Before passing out.
OK so one thing you probably know already but I’ll bring to your attention anyway; if you‘re of a heterosexual tendency (which I myself was at the time) then being stuck in a men’s cubicle with another of the same gender is never that great an idea. Reviewing Marcus’s situation now, slumped and unconscious on the toilet bowl in a sitting position as he was, with his head leaned immovably against the back corner of the cubicle side panel and the wall; I was acutely conscious of the fact that I should perhaps be thinking about being somewhere else. The main problem with this pretty obvious hypothesis however, was the fact that I was very seriously wasted myself and not entirely sure that if and when I did attempt to put one foot in front of the other, that this simple enough aspiration might actually have an ultimately successful fruition. I had to try something though before my situation deteriorated any further, so I set about getting myself sorted before the debacle became irrevocably untenable. As long as I could extricate myself out of this mess on a personal level, then I could worry about what to do about Marcus later. So I stubbed the joint out with the tips of my fingers and stuffed the remainder of it into the back pocket of my jeans. It was only half finished you see, and whatever about our current predicament my thought process was still very much on the lines of ‘there’s plenty more where that came from later, so waste not, want not and all that’. The avarice and stupidity of youth right? I gathered up the rest of our wares also and stuffed them into my jacket pocket, deciding then in a moment of surprising clarity that rather than just going out and leaving the door ajar, that it would be a far better idea for me to leave the door of this particular cubicle locked and climb over the side panel into the neighbouring one, before heading quietly back into the relative safety and comfort of the bar. It seemed like a good enough idea at the time of course, but far more difficult to put into effect as it had been in my thoughts. I’d leave Marcus there for as long as it took for him to come around, with the theory being that in climbing into the next cubicle and exiting the toilets in that way, any future punters would just assume that that particular trap was occupied, and leave him to unknowingly recover undisturbed from his drug induced slumber. He would come around eventually of course and all would return to normal in no more I imagined than a half an hour or so at most. Well that was the theory anyway. In the end it all went off in a completely different direction and if I’m totally honest with you at this stage in the proceedings, I should probably hold my hand up and admit that the eventual fiasco that followed was 100% down to me and my fault entirely from start to finish.
Before all that however, the unenviable dilemma of the obstacle course before me. If you think about it, it probably shouldn’t have been that daunting. And under normal circumstances it almost certainly wouldn’t have been. Given the current flaccid state of my legs however, just raising them off the ground was difficult enough. So it’s all a bit of a blur to be honest, but I did eventually manage to drag myself up to a level where I was holding on tightly to the top of the partition with my forefingers, whilst my anesthetised trotters teetered precariously on the side of the dangerously slippery toilet bowl rim below. I was reasonably happy with my progress thus far however (mainly due the fact that I hadn’t slipped yet and bounced my skull on to the waiting tiles below) with the only issue now being if and how I might be able to contort myself into a position where I could proceed any further. Ordinarily I’d have gone about it another way of course, but as far as I could see now the only feasible option I had left at my disposal was to utilise Marcus’s shoulder and head as makeshift stirrups for the purposes of achieving my immediate goal. So I did. When he did eventually wake up later, he spent most of the first hour or so complaining of pains in those exact areas; but I didn’t let on that it was I who’d been the main agitator in that regard. I mean what was the point? I just told him that he’d slipped badly in the bathroom earlier on while he was stoned.
After a few undignified contortions here and there so, I eventually lowered myself down on to the other side and upon reaching terra firma went arseways immediately as expected, slipping and landing squarely on my backside and causing my coccyx no small degree of dissatisfaction in the process. I pulled myself up momentarily and gathered myself together, before making my way zig-zaggedly out of the toilet and in the general direction of the bar. I went head over heels as I entered and after an eventual six out of ten for my floor routine, landed in a kind of a heap next to the bar on the floor. I salvaged some degree of self-esteem however, by immediately standing up and seamlessly placing my elbow on the bar. And then ordering a drink as if nothing had happened at all. The actual reality of the situation however, and my own reality as described to you just then, were according to Deco, two emphatically different things. As far as I remembered it myself at the time I had thoroughly redeemed myself to all and sundry, and was a clear and unadulterated vision of suavity and sophistication. Deco however was there to see the incident first hand, and maintained that I’d actually hit the step that leads into the bar full on with my left foot, and then, as a result of my not having any feeling in my legs from the knees down, had quite literally somersaulted my way into the room. This ‘step’ was no more than two inches off the ground also by the way, and even though there’s a sign there to the left of the door suggesting to visiting punters that they should ‘Mind The Step’ as they entered, you could probably still be forgiven for thinking that somebody, anybody, at some point over the preceding forty years, might have taken an hour or two out some Sunday morning, to just level the whole thing off before the first customers arrived for the day. It wasn’t a proper step anyway so had no business even being there. It served no purpose. The number of punters who fell into the bar from this doorway were more frequent in actual fact, than those that sauntered in unobstructed.
I was fortunate enough myself, on this occasion anyway, that after my own ignominious entrance, Deco had still been covering the bar. Knowing (and indeed seeing) the state I was in, he was more than happy to pour my drink for me and then inconspicuously hand it over before any of the other barmen noticed that I was all over the shop. He whispered in my ear to take a seat quickly towards the corner at the other end of the pub, and to just keep myself quiet until the shit wore off. Looking back on it now, it's all a bit of a blur to be honest. So fair play to Dec for looking out for me.
I grabbed my pint shakily so and tottered off to where he’d suggested, in what can best be described I suppose as a pretty severe state of disorientation. I arrived at a small snug like area and sat myself down next to Richard Harris. At the precise moment he was in the process of (for reasons unknown to me at the time) tearing a new one for Ben Kingsley.
“You fucking blow Kingsley!” he shouted aggressively, with his knee holding Kingsley down by the chest and hands wrapped unwaveringly around his gullet. “You fucking hammed your way through the entirety of that yawn fest ‘Gandhi’ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dpjBWw5w444, that intolerably unwatchable sack of shit you've the gall to call a fucking movie. The best part of you and that wanker Dickie Attenborough also actually, ran down the inside of both of your mother’s respective legs!”
“Fuck you Harris, you Limerick prick,” Kingsley responded, attempting to break free but to no avail. “Your dick is the size of a fucking toothpick, you overrated crock of Munster shit. Did you or did you not spend the entire first half hour of ‘A Man called Horse’ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lEE2yQXxbsA running about the gaff in your fucking nip? Well if that is the case, which of course we all know it actually is, then either the film editor is a fucking miracle worker or you’re a needledick - and I know where my money is, you gangly, meagrely endowed mick fuck!”
I have a vague recollection then of kneading my eyeballs with my knuckles, and turning back once more to the unedifying scene in question. Things by now though had taken an unfortunate turn for the worst. The tables had turned and Tomas MacGiolla http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5IIeJppULHE was astraddle of Gerry Adams http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-MjK_C-qV9o now, and was holding him down at the throat with his forearm. Adams spoke first but squeezing his words out was difficult.
“Look Tomas, we can work this out can’t we?” he whimpered, not unlike a little girl to be honest, it has to be said. “PLEEEEASE let me up,” he pleaded further, “I can’t breathe and to be totally honest with you, my neck really hurts.”
After which he began to cry.
MacGiolla was unflappable though, and for a man who was an apparent lover of peace, he was doing a pretty good job of impersonating a delirious maniac.
“Fuck you Adams, you’ve had this coming for ages ye northern fuck. By the time I’m finished with ye Section 31 will be a total and utter fucking irrelevance, you beardy fucking twat! (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Censorship_in_the_Republic_of_Ireland)”
Rubbing my eyes and shaking my head once again, I turned back to note that the scene had once more wandered off into the realms of a new but equally preposterous state. Patrick Kavanagh https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QtdPxb5JZRw was standing atop a chair now and ranting; a whiskey tumbler in his hand was full to the brim and spilling intermittently, and a bony, gnarled, outstretched finger was pointing in an accusatory fashion at his white collared, motionless adversary below.
“Well Father?” he shrieked madly. “If YOU watch ME an hour, is there anything that YOU can prove of life as it is broken-backed over the Book of Death?
Father Michael Cleary http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hOnoCOSwzwM sat immovably on the seat below, his knees closed together and hands clasped, symmetrically sympathetic and resting on his thighs. A personification of smug piety as were his words.
“You must have faith my son,” he said softly and methodically. “Without faith, we are nothing” he wittered on mundanely.
“Fuck you Cleary, you beardy twat!” Kavanagh shouted, and duly fell off the chair onto the tiled floor below.
It was then that I came to an abrupt realisation that Patrick Kavanagh had been dead for over twenty years and that the heap on the floor was actually me. I don’t have any further recollection of events per se, but Deco reliably informs me that none of the persons I mentioned to him afterwards, i.e., Messrs Harris, Kingsley, Adams, Kavanagh etc., had been present on the premises on the day in question, and that I’d merely spent the best part of twenty minutes or so harassing two poor old codgers in the corner, who before I‘d arrived had been having a minor disagreement over a game of dominoes. One of them was fairly broad shouldered and had a bushy beard and the other was balding slightly and wore pebble glasses.
In the end so, Deco did the decent thing and picked my injured frame up from off the tiles, before ushering me furtively to another secluded corner towards the back on the other side of the pub. A nice, quiet, out of the way sanctuary where I could sleep it off. The exertions of the last while had taken their toll alright, so I nodded off soon enough without much encouragement. I was awoken some time later by a very agitated Marcus, who’d obviously just come around himself finally, and had apparently just realised the time.
“Freakers!” he said animatedly. “Do you realise the fucking time?!” he continued, shaking me aggressively by the shoulders. Which was kind of unnecessary also I feel, especially when you take into account the fact that I was already awake. I looked at my watch and was shocked to notice that it was 3pm in the afternoon. So whatever about the main show and the possibility of arriving on time for that, there was absolutely no way on earth now that we’d be getting to see any of the support acts today.
“Fuck me!” I said, standing up but then falling back down again immediately, conscious instantly of the fact that my legs were still very much in a jelly like state. “We have to get to the offy pronto also dude” I continued ”and then get our arses around to Busáras as quick as we can. We’ve missed the support acts for sure. Fuck me Marcus, what was in that shit?”
“Dunno man,” Marcus replied, “but you’re right. We gotta get moving. Give me your arm there, I’ll pull you up. And by the way, aren’t we supposed to be getting cheap gargle off Deco before we go?”
He was right. I'd forgotten about that. He helped me up so and we bee-lined it for the bar. And then after no more than a couple of seconds, directly for the door as soon as we copped the look on Deco’s boat race. He’d been polishing a glass with a cloth as we were making our way across, but as soon as we got closer to inquire about this whole half price beer situation, he very clearly and unmistakably mouthed to us that we could ‘go and get our own fucking beer!’ and to ‘never come back into this fucking pub again!’ And as a parting shot, ‘Go and fuck yourselves, yiz drunken fucks!’ In fairness to him in hindsight, there’s only so much bullshit that any one person can take.
So that was that, normal prices at the offy it would have to be then. Which wasn’t the end of the world really, when all was said and done; that had been the original plan in the first place anyway.
We stumbled out the door then awkwardly, and steered ourselves to the right into Store Street. Rather than go over everything that had happened there and then however, we decided to park the subject to the side for the moment, and get our arses into gear for the journey ahead. We’d have plenty of time to talk about it on the bus. We staggered up the street so and edged our way closer to the offy.
And it wasn’t all bad news either; the sun was still splitting the stones and we were off to get more gargle. What could be more agreeable?
The off licence was no more than two or three doors away from Molloy’s and Marcus, oddly, seemed to be in considerably better shape than I; perhaps it was the additional sleep, I don’t know. Seriously though, slumped up against a foul, disgusting city centre pub toilet cubicle wall? I can think of better places to get the head down. Whatever about him anyway, another issue was absolutely certain; my legs were still very seriously Bruce Grobbelaar http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F2GyLdD1iwE. I came around soon enough though, and was tentatively on the mend before long. You know how it is bouncing back is easy enough when you're young.
We entered the off-licence so with a bell above the door signifying our arrival. We kind of semi knew the bloke who worked there also, Fat Paddy, from having been there on one or two occasions before. And a fat, smelly bastard he was too. And as you can probably guess from his uncompromisingly descriptive sobriquet also, the last piece of Viennetta was rarely deliberated over for long chez Fat Paddy. He was in seriously dire need of an acquaintance whose keenest trait was candour. The choice from the rack today anyway, was a pair of grubby jeans that were literally falling off his arse, and a scruffy yellow and pink tee shirt with what appeared to be the remnants of yesterday’s dinner smeared all over its surface. From the infamous design on the pestilent garment in question, we knew that the letters emblazoned across its front should have actually read ‘Never Mind the Bollocks, Here’s The Sex Pistols’ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xCyiOnBoULQ. You know, from the seminal punk masterpiece of the same name? The multitude of folds, fissures and crevices that gruesomely joined together to form Paddy’s portly persona however, rendered the entire wording of the garment’s front indecipherable. So much so in fact that all we could actually make out was what seemed to us to be the words ‘vermin the book she extols’. I wasn’t sure about Marcus but upon perusing those letters myself at the time, I couldn’t help but muse that rather than acclaiming the virtues of some random volume related to an inconsequential rodent, the female protagonist of the piece might have been far better off encouraging Paddy to reverse his avaricious eating habits to those less centred around a relentless consumption of bacon double cheeseburgers and battered sausages. Fat Paddy was not thin. As Billy Connolly used to say, he had this big lump of ‘stuff’ situated where his willy was supposed to be https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EjMsswUuwTA. Not pleasant. Not pleasant at all. But he was a decent enough bloke all the same, so I should probably be giving him less of a hard time.
“Ahh lads,” he said affably, as we entered his domain. “How we all doin’? Good I hope? So do yiz have yizzer ID or wha’?”
Paddy was joking obviously, having served us on several occasions before. Upon viewing our reactions of disdain however, to this his opening salvo, he was in no way under any illusion as to the fact that neither of us shared his views regarding the apparently humorous nature of his recent proclamation.
“Paddy," I said impatiently. “Please do not fuck about. It’s been an interminably long day already and its only just gone 3. So please, without further ado; can you just dispense with the fucking gargle?”
“OK, OK, Jesus, keep your fucking hair on!” he replied brusquely, disappointed a little I think, that his joke had not been taken on board in the spirit that he'd meant for it to be taken on board. That is with light hearted appreciation and air of bonhomie. “Sure I’m only pullin’ yizzer wires!” he continued. “Right so, OK, what’s it gonna be then ladies?”
“Not sure Paddy,” said Marcus, breezily enough, in a cheery attempt I suppose to smooth over our previous ‘just about averted’ fracas. “What awe inspiring recommendations do you have for us on this beautiful summer’s day, good sir?”
“Well young Marcus, I do actually have something very tasty for you today as it happens,” Paddy answered, enthusiastically now, with our initial bad blood a thing of the past. “Just last week I received a fantastic consignment of cider from the UK. Somerset actually. “Which" he continued, "has been christened by the brewer of said tipple as ‘Somerset Cider’. So very unimaginatively, I’m sure you agree. But anyway, besides all that and ignoring the banality of the name, anyone that’s been buying it has been singing its praises. So I reckon it’s your only man. Cheap at half the price as well lads, and guaranteed to blow your mind. ANYTIME!! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2ZBtPf7FOoM "
Queen. Fucking jaysus.
"So are yiz off to the concert or wha’?” he asked.
Regardless of the quite disturbingly awful Freddie Mercury impersonation, this Somerset gear definitely sounded like the business.
“Sold!” we said in practical unison. “Give us two two-litre bottles of that then Paddy and forty Carroll’s as well,” I continued. “And yes indeed, we are off to the concert, and seriously behind time we are too I might add. We had an, er, ‘episode’ in Molloy’s. An altercation with an Afghan shall we say? So there’s no way we’ll get to see the support now.”
“Ahh, I wouldn’t worry about that lads,” Paddy continued, “as far as I know its piss poor anyway so yiz won’t be missin’ much. ‘Aslan’ are on first and they’re fucking shite! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uN4mxTw_PIQ. A pack of talent free fucks from Finglas.”
“Aslan yeah, we heard Paddy,” I responded. ”But aren’t they from Ballymun?”
“Not sure Freakerino,” said Paddy. “Maybe you’re right. But anyway whatever, they’re a loada bollocks either way, so I couldn’t give a flying fuck where the fuck they’re from, the pricks!”
Clearly not a fan so, I mused.
“‘Big Country’ are on too though Paddy,” said Marcus light heartedly, in an attempt to take him out of his funk. “So that’s better, right?”
“Yep, agreed there young Marco,” said Paddy more cordially “They’re not too bad. I like that Adamson character, he seems like a good guy. Big time ‘henry’ the sauce though I hear.’ (‘henry’ being ‘fonda’ he thankfully explained, as we regarded him blankly post comment). ‘They’ve a good sound alright don’t they,’ he continued unabashed, ‘kinda Scottish almost I think, which is no mean feat with just drums, bass and a few guitars. Almost like bagpipes? https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6tL4a9afK-s Anyway, whatever, enough of this shite. Here’s here's your gargle 'n caddles.”
“Thanks Paddy,” I said, grabbing the plastic bag he'd held out and making with the readies. After which we said our goodbyes and fucked off in the general direction of Busáras. As we were leaving he shouted after us out the door that if we were interested, he’d recently bought some rather excellent dope off some Moroccan Rastafarian geezer which was, he continued, ‘guaranteed to blow your mind. ANYTIME!’
So yeah. That brutal impersonation again. So if it wasn't for the fact we were in such a hurry he'd almost certainly have been the sorry recipient of a straightener or two from either or the both of us if we’d had the time. Seriously, once was enough but twice? Totally unacceptable. Fucking ‘Queen’. Is there anything worse than fucking ‘Queen’? Anyway we didn't have the time as I said, so on we trudged.
We arrived at the bus station a few minutes later so, and immediately encountered a serial halfwit at the counter. A bloke who was without any shadow of a doubt doing the job he was put on this earth to do. A job that is that requires no superior intellect on the part of the applicant or selection skill on the part of the employer (in this instance Busaras) to arrive at a situation where the ultimate candidate of choice can complete their duties with the same degree of competence as the next brain dead imbecile on the list. Or put another way, that a fucking monkey could do it! This present numbskull however seemed happy enough even so, to be giving ‘fucking the whole thing up’ a bloody good go.
“Two tickets to Slane please,” I put to him clearly. In perfectly plain English also, as far as I recall.
“Wha’?” he said foppishly, with his bulbous eyes perfectly complimenting his gombeen disposition.