One additional outcome of this whole affair also by the way (and one which actually makes the whole thing almost semi-palatable I think as well) was that after the fall and FuckFuck’s subsequent concussion, he seemed for some inexplicable reason to have been cured of his affliction. The doctors couldn’t explain it except to say that miracles sometimes happen and that nobody really knows or fully understands the full workings of the human brain; that it’s a very complex organ and all that, bullshit, bullshit, bullshit, blah, blah, blah. Suffice it to say anyway that he ceased to have any further outbursts from that fateful day onwards, so much so in fact that over time people just started to call him Jason again, with his ignominious sobriquet lost in the annals of our teenage memories. Every now and then afterwards someone would take the piss and call him FeckFeck or something, as deference to his new cleaner speaking alter ego. Before long however, he just became Jason again. Which suited everyone just fine.
My own quest for sexual liberation would go on of course, and even though that path would continue to be beset by calamity and disaster at every turn, I would soldier on nonetheless and remain positive. It would happen eventually, of that I was certain, but in the meantime I could at least be happy in the knowledge that my old buddy was right in the head again.
Not long after that our overall aspirations became twofold. The fairer sex remained unshakably prominent in our minds and would remain so of course for the foreseeable future; at least until this ‘getting of the leg over’ obstacle was eventually straddled and overcome. Clumsily overcome. Our secondary fixation however was related to a considerably more tangible and accessible desire. A desire where fulfilment could be arrived at as expediently as we liked and our decision to partake of a notably more one-sided affair. I am of course referring to the ‘gargle’. The ‘demon drink’. The ‘drop’. Whatever moniker you care to bestow upon it really, it doesn’t matter. It amounts to the same thing. We consumed it in copious abundance as soon as it became known to us, and it would transform our lives irrevocably from that moment onwards. For better or for worse is a matter of opinion I suppose, but I’m inclined to err on the side of it being a positive thing rather than not. Character building if you will. External commentators though, and others we encountered at the time, might beg to differ; and be of the perfectly reasonable opinion that to acquire character of standing it shouldn’t be a prerequisite to experience as many moments of vile and humiliating hideousness as our group did to arrive at the place we arrived at today.
But that's neither here nor there; it was as it was and can't be changed now. Let’s move swiftly on instead to the more pertinent issues at hand.
Soon after the dreaded Dollymount debacle the barmen in the Nep began to serve us without asking for ID. Which was a total epiphany of course and complete turning point. You may remember this moment in your own lives also, and if you do you’ll doubtless be aware of how significant it is. A teenage boy teetering precariously on the edge of a ‘young adult’ cusp is instantly transformed into a man when a perfectly placed barman with an empty pint glass in hand, foregoes what might perhaps be considered to be his better judgement and accedes to your nervy request for a scoop. We’d been drinking heavily enough anyway up until that point, but there's simply no comparison I’m sure you agree, between thirstily glugging back a professionally pulled and cold pint of amber nectar at the bar and necking a naggin of Smirnoff behind a bush in a park. Whilst freezing your proverbial bollocks off at the same time also I might add. The pub was an infinitely more civilised way of doing things - although if you’d ever been unfortunate enough to witness us marauding boisterously down Abbey Street at the end of a revelry filled night at the time, you’d have every reason to disagree I’m sure with that casually proposed supposition.
So there we were anyway, gathered together one Saturday evening at around 6pm. Stretch was sitting directly across from me and downing a pint of Bulmers, his first of the night and the first of an undoubted multitude. And fuck me, could that fucker drink? A pint in three mouthfuls usually, and then on to the next one and then another after that. And all within no more than a few minutes. With the rest of us were still nursing our first. Not long afterwards he’d upgrade to the legendary and venerable potion known to one and all as the ‘Snakebite’. Now there my friends, is a majestic beverage!
But I’ll come to that later.
So the Nep. Aka The Neptune Bar. A shithole basement pub we frequented regularly and situated at the exact point where the corners of Abbey Street and Marlborough Street meet. And one of those establishments of which perhaps you’ve heard tell of before that’s so bad it's actually quite good. Fashionably run down I suppose you could say. Glitterati and literati buzzed around it in their droves in the 1980s whilst more seasoned locals at the time were either too drunk or disenchanted to bother them or even notice that they were there. I remember seeing Gabriel Byrne and Ellen Barkin in situ one afternoon, getting inconspicuously pissed in the corner. I’d only just noticed them to be honest, through a caliginous smog of cigarette smoke that hovered four or five feet off the ground; just suspended there, with a form that changed gradually over the sluggish hours; like a languid, slow transformation of a steamy twilight autumnal mist o'er a midlands bog. The way a pub should be basically. The famous couple were nestled cosily into the snug, just minding their own business and reading the papers. They’d sip single malt Irish whiskey for the afternoon and surreptitiously canoodle to their hearts content. It was all a bit surreal to be honest, I mean this pair were a seriously famous couple back then; right around the time she was doing ‘Sea of Love with Al Pacino http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h5D3rB82JMk and he was doing ‘Miller’s Crossing’ with the Coen brothers http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5SoKPVAERgI. I raised my glass to them in feigned recognition and they did the same back, fair play to them, they didn’t have to. I was a nobody. I suppose they might have been pleased enough that I wasn’t bothering them for an autograph or a snap or anything else that might disturb them or require them to engage in any form of subsequent communication. So after we nodded our fake acknowledgements they got back to their own company and enjoyed the privacy they’d never ever experience in their more customary tinsel town environment.
Irish society didn't ‘do’ celebrity back then. There was a snide begrudging of success deeply ingrained into our collective psyche at the time. Looking at it more forensically in retrospect it all boiled down I believe to a general distaste for anyone who assumed that it was OK for them to get above their station. We met this Dave Evans character once, you know that U2 guitarist bloke? In Sheehan’s of Chatham Street on the south side of the river. He apparently likes to be called ‘The Edge’ you understand (for fuck knows why) but we (very annoyingly for him I’m sure) insisted on calling him Dave for the duration of the time he was there. For a bit of a laugh you know? To get his gander up and see how he’d react. He wasn’t best pleased it has to be said, but ‘fuck him’ we thought, with our unified view at the time being something along the lines of the following:
“Hey pal. Yeah, you with the hat. Or bandana, or whatever the fuck it is. You’re in Dublin now right? So you know, if you can’t take the slaggin’ then fuck off back to LA if you don’t like it! Or wherever the hell it is that you hide your gazillions from the Revenue! And by the way and just as a point of interest don’t you know – what exactly the fuck is that on your head?”
This was all good clean fun of course with our jocular ribbing more ‘tongue-in-cheek’ than anything else. We were completely rat-arsed as well though, so its’ all pretty hazy looking back. We definitely cajoled him a good bit about the hat however, I do remember that. Relentlessly you might say. Or was it a bandana? I'm not sure. But it doesn’t matter really does it? I mean either would have been ridiculous right? It was a sizzling hot summer’s day so why the requirement for headwear? Our agreed synopsis of the scenario in the end was that somebody, anybody to be honest, should have quietly tapped him on the shoulder and offered him the following conciliatory and well-meaning words of advice.
“Err Dave is it? Yeah, howya doin’ pal? Listen, sorry to disturb you and all that. We're cool? OK good, so anyway yeah. You know the way we’re actually indoors at present? So you know, following on from that and just as a generally well-intentioned suggestion…….. but you can take your fucking hat off if you like!?”
He may have been follically challenged though so maybe that was it. But that’s a perfectly natural affliction so what’s the problem there? Happens to lots of people. Nothing to worry your little comb over about kind of thing. This ‘Edge’ character anyway had this other bloke with him also, Goggi or Giggy I think he was called (another outlandish sobriquet, I mean seriously, what the fuck are these guys on?) who quite honestly spent the best part of twenty minutes engaged in a one sided conversation with one of the barmen, arguing believe it or believe it not, the unforgivably mundane point that as receptacles go, the pint glass really was the most ugly and reprehensible of vessels on offer to the modern consumer in public bars today. He further extolled (to the groans of everyone within earshot) the comparative merits of Wessex/Rhine beakers from the post-Neolithic era in Western Europe, before being decisively and unequivocally shot down by the impressive purveyor of alcoholic imbibes stationed behind the bar. He’d finally had enough of this seemingly interminable claptrap, so made a move to shut this Googly character (or whatever the fuck his name was) up for good.
“Look pal,” he said with an air of finality. “This is Carlsberg right? Not fucking mead! So anytime you feel a solstice coming on and a subsequent desire following on from that to take your leave of us and dance in your nip around fucking Newgrange then seriously, and I’m not fucking joking here pal, be our fucking guest! You can bring with you then also I’m sure, as many precious drinking artefacts from yesteryear as you like. In the meantime however the pint glass is the receptacle of choice in Sheehan’s! Got it?!”
In the end anyway these two buffoons sidled off to this Horseshoe Bar dump in The Shelbourne Hotel with their noses very badly out of joint and tails lodged firmly between their legs. Full to the brim with total arsewipes also that Horseshoe joint, so indubitably more suited to them I think as a venue of choice for the remainder of their evening.
So back to the Nep then and Stretch. And one of his most infamous debacles. Which looking back on now is an episode that's hard to surpass in terms of general lunacy and overall unspeakableness. As you know from before, Stretch’s speciality were snakebites but he more often than not kicked off the night first with a pint or two of cider - just to get the juices running and to crank up the old engine. Bulmers was his usual tipple of choice, although downing a two litre flagon of Merrydown on the bus into town could never be considered that unlikely an occurrence or radical a possibility either. When I say to you that Stretch’s speciality were snakebites however, let me explain to you first exactly what I mean by this. To begin with so and for the purposes of clarification, a snakebite is a drink of the alcoholic variety. Its best served in a pint sized glass, and will only ever consist of one part lager, one part cider. The only other information you need to have at this point really, is that as concoctions go it’s more often than not likely to transform the imbiber into a kind of a raving lunatic with no apparent regard for his or her own personal safety and/or dignity. Additionally it can also instil within one a strange desire to kick random strangers in the bollocks for no clear or apparent reason. The chemical properties of the two components amalgamate in some indefinable way to create an altogether different thing, with the finished product ending up as a drink that’s poles apart from the original two ingredients. So much so in fact that it’s actually more commonly known as, in most drinking circles that I know of and by anyone loose-screwed enough to partake of it, ‘lunatic soup’.
In Stretch’s case though the effect was very different. Rather than transforming him into a maniac, snakebites merely made him chattier. And even more unusually consumed within him an irrepressible and uncontrollable urge to dance. He was an unassuming enough character to begin with, so whereas snakebites had a pretty telling effect on most of the other patrons who gave it a go, he, with the exception of the relatively innocuous side effects mentioned above, was never that different to his usual self in any major or drastic way.
So what’s the point of all this you're probably asking? Why all this useless information regarding madcap gargle? And that boring old cobblers about Stretch and his questionable drinking habits? Is the story not becoming pedestrian?
OK granted, I'll admit to you that it’s not overly scintillating right now. To get to the next part of the tale however, it’s of vital importance that you become familiar with the overall circumstances that led to the later events of the night and thereby understand why we did what we did, when we did it. Hence this tiresome preamble regarding the constituents of the aforementioned beverage, and the seemingly perpetual bolloxology regarding Stretch and his preferred libations. So I hear what you’re saying basically. Don’t worry though; I'll be getting to the crux of the story now without further ado.
We’d been frequenting the Nep for the best part of six months give or take, and in all that time there‘d never been even the faintest hint of trouble or hassle from any of us - or anyone that we knew even for that matter. It was a harmless enough environment all told, and we were harmless enough idiots ourselves. Snakebites made us borderline crazy of course, but not so much that we'd ever consider biting the hand that feeds. We reserved our nuttiness for occasions when we weren't actually sitting at the bar, where there was always a chance that if we overstepped the mark we'd be out the door on our collective ear. Whilst sitting at the bar so, we didn't do much of anything bar drink our drinks and take the piss out of each other.
A pretty serious problem had arisen in the Nep recently however, and even though we hadn’t been directly involved in the fracas ourselves, the repercussions of what happened on the night in question hit us pretty hard. And Stretch most of all. This was down in no small way to the fact that he was the only really stubborn fucker among us, and not as prepared to take things on the chin as we were. Especially when the issue at hand was not something that he’d had a personal involvement in himself, or had been as a direct result of a fuck up he’d been responsible for or had influenced in any way.
The story goes anyway that this rough enough crew from Finglas had arrived into the pub on the previous Saturday, and having thrown nine or ten snakebites back each, had absolutely levelled the place afterwards. It took days for the staff to get the place back into any kind of reasonable shape so losing that much money as a result of not being able to open their doors for business was a situation that the owners had felt pretty aggrieved about at the time. No-one had seen these muppets before nor would see them again either, but Big Dave the head barman, who’d tried to intervene in the disturbance before things veered out of control, was taking fragments of broken glass out of his hair for weeks afterwards. The manager and part owner, a surly Kerryman called Ethan, was the unfortunate recipient of a broken nose also and in addition to that, he had an almighty pain in his bollocks as well. So for every action a reaction, isn't that what they say? And even though he might admit now to it being over the top at the time, he made his snap decision immediately after the fracas and that was that. It was done and dusted as a topic and no longer up for debate. He’d made up his mind and put an amen to it http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b70dRx2ZlG4.Directly after the perpetrators had been bundled into the Black Marias and escorted off to Store Street Garda Station, Ethan announced immediately to the patrons in attendance that from that moment onwards, no more snakebites would be served in the Neptune bar. And that if people didn’t like it also, they could go and fuck themselves and find another local. Imagine our surprise so when we turned up on the following Saturday and the barmen refused to come up with the amber coloured favourite? We were waving perfectly legitimate legal tender under their noses but all requests for the drink of our choice were falling on deaf ears. Snakebites would not be dispensed from here henceforth. We didn’t believe it at first and assumed that they were joking. But it was as it was, with their blank humourless expressions authenticating their seriousness. Being clever bastards though (or so we thought) we made efforts to get around the problem by buying pints of lager and cider separately, and then depositing half and half quantities into the empty pint glasses we’d already used for our first pints. The barmen were on to us in no time however, and threatened to confiscate our drinks for good if we tried it again. When we realised that they were prepared to go this far and that we might potentially be relieved of our drinks for good as a punishment, we knew that our game was up. It just wasn’t worth the risk. We weren’t exactly rolling in cash at the time you know, so a pint was a pint whatever way you looked at it. Allowing someone to take one away from you just to prove a point was an option that simply wasn't worth considering. That was how most of us there saw it anyway, with the subject now closed and Ethan victorious. Snakebites had been banished from these shores forever never it would seem to return.
Stretch was livid however. Absolutely fuming. Snakebites were his thing, always had been, always would be. He’d be damned if he’d let Ethan get away with it he said. To him it was a disaster, so rather than concede defeat to ‘that bogfuck Ethan’ as he came to refer to him afterwards, he vowed to get beyond his mean spiritedness by formulating a wily and indefatigable plan to foil this new nemesis’ dastardly actions. The plan was totally ridiculous of course, but would almost certainly (we had to agree with him at the time) allow him to continue drinking his beverage of choice, albeit in as preposterous and far-fetched a manner imaginable. ‘It’s the principle of the thing lads’ he maintained, and even though the overall fulfilment of his scheme was awkward beyond reason, and would put him out to a truly ludicrous degree also, he insisted to us that it was worth it. Someone had to make a stand for the little man he said (which was kind of absurd coming from him) but as far as we were concerned he’d finally succumbed to lunacy. There was little point in arguing with him also, as to challenge his legendary stubbornness was akin to a futile tussle with asininity. Tenacious doesn’t even begin to describe Stretch’s doggedness once he believes he’s in the right and has the proverbial bit between his teeth.
Don’t forget also that the Neptune was the only pub within a mile radius at least that served Bulmers. And it was our local. So why would we want to move? We were known fixtures about the place now with names and faces that were established. There was a fairly reasonable chance also that if we attempted to ensconce ourselves in any bar anywhere else, we could very easily be told to fuck off before we even made it past the door. So why move? Everything was fine in the ‘Nep’ and with the exception of this Snakebite ‘issue’ everything was fan dabby dozy and as it should be. Wasn't there enough other beer available to us in limitless quantities? Stretch was aware of this obvious enough fact also and although very indignant about the present situation, he at least knew on what side his bread was buttered. He was not overly keen also on the thoughts of drinking in an unfamiliar boozer over a mile away on his own, if, as I inferred above, he even managed to get served there in the first place. The nearest hostelry selling Bulmers besides the Nep was this pretty decent watering hole called Bruxelles, which was half way down Harry Street on the right-hand side. Harry Street was about three quarters of the way up Grafton Street as you’re travelling in the general direction of St. Stephen’s Green on the south side of the city. Which brought to the fore also, the other decidedly unappealing possibility of being subjected at any moment to a teeming throng of ‘Tristan’ and ‘Simon’ types wearing Trinity College scarves and singing Aztec Camera songs.’Oblivious’ apparently to the overall woefulness of the music in question http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DizHBTRWGAo. And more also, I’m sure you agree, than any self-respecting Northsider should ever be expected to reasonably endure.
Stretch had devised an elaborate and complicated ruse in his head however, which if enacted in the correct fashion was supposed to pan out as follows.
Directly across the road from the Nep was another pub called The Plough, which was a mere stone’s throw away and no more than twenty metres in distance from door to door. It wasn’t that bad a boozer as it goes and on a very odd occasion, just for a change, we’d have a quick scoop in there before heading across to the Nep for the remainder of the evening. Furstenberg was the drink of choice in The Plough, which being the strongest on offer (five per cent I think) made it an obvious enough selection. The barmen knew us well enough there also, so it was all good; getting served was never a problem. The local crowd in the Plough was a tad on the nerdy side however, so even though we could get our beers in easily enough as I said, we usually preferred to stick to our own set up across the road in the Nep. The sounds in the Plough were pretty gruesome too, which was another reason why we tended to give the place a wide berth more often than not. Fraternising with that Human League / Howard Jones set was all very well in moderation, but when the sounds assaulting your ears were characterised by such inarguable repugnance as the popular acts mentioned above, you can readily understand why we didn't frequent the place too often. When Tony Hadley quite seriously, without even breaking into a fit of the giggles, encourages you to ‘always believe in your soul’, it’s difficult enough to be buoyed by that apparently upbeat proposition, when you’re totally and utterly satisfied of the fact that his putrid words have recently pillaged you of your own incorporeal self http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ntG50eXbBtc
Stretch liked the Plough though (for obvious enough reasons) so every now and again he’d convince us to give it a go. Nothing too committed though you understand - the Nep would always be our ‘local’. But it’s nice to be nice as I always say, and it wasn’t that big a deal for us to have one or two there first to ease ourselves gently into the evening.
So I guess you can see where I’m going with this. I mean it isn’t exactly nuclear physics, is it? Let’s cut to the chase so, shall we?
Stretch’s plan was as follows. He’d purchase a pint of Bulmers in the Nep and venture outside. He’d carefully deposit then said beverage on the window ledge just to the right of the door, which was just about wide enough to balance a glass on and no more than three or so feet from the ground. He would gingerly stroll across the road then to the Plough, enter said establishment and purchase a pint of Furstenburg there. After which he would execute the same plan as before, that is, walk outside and deposit the recently acquired imbibe on the low level window ledge of the Plough, just to the left-hand side of their door.
What follows now is the most farcical element of the whole episode, and one that I think will almost certainly encourage you to agree that when all is said and done and whether you’re inclined to like him or not, Stretch really is one hell of a fucking moron. For some inexplicable reason he'd determined that the best way for him to appropriately and within the confines of the law partake of his beloved snakebite, and thereby honourably and courageously prevail over the obstacles that had been inexorably placed in his path, was to take a half-mouthful from one of the above mentioned beverages, either one it didn’t matter, and then dart across the road as quickly as possible to the other side to take a half mouthful from the second drink; ensuring all the while that the first half mouthful was not swallowed until half-mouthful number two had been added to the blend. Thereby ensuring of course, that the recently prohibited beverage was now newly conceived within the inner sanctum of his mouth. Verifying further also, that as far as he was concerned all was now as it should be in the world and he’d been vindicated. He’d slosh the contents around and about for a bit then, just to assure himself that the flavour was representative of his beloved snakebite taste, before eventually swallowing the lot, content in the knowledge that he’d foiled one and all and was victorious.
So this outlandish situation went on for weeks before Stretch finally decided that his point had been made and that he should re-join the rank and file of the cogent and sane. His eventual armistice I think however, was more so related I think to the fact that for the entire months of October and November, he spent most of his Saturday nights getting absolutely pissed on every time he ventured across Abbey Street to The Plough and then back again. The actual reason however for his ultimate submission and what we ourselves know now to be the main truth behind why he eventually gave the entire escapade up as a lost cause, was