It’s maybe a quarter to eight in the morning, Growler’s going to sleep and trying to kick me off the couch. I’ve a mouthful of whiskey left and the road home stretches out in front. “Shee ye lads, I’m off” “it’s a Saturday, you won’t get a bus, not out here”. Pfff, cowards and fools, don’t you realize? “I always find a way”
I step out the front door and two revelations hit me like a pair of swinging cinder blocks. The first, it’s freezing, I’m shaking like a leaf. Secondly, as I scan my surroundings; mountains, sheep, inbreeding, bollox-we must be in Wicklow again. Rationing Mr. Jamesons’ cold fire I stagger and grumble as far as the bus stop. Wow, a slingshot! Now that is a funny thing to find. I put it in my bag and finish the whiskey. The empty bottle spins high and majestic over my shoulder, but lands softly in the flower bed behind me. Happy now, this adventure has already been a success.
Hoping against hope, spurned to move by the cold and boredom, I go for a jog round the back of the bus stop. Maybe the deli’s open, I’d love a breakfast roll. All nights of excess should end with a meal of dead pig, preferably warm. With red sauce acting as the ceremonial symbol of blood, life and the re-birth. A baptism of bacon, the re-birth of the drunk or groggy. Me, first thing in the morning, as helpless and defenseless as a newborn child. But she’s not awake yet so I’ll have to make it home alone, without a crutch of precious sugar, salt and soakage.
There’s my bus. The 84. In ten minutes I’ll be in Bray, waiting for the DART, and in thirty I’ll be home. Sitting on the top deck I analyse my newfound slingshot, it’s shit. I rest my eyes for a second, we’ve ages till Bray. I open them, Busaras. Maybe not Busaras, I can’t remember, town anyway. Fuck ye, shower of bastards. I can still get the DART though, which is a relief.
Wether it was Connolly or Tara I couldn’t tell you, but I made it onto a Southbound DART somewhere. I blink, a long slow blink, and find myself in Bray again. FOR FUCKS SAKE!! A CURSE UPON ALL OF YOU, YOU BASTARDING BASTARDS!! Meekly, “I just want to go home”.
On the train again, Northbound this time, Blackrock this time. FUCK YOU, YOU CUNTING FUCKING LEPERS, YOU WHORES, YOU FOOLS, YOU BLIND BROKEN BASTARDS! I INVOKE THE SPIRITS OF ALL THE DEAD GENERATIONS AND CURSE YOU, YOU AND YOUR FUCKING PUBLIC TRANSPORT SYSTEM, I’M THE PUBLIC DAMMIT, TRANSPORT ME TO MY HOUSE!! Meekly, “I just want to go home”.
Finally get it right, God how I wish I hadn’t, now I have to walk. My legs refuse to stop complaining, my hips don’t lie, they have a tremendous lack of grace. Polite? They’ve never heard of the word. They scream and throw tantrums like bold children. Unfortuneately, they seem to be the only remaining form of transport available to me. So I just have to put up with it. At least I won’t miss my stop this time, I don’t, and collapse dramatically into bed.
At 10:27am Odysseus returned, mumbled something about rashers and fell asleep.
Tags: cold fire, getting home from Wicklow on a Saturday morning when you are still drunk from the night before, madness, odysseus, the Bus, the DART, the road home, the walki in between and after, whiskey
