Okay, so more bad stuff happened, but it's so funny that I've been chuckling about it for a while, and it's put things in perspective and made me happy.
So yesterday, I was in Waterloo Station, just from a meeting with the future co-lawyers. I went down the escalator and, somewhat merry and listening to King Crimson's epic In the Wake of Poseidon (another example of their genius) I was not really paying attention.
This song is obviously amazing. When I, being far too involved in the sheer awesomeness of the song, suddenly found myself tumbling down the bottom of the escalator, it was most sincerely not amazing. I've been a semi-professional walkist since about the age of 2 (is that what age kids learn to walk??) but for some reason my calf muscle in the right leg just spasmed and suddenly I was doing the tumble-dryer act in front of what seemed like half of London.
Then in my suddenly leg-pain/pride-pain scramble to get upright (which failed because of my continually cramping calf-muscle) a flock of pretty ladies walked past, and a busker stopped playing. I tried to laugh it off, but shaking harder than a paint mixer, it wasn't very convincing.
Anyway, I found my way home without either crying or laughing too loudly, and went to the burger-joint by the top of my street. Feeling that a half-pound of dead cow-flesh would cheer me up, I reached for my wallet in my inside pocket and...nope, it wasn't there.
So, apart from falling like a dick and making a tool of myself, I also lost my wallet. Nice one.
Today though, when I woke up, I was greeted with a mad feeling of hilarity. Every time I think of what happened I burst out laughing. I was chatting to my mum and we had a giggle about it.
So I'm sitting now, without a wallet, a girlfriend, a job or legs that aren't killing me, and for some reason I'm unexpectedly bouyant and happy. Life is strange no?
Maybe I hit my head haha.
:)
Showing posts with label downfall. Show all posts
Showing posts with label downfall. Show all posts
Saturday, November 7, 2009
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.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Untergang Part 1
Raaaar!
The last time I wrote in this blog was about six weeks ago, when I was young, fresh-eyed, idealistic and full of hope and dreams for the future. Now, as I sit propped up against my bed in my house in Derry, I look more like an alluring crossbreed between a dusty scrote-bag and Silvio Berlusconi's conscience; something wrinkled, battered and exhausted. The reason for this change is the exam period and its aftermath.
The last time I wrote in this blog was about six weeks ago, when I was young, fresh-eyed, idealistic and full of hope and dreams for the future. Now, as I sit propped up against my bed in my house in Derry, I look more like an alluring crossbreed between a dusty scrote-bag and Silvio Berlusconi's conscience; something wrinkled, battered and exhausted. The reason for this change is the exam period and its aftermath.
Four, three-hour exams, combined to account for (thanks to my jaunt to the States last year) 75% of the fecking degree.It was made an even more enthralling prospect because of the conditions of my future lawyer job. The firm made it lovely and clear that a 2:1 was necessary, or the contract would be void...lovely. It sounds straightforward enough, and I gathered my (pitifully incomplete) notes as best I could in anticipation of a double-barrelled cramming season, bought the 'nutshells' notebooks and stocked up on the cigarettes and 'colour-and-animal' energy drinks. My desk, once a feasible alternative to my bed in cases of extreme drunkenness, was transformed into a multi-platform study console, and I wept.
I had been working in a wee Gaeilgeoir pub on Harcourt til about three days before my first exam - the bow-carrying white horseman. Working in the bar was really weird; a mixture of bullshit politics and heaploads of fun, with cheap pints and a mostly nice group of people working and spending (far too much-) time there. By the time I was quitting though, the place was really starting to grate on me, so it was almost a relief to leave.
Company Law was first; an almost mind-numbingly boring buffet of rules and regulations. I did my usual superb trick of not sleeping beforehand, and by some weird fucking spark of chance, I didn't die. I had my Nerdgasm Hyperpack handy, the greatest collection of stuff that an exam-person needs, and by a mixture of sugar, caffeine, nicotine and panadol, I got through it.
Okay, so far so good.
Now, that was all fine and dandy after I'd had a few hours sleep. Then, it was back on the wagon, filling my head with all the stuff needed for the next injection of fun...Equity. The exam, on the Monday, was a tough one, and I had more than one of those "Oh shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit I don't know a thing!!!!" moments before calming down and finally finishing.
This went on for a while; this system of no-sleep/lots of cramming. By the third exam, my routine had started to resemble an 80's 'against the odds' montage of late nights, coffee and smiley thumbs-ups! I'd even started to sleep. I was feeling pretty good until the night before my 3rd exam - Intellectual Property.
My routine had become set in stone; study from 10 to around 2 (with a few breaks etc in the middle). Sleep from 2 to 7, then arse about in the morning. On exam days I tried to get one or two hours and wake up early to cram. All pretty standard. On the night before IP (well, very early in the morning before) I was in bed sleeping, trying not to freak out and my phone went off. Groggily I checked the text to see who it was, and balked. It was Western girl, who had been angry about the post-yakka fatigue, sending me one of her patent 'attention' texts. It was suitably mid-conversational and (totally sincerely) badly spelled to confirm drunkeness and accidental sending. Bollocks obviously. I'd received them from her before, and they never failed to provoke a typically apathetic reaction...except this time it was a few hours before one of the biggest exams I've ever taken, and that had quite a lot riding on it. Needless to say I'm still angry about it.
There was a week between that and my final exam, one week to go back to neutral, to catch up with returning friends and pack my stuff away. I met the parents of my friend M during that time, and it was funny to find how jumpy and nicotined-up I was in the face of these lovely calm people.
Finally, Evidence. I'd always loved it when I'd studied it in the past and had found the (few) lectures this year to be pretty cool. Again, the montage scene took a hold, albeit with a few enjoyable caffeinated interludes , and I was a wee bit more confident until about 20 hours before the exam. I realised, too soon, that trying to study evidence completely was like trying to pick up mercury with a fork.
The exam was painful, to say the least. I was sat beside a twitchy, weird nutcase who ate the noisiest food in the world and kept giggling at every opportunity. The room stank of sweat and desperation and you could tell that we were all dying for it to be over. The clock ticked closer and closer and then...nothing. There was no great gust of sighed relief or even (as I'd imagined) an explosion of cheers as all the inexplicably good-looking people around me started dancing and singing in unison. No, all that happened was a huge apathetic version of a Mexican wave (the Gallic shrug, we'll call it) and then everyone shuffled out, as if to the firing squad.
What the fuck? This is the moment we've all been waiting for and all we do is...mill around outside, like a bunch of mourners at a wake, trying desperately hard not to cry. Bad craic
We were all completely fried and totally exhausted so it's no surprise that after a few drinks none of us were really much use to anyone. All I could do was order a pizza (or two) and try to relax...
TBC...
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