Multicultural and the common market

Stephens Green in the still of the night. Awwww....

Easter was great! The Saturday fell on the Monday, the Sunday fell on a Tuesday and now the Bank Holiday Monday falls today.

Me, I fell on the Monday night. Twice. In mitigation, there was drink taken.

Ah, the mad fuckeduppedness of it all. Having missed all the normal nights out over the weekend it was somewhat odd to be skipping giddily about the city with whatever brave entourage could be mustered - but this is my Easter! You must drink with me! - when most of the plain people of Ireland were in their beds and getting ready for the return to offices.

It was a night of firsts. First time ever going drinking in Temple Bar for one, because I normally avoid it like a dose of scabies but needs must on a Monday night - we needed crowds, Temple Bar had them. Tourists mostly.

Another first was me determinedly opening coversations with absolutely everybody I could find. It was that kind of night. There was the three American ladies studying in Rome and visiting Dublin by way of Barcelona, all "enjoying the Guinness" although Lord knows how because it looked like bog water they'd been nursing it for so long. Enduring the Guinness more like. Ah bless.

I think they were from Minnesota. I don't know Minnesota, I said, wherebaouts is it cartography-wise, top, middle, bottom, left or right? (American Geography for Dummies, coming soon). Turns out it's near the top in the middle, beside Canada. So if anyone from Minnesota's reading, that's for you. Never be lost again. No charge.

Then there was a Kiwi who was mighty pleased when I didn't mistake her for an Aussie, as Kiwis tend to be. For those of you who fall down frequently on this thorny branch of accent semantics, just smoothly try to get her to say the word 'fish', and because Kiwis always say it like this: "fush," then you'll know where you're talking and avoid social disgrace. It's easy, do it like this:

Her: ....so I've been here a couple of months, just moving around seeing the country you know, it's really beuatiful and....

Me: Yeah yeah, shutup banging on for a minute will ya?

(At this stage, carefully remove a piece of fresh cod from your coat).

Now, what's that?

Her: Smelly

Me: No what is it, as in species wise sort of thing?

Her: I reckon from sight alone it's from the genus called Gadus, in the latin, belonging to the family Gadidae, a mild flavored, low fat, white fleshed...

Me: For fucks sake woman, is it a dog or what is it?

Her: No....it's clearly a fush.

Me (points): Ha! You're a Kiwi!

Her: "You're a genius. Make love to me."

You can thank me later guys.

My magic social powers don't just wow the ladies either. Later in a club (me, in a club. Like I said, it was that kind of night) drunk lads at the bar kept wanting to talk to me about my teeshirt because apparently it reminded them of the Danish football team from the 80s, and less classically in football terms, Aston Villa circa 2007. Or something.

Nearby, there was a massive big lad from Galway whose friends called him BOILER, (and in block capitals too). He looked like he'd spent all his life throwing tractors at his neighbours for the craic. He spotted me beside him, hit me a slap on the back that damn near brought my lungs out my mouth like a springythingy, and asked me did I want to see him down a pint with no hands.

Jasus, I thought, he's going to chop off his own hands for a bet, now that's going too far.

But it turns out he just wanted me to buy him a pint so he could perform his feat of mastery. He did it too. Placed both hands behind his back, picked up the glass with his teeth and steadily tipped it all back with only minimal slobbering. I was astounded.
I bought him another one and told him to enjoy it the regular way. He belched like a volcano and said thanks very much, and then buried one of his mates into a passing blonde, with a thump on the back and a roar about not to be saving it for the worms or something. Ye gods.

Later still, I was throwing my 'shapes' and 'moves' on the floor. By which I mean I moved like a glacier and was shaped like a bag of turnips, but I cared not.
In keeping with the multicultural flow of the evening we started chatting to nurses from Poland, a teacher from Edinburgh and least understandable of the lot, someone from Offaly. I think I snogged the someone from Offaly but would need someone in the vicinty to confirm this. She might have been 23, she might have been 53, if she had a beard I might not have noticed and more likely, wouldn't have cared anyway. Ach, I am fairly sure she was female though. Lord knows where she went. Ah well.

I next got chatting to a Republican psychiatric nurse from Crumlin who among other things, told me she was 6'1 in her stockinged feet and loved Bobby Sands, and then offered to show me some restraining moves. Some fellas would pay good money for that, but I declined. Then there was a trainee lawyer from Cork who insisted she get a good photo of me, and seven shots and my full repertoire of gurning faces and constipated-Steptoe-doing-a-shit impressions later, she threw her hands up and abandoned the idea. She also called me an annoying shite. And then she gave me a kiss on the cheek. And then she looked at me, shook her head and told me to fuck off. Women. I just love them.

The rest is a bit misty. I lost Mr. Mardzord who was 'shteamed' and had bundled himself into a taxi and hopefully, remembered where he lives. B.K disappeared gently into the good night but I haven't heard he's dead or anything so will assume he's alive and well until told otherwise.

So I strolled on to Stephens Green, aglow in drunk contentedness, grinning like an ape for no reason I could think of. I wanted a memento of surely the most interesting night for many a long day, so I took the above photo. A deserted Stephens Green, with only a plastic bag doing ballet in the breeze, followed down the street by an uncouth bottle rattling hollow on the pavement.

Oh I've been smiling lately, thinking about the good things to come.