Pints with Trevor on Saturday for our not too regular catch up where we discuss the problems with Ireland, how to resolve them, and then cry because we have had too many pints, and because we love each other. Fabulous stuff.
Several pints in Dame Street led to several more in the very touristy Temple Bar area of Dublin, where Americans roam in search of their Irish destiny, and we oblige them by singing Johnny Cash songs in a traditional Irish way with banjo, tin whistle and bodhran as was the case in the pub we ended up in. After scaring some overly large Italians away by dancing to the crazy Irish beat and singing in Gaelic, we finally snared a table where we could see the band, and enjoyed our heritage until Trevor noted that the ageing, pudgy guitar player had a lovely collar bone and that she needed to ”bite it”. I found this very worrying and requested an immediate venue change, once we found the loos of course, as we are old and full of wee.
We ended up then in our third location, in front of another band, much younger and uglier, in some half trendy bar full of hens parties trying to eat the young singer off the stage. They formed a circle and began dancing until Trevor jumped into the middle and busted some moves. We drank two gins (me) and two vodkas (Trevor) in twenty minutes and left, absolutely blind drunk and stumbling. At this stage, neither of us were frightened by using public transport, so Trevor took her crap coach home and I took the tram, and tried not to fall asleep, by putting my walkman on really loud, and texting my brother, father, mother, sister, and Trevor and saying silly drunk things. Then I realised the tram wasn’t running to our little apartment, so somehow managed to get Mammy to pick me up near her and drop me off outside my poor door. She alleges that she parked her car across the road from the tram stop, and nearly died when she saw the huddling mess that was her daughter ambling towards her. Supposedly I was walking with the top half of my body slumped forward, and had my arms dangling, monkey like at my side, until a sudden jolt caused me to lean backwards and shout ”FFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!” when I realised I had not swiped my electronic tram ticket. I ambled back to the ticket machine, argued with it, perhaps hit it, and then fell into Mammy’s car.
After being deposited at the door of the apartment complex, I called Lilsister to confirm tea and toast were being initiated for me upstairs, which they were. After this I am informed that I came in, and got a fit of giggles whilst buttering my toast, and spilt my tea on the sofa, which caused it to steam, and then tried to clean it up with a tissue. Then I spilt it again, and when Lilsister and Scarydancer informed me I had done it again, I replied haughtily ”I find that technically impossible”. Beautiful.
Woke up with my head coming out of my neck the following morning, and rose only to eat some fruit and inhale headache tablets. Trevor texted to say that her husband Boo Boo had attempted to deliver fried food to her in bed but she had had to turn him away, much to her disgust. She normally loves her fried food.
To upset me, Scarydancer then got up and kept busting scary moves in front of me, I think to make my stomach contents rock, and therefore heave. Lilsister cooked a fried breakfast at noon, and I began to feel human again. I was driven to Blessington nearby, in the beautiful county Wicklow, where we walked along the lake, visited a country house, and stopped for chips in a terrible cafe full of pink, with a very grumpy waiter.
What a very successful weekend.