Dom di dee dom dee, dom di dee dom di (which I only put in to wind up the Microsoft™ Spellchecker), colours bleached to grey and white, time waited for no man, but right now ‘shortie’, as he is known to his friends, and Chris as he is known to anybody who doesn’t know him, and myself waited for our chauffeur driven tour bus, more commonly referred to as Grant’s people carrier. Eventually everything comes to he who waits; a fitting tribute for the weekend we had lined up. Dublin, it is rumoured, is a fine city and the girls are, by all accounts, soooo pretty. It was our God given duty to check these facts out – well at least fifty percent of them and, due to the short nature of a weekend, we were prepared to accept the condition of its streets and buildings.
The guided tour to Stansted Airport was un-eventful and the commentary nothing to write home about. Much of the journey was spent trying to explain the finer points of gambling to Chris, not a gambling man by nature. He did not really comprehend the fact that an each way bet on a FA cup final was not going to deliver that favourable odds and allow him to live the life of Reilly, or should that be O’Reilly. Other memorable moments included ‘Exit Marker Lane Change Game’ where at the first exit marker for a junction you need to be in the third lane, at the second the middle lane and then on the third be in front of the 40 tonne lorry on the inside lane ready for the exit – not necessarily a challenge in itself but a whole lot more fun when somebody is trying to follow you. Life, at least for now, continued.
At the airport Grant and Phil said goodbye to their loved ones and, for that matter, so did everybody else in our tour group – Paul, Paul, Dave (what you mean your name is not Paul – that could be confusing), Ken, Steve, Chris and myself. Little did I know then that although some I did not know at all, others a bit more and some quite well – we didn’t live together, we shared a house – I was about to know them all a lot better. Inside the airport we had to do the important stuff, get to the Irish pub. There we proceeded to order seven pints of Guinness and two girlie lagers. This immediately seemed to confuse the barman but not as much as later when we ordered, for simplicity, nine cheese and bacon burgers with chips from the food fayre. The clock had officially started and the quest was on. A quick check of the watch indicated there was plenty of time for a second Guinness. ‘Whose is the Guinness?’ ‘Mine.’ ‘Mine.’ ‘Mine.’
Before leaving for the departure lounge the travel essentials had to be procured. FHM, Loaded, Arena, some dodgy film review magazine and some Nivea moisturising cream. We all wondered off to the security …. Hang about …. Nivea …. Oh Grant, tell us all about the benefits of a good skin treatment regime. Don’t worry, I am sure that over the course of the weekend people would forget all about it. Of course he was not embarrassed by the purchase which explains why he gave the stuff to Dave to carry. Now you know when they ask you at the airport check-in desk if you are carrying anything on behalf of anybody else? Pay heed to my tale, ten minutes later Dave was spread eagle over the security desk having a full body cavity search while his ‘mates’, and he may want to consider that term, and many of the other security staff, jeered at him from across the room. Never carry anything on behalf of somebody else. Now delayed, we rushed to the departure gate, not such an easy task for Dave who was now running like a starfish.
On the plane we discussed the merits of how much more hand luggage you could have if they didn’t waste space with useless life jackets; they have never saved anyone you know, never. How was anybody supposed to follow the lights on the floor to a safety exit in the event of a crash if you couldn’t even move, when stationary, to fasten the safety belt – which one assumes is required in case the pilot has a funny half hour and starts doing loop the loop, barrel rolls, a high speed cross-over with a bewildered Cessna or other Red Arrows inspired manoeuvres? And, while we are on the subject, note that in the event of cabin depressurisation you can only put the oxygen mask on yourself, and then any less able persons e.g. most of my party and babies, providing you have not been sucked through a gaping hole in the fuselage. On the plus side it does afford the opportunity to determine which member of the cabin crew is best looking, an investigation often marred by the presence of a, well, geezer. Incidentally on our Irish airline flying from England to Ireland we had a Spanish chief air stewardess which nobody could understand. As Phil pointed out you could imagine the conversation as the plane plummets from its cruising altitude towards the ground between two passengers, ‘How does this life jacket work?’ I haven’t got a clue but I can make a mean Paella!’ Lastly, can anybody explain to me why they turn the cabin lights out to take off at night time? It is not as though the bright cabin lights will be keeping people in the flight path awake is it? They could draw their curtains and let’s face it, that is a lot easier to do than repairing your roof when it has been sucked off by the jet wash! I have been told it is to do with power conservation but the thought that they need to conserve that little amount of power to take off is, to say the least, slightly disturbing. Anyway, first blood went to Chris when an attractive young lady sat next to him. I had to admire the way he studiously read the newspaper for the whole flight. ‘Mine, mine, mine.’ he thought quietly to himself.
The plane sauntered over the arctic flow of clouds bronzed by the setting sun before reaching the coast where the cloud gave way to a silvery mist dipping onto the waters below, sorry, dropped into a Mills & Boon moment there.
Flaps thirty degrees, glide slope seven and a half degrees, speed – faster than my car, bop, on the ground, tug on the brakes, cabin doors to Manuel. Quite what he was going to do with them I don’t know. I am reliable informed by a good friend, and I paraphrase him directly here, that Manuel is the assigned cabin door cleaner - this contract was issued under an EEC directive when Spain was managing to steal out all the money Britain paid into the common market. Obviously all staff are not called Manuel, but due to a 'televisual feast' broadcast in the early days of the EEC and a long way before the advent of political correctness it was wildly assumed (in Britain anyway) that this was in fact the case. Another EEC directive countering this belief was issued (and ignored) in the same week as the straight banana rule - but the British, being a pragmatic bunch treated this is the same manner as did the banana. Anyway, Robert’s your mother’s brother as they say … Dublin. Nous sommes arrivè.
In a taxi, we passed Dublin’s highest landmark, a spike, commissioned for
Year 2000, but late and costing four and a half million euros. The mere thought
of the kind of kebab you could get on that was absolutely mind blowing but
nothing compared to what the Chilli sauce would do to you. Our cab driver
was a mind of Dublin tourist information pointing out the Prime Minister’s
house – well protected by a pavement and a Mercedes car bumped up onto it.
A clever ploy by all accounts, to make you think he was in, when in fact he
was over the road on a pub.
For any of you that do not remember the hostel check out their web site http://www.irish-hostel.com/brewery_hostel/index.html. Confusing isn’t it? My conclusion is that the cabbies took us to another hostel for a laugh! We checked in and proceeded straight to our room to bag our beds. A flying rush into the room could have proved fatal on account of flying straight out of the window on the opposite wall such was the distance between the two. I am not saying it was small, but you could develop a sound understanding of quantum physics at this molecular level, proving that nine blokes could occupy the same space at any given time. We scavenged for the best possible positions, top bunks, bunks near windows to a chorus of ‘Mine.’ ‘Mine.’ ‘Mine.’
Nine geriatrics, with the collective age of the Rolling Stones, departed
the Tardis and headed for bar one of seven hundred. Thankfully this was only
twenty yards down the road. Half anticipating to be in bed by ten-thirty,
the time now about ten, with eight cups of cocoa and a Horlicks (anybody that
used Nivea could not be expected to manage hard core chocolate at that time
of night after all), we were scared to learn of the twelve-thirty closing
time which was not so much as a closing time as a ‘Oh well, don’t you be wurryin’
lads, we just close the blinds’. Chris managed to hit it off with the land-lord
immediately after we inadvertently pointed out that the short bloke at the
bar ordering drinks was a Man United fan. We could be wrong but we believe
his exact words were ‘I'm going to f***ing poison the c**t’. A mixture of
Irish friendliness and a general compassion for a punter that could not see
over the bar meant he survived. We listened to classic tunes, ‘Why don’t you
build me up, Buttercup’, surveyed the fine décor, ornate furnishings, the
impressive candles and of course the fine ladies, ‘Mine.’ ‘Mine.’ ‘Mine.’
‘Yours’ – not all Dublin girls are pretty! Four hours later we staggered back
to the Tardis having first rushed into the local take-away to get another
burger and chips that, in truth, nobody really needed! The night was upon
us and things were about to get nasty.
Boyle's Law states that under conditions of constant temperature and quantity,
there is an inverse relationship between the volume and pressure for an ideal
gas. Now, take eight blokes, consumption of thirty six or forty five pints
of Guinness, a warm night, a small room and, because he needs to be singled
out, Grant. Due to the amount of gas Grant managed to squeeze out during the
course of the next four hours both the volume of gas and the pressure increased
clearly disproving Mr. Boyle. In fairness many others contributed to the green
ethereal glow that wafted out of the open window and dropped in the cooling
air onto the axe wielding, psychopath hostelling types in the alleged B-B-Q
area below (you may wish to check the web site again about that one). This,
unfortunately, was a theme that would transcend the whole weekend – the weather
would be mostly dry with occasional smells moving in from, well, everywhere
really. There was another problem as well. Drinking relaxes muscles, especially
ones at the back of the throat. It was like a ship convention on a fog covered
canal. Special mention should go out to Paul H and Steve for entering the
Guinness Book of Records for being the only humans to ever register a snore
on a seismometer. I finally grabbed some sleep and awoke to a cacophonous
dawn chorus of struggling birds, snoring, farting, groaning, belching, and
squeaky bunk beds and immediately fell victim to retinal damage, as well as
aural damage, as I turned to be blinded by the bright sunshine cascading through
the curtain-less window. Had I been able to see I would have rejoiced in the
knowledge it was about five o’clock and I had enjoyed three hours troubled
sleep and that, well, was about as good as it was going to get. ‘Whose turn
in the shower?’ ‘Mine.’ ‘Mine.’ ‘Mine.’
As the group slowly came out of its slumber and the luckier, and more planned members, removed their earplugs a slow procession of bodies moved through the single shower to remove the odours of the previous day. We had to prepare for an important part of the weekend – the Guinness Brewery Visit. Before that though, we would have to venture downstairs and savour breakfast since the nutritional benefits of the cheese and bacon burger just a few hours earlier had worn off. The less we say about that the better. Suffice to say it was very much do-it-yourself. Working out how to use the toaster was not high on my list of priorities and would no doubt have defeated me anyway. Less than convinced by the coffee powder in the pot I opted to take early morning tea, which I am not a fan of but at least it was not black with a white head and didn’t take two minutes and fourteen seconds, or whatever it is, to pour.
We walked the hundred yards to the Guinness Brewery, the location of the
hostel was its only redeeming feature, stopping for the obligatory group photos
in front of various large gates with ‘Guinness’ written across them. The early
morning fart call, followed by the two second snooze period and ending in
a nasal alert, had ensured we got into the brewery ahead of the crowds. We
entered the brewery on the ground floor with the sole intention of reaching
the seventh floor, also known as the bar! Our progress was hindered by a)
a surprising amount of interest in the Guinness history and process, and b)
the need for members of the group to surreptitiously sneak off to quiet corners
(of a round building, which does remind me of a joke about confusing an Irishman
but we will not go into that here) and leave their own personal mementoes
in the form of vapour.
I am sure that people visiting and working in the brewery
were not at all confused by watching people like Chris running to toilets
without letting their knees part from each other and buttocks clenched so
tight that even certain members of the previous evening’s cabin crew would
have celebrated. For the record, important things we learnt at the brewery:
Firstly, the black colour comes from the roasted barley - the key ingredient.
Secondly, the water used does not, and never has, come from the Liffey River.
Thirdly, old Mr. Guinness himself did a blinding deal on a 9000 year lease
for the brewery site at forty five notes a year rent. The Guinness Book of
Records was invented to help barmen settle disputes like who farts loudest
– Grant, in fact is mentioned by name. Lastly, Guinness makes your poo black.
Having at last reached our goal of the seventh level we were rewarded with
our complimentary Guinness, which was a relief because it had now been nine
hours since our last one. There the glass round bar at the top of the brewery
allowed us to survey the amazing view … some had flowery dresses on, some
long golden hair and some had brought their parents to specifically block
Chris’s view! ‘Mine.’ ‘Mine.’ ‘Mine.’
In the afternoon a couple of the sad muppets, no names – Chris and Grant
– wanted to watch the FA final. Somewhat unsurprisingly the rest of us needed
a drink and we set off under the guise on seeing the sights of Dublin to find
a pub. Just a short walk away we stumbled into Temple Bar, pub central Dublin.
We surveyed the various menu options for lunch, carefully inspecting the local
cuisine afforded by the array of restaurants and cafes and then picked the
place with the best looking waitresses. The rowdy bunch of Stag party rebels
tucked into diet cokes, coffees and lattes with only Ken being a man and having
a beer. After lunch we found the Temple Bar in Temple Bar and thought that
had to be the place to get started on another round of drinking. We were now
in bar two of seven hundred. It was already the afternoon and we had only
had a single pint!!! We soon stopped standing and found a nice little area
to rest our weary legs and admire the scenery. I just want to take a moment
to myself here and remember it …. Ah fantastic. ‘Mine.’ Strike two went to
Dave. There we were minding our own business when a, not unattractive, gypsy
woman came up to us and wanted us to fork out two Euros on a small green card
with a bit of shamrock, some words about a charity, bound in plastic allegedly
lucky and almost certainly a con. A couple of us fell for it and coughed up
our Euros, Dave reaped the reward as he sat there with her leg bouncing up
and down against his while Ken and myself were being fleeced. Ken and myself
were, however, convinced by her charms and believed implicitly that it was
a ‘lucky laminate’. Now don’t get me wrong the view up until this point had
been nothing less than perfect but as three girls walked into the bar looking
nothing less than under age but with a terrific clothes sense we, Ken and
myself knew, at that moment, in our hearts, that the laminate truly was lucky.
We spent much of the afternoon in the bar, managing only to move to refill our glasses and make space for more Guinness, playing cards. This was difficult for two reasons. Firstly, it was difficult to concentrate with all that was sitting around me and, secondly Phil, Ken and Dave, I swear, kept changing the rules to confuse the rest of us. The lucky laminate was not doing its charm on the cards but you know what they say ‘Unlucky in cards ….’ Sadly it transpires there is little truth in this myth. Meanwhile, Chris had won his each-way bet on the final and managed to retain the single Euro he had bet.
The adventurous seven made their way back to the hostel, collected the football
two, sprayed a bit of deodorant on, and walked back to Temple Bar. Frankly,
the less time spent in the hostel, the better. There we attempted to find
an eating establishment that would take eight blokes and Grant’s bottom. Eventually
we found a place serving traditional Irish food, namely potatoes. Here they
managed to find a small corner of the restaurant where we would not upset
the other diners. It was like a small annex at the back and sadly not the
kind of place you wanted to be sharing with the overactive sphincter muscle
of Grant. We had managed to find the only place in Dublin that did not sell
Guinness so we begrudgingly ordered Murphy’s and things. As we drunk, the
twelve-thirty closing time seemed an awful long way off and many of us feared
we had peaked too soon.
An hour or so later we were back in the Temple Bar. Pub, oh that’s right,
two again of seven hundred; we were really making progress now. You know I
wouldn’t have thought, and you can call me deluded, that Dublin pubs got so
full on a weekend. We had scraped past the bouncer managing not to look like
a stag do (not difficult, we just looked like ‘Oh, there’s Steve and all his
sons.’, but getting a drink was much harder now than earlier that day. Thankfully
every five minutes all the people at the bar have to finish their drink and
sod off outside so they can have a fag giving us non-smoking healthy types
a chance to move in on the bar. ‘Five Guinness, two Irish beers and two girlie
lagers please barman’ became the standard phrase for the evening. It was important
that you got this right as Paul H can testify, the fatal mistake of saying
‘Four Guinness, two Irish beers …’ (I can’t even say the last bit again) meant
a repeat visit to the bar that he did not return from for about forty-five
minutes. Not surprisingly, as we watched the world around us, there was the
odd burst of ‘Mine.’ ‘Mine.’ ‘Mine.’ ‘Yours.’ On the whole we did not offend
anybody until Phil started singing, but Dublin is a friendly city, and before
long everybody was joining in. Then, like a bolt of lightening the luck laminate
struck again. Little Miss Under-age, and her two friends, ‘I’m under-age too’
and ‘I’ve left school … at three-thirty’ re-entered the bar but this time
bless her little cotton school socks ‘I’m under-age too’, who had been wearing
a fetching short summer dress, was now wearing an even shorter denim skirt,
‘Mine.’ ‘Mine.’ ‘Mine.’ ‘Mine.’ ‘Mine.’ ‘Mine.’ ‘Mine.’ ‘Mine.’ ‘Mine.’ Phil
became obsessed with the power of the lucky laminate and tried to steal it
off me and I had to fight stag boy off. Drink flowed and songs got sung and
our earlier fears of not making it to tea-time faded to a distant memory.
Our request to a pretty brunette to give Phil a snog for the benefit of the
camera was repelled with a scornful glare that quite possibly left some of
us feeling we should be dead. We decided it was time for another bar, well
our first bar actually. It was approaching twelve and we could just get back
to our local in time for last orders with the added benefit of then being
able to make the take-away restaurant before bed.
We returned to our local with the intention of securing the second of two drinks the barman had recommended for stag boy. The previous evening he had been offered the choice of the ‘F*** me I’m Dead’ concoction or a ‘Kryptonite’, a strange luminous green number. Phil, wanting to actually get through the first night at least, opted for the latter. Now, on our parting shot, we wanted to make sure Phil had a little going away gift but unfortunately the barman was not back from his soiree with his other half – just because he was going to propose to her was not really an excuse to let us down. Steve could not bring himself to ask the barmaid for the as yet untried drink.
Nobody wanted another burger, but a load of us went and got one anyway.
Twenty or so pints and thirty-two hours on from our arrival at the bar in
Stansted airport we settled down in our bunks for the final long night of
farting, belching, squeaking and snoring. The fact that nobody had gone to
sleep at ten o’clock Friday evening and not got up since was something our
ageing group could hold their heads high about. The only time anybody had
a hot chocolate drink was Sunday morning and for this they can be forgiven.
It was only the pansies Chris and Grant that needed an afternoon power nap
on Saturday – well watching football can be tiring can’t it.
Apparently, there are eleven thousand cab drivers in Dublin, second only to the number of taxi drivers in New York, now tell me the Irish don’t drink. Anyway, if Chris was going to have a bet he would not have got better odds than this – eleven thousand cabbies and we got the nutter! ‘Torty tree years I’ve been a cabby driver ya’ know, and I’ve never had an accident.’ No, but he’d seen thousands in his rear view mirror. He had also been driving to Dublin airport for forty three years but thankfully Steve knew the way and gave him a hand!!!
There was just time for egg and chips at the airport before checking in, where strike three went to Grant. Using his charm and thankfully not his backside he persuaded a pleasant young lady to open the check-in desk thus securing a better class of seat on the airplane, I would have sworn he had bought a lucky laminate. Dave managed to get through security without any major incident and by now I am sure he is fully healed. We rounded off our visit with, well it’s obvious isn’t it, a Guinness in the airport bar (apart from some who had coca-cola!). I’m not sure if this really counted but we will call it three; only six hundred and ninety seven left boys, what are you up to next weekend?