We’d started playing at about nine and thus were finished at eleven, but by that time we couldn’t be shut up and we ended up playing ‘til after midnight when the music was put on and we were forced to put our instruments away. Spud had sung a few songs, including ‘The Springhill Mining Disaster’ and ‘The Mero’ and as a full stop we did ‘Here’s a Health to the Company’ which we sang acapella, all roaring and shouting so the atmosphere was light and buzzing. Helmut and Kev turned out to be great craic altogether. Barmen on their nights off tend to go fucking nuts, which Kev duly obliged us with, but bar owners are usually stable types though Helmut seemed like a bit of a head banger too. He got up at one stage to try to do some Irish dancing and ended up nearly breaking his snot. A little after half-past-midnight we got paid, thanked Declan and the barmen, bid ourselves adieu and went forth into the night seeking a late bar to round off our evening.
We spoke to Helmut on the way to our next port of call about playing for him in Germany. He had a couple of pubs there and was indeed so filthy sinking rich that he insisted on buying round after round of seven pints. He was more wrecked than we were so only e-mails were swapped, but we’d see in the light of day how things panned out on that front. Me, Tony and Paul went to Paul’s gaff which was, thankfully, not too far and deposited the instruments for safe-keeping. Then we joined the lads in a decidedly seedy neon-lit-disco-winey-bar type place that wasn’t up my street at all until a creamy pint was placed in front of me.
“Jaysus, it’s fuckin’ roastin’ in here. Look! ... me pint’s after evaporatin’ already,” said Spud with a thirsty look on his face. He then went to stand up and pushed his chair back not realising there was a small two-inch step just behind him. One of the legs went off the step just as he was raising himself with his arms and the chair unbalanced, settled for a micro second and then tumbled under Spud’s shifting weight. The poor bastard went arse over head in a sort of movement that under different circumstances could be mistaken for a lame attempt at breakdancing. Needless to say, we all broke our bollixes laughing, as did pretty much everyone in the place. I gave Spud a hand to untangle himself from the chair and get himself vertical again. He was also laughing.
“Well, lads, I think that calls for another pint.”
“Jaysus, Spud, you should pass the hat for that little exhibition, Ah Ha Ha.”
I was already full-cut by now and didn’t really need any more but that wasn’t really the point as the beer kept coming. I remember talking shite to Paul and Kev about something and having a few smokes outside with Spud and Brian but it started to fade in and out in a big way.
Some old mates of Brian’s arrived from a birthday party somewhere and were fuckin’ buckled. He’d invited them to the session but they’d already made plans. The birthday boy was introduced and immediately gave everyone a tight embrace and insisted on having his face so close to whoever he was talking to that he looked like he was Eskimo-kissing them. He looked like your archetypal parody drunk, perennial grin, one eye half closed, one half of his shirt half un-tucked and tie tied around his forehead making him look like something from ‘Lord of the Flies’. In short, he looked like I felt.
Everyone was having a ball, laughing and taking the piss out of each other. We heard stories about yer man’s birthday party where he pretended to pass out so he could report the colour of the girl’s knickers and win a bet (that they were indeed wearing knickers). One guy claimed that if they wanted to know what colour knickers his girlfriend was wearing he’d have to look in her handbag, which we all broke our bollixes laughing at. Our stories of breaking into our own van and backflipping off chairs left, right and centre also got a laugh.
The party atmosphere showed no sign of abating and my fears of the evening drawing to a close were allayed when I found myself squeezed into a car with Spud beside me. He was trying to get a joint together with someone on his lap.
“Ye alright, Foy? Ha Ha Haaa!”
The next thing I know we’re sitting in someone’s kitchen, a bloody big country kitchen. I think it was a youth hostel of some kind. I needed a jax and I stumbled outside to a garden and took a wobbling lash in a bed of flowers. Back inside they were trying to get Brian to sing Chantelle but he was having none of it so Spud did ‘Dough – the stuff I buy beer with’ instead.
“Lovely stuff ye boya! Hey, Donal, sing that song ye sung at yer mother’s wedding ... Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha.”
Joints were being skinned up and passed left and right. Two came at me from different directions but after more joints than I could count on my fingers and toes they stopped having any effect, or at least that’s how it seemed.
Next thing I remember, I’m back at the flower bed. This time I’m throwing up on it. Then I’m lying on a patch of grass with Spud, Brian and another guy doing an Indian dance around me (apparently, as I found out later, one that resurrects the dead!). Next, I’m being put on a sofa to have a rest but a second wind blows over me and I rise like Lazerus. Then I’m back in the kitchen again, talking to everyone and telling the joke about the monkey and the three Brussels sprouts and the one about the two old spinsters with the plums up Nelson’s column.
I noticed at one point that I didn’t seem to be any drunker than anyone else except one guy who started getting snotty with anyone he came into contact with. Soon enough, whatever we were drinking ran out (it wasn’t beer) and we decided to cook something, being in a kitchen and all. Someone cooked a slap up feed of fried eggs, rashers and sausages, of which I got two sausages and a slice of bread. Being four o’clock in the morning we couldn’t decide if it was a late supper or an early breakfast, but it was definitely a late supper and whoever was left afterwards quietly slipped into various bedrooms scattered around. Uncannily enough, there were beds for everyone and I opted for a bottom bunk as Brian was more capable of climbing up to the top one than I was.
The evening had one more instalment in store for me when I woke up while it was still dark but post dawn and felt myself damp.
‘Oh shit,’ I thought, ‘I’ve barfed on meself, or worse ... pissed in someone else’s bed ... oh FUCK!’
I lifted the sheets but found a dry mattress beneath me, then I felt it ... drip, drip, drip. It was coming from above.
“BRIAN, ye fuckin’ cunt. You’re after pissing on me.”
I hopped out of bed and shook Brian on the top bunk but he only groaned and turned over, nestling into a soggy pool of his own piss.
‘Fuck this for a game of soldiers’, I thought groggily, and went out to the sofa and curled up in the dry part of the blanket I had.
I woke up relatively early the next morning and found Brian sitting on a chair looking at me, smoking a fag with a towel wrapped around him. Both his mattress and trousers were airing out the back and the poor guy was fucking mortified. I told him not to worry about it and that we were all shit-faced so some collateral damage was to be expected, but he didn’t seem to be cheered up any. His mortification was dragged out by the occasional arrival into the kitchen of early afternoon coffee seekers who then sought an explanation for why Brian was wearing a light blue sarong. Apologies were given and accepted a number of times. It seemed everyone had something to feel sorry for, if only for the amount of drink consumed. We all had a sturdy breakfast of coffee and the last of the fags. Then we woke up Spud so’s we could get the fuck out of there. He was a cunt, laughing at Brian’s embarrassment. “If Brian is drunk, then take the top bunk, Ha Ha!” then whistling ‘Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head’ and singing ‘Yellow River’, but at some stage we all had to laugh, and anyway, I was the one who’d been pissed on.
“Do yiz know how to get back to Galway?” asked one of the lads.
“BACK to GALWAY?? Where the fuck are we?”
“Just this side of Spiddal. Actually, I think Fran is working this afternoon, he can drop yiz back.”
“How the fuck did we get here?” asked Brian.
“I think Fran drove us.”
“I was in a taxi,
I think.”
“Shit, let’s wake up Fran and get out of here, we’ve to get back to Dublin.”
“Eh, I’m Fran,” said Fran, “give us ten minutes.”
We dried out Brian’s trousers with a hair dryer and left as soon as we could, saying sorry and thanks in the same breath.
“Can we stop at a shop somewhere?” asked Spud.
“Yeah, sure, what do we need? Smokes?”
“Yeah, and a packet of Pampers, the back seat here is ...”
“SHUT THE FUCK UP SPUD!!” shouted Brian reaching his limit, “enough with the wise-cracks, I’m embarrassed enough already so let’s just fuckin’ drop it, alright?”
Half an hour later we were back in Galway. Tony had left on the morning train to make work in the afternoon, and Paul was in college. Paul also had our instruments and stuff so we called him and then had to sit drinking coffee until he got home at three.
When he arrived, we went to his flat and got our stuff. Brian changed into his dirty trousers which were dirty but not damp and we recounted our adventures from the night before. We left ASAP and headed home to the strains of the two Pauls’ (McGrattan and Shaughnessy) ‘Within a Mile of Dublin’ as we all dreamed of being actually within a mile of Dublin. Spud found a nodge of blow left in his pocket which only made the trip drag out but at least helped him to sleep through nearly half of it.
There was fuck all money left. Brian, the money-keeper, must’ve paid for a taxi, or a bottle of something, plus various expenses, ‘cos after we took out Tony’s full quarter and divvyed the rest by three it wasn’t nearly enough to cover the cost of a van back window. Great. Still, there were stories to be told and a physical recovery to be completed. I don’t think we ever really expected anything else. As we flew low through Ballinasloe I felt great and like shit at the same time ...
“What were the lads called last night?”
“No idea.”
“When did Tony and Paul leave?”
“No idea.”
“What happened to Helmut and Kev?”
“No idea.”
“Who was the ...”
“No idea.”
“It’s fuckin’ freezing, isn’t it?”
“WELL MAYBE YOU SHOULDN’T’VE BROKEN THE FUCKIN’ WINDOW, YIZ PAIR OF TITS!”
“Fuckin’ great weekend wha?”
“Yeah, it was alright.”
Back in Dublin, back in the old routine. College was for shit but I was having a ball, playing, getting buckled and chasing girls without much luck. The weekend we were away Tony nearly lost us our Sunday night gig by getting two lunatics to fill in for us, but we put that straight the next week.
Spud started coming in regularly on Wednesdays and Sundays and after a few weeks we tightened up no end. Brian’s ex, Kelly (or Kerry), started going out with ‘Crusty the Clown’, some dreadlocked new-age-travelling, basket-weaving, djembeplaying tree-hugger with a mangy dog on a bit of string, and he went on a bit of a bender for a weekend, but I made sure he was in good company. Even Tony nearly got himself a bird but then, in true Tony style, didn’t. I was kinda glad ‘cos I got the feeling that if Tony found himself a regular squeeze at this stage he’d go straight and lose all interest in the life altogether, y’know? Staying in and eating out, instead of the other way around.
It was about a month later when Brian rang with the thoroughly excellent news that Helmut had sent him an e-mail asking would we be interested in coming over to Germany for a couple of weeks. Fuckin’ sure! We were made up and all the crew were on board. Tony could take his holidays to fit the schedule and the rest of us would just fuckin’ go.
We left Brian to make all the arrangements which he did with great aplomb and to all our satisfactions. The deal was that we’d get our flights and somewhere to stay, we’d play five or six nights a week, either in one of Helmut’s two pubs or maybe to some other places if Helmut could hire us out, plus we’d get paid. None of us were business men but it all sounded spot on to us. We’d get paid to travel, play, drink and try our hands at dippin’ our wicks in the German gene-pool.
We arranged for our gigs to be covered and kept warm ‘til we got back, made sure our passports were up to date, got a rake of sets together, gave our livers plenty of intensive preparation, had a fucking rip-roaring send off on the Wednesday in Fitzer’s and set off on the Thursday morn, hungover to FUCK!
We assembled in Dublin airport with plenty of time. We all checked each others passports and tickets and when we felt confident that there were no imminent disasters heading our way we relaxed and went to check-in. When check-in had gone well, plus a slight delay for our flight, we found ourselves with an hour and a half to hang around and I could almost smell impending divilment. Going through security and removing shoe and belt we discovered that Spud wasn’t wearing socks.
“Fuck ‘em,” he said, “if these cunts are going to make me take off me shoes they can face the consequences, Ha Ha!”
“Please tell me you brought socks.”
“Fuck, yeah, but I didn’t want to arrive there with dirty socks on me feet, anyway at least we didn’t have to take off our trousers, Ha Ha!”
“Ah fuck, this cunt’s riding bareback!!”
Spud confirmed Brian’s assertion with a demonic smile and then, without warning, broke into song, “we’re all going on a ... alcoholiday.”
“... no more sobriety for a ... week or two.”
Even the people behind us were laughing at that one.
On the way to the Clock Bar we stopped off to get a pressie for Helmut. It seemed only appropriate. We got him a classy looking bottle of Jemmy in a metal cylinder. The absurdity of buying a bottle of Irish whiskey for a guy with an Irish pub didn’t really strike us at the time, but it would.
The Clock Bar was a small pub in the corner of the departure lounge, where the bar staff were known to supermodels, sports stars and U2 associated semi-celebs. They served oysters, smoked salmon and your last chance for a half decent pint of Guinness until the return date on the ticket in your pocket.
We ordered three of those and a pint of Bud for Tony, who never drank Guinness.
“Ahhhhhhh.”
“I’ll be missing this stuff while we’re away.”
“I’m pretty sure he’ll have Guinness in the pub.”
“Yeah but not like this, it’ll be watery shite, like all continental Guinness.”
We sat with our departure gate in full view and excitedly drank our pints. Tony had done more travelling than all of us, especially to play, so we looked to him for tips, adjusting expectations and anecdotes. He reeled off a couple of sample stories, some first hand, but mostly hearsay. We nearly pissed ourselves laughing at the story of the banjo player who got shitfaced going to England on the Dun Laoghaire-Holyhead ferry and somehow managed to wake up in Rosslare. The same guy also played on said ferry during the summer in a group called ‘A Band on Ship’. Classic!
“Fuck! What’s our name? We need a name.”
“Yeah.”
A silent pause and a faint sound of cogs turning ...
“Gick n’ Feathers!”
“Ok, as long as you’re the gick, Ha Ha!”
“How about, Fee Foy Fo Fum?” I said, “I’m Foy, Brian can be Fee ‘cos he collects the money, Spud is a foe and ... er ...”
“No, no, something Irishy.”
“Smelling the blood of an Englishman is Irishy.”
“The Ceolachauns!”
“Hey, that’s good.”
“Can you hear the Bosch try to read that off a poster?”
“OK, smart arse, you think of one.”
“Actually,” said Brian looking thoughtful when he came back with the next round, “I seem to remember Helmut saying something on the phone about getting some posters done with the name of the band on them, I didn’t say anything at the time, but ... what name?”
“Das Muzik Irisch Pubben, Ah Ha Ha.”
There was a long pause ...
“Oh, I
had a good name recently, U4EA, as in Euphoria, U4-E-A.”
“As in ‘Are You For E? Eh?’ Ha Ha!”
“What are we? Bleedin’ New Romantics? Fuck off back to 1982, ye spa.”
We mulled over our pints and our name for a while longer and the best we came up with were ‘The Mollycoddled’ and ‘Shebang’, neither of which we settled on so we settled for not settling on anything for the moment. Tony went to check out the departure place and found, much to our delight, that the plane was delayed by about a couple of pints so we drank up, got another and then tucked in again. The speed drinking was starting to take its toll and I already felt a little wobbly.
“Does German TV have porn at night?” asked Spud with a look of deepest concern, “I was in Spain a few years back and they have fuckin’ hard core, up the gicker, pearl necklace, licky sucky spready cheeky all fuckin’ nighty.”
“Red raw were we?”
“Fuckin’ savage it was.”
“I’m sure it does. I think Ireland is the only European country with no late night porn.”
“Can you imagine an Irish porno anyway? I’d be all fuckin’ sheep and rubber boots.”
“Top of the Horning to ye.”
“A Pint of Arthur’s Best, Heh Heh.”
We spent between then and the final call for our flight thinking up names for Irish porn. I won’t bore you with the details but the best of the lot were, ‘Up Down’, ‘Sally’s Gap’, ‘Ballyfuckangel’, ‘St. Patrick’s Gay Parade’, ‘Kerry, Clare and Shannon in Between’, ‘Hot Ass Felt’ and my personal favourite, ‘Gay Burn’.
By the time we’d finished laughing at all that we were on the plane ready for take off.
“Eh, sorry, can I get a drink?” enquired Spud to a passing stewardess.
The Good Servants Page 11
