I Ain’t Saying I’m a Gold Digger, I’m Just Saying I’m a Cotton Picker

Word had got ‘round Emerald that a dab hand machine operator was covering hectares faster than a rabbit on a speedboat.  Church goers stared at him in awe as if he was the Virgin Mary lactating by the altar. Cattle stood to attention as he parted the snowy blanket like Moses did the Arctic. He would volunteer at the local nursing home, spinning yarns to yearning ears over morning tea as his legend grew, only to be forgotten, then replayed, and so forth. But people can be fickle as well as forgetful and recognising that his small town celebrity status probably wouldn’t last forever, he turned his back on the fame to focus on the cotton.

I’ve often said that there’s nothing purer than post-harvest ploughing. That first turn of the soil after a long barren spell, revitalising the very earth we tread on. I get hard just thinking about it. Too much? Well imagine you were buried alive for months on end and nobody knew, the dirt pressing against your chest as if you were a packet of crisps at the bottom of a shopping bag full of canned tomatoes (Don’t ask me what I’m cooking). Now picture the utter relief that same pack of Tayto must feel when a fat kid tasked with putting away the groceries grasps the crisps first. I was now that fat kid. Insects blinded by the beaming light of the Queensland sun were given a second chance. Surfacing worms wriggled free gasping for air. Gracious wombats gathered ‘round the tractor as the kookaburra serenaded their rescued families. And there I was, the giver of life, perched high in my John Deere, proud as punch. If only the hawks hadn’t noticed. Like a gang of women at a tin of biscuits, my new friends were torn asunder. Damn you cruel world, damn you straight to hell!

You see, at this point, all the cotton had been harvested. Four million dollars’ worth of raw, unadulterated, fluffy goodness, hoovered up the snout of the picker and baled out the other side. Like Charlie Sheen if he had the shits I suppose. Anyway, I was busy prepping the paddocks for next years’ season. Long days spent traversing rolling fields as wedge tailed eagles taught their young to fly over my head (I’m sure they could fly over other things too). It was peaceful, if not coma inducing, and apart from the odd breakdown to interrupt the monotony, there wasn’t much to write home about. That was, until one evening, I heard murmurs over my old transistor radio. Between the crackles of a cooked connection the words latch, trailer and pivot two tickled my fancy just enough to prise me from my precious field in order to investigate.

It’s the screams that still haunt me the most. Desperate drawn-out screeches of terror echoed ‘round the pivot. And there they lay, bodies strewn across the dusty road, legs contorted as if put together by a toddler who found them in a kinder surprise. Family members looked on helpless, mournful eyes blatantly casting guilt my way. Don’t be staring at me like that ya hefty pricks. I was a machine operator, and a damn good one at that. If it was my job to secure the latch on the trailer, it would’ve been done with the utmost care. But it was an outside job, and they’d shat the bed. Seventeen cattle, a year old if they were a day, thrown out the back of the truck at devastating speed. A proposed road trip to pastures new may as well have been a sky diving expedition without a parachute. Fetch the rifle Johnny. Play us another one farmer Mike. I’d need a machine gun to get through this amount of meat. And I couldn’t exactly take the Steinbeck approach either. Turn ‘round sweet cow and remember our happy place, luscious grasslands filled with rabbits and ketchup and BANG. Meanwhile his mates are watching on in horror thinking, this chap’s mad as a brush. And who was I kidding anyway? I’m no killer. I unintentionally murdered hundreds of ladybirds in a jar once, and sure my kill death ratio in Call of Duty earned me the nickname ‘The Ace’, but murder a herd of cattle? I feel guilty carving a Sunday roast. I’ll leave this one to you Mike, but don’t worry, I’ll plough those fields ‘til the cows come home.

Back at the ranch it was nothing but clean country living. On the upper deck I acted as Margy’s personal chef and she my surrogate mother. She had an acid tongue and an open mind which I greatly admired and without her I probably wouldn’t have survived. Below her, her brother Pat had proved a wily mentor. I’d packed in my role as his drinking partner for a gym membership, much to his disapproval, but no matter how many times he called me a poof, he always gave me a bottle of frozen rain water to soften the blow. In fairness, he was dead right. There I was prancing around with a set of heavy pom poms in the mirrored house of vanity when the man opposite me used to lift horses up by the bollocks for stepping out of line. One of those horses eventually got his revenge though, throwing Pat from a height at his Codenwarra ranch, shattering his pelvis, hip socket, collar bone and three ribs in the process.  An early but hard-earned retirement ensued for a man who’d once led a 33 day drove of 875 head of steers from Clermont to Roma, all 500 miles covered on horseback. But his adventures had shortened in distance considerably and I made it my business to drop him down to happy hour at the Emerald Hotel as often as I could. Not quite a cattle drove, but I was taking the horse to water and this lad didn’t need any encouragement. His local bar had just been allocated a stripper, or won one… I’m not sure how that works? It had caused quite the stir among the regulars but she was hidden behind a curtain out back, and at a vulgar twenty dollars a show, myself and Pat weren’t interested. He’d acquainted me with a few ladies with questionable testosterone levels as it was so I was quite happy to stick to a schooner of Gold and the role of getaway driver. And who needed her anyway? The real entertainment was out front atop the high stools as Pat and his band of merry men shared tales of yore. All I had to do was cop a bit of flak for being Irish and there I was with front row seats to the best show in town. Auyagoin?

 

 

Shrimped in the Vortex

They say fortune favours the brave but try telling him that having plucked up the courage to talk to the festival goddess only for her to turn out to be the best friend of the girl he was with the night before. With The Killers providing the soundtrack (they’re actually still alright), the boy they called Dag was banished from Molly’s chamber to the dank reality of a festival escaping him. We plodded back to our camp deflated, resigned to an anti-climactic return to Dublin and a hangover capable of taking the whole plane down with us.  We’d saturated our WhatsApp group in preparation but all the Rice Crispy bars in the world couldn’t save us now. We were doomed… and then the musically inclined freaks and geeks convention threw us a doggy life.

From nowhere the sanctity of our circle was invaded by balloons- hundreds of them, our marquee threatening to launch into space at the hands of a Pixar fanatic claiming to be a Balloonatic. Transfixed, we clung to the coat tails of euphoria in vain, our intruder less stimulating than we’d hoped. But as the old saying goes, don’t judge a Balloonatic until you’ve told him to leave. Grasping a knife from a mystery pocket, he slashed the dreams of every helium balloon hoping to fly that night and oddly, we fed off it. I looked to the Dag with a glint in my eye as I could see the strength in his paw returning. There was no need to say anything. We were going on an adventure.

In the distance an illuminated tree growing from the sunroof of a Volkswagen Beetle caught our eye. We knew our cars. The thud of the base shot the lights from leaf to leaf as a rave emerged at the foot of the evergreen. There was life in this festival yet. From the trippers to those that couldn’t get up again, we’d stumbled across an apocalypse. A body of a girl rose from the abyss peering up at us through her conjunctivitis. She was Irish, and you could tell she was excited to see us by the way her head bobbled. As words failed her, our eyes focussed. Like zombies to fire the crowd gathered by the insufferable beat box, motionless and dribbling. If this was a nursery rhyme, then this porridge was long passed overcooked and our meal lay elsewhere.

We walked for miles yet nothing seemed to get closer. We never questioned the way because we didn’t know where we were going. At least that was my story, until we arrived. Greeted by Mike and his bag of brown crystals, we had found Wiggle’s friend Natalie’s camp.  No Natalie here, a guy dressed as a lion tried to introduce himself but his best efforts were hampered by an evacuation of the mind. Out from his lap perked up a blonde astronomer, keen to assemble our star signs before we went any further. Blatantly ignoring her we moved on to SteveO from Jackass dressed like he was auditioning for The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas. It was hard to tell if he was smiling or suffering but I reckon he liked us. Beside him, Mitch from Modern Family and his fictitious nearby girlfriend. We swapped nonsensical blabbering that seemed important at the time and shared an American Pie style fraternal nod as if to say we’d found our people. And then came the Australian with the elephant.

He appeared from the darkness like Steve Irwin reincarnate carrying the lifeless beast on his shoulder.  I bet you boys have never seen anyone fist an elephant before? He was right. Staged like an Amsterdam sex show (or so I’ve heard), the lights came down on a violent act of anal jackhammering. The elephant’s trunk seemed to perform a satisfactory Mexican wave as we split our sides laughing in disbelief. I’m bloody shrimped after that fellas. He sat down beside us as we extended our olive bag but despite his infectious laugh it was hard to ignore the elephant in the room. Before we could pry, an Indian with a bathmat for a cape came to save the day. Brown Batman, the Aussie yelled, and so it stuck. The more we licked our palms clean of the brown dust the better it seemed to get. The elephant grew bigger, the Aussie louder, even Mike developed a voice. What do you call an Irishman sitting outside? Paddy O’Furniture. SteveO’s brain was visibly melting, Mitch was up and down to his imaginary girlfriend and Brown Batman’s facial expression had frozen in time.

Missed a spot.

Things reached a momentary lull as we looked to each other to establish some sense of reality. I bet you boys have never seen anyone head an elephant before? Hold off on the reality. Taking rectal examinations to unseen new levels, the crocodile hunter drove his head up that elephant’s arse like you would a firework to a helpless cat on Halloween. He pulled out sweaty and satisfied and sat back down among us as if nothing had happened. That would’ve made more sense. At this stage we’d given up on Mitch, only spotting him dancing like a spastic hawk long after the heading. He returned in denial, stuck with the ball and chain don’t you know. He’s shrimped. As verbal assaults gathered pace, SteveO nonchalantly took centre stage. Anyone have any toilet paper? I just shit myself. As the boy in the striped pyjamas walked off into the moonlight with a hand full of his own shite, Brown Batman had been promoted to Black Batman and we needed to get the fuck out of there before our situation became permanent. We said our goodbyes, much to the dismay of Aussie Steve. You can’t leave me with these cunts! We had to.

When we got back to our camp our attempts to tell everyone about Narnia seemed to make it all the more improbable. Like retired soccer players harping on about the glory days, all we wanted was to get back in the dressing room. So as if just to prove to ourselves that all this weird shit actually happened, we went back. And there they were, shrimping more than ever. The elephant. Roscco ride the elephant. He approached it tentatively, not wanting to startle it but as he went to mount it the dumb brute collapsed from under him. He’s fucked man. In fact he was Styrofoam, revealed to us by an enemy camper who literally tore the hole off it minutes later, much to Mitch’s horror.  I don’t even want you guys to meet her. You’re animals. We were certainly something alright.

As the sun rose Natalie popped her head out from the tent. Turns out we were in the right place, but our time had come to leave. We walked back in silence trying to process it all. Each of us had front row seats to the freak show. If we thought a little less of ourselves, maybe we’d admit we were part of it. Played leading roles even? We left the theatre behind wondering if any of it were real, facing down the barrel of a daunting clean up. Amongst the carnage we found the popped balloons, and for the first time in a long time, we were normal.

 

12 WEEKS A LOW PAID COTTON WORKER

I discovered through film that I was quite impressionable. Forrest Gump convinced me to stay loyal to the Snickers for fear of chocolate related disappointments. The Lord of the Rings taught me that even when you have the perfect ring, marriage is not the answer. Inception had me following my dreams. Then waking up a lot, only still to be dreaming and so forth until… hang on. Maybe that was Groundhog Day? But the film that resonated with me most was 12 Years a Slave. I remember watching it and thinking, that’s the life for me. My quest for a second year in Australia coincided with my cotton picking ambitions and so to Emerald, up in the Central Highlands of Queensland. Not quite the Mississippi Delta but still hot enough to burn a hole in the most frugal pockets.  

I was to stay with Margaret, a family friend fresh off a double knee replacement, and her brother Pat, a former rodeo champion and my country mentor. They lived in an old, quaint timber-framed cottage. Think ‘The Notebook’, but on stilts. Well Pat dwelled between the stilts and that’s where I found him. An aroma of bacon and cabbage hit my nostrils like a local anaesthetic. IRISH, he yelled. I presumed that wasn’t the dog’s name.  Over dinner we sunk Golds chased by Stone’s Ginger Wine. He shared with me his epic tales of musters gone by whilst I sat there trying to think of a story that didn’t reveal my feminine side. I stumbled up the stairs and into what would be my palace for the next twelve weeks, and boy was I shitting myself.

Rocking up for work on day one having never been whipped was quite intimidating. Farmer Mike decided to forego all pleasantries, ushering me into a Ute and barking at me to follow. It took an eternity to find first gear and Mike wasn’t waiting, hooning up the paddock in a cloud of merciless dust. Having rallied through the 7,000 hectare farm, I caught up to him as he pointed me to a rusty, old excuse for a tractor being operated by an old cobber named Steve. My hand sizzled on the cabin door as I hopped in. Christ it was intimate, and worse still, there was no air con. Trying to avoid him like a child playing Operation, I contorted my body with all my might, but only achieved the feeling of a lap dancer in a sauna. He didn’t seem to mind me dripping all over him, but before I could panic, an unforgettable waft of must landed on my tongue. Slipping away into the afterlife seemed like the only option, when suddenly, Steve was gone. If he’d just confessed to his wife’s murder I was none the wiser, but realistically it was probably something to do with farming and getting the tractor to move.

They were the best of times, they were the worst of times. A fellow picker coined that term. Anyway, the first time the tractor decided to cut out was twenty minutes into my solo shift, day one. I sent for Mike. He arrived like a bull in heat but luckily I wasn’t his type. With a screw driver in either hand, he pierced the side of the engine, sparking her up like a defibrillator would a Chinaman on Bondi Rescue. He looked at me as if I didn’t have a degree in journalism and I smiled back at him like I didn’t think he was the killer from Wolf Creek. As he grunted back to his Ute, I cursed him from high heaven (under my breath so not even I could hear). It cut out again almost immediately but this time I called Steve. Turns out we shared a common enemy, but not much more. He had a girlfriend in the Philippines whom he’d never met and Steve was in the process of selling his car to put her kids through college. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that long distance relationships can be difficult, because who was I to deny true love?

Upon sunset I parked the tractor up and hopped in my Ute. With no phone signal and no clue how to get home, I was pretty anxious already, but when I bogged the two rear wheels of the jeep in black dirt, I was already writing my own obituary. The stars lit up the road, coming at me two by two. Must be the Southern Cross. Turns out a herd of cattle had heard it was my first day and decided to surround the jeep for some devilment. Four wheel drive, front wheel drive, I even got a cow to give me a push, but to no avail. I was proper stuck. Left for dead on a cotton farm, I said to a cow with a wry smile. Like I hadn’t been warned by the film.  But instead of answering me, the cow took off. They all did. Beeping in the distance had created a Lion King style stampede. Farmer Mike had come to the rescue. I knew he loved me. He looked me up and down with more disgust than pity. You’re supposed to be out there for another hour. I should’ve ran away with the cattle. 

Yet as my picking improved, so did our relationship. Let me tell you about the art behind cotton farming. It’s all about efficiency and straight lines. In a 100 hectare field that’s roughly 1.2km in length and at a speed of 10kmph, the time lost missing one row on a cut could be reasonably punished by death. With only a few inches to play with on either side of the mulcher, I’d be driving down the pivot like a spectator at the most intense table tennis encounter imaginable. Fortunately, I drove her straight and through. After a couple of weeks in the hotbed on wheels, I was promoted to a 2013 John Deere. It was as if I’d made the leap from paper airplane manufacturer to commercial pilot.  Chilling air-con, a booming stereo and a Sat Nav that rendered me redundant. One push of a button and her internal map set her on her way. All I had to do was sit back, relax, and video document my mind slowly unravelling for all my friends on Facebook. At one point I questioned the very need for cotton. How many people even use cotton buds these days? Not me anyway, the trauma after all this would be too much to take.

Tbc…

Part IV – Have you been to the Vortex?

The lights among the trees brought them to life and suddenly there was an Ent in my midst. It had taken the form of my bearded friend Charlie and watched over my night like a guardian angel. I pirouetted through the moving bodies and vibrant colours and could feel my heart pulsating to the beat of the drum. I spotted a two-legged panda dancing from the top of the hill and raced to join him before he disappeared. It was the first time I’d danced with a panda. We tangoed before the main stage, a giant ark filled with musicians and acrobats, everything I imagined Cirque du Soleil to be and more. I recognised nobody and yet seemed to know everyone. As our feet pranced, the dust rose. Strobe lights punched lively silhouettes in the cloud formations. At the height of my euphoria the music suddenly stopped and the people scattered. I found some familiar faces and we returned to camp but it was clear they weren’t seeing the bigger picture. After eating a tube of toothpaste and having an interesting chat with a Mexican wrestler who had entered our circle, everyone went to bed. I looked to Charlie in the tree and we both agreed that sleep wouldn’t be happening tonight.

I wasn’t alone for long. Two stragglers approached wearing wide grins. The glint in their eyes told me we were on the same page. One rode a unicycle and the other was sporting a magnificent poncho. Have you entered the vortex yet man? God that made me laugh. They didn’t stay and chat but before I could follow them I overheard infectious giggles and spotted two girls behind a nearby bin in hysterics laughing. I waved at them and they waved back invitingly, but the closer I got, the further they seemed to drift.  These are small, but the ones out there, are far away. Was I losing it? An enormous sound rumbled through the tree-line commanding my attention and suddenly waves of paratroopers starting dropping over Charlie’s head. They were storming the beaches of Byron Bay. Didn’t they know this was a music festival?

Panic had descended upon me and yet still my friends hadn’t stirred. Like superheros in the dark of night, poncho man and his mate on the unicycle returned, but they seemed blissfully unaware of the apparent invasion. Have you entered the vortex yet man? Were these guys retarded? Before I could ask, the girls were behind the bin again giggling and waving deliriously. I ran to warn them of the attack but I couldn’t get in any way close and they laughed at my pitiful efforts. Maybe I am in the vortex, I thought.  Not knowing what else to do, I tried to escape into a deep sleep but every time I closed my eyes, my mind was tormented by cackles and the mantra of have you entered the vortex man playing over and over like a track skipping in my head. The plane engines were getting louder and soon the troops would be here. How could I sleep at a time like this? Tweety Bird! Thank Christ for that. Chirping a whimsical tune, he was a welcome distraction. Hang on John. Tweety Bird from Looney Toons? What had I taken? It finally became clear to me that my idea of reality had been compromised, but the little yellow bird continued to sing on regardless.

I sat for hours waiting for my friends to surface from their slumber, ignoring the questions of the vortex, the suspicious looking tree, the flapping of Tweety Bird’s eyelashes, the giggles of the girls and the impending invasion. My brain had gone to mush.  Slowly coming back to some sort of reality, the first thing I noticed was the Mexican wrestler mask strewn over a camping chair. The chats we’d had. I pointed out the water tank and lamppost that had created the Charlie mirage to a puzzled but equally honoured, human Charlie. It was all quite funny until I heard the jet engines all over again. But I thought I’d been hallucinating? I turned in terror only to find a skydiver performing a tandem jump out of a glider. Quite a popular activity for backpackers in Byron, you big eejit.  By all accounts, I was the picture of good health that morning. A face like a chewed up minty, a pal once remarked. As friends discussed the night before over cereal, I battled cartoon imaginings and inner torment. I had gone on an almighty journey of self-discovery and my memories, vividly intact, were undeniably unique. The journey had been mapped out on my tongue as The Roots played in the New Year, 2014. It was a free ticket I couldn’t refuse.

Part III – The Road To A New Year

New Year’s Eve. Dublin. The year? Sure they’re all the same. The ultimate hallmark night out in the city. Half the Christmas street lights have frozen to death and yet there you are, forking out twenty quid to suffer frostbite in the queue of your weekly haunt just to see if you can count from one to ten backwards. Most of the night is spent trying to get a ‘Happy New Year’ text through to your Mam as you battle the dreaded network congestion.  What do you mean that’s just me? By the time you’ve managed to get a drink at the bar for that cute girl you were dancing with, she’s already been picked up, married, popped out two kids and is struggling with a mortgage on her overpriced flat. It’s tough going but sure neck that gin and tonic and act like she was never there.

One of my few fond memories of New Year’s Eve came during a torrential downpour. I had the wisdom to bring out an umbrella. Imagine. Huddled under it with my mate Rossco, smug looks on the pair of us like a man that slipped a deadly fart passed a packed congregation, we watched on as evacuated streets came awash with rain water and fake tan, only for an opportunistic taxi driver to swoop in too close to the curb and drench us beneath the cover of our defence. What could we do only break our holes laughing? Indeed if you’re not ringing a bell or downing a pint, there’s not much to do on New Year’s in Dublin. But this year I wasn’t in Dublin. Instead I’d got my hands on a camping ticket to the Falls Music Festival at sunny Byron Bay, and for once, I believed the hype.

What I couldn’t believe, however, was that one of the girls had set up a personalised Facebook group detailing every requirement necessary for the ultimate camping experience months in advance. I was unaccustomed to such levels of preparation but clearly I was alone in my bewilderment. You see, I had only travelled with my beloved friends from home and we were about as useful as Bruce Jenner’s condoms. Years ago on a tour of Spain we arrived in Bilbao and hopped in a taxi, only to discover that none of us knew where we were staying. I had a great book of useful Spanish phrases that I left in Ireland. Would’ve been ideal. Anyway, a few international calls later we’d found our hotel, but on that same trip we also went to a music festival. It was in Valencia and it was called Benicassim.

We arrived by bus from Barcelona on a sweltering afternoon, hungover and dehydrated. Looks like we’re camping in the poxy Sahara Desert. Battling the reluctant dirt with the strength of an ailing midget, we managed to pitch our tents just about deep enough to stop the ants from stealing them in the middle of the night. Nothing better than a cheap, warm can of Spanish piss to celebrate.  With the eye of the sun now slowly burning away my spirit like Hank Scorpio’s laser, I could feel myself fading towards the depths of hell. I made a limp dart towards the toilets but lost my vision along the way. Drowning in my own sweat, my mate didn’t believe that I had gone blind from dehydration as I implored him to take my hand and walk me all of four feet to the portaloo. To this day I swear that if poor ol’ Choco had left me hanging I would’ve collapsed and shat myself and probably gone viral all at once. Discovering a nearby cold shower soon after probably saved my life. And yet here I am still questioning the need for planning an event so far in advance.

So back to these camping essentials. Have you ever rocked up late to a festival and your mates have already looked after the set-up arrangement?  That feeling of hope as you approach. Multiple marquees, iced baths brimming with beers, barbeque fired up, sound system better than main stage and a hot tub on the back deck. Then you stroll passed that mirage to find your actual tent; half caved in under a lingering, solitary rain cloud and accompanied by an unwelcomed shite on your doorstep. Bless. Well this time the mirage seemed a possibility. Days before hitting the road to Byron, the boys were busy in the kitchen making mammoth amounts of chicken pesto pasta to last the week. We had continental breakfasts prepared for each morning and enough toilet paper not to have to worry about square usage. We had tarps, marquees, bean bags, coolers. We even had mangos.

All that was missing was our party treats and this is where Australian festival organisers get it so wrong. Permitting no outside alcohol and charging extortionate prices for mid-strength beers at the venue leads ticket holders, mostly scrounging students, to boldly sneak in their own resources.  A can of light beer would run a patron seven dollars. Buying five would be the equivalent price of purchasing twenty four outside the venue.  Having already paid over five hundred dollars for admission, what other choice do you have other than to supply your own stock. I’m just being realistic and here’s the major issue. Such is the extent of the rigorous bag searches at the gate, the smaller the item, the easier it is to sneak in. Therefore, spirits take precedence over beer. Nothing better than a few rums to start off a session relying on stamina, says the lad seen kicking off at six and choking on his own vomit at seven. And that’s where drugs come in.

En route to the Byron Parklands from Brisbane, the trippers among us can avail of a quick detour to Nimbin, the herbal garden of Australia’s east coast. It hosted of the 1973 Aquarius Festival. The event was obviously ‘highly’ successful because some of the psychedelic souls in attendance decided to never go home and instead created their own alternative wonderland amongst the trees. Although the village hasn’t quite retained its original hippie vibe, it remains a smoker’s delight and in terms of picking up a festival care package, you can see the smoke for miles. I’m not going to tell you how we passed the search or how our treats went unnoticed by the sniffer dogs. I mean… I’m not saying that we went to Nimbin. Sure seven dollar mid-strength beers- bargain! I don’t need to be intoxicated to have fun. Mammy wasn’t born yesterday John. She’ll soon find out.

The One That Flew From His Mother’s Nest Part II

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.

The One That Flew From His Mother’s Nest

Planning and my life have never gone hand in hand. Brought into this world mistakenly nine years after my parents last did the deed, a potentially faulty baby was born a pleasant surprise and things have worked out nicely since. That said, instead of diving into the endless pit of career opportunities a degree in journalism offers here in Ireland, I decided to avoid the stress of ‘real life’ and head to Australia a little over two years ago.

The timing of my decision coincided with the British and Irish Lions tour and with friends heading over for rugby mania it was only natural to join the sea of red and ease into my new environment. My plan? Follow the lads until they went home and hopefully stumble across some potential mates along the way.  My insurance policy? My darling sister married and living in Brisbane. The tour is a hazy memory at this stage. O’Driscoll was dropped. Gatland is the devil and I think we won. It was a whirlwind and to unwind after a liver damaging few weeks with ‘LIONS’ still echoing in our ears, we headed to Indonesia. Definitely a financially irresponsible decision on my part as it was a long way to go for a massage.

There wasn’t much to love about our first stop in Bali. Kuta was a pothole of a city. A feeding ground for the Australian mining population, it was a sleazy cesspit of corruption. Don’t get me wrong, the roulette players amongst you might find it delightful. Did he just spike my drink or was that sugar? Does this girl I’m dancing with have a penis or just really big hands? Is this taxi taking a short cut to my hostel or am I going to be raped in a lane by a nunchuck swinging midget in a cape?  Hitting nothing but double zeros, we cashed in our chips and headed to the Gili Islands in search of solace.

The people there were most welcoming, the island was free from motor vehicles and the food barely gave you the shits. If it wasn’t for the deeply depressed chap wailing over the intercoms in the middle of the night it was paradise. Ah yes, Ramadan. How could we forget the ninth month of the Islamic calendar observed by Muslims globally as a month of fasting to commemorate the first revelation of the Quran to Mohammad? Sure what better time of year for a gang of Irish pissheads to arrive? Luckily for us, the island’s natives were about as Muslim as we were Catholic. It was easy to get around the midnight noise curfew with silent discos and it seemed even easier to get around fasting by eating.

In fact, everything was accessible. The night before we were due to leave for the forests of Ubud, a couple of us discovered another stimulant in large supply and despite being warned against such activity, our willpower had been compromised. I woke the next morning contorted in a cold ball of suffering regretting the night before, and was in no state to take our early morning voyage to visit the monkeys. Like a selfless soldier on the front line I implored my troops to leave me behind as eventually our paths would separate anyway. Without needing much convincing, they were gone.  For three days I fended for myself. Each morning I’d allow the workers at my lodgings to secretly smoke up in my room while I scaled their banana trees foraging for the ingredients for homemade banana pancakes.

Miraculously I had recovered from my hangover in record time and powered through my first night alone. The last stop on the island’s pub crawl was a fair trek but the beach fire alone there was worth the hike. En route I bumped into two dishevelled souls unknowingly walking away from the party. Between insults we found some common ground and a few shots later we had known each other our whole lives.  We partied together for a couple of nights and coincidentally they were from Brisbane.  It’s incredible the people you meet when you’re forced to put yourself out there. Admittedly for every great person I met there were the few social recluses that I’d immediately regret introducing myself to, but sure who gets along with everybody?  These fellas were spot on though. A good knowledge of sport complimented by a good taste in music and they could throw some banter over a few beers to boot. What more could you want? Well maybe for them to hang around a bit longer because before you knew it, they were on a boat out of my life. One minute you’re necking whiskeys revelling in bromance at sunrise, the next you’re walking home haggard and shoeless pleading for directions to a hotel you can’t remember.

I got back to my sister in Brisbane in one piece physically but my mind was in a thousand places. Suddenly things were real. I had very little money, no real friends in Brisbane and no obvious job prospects. I had no intention of going straight into a fruit picking job on some desolate farm and I was beginning to question whether I would last any length of time in Australia at all. Thankfully my sister’s husband invited me to an AFL game in the Gabba to watch his beloved Brisbane Lions and it was a much needed escape from pondering life. The stadium was rocking as the Western Bulldogs had come to town. 40,000 seater stadium packed to capacity. Beer in each hand. This was more like it.  I hadn’t taken my seat 5 minutes before I was tipped on the shoulder. ‘In the wrong seat no doubt’, I thought to myself. Not even close. As fate would have it, it was one of the Brisbane boys from Gili Trawangan one row back. I don’t know if he was as surprised as I was but inside I was bursting with excitement while obviously trying to play it as cool as possible. Suddenly things were looking up.

The Ones that Get Away

The one. That elusive piece of the jigsaw to your life. The soulmate destined to complete you. The idea is magical. Some incredibly fortunate people meet their life partners in their local supermarket. ‘We both reached for the last pack of rice crackers and we just knew’. What were the chances? Seven billion people in the world but the local branch of Tesco came up with the goods. I’m not buying it. With 3.5 billion women in the world, I find myself falling in love every day.

‘Our eyes meet through a crowded train carriage. We both immediately look away in embarrassment. We glance up and catch each other staring again. My heart races. Was that a smirk? She’s definitely blushing. Although it’s so warm maybe she’s flushed? We’re packed in like sardines here after all. I notice she’s paying her book no attention. The hamsters in my head need to stop. Just approach her. What’s the worst that could happen? Man it’s hard when you’re sober. Who are you talking to? Damn. She’s getting off. What if that was my chance? She was perfect.  It feels kind of, oh wait, when did this chick get on? Our eyes meet and there’s an instant connection. But this is my stop.’

I hop off and coincidentally the Arctic Monkeys comes on shuffle. ‘Don’t act like it’s not happening, as if it’s impolite, to go and mention your name, instead you’ll just do the same as they all do and hope for the best…’ I become inspired. He goes on to remind me, ‘The only reason that you came, so what you scared for?’ Is it rejection? I wouldn’t be the first to taste that bitter pill but it doesn’t make it any easier. There’s a big difference between grinding up against some girl in a drunken state of misplaced confidence in a dark club and approaching a girl in broad daylight wearing your heart on your sleeve. It’s nerve racking but such courage would more often than not be rewarded. Instead, the only ‘meaningful’ daytime encounters between strangers of the opposite sex are saved for superficial tinder exchanges. Your heart will never skip a beat on a dating app. All the more reason to put yourself out there. And so I tried.

Flying solo and en route to Queenstown, I hit up tinder to avoid the possibility of drinking alone on my first night there. After a few bites I tried teeing up a couple of girls for an innocent drink. None were willing. I found myself in Cowboy’s bar straddling the high stool chatting to a couple from Brisbane when one of my tinder flames cruised right by. I’d often thought about what I’d do if I matched with someone in the same room. And so I approached her knowing she’d earlier given me the cold shoulder. ‘Where’s the party at tonight Yasmin?’ admittedly wasn’t my best opening tinder line. I debated confronting her, phone in hand, screaming defiantly, ‘do you recognise me’ but decided that was a bit much. She was cool, but like most things semi arranged, it lacked excitement. After one rather miserable pint of Speights, I left feeling dissatisfied and quite peckish. Remembering I couldn’t leave Queenstown without trying a famous patty from Fergburger, I followed my nose in search of some meat. And that’s when I saw her.

There were two tills but I was determined to be served by her. She was small and feisty, standing out amongst the hustle and bustle of the happening eatery. The queue meandered around the corner as hungry patrons barked their orders in her direction. It was loud and frantic as I approached her with a blinkered gaze. I ordered the calamari. What kind of a guy orders calamari in a restaurant famous for its beef? A different guy, that’s who. She asked me my name. Johnny, I said with a smile. She asks everyone their names you idiot. It’s placed on the order. Unperturbed, I ask for a beer while I wait and wouldn’t you know it, the one free stool in the place is perched beside her. I spark up a chat with the nearest burger flipper and before you know it, she’s in on the action. She compliments my accent and we find some common ground amongst the pandemonium of impatient customers craving her attention. It’s long past my order number and I enquire as to its whereabouts. She’d put it aside. She explains that she’s not used to calamari orders and sometimes they get overlooked. Of course they do. We continue chatting and I order another beer to compliment my tasteless rubbery squid. The tap squirts all over her as the keg has run dry. She laughs, adorably blaming me whilst handing over the half poured beer on the house. She couldn’t stay mad at me too long.

Eventually I’d reached a point where everything was flowing so easy that all that was left was to ask for a number. But she was so busy and I’d noticed her co-workers were giving me the eyes as if to say, ‘what sort of creep tries to chat up an innocent girl at work?’ But she was making a conscious effort to keep the conversation going and I could feel it. We’d pierced a hole through the wall of noise to ensure we heard one another. Should I hand her my phone and get the digits? The hamsters were returning. Shit.

Initially my sole focus was her but nerves brought my peripherals into play. The line seemed to be getting bigger outside and panic was starting to kick in.  There’s only so long a guy drinking alone at a burger joint can retain an air of charm. She’d told me what time her shift ended and that she had a late start the next day. But that clue had been dropped so long ago that I feared I’d missed the boat. If I was to get shut down here it was going to be at the mercy of one hundred onlookers. I stood up, hoping somehow she’d manage to vacate her till for a merciful second but the place was overrun. We were doomed. Reluctantly, against every fibre of my being, I shook her hand and I wouldn’t be surprised if she saw the heartbreak in my eyes as I uttered the words nice to meet you. Why didn’t I go for it? Or ask for a receipt and write my number down casually, no harm no foul. Hindsight you bastard. Let me try again.  It had all been so natural until crunch time and with the world watching, I choked so hard.  Would someone else have done anything different? Breaking down the post-game statistics with a good friend, he was impressed at just how far the conversation had advanced. I didn’t have much more to go to get the win, but as he put it, ‘how is a great love story ever going to become a reality again if nobody has the balls to make a move?’

THE SAME DIFFERENCE

Ever see that guy who braided his hair into an unsolvable maze for no apparent reason? He wore a shirt that he stitched together from his mum’s old dish rags and despite it being 30 degrees outside, he flaunted a scarf delicately woven with the shoe laces of the homeless. His trousers were legless but did just enough not to detract attention away from the fact he walked around on stilts. His outfit was complimented by a Titleist golf visor and an airplane seatbelt. You see, this guy was a true original. Hopelessly alone and bereft of friends, but undeniably unique.

Such originality is hard to find but people’s bizarre obsession with being different leads them to take extraordinary measures to ensure success. ‘So I found this really chic coffee place. It’s in an old shed at an abandoned farm that was converted into a café by this one eyed Vietnamese barista. You have to drive 30 miles to get there but it’s so worth it. She only uses reindeer milk and serves her chai lattes from old US military helmets. It’s a pretty holistic vibe, you know?’

Actually, I don’t. Whatever happened to coffee being about one spoon or two? ‘Ah, everyone was at it. Did you hear of this new Starbucks place? Instead of sizes being small, medium and large, they use like, some sort of foreign language to differentiate. It’s pretty out there man’. But alas, Starbucks saturated the market and their flat white was no longer desirable. Hipsters were calling their drug dealers looking for rare South American beans that had spent the longest time maturing in a pile of horse shit. You could give most of these connoisseurs a cup of decaf and they’d drink it as long as it sounded Italian and was sourced in a place that didn’t exist.

You can’t be alternative and trendy because today, that’s just called being a person. Like that bar that nobody knows about but everyone goes to. ‘What is it that makes drinking from a jam jar taste so much better?’ Absolutely nothing, you idiot. The urge to be different is ironically making us all the same. There’s more alternative people in the world today than ‘normal’ people. It doesn’t make sense. If you were authentically unique, you wouldn’t have to desperately flood your Instagram to prove it.  You’re fooling nobody with that manufactured ‘natural’ pose of you vacantly staring into the abyss. I can hear you through the photograph asking your mate if they’ve taken the picture yet. Just get the photo of you pretending to hold up the Leaning Tower of Pisa like everybody else and piss off.

There’s nothing wrong with conforming on a small scale. That reputation you’re trying to uphold doesn’t actually apply outside your own bubble. Take music for example. It should be a pretty personal thing. Who didn’t love Kings of Leon ten years ago? Their first two albums were a fresh, rebellious sound and they were revered by all lucky enough to have listened. Queue big hits like ‘On Call’ and ‘Sex On Fire’ and they could be heard across mainstream radio the world over. They lost the majority of their original fan base as a result.  Why? ‘Because I heard them first and now everyone likes them. Such sell-outs. Some dick sung one of their songs in an X-Factor audition for Christ sake.’ Ok, so maybe their music did go to shit but more likely, they became too popular for the alternative market. Could you imagine, now God forbid, but if Mark Ronson’s Uptown Funk smash hit was to revive old school soul so that teenagers today could appreciate such an iconic period in music? Wouldn’t that be the worst? The idea of James Brown in the running for Christmas Number One doesn’t bare thinking about, right?

We’re weird like that. I’ve got a friend that kidnapped a blind spoon playing busker and now openly refuses to let him out of his basement for fear that someone else might hear his sound. Why can’t we appreciate what we like as individuals? If lots of other people like it too, then we have things in common. ‘What’s good for the goose’ and all that jazz. If you’ve set the trend and now it’s become globally accepted, why bail? We are becoming possessive to the point of absurd.

The average life cycle from secondary school sees a boy enter the unknown and quickly conform. He wears a Canterbury tracksuit and drinks water from a protein shake bottle even though he’s never been to the gym. By the age of 14 he’s discovered girls and surprisingly, they don’t all like rugby players. He joins the drama society, grows out his hair and learns the guitar. Hiding behind his black leather trench coat for too long, he acquires a Nirvana tee online and presumes Dave Grohl’s their lead singer. He leaves school a confused, pubescent mess. He enters college without any of his friends and out of pure insecurity, he totally reinvents himself once more. He takes up smoking, but not a pack of tailors. He rolls his own whilst attempting to nurture his transparent facial hair. He signs Joyce’s ‘Ulysses’ out of the library and positions himself front and centre in the cafeteria waiting to be noticed. And of course, he will be. Why? Because there’s a million other people just like him in the world that also think they’re somehow, different.

The Shallow Network

The old swipe and wipe

Who doesn’t love the magic of social media? You download Tinder because you lack the confidence to talk to a girl in real life. You choose a girl solely based on her looks and swipe the ugly ducklings that repulse you back into obscurity without a second glance. You make these decisions more often than not while sitting on the toilet, trawling through hundreds of girls between pushes. You get a match while wiping and not only is she beautiful but the girl looks to have an incredible sense of adventure. Not a selfie in sight which shows modesty. Her movie references are on point and her taste in music could form the soundtrack to your lives together. She’s both funny and charming. Seemingly perfect.

Why not meet up? Oh well, see, she only displays four pictures on her tinder profile. Any girl could look good four times in their lives, right? So you steer the chat to get her surname, thus supplying you with the ammunition to find her on Facebook and critique her further. You hadn’t seen her legs before. Smoking hot pins, great calves and five toes on each foot. Dayumm, she’s so nice.  Oh no. Hold on. A bit of zoom action. Is that a birthmark on her left knee? You clean your screen to make sure it’s not just a smudge from the chocolate you gorged last night while watching that movie, alone, again. Hmm, maybe it’s just a freckle? What to do? Unsure, you decide it’s better to cool off this chick just to be safe. Can’t be seen out in public with some sort of leopard skinned she-cat freak. You’re a gent though, not like the rest of them. Let her down softly. Tell her you’ve just come out of a serious relationship. Or you’re going away for a while. Or you’re.. No silly, there’s an unmatch option in the corner. And just like that, she’s gone. How could anyone not love this thing?

We are a ruthless generation, conveniently avoiding emotional confrontation as a result of such virtual eject buttons. Most human interaction is done online without personal consequences to the perpetrator, though you can be sure that feelings are being hurt daily on the other side of the coin. Cyber bullying is without question a major offence today, yet such is the fragile nature of our virtual reputations, the smallest inquisitive emoji can have devastating consequences. That innocuous addition of the embarrassed monkey at the end of your comment could force princess Rachel to scalp her head, download American History X and change her name to Roxy because she may never be popular with the ‘qool’ kids.  How does such a trivial act illuminate our insecurities? And why the fuck do we care what people think anyway? The apparent necessity to fit in will lead to the demise of the individual.

Who are we to determine imperfection?

I remember an old school friend of mine started dating a girl ‘way out of his league’. Not my words. That expression is a myth founded on rejection. If the girl thinks she’s too pretty for a guy making an effort, she’s evidently a cold shallow bitch and the guy’s better off without her. Vice versa, if the guy’s too intimidated by a girl’s looks to even contemplate approaching her, then he’s clearly not deserving of such a prize. Confidence isn’t the offspring of beauty, prime example typing right here. And having it doesn’t guarantee success, again, hey! But it’s infinitely better casting a reel than not to experience the thrill of the chase at all. There’s too many fish not to get a bite eventually anyway. And in my friend’s case, he caught a beauty.

She was a babe. Mesmerising eyes, a radiant smile, a great body, a bubbly personality and an enchanting singer. My buddy on the other hand was gifted with a pair of char grilled lamb chops for eye brows. He looked like a cartoonist’s depiction of a very angry man, only he was permanently animated. But he had the balls to go for it and here he was with this goddess on his shoulder. We often wondered how a fella like him ended up with an angel. Instead of being happy for the guy we’d joke that there was something wrong with her. Maybe she had no nipples or farted during sex one time? Anything to help us come to terms with our mate’s fortune. Why couldn’t we just accept it and forget our jealousy? Maybe it’s because, deep down, in our evil subconscious, we knew we were right. Sure enough, there was a revelation one evening seemingly hollower than our hearts. She only had one leg. What a relief! Faith in humanity restored. She was handicapped. And all of a sudden we were satisfied and needless to say, they’re no longer together. But who knows why?