Three birthdays and a helicopter

Apologies in advance for hammering this numbers theme to death and all that, but it seems good things do happen in threes, even turty threes. Up trees as well sometimes. Other times, on all fours. I can't think of anything for fives but sure feck it, I should have stopped before now anyway.

So, anyway, yeah, I just had myself three birthdays. That's why I disappeared for a few days there. I was off busying myself with the, y'know, whole three birthdays thaaaaang.

First off was a small intellectual soiree in the Stags Head last week. We all repaired to the rooms upstairs, donned silk dressing gowns and passed the night swirling ice-cubs round the bottom of chunky crystal glasses as we investigated and probed the key issues of the day. There was quite the gathering there but, never one to aggrandise myself, I should point out that most were not there specifically because it was my birthday, but because they knew the few who were and had tagged along for some opportunistic imbibing. And no harm. There was, I recall, smoking of cigarettes, a visit to Burger King and an expensive taxi ride home of which I remember nothing.

Do you realise what a combination of those three things makes you smell like the next morning?

Birthday two was a corker. Sister McDanger was having her birthday party as well, because all McDangers are born in September, what with it being nine months after friskmas. I mean Christmas. She has some mad gaff out in the country somewhere and about 100 people piled into it and got truly ratarsed and sang the roof off the place and there was a surprise birthday cake moment for me as well, by which I mean I was surprised when I went to taste a bit, didn't look and ate a napkin instead. Ah well. Elsewhere, there was mohitos, doritos and other things that rhymed. Fun times.

The next day I was as sick as a plane to Lourdes. I was standing at the kitchen sink trying to force some water down my practically closed throat, pondering the contents of my Dad's greenhouse in the back garden. I don't know what he's growing out there but they're massive, beanstalky and sinewy. Fuck me, I thought, the ould lad's growing Triffids the mad bastard. I was smiling inwardly at the thoughts of his bemused face when he'd come down for breakfast one morning and find them eating his underpants off the clothesline, when the man himself asked me what time I was heading for Mayo at the following day.

Oh Jasus, I thought, I have to go to Mayo the following day. That'd be birthday number three. Visiting cousin McDanger. Whose birthday is in March. They had better things to be doing in his house at friskmas it seems, although apparently not in July. Weirdos.

Anyway, I fired up the chariot and blasted my way deep into the west. Now there's little point spinning a short story long, so the headlines are big meal, yum yum, finished after ten, forgot the off licence was closed ah Jasus Christ like, no booze in the house because he doesn't drink (I know I know, not only did they copulate at odd points in the calendar, they were also unschooled in the pleasures of grape and grain), but we found a dusty bottle of vodka, I drank three quarters of it and was bladdered by 5 am, at which point I fell asleep on the bed with my pants on.

Now I'm back in Dublin after the mother of all drives and today I was a bit zonked and thought I had the swine flu but I'm sitting here blogging so it must have been a false alarm. I hope.

Oh and by the way, I made the helicopter bit up just to get you to read to the end. Sorry loves!

But I won't mention my birthday ever again, I promise.