People’s fascination with a home away from home has always been a mystery to me. Why fly 16,000 kilometres to the other side of the world if you’re going to drink in an Irish bar, with Irish people, complaining about Irish things? ‘Jaysus the Guinness turns fierce watery in this poxy heat and the hurling final’s on in the middle of the night. Not a pick on the cattle over here either. Must have something to do with the twang off the milk. Skyped Ma the other day. Sounds like Nora Killeen’s funeral was some craic. Raging I missed it.’ Go home John, you’re drunk. It may come as a shock but the best Irish bars in the world happen to be located in Ireland. That being said, even the lenses of the most committed man’s beer goggles can harbour a green tint.
As a novice traveller in a drunken haze I stumbled across Paddy O Shenanigan’s saloon and swore never again. Greeted by a thick waft of stale urine and fresh carvery with all the potency of a local anaesthetic, I foolishly ignored my singed nostrils and powered through to the bar. Amidst the Paddy’s Day paraphernalia was a one man horror show ripping the soul out of all Luke Kelly’s hard work. Sheepishly I pulled up a stump afraid to open my mouth, yet more than willing to drown my sorrows. My accent gave the game away and suddenly I was vulnerable. Swarmed by drunken, sun-kissed compatriots draped in their country colours and convinced they knew my cousins, I frisked my stool for an eject button but to no avail. Had that plane left the ground at Dublin airport at all?
Miraculously reuniting with the Brisbane boys at the footy had changed everything. I was graciously invited to one of their friend’s Mexican themed birthday and I was pumped to meet everyone on my debut with the new gang. Indeed I was so enthused that I threw my back out in the shower in a shampoo infused frenzy.
Undeterred and buzzing off pain killers, I donned my finest pair of purple pants completely confused about the dress code but eager to impress. In reality I was fairly rolled before ever a tequila touched my tongue.
All of a sudden I was the token Irish guy and the people expected a performance. Luckily they were an easy crowd and any challenge put in front of me, I chose to drink it. Popping pain killers like tic tacs, my back was clearly better because I was carrying the party. Firing insults in the form of lucky charms, I had become a human centrepiece. With popularity levels booming and an inflated ego, the room had come to realise they were in the presence of an all-round top lad and I had their attention. It was a shame actually that the night became such a blur, because I couldn’t really remember which girl from the party I ended up with. Whoever it was, you’re welcome.
I came to the next morning contorted on a chair and totally lost. It was definitely somebody’s apartment. The smell of the night before lingered like a perverted uncle at his niece’s 21st. As sight slowly returned to my eyes, I wondered how this had come to pass; and more importantly, who was this cuddly looking Asian guy asking me if I smoked the four leaf clover? A Spanish girl that I half recognised from the night before sat across from me staring in amusement whilst composing a diary entry. Surely I got a mention. I managed to utter my most charming, ‘good morning’, accompanied by a cheeky grin and a wink before the weight of my head had me gazing down into a pit of despair.
My purple pants suddenly looked like a shrine of remembrance. Preserved on the inner seam were a few cool ranch Doritos and some homemade guacamole. They were more stained than an adolescent’s bedsheets. Some gobshite must’ve puked on my trousers. But alas, as I introduced myself to the room for the second time, it became clear that these kind souls had actually rescued me from the night before and tales of my heroics were very much mistaken. The human centrepiece had suffered a catastrophic fall, obliterating into a thousand pieces long before the taxi made it into the bright lights of Bris Vegas.
You see, having been goaded into drinking more alcohol than a little runt like me could ever wish to consume, I’d lost the use of my legs as soon as the outside air hit me. Exiting the taxi with the mobility of a post-box, I collapsed out the side door like a sack of spuds and proceeded to vomit profusely all over my dancing pants. Not put off, I managed to crawl to a nightclub entrance in defiance at some point, only to fall asleep at the bouncer’s feet. In truth, my big first night saw me shacked up outside a 7/11 bringing shame to the homeless population of Brisbane while being hand fed crisps by a loving friend delirious with laughter. They had selflessly dragged my rotting corpse to a nearby friend’s apartment despite my protests of sobriety. What a delusional drunk I had been. They maintained I hadn’t ruined their night and kept their chuckles to a merciful minimum, probably agreeing that an almighty, chunder ridden walk of shame through Brisbane’s busiest shopping district and a pungent twenty minute bus ride home to my sister’s was punishment enough. At least I made an impression.
24 & There's So Much More 