It just does something to me

Reggae that is. It has an effect on me, I can’t help myself. The music doesn’t grab me, that’s not its style. It puts its arm around my shoulder and we go down and up, altogether now, down and up. You feel your body drop low and your arms go high, your booty bumpedy bump while your hips swing slow. Everybody’s smiling, laughing or just plain gettin’down. And then, after an hour or two-it may even be as late as the next day-you really really need to shit.

No, really.

I’ve had about 7 today, I wasn’t even drinking*. Had an amazing burger in Ricks though, ugh, made my week…om nom nom

 

*eh….pinch of salt?

Getting served

I rarely get asked for I.D. This is lucky because I almost never carry I.D. However, on the rare occasions I do get asked* it’s very hard not to try and be smart or witty. Of course, my genius almost always falls on deaf ears and the favor** is usually returned with a look of disgust, a disinterested sigh and a question repeated.

Now, I know you, my faithful congregation, appreciate my greatness and may someday worship me(rightly) as some form of new Messiah. And so you deserve to hear the following.

I thought it was funny but the troll in Tescos disagreed when asked for ID and I did reply:

“ID? Why would I have ID? I have a beard and hard cash, gimme drunk!”

She stared at me, sighed, and repeated the question. Deflated, I meekly handed over my student travel card. Bully…

 

 

*invariably when buying tesco brand cat piss or just before doors at any shit nightclub of your choice

**of sharing my greatness

Flames

It was going really well. Drunk but charming, mean but with a twinkle in the eye-I was hitting form. She was sitting closer and closer. Then I choked.

No normal choke mind. I don’t do normal chokes. I do complete spectacular failure and ignorance of said failure until someone else points it out to me. Which they did;

1. Rua, how did you manage that?

2. You do know she’s not coming back, right?

The reply; “You know what I’m capable of”. Which, to be fair, the pointer-outer did.

And we left it at that.

Nothing else matters

Drunk to fuck, in a half and half stumble and strut, I rumbled up to the first floor. He was posing at the top of the stairs, looking down, trying on cool with indie clothes. James Dean posture with a Chemical Romance haircut. He looked at me and I looked at him. I thought no more of it.

I drifted into the jacks, stood at the urinal and whipped it out. Someone said something about the air freshener. In mid flow I peppered the scene with wit afterwhich laughter flowed, and looking to my right he was there again. He said something strange to me. After two attempts to work it out I left; drunk, confused, frustrated and rude. I wasn’t bothered, I don’t want to make friends in toilets*. Something about arms and shoulders. He seemed nearly embarrassed to mention it, but still, in a tone normally reserved for idiots. I thought no more of it.

Down on the floor I found my drink and my friends. And they had found her. I wouldn’t have known, it was dark and I could barely see anyway. A finger pointed and a penny dropped. I hadn’t even seen her in six years, bar a single shameful blank in the Spring of ‘04. I said sorry. She didn’t care of course, batted it away as a stupid and drunk thing. Probably thought it was some cheap and sleazy trick, but it wasn’t. It was just overdue, and I thought no more of it. 

 

 

*mood ruining pun-”they’d be shit!”

Stick to what you’re good at kid; Reckless Endangerment

Galways deadly, its always been deadly. Even though there’s an element of Temple Bar cynicsm sneaking in and wrapping its craven claws around the neck of craic, pinning her to the wall and smiling like a killer- I reckon the ol’girl won’t completely put out for a wee while longer. Hopefully the recession will flush out the pricks responsible.

In a night where I got more looks of disapointment than your average bus stop on a rainy day, its probably best to skip the details and go straight for the scandal. Discovery channel says the Devil is in the Details but they’re prone to misleading titles* so I think its best to do the opposite of what they say. Then again, some details can be vague;

There was a bottle of whiskey, a playstation three, a nasty stain in a nice hotel followed by a childrens playground. But they all faded to nothing at the stump of a kings head which led, by virginal virtue and cobbled streets, to a grown-ups playground where I asked him again and again but the DJ said Prodigy were too hard and Underworld were too hard and he heard me and felt my pain and wanted to do OUR DANCEFLOOR some justice but alas, for the love of his own sweet ass, he’b be in breach of contract if he didn’t play more Rhianna. Music like tropicana compared to c-c-c-coka-cabanna. Strepsils to fun pills, or just normal pils to any other kind of beer. I took my revenge like with a starfish on the floor, the bouncer didn’t like it, I threw my phone around, the bouncer didn’t like it, I don’t remember the taxi home.

But I do remember the session in the room after, another skinful of whiskey and slow struggle up the stairs to lay my head down to sleep. Maybe I’d dream of happier times to come, I thought, maybe I did. But all of this is nothing but context for the real story, the kick, the punchline the part that isn’t written in this daft lyrical rythm. Its the bit where I awoke to find myself no longer in my room.

Waking up in your boxers in the monotonous halls of a hotel isn’t that strange an experience for me, lets just say I wouldn’t pass comment if it happened to you. Heck, waking up blind drunk kinda goes with the territory so it wasn’t the worst. But, doing it standing up-thats a new one.

According to the tee-totaller I was sharing the free room with, I got up and walked towards the bathroom-but kept going. I didn’t know I sleep walk and I have never been so thoroughly confused in my life. The worst feeling in the world is when you have to do something rather complicated-like break back into your hotel room without a key-when you are in a state so far removed from being trustworthy with heavy machinery that Diageo would send a formal letter of apology to your mother, your granny, your aunty whose a nun and the career guidance teacher who said ‘you can do anything’**. Luckily the time-tested method of pounding the door and shouting obscenities, though not subtle, still has an incredible power over the sober classes.

She was unimpressed…..whats new?

 

 

*their new show ‘Deadly Women’ has not a looker in the bunch, in fact, half of them look like bleedin’psychos. I would also like to point out that ‘Deadliest Catch’ has absolutely nothing to do with STIs.

**As the years stagger by I am increasingly of the belief that what she meant was ‘you will do anything…’

The Palace

I had been avoiding the Palace for nigh on two years before I eventually succumbed to her warm, sweaty charms* last night.

Its a funny one though because reports from inside had been inconclusive. Some people said it was deadly while others said it was the social equivilant of electric-testical-shock treatment. The only constant was that all reviews, positive or negative, had the same suffix “…its full of people we went to school with”. Needless to say, I assumed the worst.

But when its a Friday night, everywhere else is sardined and  the witching hour is fast approaching you just have to take what you can get. It was jammers too by the way,  a squadron of bouncers bravely holding back the wild eyed and desperate drunks outside. But we had with us a forger who for reasons known only to herself could perfectly replicate, freehand and in any state,  the wrist stamp they use. We strolled right in, at half twelve without paying the cover charge. At this point I like the Palace.

It was then I realised that I had been grossly misinformed about its clientelle, either that or I’m finally so far out of the loop that I can’t actually tell anymore. Either way, the music was abysmal so its a shit-hole even if its not overflowing with fake tan and hairspray -”and thats just the goys!”**. No, It really is shit. Remember when clubs played dance music?*** Or even just music that wasn’t cynically produced to sound like a Beyoncé B-side.

Anyway, I hit the double whiskeys like a Christian Brother teaching 8-year olds Latin. And somewhere along the line I had a drunken epiphany that seemed awfully insightful and witty at the time. I recorded it in my phone as follows:

“If there’s two things in this world [that I believe in] its speed and power. Whiskey embodies both these things: with great speed it gets me powerful drunk”

(hic) poetshy!

 

 

 

 

*yes, you’re right, that does sound absolutely filthy

**apologies, dad joke

***I don’t either

Rathfarnams* got talent

It was Stringbeans birthday last night so himself, myself and Growler all had to go out and get hammered(I know, it took a lot of convincing). As I had just done a ridiculously overpayed days work and Growler no longer had a death threat hanging over him** we were all in pretty good form.

That good form wore a little thin though at the start of the night when I had to walk from Stillorgan to the BottleTower in Churchtown. It was freezing cold and I really wished I had bought a naggin instead of cans that one time I did stop. Why? Because cans are cold and naggins are warm and I was  sure my drinking hand could fall off at any moment. But I persevered nonetheless in  ”The Hunt for Reds Satisfaction”*** and eventually met up with the lads.

It was an interesting party crowd. I mean there were obvious ones like Stringbeans perpetual entourage of at least five girls, his mates****, me and young Growler. But also some people I didn’t expect to see, people I hadn’t seen in years like the SparkyJunks and Roychief. I went to school with the two of them, Roychief has always been a sound bastard, SparkyJunks has always been eh…a bit out of it.

So on to Rodeo Joes we did go. I have to say I didn’t like the bouncers verbal warning about them being ’strict on ID’ for nextime. In fact, the cheak of that threat and the empty cavern inside both convinced me that there probably wouldn’t be a next time. However, after about twenty minutes I realised just how wrong first impressions can be. Pretty girls, short skirts and not a rugby jersey in sight-I’m home.

And so the night rolled on. SparkyJunks got the first point in the ‘who can score the fattest minger’ competition only to be equalled by Growlers attempt…..on the same lucky birthday girl. The two then squared up over SparkyJunks “girlfriend” while Roychief, the bouncers and my goodself looked on in disbelief and stitches. Harmless bit of fun…

It was mid way through all the usual birthday banter of shots and dancefloors when I realised that A) shots are somewhat redundant when you’re drinking straight whiskey anyway and B) dancefloors are completely redundant when they’re the only place in the building you’re not allowed hold a drink.

But all in all it was deadly and I woke up this morning with a happy, well-deserved, hangover.

Verdict on Rodeo Joes: 10e in is a bit steep and drinks are not cheap and the bouncers can be mean but deadly nonetheless 

 

*or wherever the fuck I was, I think it was more Churchtown

**no, I won’t be explaining that one. Just accept that this is the way of the great one.

***as the movie will no doubt be called

****as everyone knows; your mates mates are shit, if they weren’t they’d be your mates

The Oak

I’ve got nothing against it really, but drinking there does make you sympathise with what would otherwise be known as “jailbait”.

The Oak was perfect for us last night; good tunes turned up loud, pints, enough seats to go round and a dancefloor you could fall onto from the aforementioned seats. When I say good tunes I mean stuff that you love but in the haze of everyday life and the intervening 15 years since it was released you’ve kinda forgotten about. You don’t get to listen to it everyday but probably would had it occured to you. I’m talking; Stone Roses, Pearl Jam, RATM, the Verve type era here. And this would be perfect, were half the clientelle not from the same era….

I used to collect glasses in a club like this. They were all single, some of them kinda hot but just that little bit older. Well, not a little older, more on the border line of whats probably illegal. I’m not saying that some of them have kids my age but it’d be pretty close, get the picture?

Anyway, a fresh faced 18 year old Rua once worked in a club like this. We’ll say that there’s a certain type of woman, who hovers around a certain age, who has particularly busy hands-and this place was full of them. I get flashbacks about my old job, all they saw was “young, unspoilt meat”, their hands were everywhere…

I think the Bounce was making moves on some of them, the Beard considered it but couldn’t keep a straight face and I clung desperately to Laneways. She was the only one of the girls who wasn’t going out with Diamond* so she made a good “horny’aul one” shield. Not sure if she fully appreciated her role as a blocker but fuck it-my innocence needed defending!

I think I’ll end up in the Oak again someday, when I’m drunk and desperate. Not able stand, barely able to see and wearing a smile that says “will fuck anything as long as there’s somewhere to sleep at the end of it”. I don’t want to, its just the type of thing I can see happening.

*well, there were only two of them there….

The Cat Club-bizzarre at the best of times

I’ve been to the Cat Club twice, ’80s night on both occasions and really mixed feelings. First off, in keeping with the rest of San Francisco, everyone is ultra friendly. Thats actually quite a redundant statement in this city, even assholes are nice about it. I get the impression that people would apologise as they mugged you, maybe even give you a lift home-minus your wallet of course but thats only fair. (aside)Fuckin’taxi drivers!

First impressions are rarely better than in this club. The Bouncer is an old guy who sits outside talking shite with patrons in his red bowler hat and actually looks like someone who might be worth listening to, an unheard of trait amongst most bouncers. Also, I doubt he could run very far which generally means that either the crowd requires little policing or you can do whatever you want or both. Before anyone asks, its both. There are cages and stages for drunken idiocy, nobodies gonna stop you in your never ending quest to make a tit of yourself, or be shown up by people who can actually dance.

So you go past the Bouncer to the door which is cheap as chips at $6 and onto the punk lady with the stamp which reads “DIE YUPPEE SCUM”. I love that stamp and want to steal it. AAF takes exception to it though, I think he wants to become a yuppee someday, poor bastard.

Then you see the club, 2 big fuck-off bars, 2 big fuck-off dancefloors, nice evenly diverse crowd and no saps in the corner all wearing the same white shirt with blue stripes. Yeah baby, your a long way from XXIs! Then you all get fucked, dance with your friends and drink till last orders singing along to journey and generally having  bit of a laugh. But, oh how things start to get strange…

We’ve met a few oddballs. First off there was the guy who was plying his trade with M. The way she tells it, “at the start of the night he was like the greatest funnest gay man ever…..then he slowly turned into the creepiest straight guy ever”. He really was fun as a gay man, cheaky chancer picked me right up and carried me round the room-what a laugh we had. As a straight man though, it was different. I had just left and was looking for the girls but I found him first. He asked me for Ms number, I didn’t know what the story was so I said if he gave me his I’d pass it on. I gave him my phone and he banged it in before going ‘oh wait, I’ve got a better idea, why don’t you give me your number and I’ll call you tomorrow’. He then proceeded to call himself off my phone so that he’d have my number-being drunk and weary, I didn’t quite realise the connotations of what had just happened and more or less forgot about it.

Cue Rua being woken up the next day by this guy asking for Ms number. I was hanging like a hound dog and still hadn’t talked to M about it so I told him I’d call back. Asked M, she said ‘no, no, no’ so I din’t bother. Bastard calls me up again a few days later, all friendly and eager, I tell him the story and he hangs up before I finish. Seriously, would ye not take a hint? Suppose I’m not one to judge but…

Then there was the one from the other night. I was standing at the bar feeding the habit when all of a sudden I got eye-fucked by a…..(cough)….more mature lady. I got caught like a deer in the headlights, she was pretty rough looking and I really didn’t know what to do. Suddenly ordering my next drink and getting the feck out of there took on a whole new urgency. Then she drunkenly ’sex-walked’(shudder) over behind me. I pretended not to see her. She started picking at the lettering on the back of my zippy. I turned around and she posed playfully with her hands behind her back whistling. She was trying to look like a child who’d been caught doing something wrong, I thought she looked more like a beached whale stuggling to breath. I gave her some evils and pleading desperate eyes to the barman in the hope he’d read the situation and serve me faster. He didn’t notice, she started picking again. I tried getting rid of her a few more times before she made way with an ’s’-and thats when things got really scary.

I turned around and she had one hand on her hip, the other holding the ‘S’ up to her lips. I made a grab for it but missed, she then pulled me in tight and started playing with the ‘S’…..(Rua starts wretching)…. on her tongue. It wasn’t worth it, I called her a cunt and went to the other bar. About an hour later I saw her grinding on some other hapless young man. She had him backed up tight against the wall with no escape-he looked petrified. My heart went out to him, but I couldn’t help-it wasn’t worth the risk.

Incidentally, if you are going to the Cat Club check what night it is. I reckon things get significantly stranger on ‘Bondage A Go Go’ night. Nice club, just weird

Hold Steady, there’s chips ahoy!

I was at the Hold Steady last night, they really are the greatest band in the world. Before I tell you why though, I’d like to take a moment to rip into their support act.

The Loved Ones, they have almost as ironic a name as the Thrills as far as I’m concerned. In the same way that Ireland produces far too many gimp-wad-singer-songwriters, America produces far too many emo-punk* bands. How many variations on three chord, piano-means-we’re-sensitive-too, punk can you manage? These guys really stretched it. Formulaic to the point it was almost subversive; drenched, as it was, in clichés and irony. “this is a song about addiction”-proclaimed the lead singer before he burst into another bout of snarless shouting, blunt-edge rock’n'roll, the type of shit your mam thinks you like when you’re about 15.

Every song sounded the exact same, the only evidence that it wasn’t one big long wall of guitar being the stoppages between songs-all of which were for the purpose of dedicating it to someone, these guys clearly owe a lot of favours. There were a few variations on the theme though; the introduction of a piano which Ms bro L** correctly guessed would preclude ‘the reflective piece’ and the wholly redundant acoustic guitar for ‘the really reflective piece’. Seriously, fuck off until you have some ideas. Their best song was the closer, which was only half-decent because the Hold Steady got involved-Tad and Franz came out to kick some ass on guitar and harmonica.

They even looked formulaic. They had the ’skinny sensitive one’ on bass, the ‘monster’ on lead guitar, ‘the artist’ singing and ‘the nice one’ on drums. There was constant posing on all parts, some of it so cynical that you felt sorry for people who genuinely feel their own music-who don’t stop to check where the camera is. I also have a serious gripe with men who wear skinny jeans but that’s so far down the list of things I didn’t like about this band that its only getting a mention.

Compare all this posturing and self-consciousness to The Hold Steady, who saunter out looking like a bunch of mismatched geography teachers at a school disco-and rock the club to its knees! No bullshit, just straight up, been there and seen it all, rock’n'fuckin’roll.

Franz murdering a bottle of wine with a grin, big mean drums, Tad and Galin rockin’it harder and harder with every note and Craig Finn demanding that the audience get involved-forgetting his mic half the time because he was so into it-thats Music, thats rock’n'roll, thats genuine and thats passion. None of this poxy emo bullshit.

A decent bounce from the crowd but I was a bit further to the front than I’d like so I can’t really judge. You can’t bounce at the barrier because every time you go forward you crush someone, which isn’t very pleasant. I like jumping. I like gigs where you come out absolutely knackered, covered in sweat, half deaf and completely satisfied. Gigs where you come out knowing you’ve just been part of something special, where you know you’ve just shared everything with the crowd around you, where all our voices are hoarse and none of us care-gigs like last night. Keep your trendy, good looking bands. I’ll take the Pogues at Christmas, the Loose on the dancefloor and the Hold Steady turned up full-we’ll see who has more fun.

I can’t believe I’ve only been listening to this band for about a fortnight, I was singing along to so much of their set and the bits I didn’t know just made me want more of their stuff. I haven’t felt this way about a band since discovering Republic Of Loose or maybe Saul Williams(though Niggy Tardust was a bit disappointing). The Hold Steady probably aren’t as progressive as either of them but the attitude is there, the lyrics are certainly there and the live bit is…well….frighteningly good

 

*only punk in name because punk is really about tearing down everything that has gone before and starting from scratch, as opposed to copying the 5 billion or so other bands who sound exactly the same as you. Technically, Jay-Z is more punk than any of these gobshites. Actually, fuck it, Jay-Z is significantly more punk than these guys. Jay-Z is also one cool bastard.

**the older one, not to be confused with young N who recieved a stern lesson in drinking one fateful night. He never stood a chance, he was sitting between me and AAF for a game of kings. The ‘pick a mate’ card alone was devastating, the Joker/shot card was cruel but the “N has to drink twice anytime anyone else drinks” rule was frankly unnecessary.