The Luck of the Irish

« Return to Ireland

“It’s all a load of media bollocks” says Nick, a guy I meet at an old pub. We hit it on, one because he’s a musician, and two because he’s wearing a Splashy Fen T Shirt. (Who’ll give odds on that happening - in Belfast?) He played at Splashy for 2 years, part of the international band from Ireland. Over a few pints, I ask him some ignorant questions about the shit in Ulster, the whole religion tic-tac-toe, the burnt out city the world seems to have. “Most of the violence happens in the dead of night in smaller, fanatical towns,” he says. “It’s as safe a city as anywhere else.” He tells me Nibs Van Der Spuy arrived at Heathrow to do a European tour, and was immediately deported for not having a work permit. He had all his equipment with him. Customs wouldn’t believe they were the latest backpack accessories.

Later that night, I meet an Alaskan dope fiend called Chris, who assures me that Alaska is where all the hippies wound up after the sixties, and that the dope they grow up north is to be reckoned with. He’s only 19 years old, so the conversation (after a few pints) is like Bill and Ted talking shit about, well, shit. (”And then we lit the bong up out the train window…”) Alaskans hate Americans, are more Canadian flavoured, have shit basketball players (I suspected all along) and have summer in -10 degree temperatures. My stomach swirls with malt, barley, hops and yeast (I concentrated at Guiness). Now Chris has got hold of some genuine Cuban cigars from Havana, and reckons it’s a good time to smoke them. I suggest City Hall. We sit on a wet bench, in the rain, smoke the fucking godzillas. I forget not to inhale, I choke. My third big night in a row, my brain leaks out my nostrils, but I manage to wipe most of it on my sleeve. Some flu bug saw me then and there, and decided to attack.

Back at the bar, we meet these lovely belle’s from Belfast. One takes a liking to me, shows me around the town, arm in arm, wasted, a personalized tour. She says I inspire her. I ask her to inspire me back, but unfortunately, she goes home around 4am.

All I wanted to do was meet real people and find out the truth about Northern Ireland. I met two locals who confirmed what I suspected - it’s a lot to do with media hype and a lot to do with English propaganda. Things are quite peaceful, and far more stable than the English let on. At this time, the bomb went off, sending shards of splintering glass falling from the sky like kaleidoscope raindrops. And I took my imagination with me back to Dublin for New Years Eve.

For a while there, I thought this New Year would flop like an Irish joke in Dublin. After getting back from Belfast, I managed to meet these three Dutch guys and these three South African sisters that I met on a literary pub crawl. Thousands of people are already trashed on the streets, and Dublin is like a shook up champagne bottle, waiting for someone to pop the lid. The Dutch guys are “choosing” their sister, and a little competitiveness is sneaking in. I’m less interested. The nicest one is the youngest one, who’s greener than the green fields of Ireland. She’s quite sweet but too young in the ways of the world. The Dutch guys rave about the middle one, who is entirely plain, and has the personality of a wooden plank, and possibly the intelligence too. The oldest one lives in London, acts super-responsible, and touch at your peril. So the last thing I want is to party with three dull birds and 3 guys who would snap their pet chicken’s neck to get into their pants. But that’s how things were shaping out.

We meet at this Irish pub/club called Eamonn Doran. I tried to get some sleep beforehand, but a room party in my hostel room put an end to that. I get in before they start charging and discover that it’s packed and drunk, and I’m tired, getting seriously ill, and need some inspiration. Tequila = Inspiration. Things are looking better. I knew I had a problem when I find out that the 6 people I’m with are anti-drugs. (It’s a bit harsh when an 18 year girls condemns you because she know s it all.) Besides, it was getting comical - speak to sister #1, Dutch guy speaks to sister #2, speak to sister #2, Dutch guy speaks to #1. The entire club looks like it’s humping away, and these girls are giggling like virgins at a sacrifice. Clearly, a change in plan was needed to make this new year interesting. So I mission off to find a dark corner where I can whisper sweet nothings in the ears of my Tequila. I’m praying for mind altering abuse, when a surfer dude comes out of nowhere and offers me a few hits of his hash pipe (discreetly of course). As reward, I introduce him to young sis who he takes down in 4 seconds flat. I’m delighted, the other sisters are horrified, and the young one is so bombed she doesn’t know that she’s grabbing a really ugly fellow who also has a black eye. As I get seriously wasted, the music picks up, the New Year comes in, I embrace all the sisters and laugh like the Joker. There is an Irish tradition that on New Years Eve, every guy can grab any girl, who will be polite if she’s not interested and basically rape you if she is. This is an interesting cultural peculiarity, and a most enjoyable one.

Now the evening takes a DRAMATIC turn. These two women come up to me, and basically start undressing me in the club. I would tell you what they were telling me, but this is a family show. So I ditch everyone, and see where this stream will flow. And it flooded.

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