Wednesday, 27 June 2012
One swipe and your smitten
Monday, 14 February 2011
There is nothing that can prepare you for this.
On a typical Monday, my head hurts a little, and my rather shy and quietly suffering liver takes refuge behind my spleen. What was once a strong, fit organ is now a disgruntled policeman, sullenly manning a roadblock in my fun loving body. Said policeman is incorruptible by my bribes of tequila shots or of Jäger-bombs, and is not at all fooled by White Russians.
On Mondays, I do my ten hours of penance for sins committed over the weekend. Today's misery was not expected to be any different, right up until I decided to take the fucking Tube into central London. Upon entering Sloane Square Station, I was rudely greeted by a brain crippling noise, issued from what seemed to be the bastard son of Nostrodamus and a tramp. All I remember of the encounter was the word “Oysters” and the whiff of petrol. I feebly kept moving forward towards the a queue of commuters, eventually reaching the starting gate, where I inserted my travel card to be allowed into the cattle crush. I followed the herd to the escalators and, good Lord, there was a stomach-churning, steep drop down to the train level. I had to concentrate very hard on not becoming dizzy and falling down a very long way. I was also acutely aware that I might have been dribbling.
I had, rather shakily, made it to the bottom of the escalator and instinctively turned left to my platform. Here I found myself amidst a crowd of undefined bodies with porcine faces. Still shaking, I stood silently alongside the great unwashed, waiting for the train. I again had to concentrate very hard on not falling forward and causing mass murder. I started to ponder the case for the defence:
"Yes, My Lord, the defendant had, on the night previous to the day in question, consumed a vast quantity of gin and tonic. On the day in question, he suddenly fell forward on platform three, knocking the fat man onto the tracks in front of the train, taking three small children and an old lady with him. Yes, My Lord, gin and tonic is still considered a girlie drink. He says he was drinking it as a preventative measure against malaria. Yes, My Lord, he was in Sloane Square tube station."
Thankfully, a sudden gush of wind and noise snapped me out of it before my evil and twisted little mind had a chance to terrify me with scenes of prison showers and a mouth stuffed full of sport socks. No one got off and everyone got on before I did. I was left standing near the door between the carriages. I steadied myself by leaning against a door I knew would not open and glanced down the length of the carriage. Bollocks!
Now, you must understand, I have no problem with the French if they are female and between the ages of something-teen and twenty five, for they have no morals and they never say no. Sadly that was not what I saw. There before me was a sea of itinerant French runts with matching rucks
acks and a collective voice that, shouted into a turbine, could undoubtedly generate enough electricity to run a small European town.
I closed my eyes and held my breath until we came to the next station. Two minutes and 21 seconds away. Like rats abandoning a sinking ship, they scurried away, and were duly replaced by the pasty masses in shirts, ties and woolly skirts. A hairy man wearing what looked like forty coats with forty pockets stood next to me and shoved a magazine titled 'The Big Issue' under my nose. I had heard that this magazine is sold by homeless people to make a bit of money. I expect a homeless person's magazine is full of advertisements for guns with their serial numbers filed off and locations where one could acquire speed that isn’t cut with strychnine.
I grunted, shook my head and he moved off to the woman seated in front of me. She was hard to miss, being on the right side of thirty, with platinum blond hair and a body that would steal away the inheritance of an oil baron's loin-fruit. He did something no other man could: he gave her a skip and went to the hipster next to her. The hipster had obviously just armed himself with the knowledge of words and witty quotations from some 59 cent app on his iPhone and said something that made him smile. Self appreciation might be 59 cents cheap, but homeless person spit is free, as is the TB and Old Brown Sherry it contains. This was nearly the high point of my day. The top heavy blonde leaned forward as she rose from the bench when we approached the next station, revealing A LOT of cleavage. This was the high point of my day.
A swarm jumped ship and even more come aboard. Standing room only. I was now hemmed into the corner by the crowd, one of whom was right on top of me. I think he might have been lost because he looked like he should have been steaming down a canal or steaming up the bar in a land locked yacht club. I didn't like him being that close to me, and I didn't like being forced to inhale his Albatross aftershave. I had come to realise that sailing is not just about chapped lips, wind blown hair and navy blazers with impossibly large cuff links. On Mondays it is about riding the Tube, enjoying a riveting phone conversation (for all to hear) with your friend Tarquin about seeing Emily last night for wine and a deep discussion about Lady Gaga and The Killers, whilst wistfully staring off into the distant recesses of the carriage from a lofty perch atop my fucking foot!
I would not bring him to the attention of the Asset Forfeiture Unit, nor would I call the Inland Revenue hot line and have him audited for cuff links, lip balm and metro sexual hair products, but I just may have ankle tapped him as he stepped out of the carriage. As I understand it, Section 49 of the Criminal Procedures Act (The Use of Deadly Force section, giving you the right to shoot a fleeing suspect simply because he would otherwise escape) is unheard of and therefore not abolished in the UK, so I had no qualms in helping him off the carriage.
More rolled off, more rolled on. This time it was the turn of a religious group who took a wrong turn on the way to Lourdes and ended up on the Piccadilly line bound for central London to take over the carriage. The last thing I needed today was a herd of moon-calves wailing, banging tambourines, and smiling at me. So, I held my breath and closed my eyes until the next stop. The train stopped, my eyes shot open as I gasped for air and got, instead, a lungful of tea tree oil that was literally dripping from a Renaissance fair escapee. She might have had her cuddly unmentionables on fine display and in my face, but she was in my way and I was getting off there that second. Feeling weak and light headed meant that I couldn't motorboat my way out of the carriage, so I reverted to an old trick I had learned in school. I held my hand over my mouth and feigned imminent vomiting. The swarm parted and I found myself on platform two, Piccadilly Circus, and a mere ten minute walk from my meeting with someone who had wanted to give me money for something. My mind had stopped computing after she had muttered the words "give you money".
I strode forward and up the escalators, each bound becoming stronger with each molecule of fresh air, the closer I get to the surface. I spied daylight. I had reached The Top! The travel card was deftly fed into the cattle crush, and before I knew it I was on the surface and breathing in fresh bus fumes and elbowing street urchins in the face. I almost felt good enough to strut. Suddenly the phone rang and it was a woman informing me that that day's meeting was cancelled, and that she would call back sometime later in the week with a new appointment. The only thing left for me to do was to openly weep, and venture down into the Tube station for the lengthy trip back to Sloane Square
On Mondays, I do my ten hours of penance for sins committed over the weekend. Today's misery was not expected to be any different, right up until I decided to take the fucking Tube into central London. Upon entering Sloane Square Station, I was rudely greeted by a brain crippling noise, issued from what seemed to be the bastard son of Nostrodamus and a tramp. All I remember of the encounter was the word “Oysters” and the whiff of petrol. I feebly kept moving forward towards the a queue of commuters, eventually reaching the starting gate, where I inserted my travel card to be allowed into the cattle crush. I followed the herd to the escalators and, good Lord, there was a stomach-churning, steep drop down to the train level. I had to concentrate very hard on not becoming dizzy and falling down a very long way. I was also acutely aware that I might have been dribbling.
I had, rather shakily, made it to the bottom of the escalator and instinctively turned left to my platform. Here I found myself amidst a crowd of undefined bodies with porcine faces. Still shaking, I stood silently alongside the great unwashed, waiting for the train. I again had to concentrate very hard on not falling forward and causing mass murder. I started to ponder the case for the defence:
"Yes, My Lord, the defendant had, on the night previous to the day in question, consumed a vast quantity of gin and tonic. On the day in question, he suddenly fell forward on platform three, knocking the fat man onto the tracks in front of the train, taking three small children and an old lady with him. Yes, My Lord, gin and tonic is still considered a girlie drink. He says he was drinking it as a preventative measure against malaria. Yes, My Lord, he was in Sloane Square tube station."
Thankfully, a sudden gush of wind and noise snapped me out of it before my evil and twisted little mind had a chance to terrify me with scenes of prison showers and a mouth stuffed full of sport socks. No one got off and everyone got on before I did. I was left standing near the door between the carriages. I steadied myself by leaning against a door I knew would not open and glanced down the length of the carriage. Bollocks!
Now, you must understand, I have no problem with the French if they are female and between the ages of something-teen and twenty five, for they have no morals and they never say no. Sadly that was not what I saw. There before me was a sea of itinerant French runts with matching rucks
I closed my eyes and held my breath until we came to the next station. Two minutes and 21 seconds away. Like rats abandoning a sinking ship, they scurried away, and were duly replaced by the pasty masses in shirts, ties and woolly skirts. A hairy man wearing what looked like forty coats with forty pockets stood next to me and shoved a magazine titled 'The Big Issue' under my nose. I had heard that this magazine is sold by homeless people to make a bit of money. I expect a homeless person's magazine is full of advertisements for guns with their serial numbers filed off and locations where one could acquire speed that isn’t cut with strychnine.
I grunted, shook my head and he moved off to the woman seated in front of me. She was hard to miss, being on the right side of thirty, with platinum blond hair and a body that would steal away the inheritance of an oil baron's loin-fruit. He did something no other man could: he gave her a skip and went to the hipster next to her. The hipster had obviously just armed himself with the knowledge of words and witty quotations from some 59 cent app on his iPhone and said something that made him smile. Self appreciation might be 59 cents cheap, but homeless person spit is free, as is the TB and Old Brown Sherry it contains. This was nearly the high point of my day. The top heavy blonde leaned forward as she rose from the bench when we approached the next station, revealing A LOT of cleavage. This was the high point of my day.
A swarm jumped ship and even more come aboard. Standing room only. I was now hemmed into the corner by the crowd, one of whom was right on top of me. I think he might have been lost because he looked like he should have been steaming down a canal or steaming up the bar in a land locked yacht club. I didn't like him being that close to me, and I didn't like being forced to inhale his Albatross aftershave. I had come to realise that sailing is not just about chapped lips, wind blown hair and navy blazers with impossibly large cuff links. On Mondays it is about riding the Tube, enjoying a riveting phone conversation (for all to hear) with your friend Tarquin about seeing Emily last night for wine and a deep discussion about Lady Gaga and The Killers, whilst wistfully staring off into the distant recesses of the carriage from a lofty perch atop my fucking foot!
I would not bring him to the attention of the Asset Forfeiture Unit, nor would I call the Inland Revenue hot line and have him audited for cuff links, lip balm and metro sexual hair products, but I just may have ankle tapped him as he stepped out of the carriage. As I understand it, Section 49 of the Criminal Procedures Act (The Use of Deadly Force section, giving you the right to shoot a fleeing suspect simply because he would otherwise escape) is unheard of and therefore not abolished in the UK, so I had no qualms in helping him off the carriage.
More rolled off, more rolled on. This time it was the turn of a religious group who took a wrong turn on the way to Lourdes and ended up on the Piccadilly line bound for central London to take over the carriage. The last thing I needed today was a herd of moon-calves wailing, banging tambourines, and smiling at me. So, I held my breath and closed my eyes until the next stop. The train stopped, my eyes shot open as I gasped for air and got, instead, a lungful of tea tree oil that was literally dripping from a Renaissance fair escapee. She might have had her cuddly unmentionables on fine display and in my face, but she was in my way and I was getting off there that second. Feeling weak and light headed meant that I couldn't motorboat my way out of the carriage, so I reverted to an old trick I had learned in school. I held my hand over my mouth and feigned imminent vomiting. The swarm parted and I found myself on platform two, Piccadilly Circus, and a mere ten minute walk from my meeting with someone who had wanted to give me money for something. My mind had stopped computing after she had muttered the words "give you money".
I strode forward and up the escalators, each bound becoming stronger with each molecule of fresh air, the closer I get to the surface. I spied daylight. I had reached The Top! The travel card was deftly fed into the cattle crush, and before I knew it I was on the surface and breathing in fresh bus fumes and elbowing street urchins in the face. I almost felt good enough to strut. Suddenly the phone rang and it was a woman informing me that that day's meeting was cancelled, and that she would call back sometime later in the week with a new appointment. The only thing left for me to do was to openly weep, and venture down into the Tube station for the lengthy trip back to Sloane Square
Tuesday, 14 September 2010
It always starts on a Monday
It always starts on a Monday
One of the reasons I enjoy a drink is because when I was young and dumb I was lured away from sunny South Afica by the foolish ideals of money and adventure. Before I knew it I was in London and after quickly partying and drinking all my holiday money away, I found myself working one Monday morning on a 28 metre fishing boat off a remote island that was too far north, too windy and a rather brutal introduction to what real winter is. Naive me and four Beardy Wierdies were crammed onto a small fishing boat, working nets and gutting fish for more hours than there are in a day, all whilst scarily dark waves towered above us before the inevitable soaking. When I could, I would dream of a warm, sunny and dry South Africa.
One of the constant fustrations I had to deal with on a daily basis was the rudimentary communication and the dodgy living conditions the four mad men and I shared. Firstly there was the way they spoke: some bizarre local dialect that I never really understood, which made everything sound terrifying. They could be talking about a fluffy puppy they'd just rescued and it would send a cold shiver down your spine. Then there was The Boat. It was cramped, dirty, smelly and the only refuge aboard was the tiny wheel house that was under the constant smog of (and I'm not kidding) "Black Death" cigarettes. For entertainment there were two monitors which beeped out nautical stuff every now and again (nobody ever looked at them) and three other monitors that had a constant run of seriously fucked up Russian amateur hardcore porn. So any downtime that we had was spent tightly holding on to the gaurd rail and drinking weapons-grade vodka and Red Bull. This was when, quite sadly, being violently sea sick was a double edged sword: it meant that you were purging yourself of the daily diet that was a microwave dish of unkown substance (I swear it was cat vomit) and the vodka that burnt as much coming out as it did going in. The sharper edge of this sword was that I would be seen hurling my soul into a bucket (you daren't go near the edge of the boat as getting washed away was all to likely, even if sometimes wished for) and being told to "Get ma self back into da game." I would then be handed a dirty mugg of vodka or Captain Morgan Spiced Gold and Red Bull that had to be drunk there and then. The bunks stank of fish, piss and stale Tennent's Lager, so I would feign sleep in the wheel house, bolt upright, after I had strapped myself into the racing car seat that was nailed to the wall ( lying on the floor was not an option).
On our days off I would go the apartment I rented and would sleep like the dead for a day or two, maybe heading out later to be grey with the dreary locals until it was time to push off to sea again. The days were long and funny, but not as in 'funny haha.'
That changed one day when the ginger Beardie Wierdie came into the bar with an old World War 2 grenade he had found on the beach. He was so chuffed by his find, that our first thoughts were that he had gotten laid the night before on the cheap. After we played a quick game of hot potato with it, where it was dropped more than once with all of us doing animated explosions like school boys, it was left on the bar between us as our drinks took priority. All of a sudden it furiously started fizzing and crackling. Cue: shocked faces all round and five idiots rammed up against a door pushing furiously when it need to be PULLED. Eventually we piled out into the street and behind us the grenade fizzed out. We picked ourselves up and returned to the bar where a very pissed off barmaid had just stood there cleaning glasses the whole time, yelled abuse at us because it gave off a strange smell and leaked gooey shit all over her clean counter!!!
That night we returned to sea with good weather and a few days of good catches and much merriment. Everything was going rather well and it was making me quite nervous. It came as no surprise when late one night/early one morning I was not the only one amazed by the discovery that there was actually a kitchen aboard the boat and that it contained more than just a microwave. One of the Beardy Wierdies had found a gas stove, a deep fat fryer and a force 9 gale. The subsequent rescue from that fiery concoction made an episode of Sea Rescues on the Discovery Channel. The brave helicopter crew couldn't winch us off; a nearby boat threw life rafts out for us and we had to time the jump off our boat at just the right time or else we would end up in the very scary, dark, bottomless ocean. This proved to be a tad more difficult than imagined as our gumboots were melting onto the deck and were a little sticky. Luckily we all survived in one piece. Every now and again I ponder the thought that if I'd gone to London and not drunk all my money away and gotten a proper job I would not have this reccuring nightmare about an old Russian peasant woman and her equally old postman.
As bad as the fishing boat sounds the worst job was when I left the boat to earn some money to escape from the island. This was at a salmon factory and it, too, began on a Monday morning. I never would have thought that any good could have come from my time spent on that accursed boat, but due to my time there I was fortunate enough to avoid being one of the drones on the factory line, who sucked out the guts from the freshly killed salmon like lethargic zombies. I was given the much respected job of a KILLER and, yes, that is the official title. Yours truly and six others would man the killing station. Our tools were tiny, blunt knives and our victims were live, but stunned (nobody told them that they were stunned) salmon. For ten hours a day we were stood at a aluminium table, up to our elbows in icy sea water, grapling with large, wildly flapping salmon as we slit their gills with our blunt knives and tossed them down the chute to the blood tank. All this happened three metres off the factory floor where we were splashed, thumped and bled on by the 3 000+ salmon that we killed every day. In case you didn't know, salt water and salmon blood stings the crap out of your eyes and when it gets into your mouth, that is all you can taste for the rest of the day. When the pump would have its daily breakdown, our psycotic boss would stand at the bottom of the stairs and shout abuse and throw salmon heads at us because fundamentally he was an unhappy man at heart. And there was no way he was going to get close to seven very cold, beat up and armed men who wanted off the island at almost any cost. Christmas came early for us one day as we were all fired after one of us got lucky during a work dispute where a volley of live salmon were flung at (still not saying who it exactly it was Mr Policeman) our boss from a height of three metres and duly knocking the ugly Scottish bastard out cold.
The one good thing about that job, though was that I get to have the title KILLER on my CV. It has raised more than one eyebrow, and I have yet to be criticised or questioned hard in a job interview.
One of the reasons I enjoy a drink is because when I was young and dumb I was lured away from sunny South Afica by the foolish ideals of money and adventure. Before I knew it I was in London and after quickly partying and drinking all my holiday money away, I found myself working one Monday morning on a 28 metre fishing boat off a remote island that was too far north, too windy and a rather brutal introduction to what real winter is. Naive me and four Beardy Wierdies were crammed onto a small fishing boat, working nets and gutting fish for more hours than there are in a day, all whilst scarily dark waves towered above us before the inevitable soaking. When I could, I would dream of a warm, sunny and dry South Africa.
One of the constant fustrations I had to deal with on a daily basis was the rudimentary communication and the dodgy living conditions the four mad men and I shared. Firstly there was the way they spoke: some bizarre local dialect that I never really understood, which made everything sound terrifying. They could be talking about a fluffy puppy they'd just rescued and it would send a cold shiver down your spine. Then there was The Boat. It was cramped, dirty, smelly and the only refuge aboard was the tiny wheel house that was under the constant smog of (and I'm not kidding) "Black Death" cigarettes. For entertainment there were two monitors which beeped out nautical stuff every now and again (nobody ever looked at them) and three other monitors that had a constant run of seriously fucked up Russian amateur hardcore porn. So any downtime that we had was spent tightly holding on to the gaurd rail and drinking weapons-grade vodka and Red Bull. This was when, quite sadly, being violently sea sick was a double edged sword: it meant that you were purging yourself of the daily diet that was a microwave dish of unkown substance (I swear it was cat vomit) and the vodka that burnt as much coming out as it did going in. The sharper edge of this sword was that I would be seen hurling my soul into a bucket (you daren't go near the edge of the boat as getting washed away was all to likely, even if sometimes wished for) and being told to "Get ma self back into da game." I would then be handed a dirty mugg of vodka or Captain Morgan Spiced Gold and Red Bull that had to be drunk there and then. The bunks stank of fish, piss and stale Tennent's Lager, so I would feign sleep in the wheel house, bolt upright, after I had strapped myself into the racing car seat that was nailed to the wall ( lying on the floor was not an option).
On our days off I would go the apartment I rented and would sleep like the dead for a day or two, maybe heading out later to be grey with the dreary locals until it was time to push off to sea again. The days were long and funny, but not as in 'funny haha.'
That changed one day when the ginger Beardie Wierdie came into the bar with an old World War 2 grenade he had found on the beach. He was so chuffed by his find, that our first thoughts were that he had gotten laid the night before on the cheap. After we played a quick game of hot potato with it, where it was dropped more than once with all of us doing animated explosions like school boys, it was left on the bar between us as our drinks took priority. All of a sudden it furiously started fizzing and crackling. Cue: shocked faces all round and five idiots rammed up against a door pushing furiously when it need to be PULLED. Eventually we piled out into the street and behind us the grenade fizzed out. We picked ourselves up and returned to the bar where a very pissed off barmaid had just stood there cleaning glasses the whole time, yelled abuse at us because it gave off a strange smell and leaked gooey shit all over her clean counter!!!
That night we returned to sea with good weather and a few days of good catches and much merriment. Everything was going rather well and it was making me quite nervous. It came as no surprise when late one night/early one morning I was not the only one amazed by the discovery that there was actually a kitchen aboard the boat and that it contained more than just a microwave. One of the Beardy Wierdies had found a gas stove, a deep fat fryer and a force 9 gale. The subsequent rescue from that fiery concoction made an episode of Sea Rescues on the Discovery Channel. The brave helicopter crew couldn't winch us off; a nearby boat threw life rafts out for us and we had to time the jump off our boat at just the right time or else we would end up in the very scary, dark, bottomless ocean. This proved to be a tad more difficult than imagined as our gumboots were melting onto the deck and were a little sticky. Luckily we all survived in one piece. Every now and again I ponder the thought that if I'd gone to London and not drunk all my money away and gotten a proper job I would not have this reccuring nightmare about an old Russian peasant woman and her equally old postman.
As bad as the fishing boat sounds the worst job was when I left the boat to earn some money to escape from the island. This was at a salmon factory and it, too, began on a Monday morning. I never would have thought that any good could have come from my time spent on that accursed boat, but due to my time there I was fortunate enough to avoid being one of the drones on the factory line, who sucked out the guts from the freshly killed salmon like lethargic zombies. I was given the much respected job of a KILLER and, yes, that is the official title. Yours truly and six others would man the killing station. Our tools were tiny, blunt knives and our victims were live, but stunned (nobody told them that they were stunned) salmon. For ten hours a day we were stood at a aluminium table, up to our elbows in icy sea water, grapling with large, wildly flapping salmon as we slit their gills with our blunt knives and tossed them down the chute to the blood tank. All this happened three metres off the factory floor where we were splashed, thumped and bled on by the 3 000+ salmon that we killed every day. In case you didn't know, salt water and salmon blood stings the crap out of your eyes and when it gets into your mouth, that is all you can taste for the rest of the day. When the pump would have its daily breakdown, our psycotic boss would stand at the bottom of the stairs and shout abuse and throw salmon heads at us because fundamentally he was an unhappy man at heart. And there was no way he was going to get close to seven very cold, beat up and armed men who wanted off the island at almost any cost. Christmas came early for us one day as we were all fired after one of us got lucky during a work dispute where a volley of live salmon were flung at (still not saying who it exactly it was Mr Policeman) our boss from a height of three metres and duly knocking the ugly Scottish bastard out cold.
The one good thing about that job, though was that I get to have the title KILLER on my CV. It has raised more than one eyebrow, and I have yet to be criticised or questioned hard in a job interview.
Thursday, 12 August 2010
Dunking Dassies part 2
Des's departure had left me feeling a little exposed. To emphasise this, the old man and his twitch were looking at me intently.
He pointed a finger at my empty whiskey glass, "Would yer like another?"
I managed to summon up a manly "Ja. That would be great."
He got up, taking the stool with him. I went back to staring at the glowing fire, pondering the sentimental value of coal versus a milking stool. It wasn't too bad there. I was starting to dry out nicely, the Guinness was good and the whiskey perfect. Sadly, I didn't get too much time alone as the two Irishmen came over and introduced themselves as Simon and Tim, and whilst placing a full bottle of Bushmills on the table, informing me that it was with the compliments of the owner. Simon poured us each a dram and I made a quiet toast to our dearly departed friend, Des. Each of them had a little chuckle and Tim said it was only to be expected that he'd be kicked out. As he explained: "Old George there doesn't care much for American tourists. They talk a lot and make far too much noise, which only attracts more of them, you see."
The Irishmen then went on to openly admitting how impressed they were with the amount of drink that little ol' Des could put away. That was of course until I motioned to my left, at which their eyes then ballooned at the sight of the 8 full pints of Guinness in hiding. Des was praised yet again, albeit quietly.
My own curiosity got the better of me again that day, and I asked the two boys if they had any idea as to why I was not sent packing with Des.
I didn't appreciate the stupid look that Tim was giving me when he stated the fact that I did not look American. To further emphisise this, he said that the owner had handed him the bottle of Bushmills with the compliments "Fer that fella there, The Patron Saint Of Sherpas." Tim pointed to the photos tacked to the wall behind the bar. "He's been all over the world ya know. He's a dab hand at laying landmines apparently, and dunking dassies. Whatever that is."
I was shocked that he had heard my earlier conversation with the departed; a little unnerved by the landmines, and positively perplexed by what must be some kinky fetish involving dassies. The only response that I could muster was a feeble, "So he's been around a bit?"
He pointed a finger at my empty whiskey glass, "Would yer like another?"
I managed to summon up a manly "Ja. That would be great."
He got up, taking the stool with him. I went back to staring at the glowing fire, pondering the sentimental value of coal versus a milking stool. It wasn't too bad there. I was starting to dry out nicely, the Guinness was good and the whiskey perfect. Sadly, I didn't get too much time alone as the two Irishmen came over and introduced themselves as Simon and Tim, and whilst placing a full bottle of Bushmills on the table, informing me that it was with the compliments of the owner. Simon poured us each a dram and I made a quiet toast to our dearly departed friend, Des. Each of them had a little chuckle and Tim said it was only to be expected that he'd be kicked out. As he explained: "Old George there doesn't care much for American tourists. They talk a lot and make far too much noise, which only attracts more of them, you see."
The Irishmen then went on to openly admitting how impressed they were with the amount of drink that little ol' Des could put away. That was of course until I motioned to my left, at which their eyes then ballooned at the sight of the 8 full pints of Guinness in hiding. Des was praised yet again, albeit quietly.
My own curiosity got the better of me again that day, and I asked the two boys if they had any idea as to why I was not sent packing with Des.
I didn't appreciate the stupid look that Tim was giving me when he stated the fact that I did not look American. To further emphisise this, he said that the owner had handed him the bottle of Bushmills with the compliments "Fer that fella there, The Patron Saint Of Sherpas." Tim pointed to the photos tacked to the wall behind the bar. "He's been all over the world ya know. He's a dab hand at laying landmines apparently, and dunking dassies. Whatever that is."
I was shocked that he had heard my earlier conversation with the departed; a little unnerved by the landmines, and positively perplexed by what must be some kinky fetish involving dassies. The only response that I could muster was a feeble, "So he's been around a bit?"
Wednesday, 17 March 2010
Dunking Dassies part 1
Seeing that it is Saint Patrick's Day I might as well start in Ireland.
I came to Ireland. Cork, to be precise; via Singapore, The Latrine of Death in Kathmandu, and the most polite interrogation at London's Heathrow Airport. Eventually I arrived at a bed in a small, smelly room shared with a shy Norwegian boy, one fatter Canadian version thereof, and a very hairy Austrian girl. This was not how I had imagined an Irish youth hostel dorm to be, but, sod it, I needed some sleep. I awoke the following morning to the Canadian joyfully informing us all that "Noah will be on his way to pick us up." I am not one for sarcasm first thing in the morning, especially not when it's an over-excited Canadian being all smarmy about the rain. Especially this one, because he came from a place who's Indian name means 'perpetual rain,' Vancouver. I went to join him at the bay window and quickly came to the conclusion that Cork must be twinned with Vancouver and that the boy is on some sort of exchange program. I wasn't too perturbed, as I was only there for a long weekend to catch up with an old trouble maker I knew. The Austrian that was in the bed above me started to move and I noticed the Canadian taking a step directly parallel to me and out of her direct line of sight; the shy Norwegian put his head to his pillow, nose buried in the wall. I, of course, looked over instinctively at the movement and caught an eyeful of hairy arse as she climbed down from the bunk. She smiled and left the room. The Canadian kindly informed me that she had just come from a Woofing Farm and was drinking lots of cheap wine and a was horny bitch. He looked scared and had every right to be, she looked like the thing from Harry and the Hendersons.
Well, I had to procure a map so I could find my way about and hopefully my troublesome friend. So I got ready and took the free map on offer at the hostel reception. I was just about to venture out into the rain when I was stopped in my tracks by Harry the hairy Austrian girl. She handed me a note that read: 'The guy with the hat Rm 301. Liam has called and his flight is cancelled due to the weather. Go to a pub and wait out." Great.
Now I have spent some time being wet and miserable, a lot of time actually, and this walk I embarked on into the city center of Cork was becoming a chore. Seriously, I would have been drier if I had jumped into a river with all my clothes on. As I reached the city center, my thoughts turned from how effective water boarding must be on all but the Irish and the Canadian, to one of complete disdain, because right there in front of me came women, children and madness. I faced the throng and the crush of Christmas shoppers. I was tempted to pull out my map and look for a way around this seething mass of angry women and little chocolate covered cretins; but I have a thing for maps, and not wanting it to dissolve in the rain, it stayed in my pocket. I took a deep breath and just went for it. For the next fifteen minutes I had no control over where I was going or who I was bumping into, kicking or tripping over. I was forced down yet another dirty, narrow street when I saw my chance of reprieve in a badly lit doorway. I dived in and immediately wanted to retch from the stench of stale beer and cigarettes. Naturally enough I couldn't have just dived into a warm welcoming coffee shop like the one across the street. Oh no. I had to dive into this dank, dimly lit corridor that was lined on either side 5 beer kegs high, at the end of which was an equally narrow, carpet-free wooden staircase that shot straight up to a faded poster of what looked liked Jon Bon Jovie. Under this poster was a hand written sign stating that this was Breda's Hair Salon. Turning around and seeing, not a metre away from the entrance, was the boiling mass of angry women lunging at each other with umbrellas and ugly children baying away at their knees. Needless to say my choices were somewhat limited, and I wondered where the beer kegs came from and if all there was at the top of those stairs was just a dodgy hairdresser's, or a much needed pub or both. What harm would a bit of a look cause?
So off I went up the steepest wooden stairs that weren't called a ladder to meet Sweeney Todd for a pint of something ethnic. Once atop the stairs I discovered that it was indeed an old Bon Jovie poster, and that the hand written sign also had an arrow pointing towards my immediate right and a large yellow stained door with a huge wooden door knob. To the left of this door was an equally steep staircase that went down to a dark something. Well, I didn't climb up here for the view, and I wasn't foolish enough to walk down a steep flight of stairs into a dark abyss in this building. So forward I ventured atop Breda's Peak to the yellow door. I gingerly fiddled with the enormous door knob which did nothing to aid entry, and I had to firmly push the door open against some rather stiff resistance, when all of a sudden it positively swung open far too quickly. Ah Bollocks!
With the quick glance offered by the fast swinging door, the room in front of me looked like someone's living room, albeit circa 1930. Before the door started its violently quick return, I noticed a young, curly haired, American looking kid seated with what looked like a pint of Guinness, a warm glowing fire in front of him and a Lonely Planet Guide in hand. I thought to myself that this didn't look too bad, just as I stepped into the closing door with a smack. I forced open the door again and successfully made it across the threshold. Amazingly my entrance only received a slight nod from the American. I nodded right back at him. Oh, and I had to have walked into someone's living room, one that was cleverly disguised as a pub. It had character too, for underneath me was a well stained example of early man's attempt at a carpet, and there were three small wooden tables in front of me, each one complete with its own set of milking stools. There was a narrow church pew to my left, its wall smothered in old newspaper clippings and faded sepia photos of old people and things. The wall opposite me housed two large bay windows with big red cushions on the sills. The American was entrenched in one of only two comfortable looking wingback armchairs, in the far left corner facing a small, cozy fire.
I stepped off to my right, where there was a huge chunk of a dark wooden bar. Behind it was a beautiful, ornate wooden unit that kept a vast and pretty array of whiskeys, and other curiously shaped licquor bottles that I knew nothing about. On the bar was the traditional set of beer taps, of which I recognised maybe two out of the eight there. But before I got the opportunity to embarrass myself with my lack of knowledge on the subject- which, incidentally, is only matched by not knowing what drink you want when you get to the bar. I had to first find some space so I could place my order.
First, to prove a point, I must mention that in a more recent article in the New York Times, the reviewer of said bar referred to the locals as being "Eccentric." Well I will correct him and say that they are intimidating. And I am correct, you little curly haired bastard.
On my right and nearest to me, was a perfect Willie Nelson look alike, right down to the deer skin jacket, waistcoat and boots. The old bugger was hogging the bar corner like he owned it. To his left, and in front of me, were three short, frumpy, angry looking lesbians, all of whom were looking up at a very large, angry lesbian, complete with leather jacket, studded choker and dark spikey hair. Behind her and to my left, in the far corner, were two very dishevelled looking writer/poet types, complete with brown corduroy pants, worn green-and-brown tweed jackets and leather patched elbows. They were arguing like school boys do over porn, and one of them was tearing out pages from a book, the floor around them littered with the pages. I sidled up to old Willie and I gave the barman a nod.
Oh yes, the barman. He was, for want of a better description, a carbon copy of Marilyn Manson, but about a meter and a half shorter. As Marilyn shuffled his way over, I started to have a slight panic attack. I hadn't put the slightest bit of thought into what drink I should have and I was not wanting to draw attention to myself and look a complete tool in this company. I took a quick glance at the mesmerizing collection behind the bar and blinked. Nope, they still looked pretty and didn't make any sense to me whatsoever. I couldn't have anyway pronounced the names of any of them, even with some practice and a month's worth of AA meetings behind me. Shit. Marilyn was stood before me and I was still looking at the tap collection in front of me. Thinking quickly I deduced that the Yank tourist behind me had ordered a Guinness, and wanting to distance myself from him as a precaution, I opted for the tap right next to the Guinness. "Can I have a pint of Murphy's, please?" What a pleb.
Marilyn looked at me as he poured my pint and I caught his eye, just as it started to roll skyward. The other eye was fixed firmly on my pint as I followed this one up to the not-so-exciting, yellow stained ceiling. He poured my pint to about three quarters full. And then he just stopped. And left it there. I was about to say something when I quickly realised that, like Guinness, Murphy's must be partially poured and settled before topping up. Now this was a lengthy process for a thirsty man, but for a nervous wreck like me at that bar, surrounded by eight social outcasts and an American, it was endless. I decided to pay Marilyn while I waited, so I could beat a hasty retreat the moment it was ready. That done, he then returned to his corner, opposite the poets. I began to stare at my pint, willing it to hurry up, whilst I tried to block out Willie and the four aggressive lesbians. Old Willie looked at me and caught my eye, giving me a wink and a smirk before making the following statement:
"Yep, old Jimmy Morrison was a poet, a true genius. The man was a legend." Willie trails off, humming Riders On a Storm. I quietly squeaked off a response of acknowledgement and nodded. My eyes never left my NOW SETTLED pint of Murphy's. "Oh fuck, don't make me get your attention Marilyn", I thought, and as I was about to squeak something to the God of Fuck in the corner, the large lesbian started bellowing something important to her little gathering. "Blah blah blah, brought the Opera to the everyday woman." Out of the corner of my eye I saw her three little minions nodding away in agreement. I nearly joined in out of fear alone. On the other hand, old Willie wasn't going to. He stood himself bolt upright pulling his long hair behind his ears and gently tapping me a very small step back, he leaned over and poked one of the frumpy little lesbians in the back. She turned around and then the four angry dykes were glaring right at old Willie. Glaring at him, straight through me. Not in the least bit concerned for my wellbeing, old Willie squinted and pointed a bony finger at the large one, from right under my nose. His voiced raised: "You, you, what do you know about the Opera? You might look like an Opera singer, but you're not. Your just FAT."
Good God man what have you just done?
Before I had the chance to become rigid with fear, Marilyn slipped my pint into my hand and I took the liberty of quickly going and sitting down in the wingbacked armchair, next to the American. Seated, I cautiously looked over my shoulder to see Willie standing toe-to-toe with the fat dyke, shouting at each other about Opera stuff. I did try to follow the argument, but they clearly knew more than I did. Suddenly they had broken into Italian and then German. This had become a little unnerving. Then, out of nowhere, Marilyn Manson's cover of Sweet Dreams came blaring from the stereo behind the bar. That was just odd. I noticed the American looking at me, possibly braving eye contact for the first time since he had arrived in there. He even spoke.
" Hey man, where in States are you from?"
That was a funny question, because when I lived in America, no one ever looked at me and instantly thought "Hey, he's a local." I guessed he must have been feeling lonely and slightly delusional. I thought I'd cut him a break and reply.
"I'm sure as hell not from here, but I used to live in Chicago, and you. New York?"
With a huge grin he replied. "Long Island. Hey, how long you been in Ireland?"
"I flew in last night and yourself?"
With a tired look in his face, he answered:
"Three weeks and five days here in Cork."
Well, I could have been wrong, but the little bugger looked drunk and it wasn't even dark o' clock yet, and on a Monday. Mind you, he looked about eighteen years old and the fumes in there were probably strong enough to get him pissed anyway, let alone the pint of Guinness. I took a glance around the room, and despite the obvious madness in the air, it was actually quite cozy; in a cramped, antique store kind of way. The kid looked like he was about to talk and I, not being one for Twenty Questions, got the jump on him with a bone-stupid, touristy question.
"So how's the Guinness here, any good?"
He put down his Lonely Planet Guide, looked straight at me and completely ignored my stupid question.
"Man, I've been here since nine AM."
Damn, it was pushing two PM by that stage. He threw a thumb back at the now silent poets.
"Simon and Tim are staying at the same hostel as me. I met them at breakfast and they said they would show me a real Irish pub. I said, yeah sure. I mean, why not. I was going to go to Blarney and kiss the Blarney Stone, come back and go out with them on a pub crawl tonight, but they didn't even finish their breakfast. They said all right, let's get going then. Before I knew it, I was sitting here, drying off with a Guinness and it was only nine am. And they keep on buying me pints."
With a desperate look in his eye, he confessed:
"I can't keep up."
He gently pointed down to my left, drawing my attention to eight full pints of Guinness, hiding next to my armchair. I couldn't help but smile when I asked,
"How many have you had?"
He proudly declared "Five," pointing to his then nearly empty glass in front of him.
"And man, am I drunk."
Wanting to keep his questions at bay, I stayed on the offensive and asked him if he knew what the hell the poets were arguing about. This started a chuckle, which was quickly repressed.
"It started with Russian literature. Was it ever any good, or just gay? But maybe it's something else now, because they've been like that since we left the hostel."
Well, that shut me up and left me feeling slightly uncomfortable. He asked if I had come alone and I replied that hadn't, and that I'd lost my sherpa on the climb up Breda's Peak. He obviously didn't get it, because the next thing he told me was that he was newly single too. Finally, he introduced himself to me as "Des," before emptying his glass and announcing that he was going for a "piss." With him gone, I stared into the fire, sinking back into the gloriously comfortable armchair and relaxed a little.
Understandably, it took Des some time, but he eventually returned. And with two fresh pints of Guinness and two bloody large whiskeys.
"You gotta do it the Irish way!" he exclaimed, clearly forgetting about the eight other pints sitting next to me on the floor. I got the inkling that this was his first time out drinking and boy, was he in for a steep learning curve: coming to Ireland, being brought into a bar like this at nine AM, on a Monday morning. And with, of all things, bloody poets.
He was going to be so polluted after that Guinness, that I would have been surprised if he wasn't hounded back to the hostel by a Green Peace clean-up crew. At least his timing was good, as my Murphy's was just about finished and I have the biggest soft spot for Bushmills, so I felt a little pinch of compassion for him. Then, right on cue, he coughed and gasped for breath, after only a sip of a what was definitely a generous double Bushmills. Des got back his breath and started going on, in a very matter of fact tone, about wanting to become a journalist. So I duly ignored him and risked a glance around the room as it had become rather quiet and peaceful. I was pleased to see that the dykes were gone, Simon and Tim had several newspapers spread out across the bar, quietly going over the crossword puzzles. Old Willie had pulled rank on Marilyn and we were then listening to a whispering Tom Petty. There was an air of nap time at pre-school, and I liked it. Des went quiet, and we took our time savouring the whiskey.
With the fire dying down, Des had made himself useful by throwing on a few lumps of coal and stoking it up a bit. Sitting back in his chair, he looked rather pleased with himself. So he should have been, he'd done a fine job. Then behind us, I heard a thump on the bar, and over walked a serious looking little man with a bit of a facial twitch going on which, scarily, I hadn't noticed him being there earlier. He picked up one of the little milking stools from the table next to us and placed it next to Des. He sat down, looking at the fire for one long minute. After which, he looked to Des, and then to Des's still-full pint of Guinness. The old man's facial twitch stopped and he carefully reached out, picking up the pint, then quite deftly gulped the whole lot down in one go. Des was shocked,
"Hey man that was my pint!"
Thickly the old man replied,
"Yes, and that was my coal, NOW FUCK OFF!"
I quickly grabbed my pint as a precaution, Des silently rose up from his chair, as if released from a spell, he made for the door. Without saying a word,he was gone.
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