The Luck of the Irish

« Return to Ireland

I jump ahead to the morning, where I wake with a really bad hangover, in a kids room, 40 miles outside of Dublin, with a naked, cute blond in the bed. She is wearing nothing but an engagement ring. Clearly, I’m no longer in Kansas.

Back to the club. I meet this 19 year old acrylics designer (whatever). She’s engaged to some bouncer, flashing a big diamond ring, but they had a fight, and her hip aunt suggested they go into Dublin for New Year for some fun. I guess my name must be fun. These are working class lasses, and everything I say sounds intriguing, and everything they say is really hectic Irish. A South African BBC Internet-journliast-musician-bollocks-blah-blah-blah. She says “Um, this isn’t an offer of sex or anything, but will you come home with me?” Between my wastedness and the loud crummy hostel bed, this weighed in my head for .6 of a second. So she starts tearing into me while her aunt tears into this bewildered dude from Manchester and her 16year old sister tears into some other geezer. She’s wearing a purple velvet dress and long purple velvet boots. I’m wearing the crown of tequila. We all take a bus back to this small town somewhere (which I scant remember), sit up talking and pair up to rooms. I wake up confused. And scared that a bomber jacket is about to head butt the door down. I can’t remember much of my sexual performance, but I’m convinced it was entirely piss poor. Morning conversation after a one night stand. “Um, I better go.” Slam. Run. Oh shit, where the hell am I?

Oh yeah, 1998.

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