquote) older brother, Ruairí could get a visit from...well, me.
What follows is a three-part attempt to chronicle what happened when I went to visit my brother...
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Day 1 - Monday: Homophobe-Baiting in Transit and Operation Anthropoid.
The flight was the typical affair. Ryanair doing their absolute best to treat everyone like complete shit in some weird form of Pavlovian conditioning designed to make us feel claustrophobic and greasy when we hear ice-cream van, funboy europop, but I was seated in an exit seat and there was plenty of space for my legs. I settled down to listen to my TERRIBLE TERRIBLE SECRET in comfort and watched Ireland zoom away, dreaming about someday meeting Ilyana Kadushin...
As I listened, lazily watching the beleaguered cabin crew telling us how not to die, I noticed the man sitting two seats away. He was one of those 50's-born midlanders, made mostly of devout Catholicism and fried breakfasts, and still high on the fumes of Brylcreem from his tame, agrarian youth. He sat, his bushy beard quivering, a look of puzzlement on his face as he stared at the tanned, toned and very camp steward. The 'how-not-to-die' class ended and soon the food was rolling up and down. The steward, a lovely guy (as much as over-worked, under-paid air staff can be lovely) who looked like the 'Hallo? Salut!' guy from Ozone (and possibly was him) bustled past us with his cart, when the bearded prick beside us muttered 'faggot'. I say muttered, but in the sense of someone trying to mutter during a gale, beside a rock concert, whilst riding a Vincent Black Shadow, and to an elderly relative, expecting to be heard clearly. The poor guy stopped, his shoulders dropped, he gave a shuddering breath, and then slowly walked on, clearly hurt.
Not cool.
I was pained to say (a brief) farewell to Ilyana, but a plan formed in my mind, and I was hell-bent on giving this guy the most uncomfortable flight of his life, so I had to stop listening. I dug deep inside, channelled my inner culchie-baiter and camped up:
-First of all; I thought that if I kept leaning across him, ordering lots of food and drink, getting things from my bag in the locker, going to the bathroom and loudly clearing my throat, he wouldn't get too comfortable.
-Secondly; I gently touched his arm, shoulder and, once, his knee, each time I did this.
-Thirdly; at the slightest shiver of turbulence, the horrible prick clutched the arms of his chair in terror and began to sweat, a lot. I began to giggle loudly everytime this happened, saying 'Oh my goodness me' in a slightly camper version of the carrying whisper which he had previously used.
-Fourthly; when the turbulence got really bad, I put my ipod up to full volume so that he could clearly hear me listening to (and harmonising and air drumming with) one of the few pop songs I actually have, 'Since You Been Gone', through my earphones. On repeat.
That flight was lots of fun.
-----------------
I arrived in Prague, got my stuff and walked to the kiosk for a bus ticket to Karlovy Vary (where my bro lives) and see if I could get a student rate. The first thing I noticed was the police. Most European airports now have the usual staff of part-gorilla neckless wonders, sharking about with submachine guns and suspicious eyes. In Prague, they seem to have supermodels doing the job too. Leggy blondes in high heels walking about with MP5s and Glocks, accompanying the brick-shithouse gentlemen and looking equally tough...but also a tad really sexy. Most distracting. It was my first induction to the Czech laws of how couples appear. The men look like bouncers, the women look like models...very unfair for a Casper-white cross between Gollum from LOTR and Shaggy from Scooby-Doo.
Anyway,I had been standing at the counter for about five seconds, looking at the kind assistant in a sort of post-security-babe daze, when I suddenly realised that I wasn't saying words. Also, that I spoke basically no Czech, and still wasn't speaking.
Somehow, i managed to buy a ticket, then went for a pint of (ridiculously overpriced) airport Pivo and a smoke to get myself relaxed before the bus. Bright yellow, it was a bit of a weird experience; watching 'Chicago' (I was having a very gay day) and sipping coffee in utter comfort as the Czech Republic zoomed past. When I reached KV, I was more interested in what was going to happen to Roxie than get off.
Big bro/Hugs/Skoda/Apartment/Shower/Drinking excursion.
Drinking with my brother is almost intimidating. He is one of those people who can drink beer...really drink it. He writes his own blog about Irish pubs abroad, and is a connisseur. I can go on the rip as good as the next bloke, but I was always more spiritsy and cocktailsy (NB: seriously, gayest blog post ever) in my drinks...and this was the Czech Republic, one of the birthplaces of our modern beers. The bro took me first to a small bar (that may very well have been the seediest place in the world) for our catch-up chat, then we went on a walk through the bars. We had tankards at a 'pour-your-own' bar, (apparently) ate a meal of meat and dumplings in a weirdly wood-pannelled bar. Took shots of Becherovka (the devil) then, inevitably, went to an Irish bar. We apparently went by cab, and I apparently insisted on speaking to the driver the whole way. FML.
We met Hannah, BigBro's girlf, in the Irish bar, along with her class. She and BigBro both are TEFL teachers, and I had the best crossed-wire conversation (with a bunch of frankly mental Czech forty-somethings) that I've had for a long while. Hannah (who I was meeting again for the first time in like six years) is a very sweet Welsh girl with the most amazing Valley's accent and a great match for the bro. Conversation flowed.
More Becherovka, more beer. I started a conversation with one of the class about the assassination of Reinhard Heydrich, that lasted for a few hours, and Ruairí wandered home. Finally, Hannah led me back to their apartment and (when I wasn't leaning out of the fourth story window, smoking and admiring the Soviet architecture) I dozed off.
Hell of a first day.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Yakka...and welcome
Grog.
I was trying to find a suitable word to describe what I was drinking last night and the only word that came anywhere near was 'grog'.
For those of you who don't know what yakka is, it's a punch made with vodka and lemonade, topped up with chopped lemon and ice. Sounds pretty innocent. The girl whose party it was had made 24 litres of the stuff and had kept it fermenting in her garage for two weeks beforehand. There were about 15 people at the party.
After about two glasses it began to be sneaky. It was ridiculously sweet, and very refreshing, like robinsons barley or something, with just a slight bitter aftertaste. Also, with the lemons and all the 'bits' that were in the glasses, we became lulled into a false sense of security. We all said "This has fruit and ice, it MUST be good for us". (We didn't really all say that, but the sentiment was palpable)
For some reason, we started playing the 'Roxanne' drinking game, where you stand and sip every time Mr Eight-Hour Tantra and his Policemen say the word...well, you get it. With the constant sitting and standing, and the fact that those motherfuckers say 'Roxanne' about 90 times in that damn song, pretty soon I had a hell of a sugar-rush.
Sometime between my body trying to combat diabetes from all the sugar, and my mouth trying to swallow endless slices of pizza, I became drunk. Not in a bad way, but sneakily. The yakka had been hiding in the attic like a Chechen sniper for three or four hours, and suddenly BAM! it unloaded a rocket-propelled grenade right into my cerebral cortex.
I looked round, petrified of the spectacle I had become, and the massive social faux-pas I was committing by having become the equivalent of a boy shaped life-size jelly, only to realise that I wasn't alone. People were sitting in their chairs, suddenly more subdued and talking with a world weariness not felt since the Fuhrerbunker in 1945. Conversation, once flowing, now trickled like a pesky nosebleed, and laughter came, unsolicited and wild.
I shared a cab home with my 'definitely not a date' and got to bed at about 5.30 or so, pretty confident that at least I hadn't been ballistically drunk and thus, would be wholly operational on the morrow. Not the case.
I woke up with a geriatric hangover, that's one where you essentially can't survive without the assistance of home help. I had such a case of the spins that I was afraid to leave my bed and the distance between my prone, shaking body and the bathroom was so great (four foot) that even the thought of going for a glass of water or an aspirin made me go foetal.
Eventually I came to my senses and was able to put on some music and sit up a bit in bed to see a barrage of messages and two missed calls. I hadn't heard anything, so I suppose this SAfrican punch (aside from diabetes and liver failure) can make you temporarily deaf too. For an insomniac, I slept like a baby for at least eleven hours. Well, I was in a yakka-coma for eleven hours.
If you'd like an audio representation of what yakka is like, then wrap your ear-hole around this sea shanty by A. L. Lloyd.
Was meant to have a guest today to watch Westerns, the Ennio Morricone ones. She knew I was going to this party but still wasn't too impressed when I managed to find my way out of bed at 4.40 and postpone. Words like "You said," and "Typical" were thrown about (and still are) with the wrath of Shiva, but I'm secretly impressed that I was able to work my phone, let alone type.
So, I bid you welcome to my blog. I happen to know a few people who keep pretty extensive blogs, and lots of my friends are into journalism, law or broadcasting -- writery types and whatnot -- so I'm joining in too, let's see what comes up.
I was trying to find a suitable word to describe what I was drinking last night and the only word that came anywhere near was 'grog'.
For those of you who don't know what yakka is, it's a punch made with vodka and lemonade, topped up with chopped lemon and ice. Sounds pretty innocent. The girl whose party it was had made 24 litres of the stuff and had kept it fermenting in her garage for two weeks beforehand. There were about 15 people at the party.
After about two glasses it began to be sneaky. It was ridiculously sweet, and very refreshing, like robinsons barley or something, with just a slight bitter aftertaste. Also, with the lemons and all the 'bits' that were in the glasses, we became lulled into a false sense of security. We all said "This has fruit and ice, it MUST be good for us". (We didn't really all say that, but the sentiment was palpable)
For some reason, we started playing the 'Roxanne' drinking game, where you stand and sip every time Mr Eight-Hour Tantra and his Policemen say the word...well, you get it. With the constant sitting and standing, and the fact that those motherfuckers say 'Roxanne' about 90 times in that damn song, pretty soon I had a hell of a sugar-rush.
Sometime between my body trying to combat diabetes from all the sugar, and my mouth trying to swallow endless slices of pizza, I became drunk. Not in a bad way, but sneakily. The yakka had been hiding in the attic like a Chechen sniper for three or four hours, and suddenly BAM! it unloaded a rocket-propelled grenade right into my cerebral cortex.
I looked round, petrified of the spectacle I had become, and the massive social faux-pas I was committing by having become the equivalent of a boy shaped life-size jelly, only to realise that I wasn't alone. People were sitting in their chairs, suddenly more subdued and talking with a world weariness not felt since the Fuhrerbunker in 1945. Conversation, once flowing, now trickled like a pesky nosebleed, and laughter came, unsolicited and wild.
I shared a cab home with my 'definitely not a date' and got to bed at about 5.30 or so, pretty confident that at least I hadn't been ballistically drunk and thus, would be wholly operational on the morrow. Not the case.
I woke up with a geriatric hangover, that's one where you essentially can't survive without the assistance of home help. I had such a case of the spins that I was afraid to leave my bed and the distance between my prone, shaking body and the bathroom was so great (four foot) that even the thought of going for a glass of water or an aspirin made me go foetal.
Eventually I came to my senses and was able to put on some music and sit up a bit in bed to see a barrage of messages and two missed calls. I hadn't heard anything, so I suppose this SAfrican punch (aside from diabetes and liver failure) can make you temporarily deaf too. For an insomniac, I slept like a baby for at least eleven hours. Well, I was in a yakka-coma for eleven hours.
If you'd like an audio representation of what yakka is like, then wrap your ear-hole around this sea shanty by A. L. Lloyd.
Was meant to have a guest today to watch Westerns, the Ennio Morricone ones. She knew I was going to this party but still wasn't too impressed when I managed to find my way out of bed at 4.40 and postpone. Words like "You said," and "Typical" were thrown about (and still are) with the wrath of Shiva, but I'm secretly impressed that I was able to work my phone, let alone type.
So, I bid you welcome to my blog. I happen to know a few people who keep pretty extensive blogs, and lots of my friends are into journalism, law or broadcasting -- writery types and whatnot -- so I'm joining in too, let's see what comes up.
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