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.
