Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose…..

As I sit here in the dark with naught but the glow of various monitors to currently keep me company, whilst back on the nightwatch tending to the ill of the parish, I have been considering that which is my recently hectic schedule and wishing greatly it were not thus .

Within this small slice of time I have had time to reflect that it was almost a year ago to the month that I was privy to a week spent dwelling in the company of strangers. That the strangers were in France and, for the most part, French makes no never mind to me but it does play a small part in that which is to follow. I shall elucidate….

I had agreed a while before, after much badgering from my other half, to attend the wedding of a couple she had known for many a year but who were utter strangers to me. So far, so blah blah blah. Nothing unusual there, I know. It happens to the best of us all at some point to be counted in the numbers to attend such formal affairs. It is the way of things, I concede, but I am never greatly pleased by these calls on my time.

I am not by nature very keen on the attendance of these things when they are arranged by my own family. I am sure as hell not getting any more excited about being summoned to attend the various hatches, matches and dispatches of people that I hardly, if at all, know purely based on the fact that I am the ‘plus one’ in the deal.

A touch grumpy, I will admit. Not one of my more endearing qualities but there we are. As Popeye said, ‘I yam what I yam’.

Any how, the crux of the matter was that I had reluctantly agreed to this attendance. The larger issue was that it was to be held in the South of France. Amongst French people. French people whom I had never clapped eyes upon afore. French people who, as far as I was aware, spoke no English.

Oh joy be mine….

Before it be said to me, I personally have nothing against the French in the least. I am not afflicted by the tendency of others in the UK who have an ingrained distrust and general dislike of all things Gallic. I have actually always liked France and the French. Every time I have been there I have had un grand temps altogether.

No, the trouble I foresaw was that I had not been to France for many a long year and my command of the lingua franca as a working, living, spoken tongue was all but forgotten. I don’t like doing small talk in my own chosen tongue with strangers. How to get around this as the only paddy in the village, then?

The solution was as timeless as it was simple, really. Alcohol. Lots and lots of lovely alcohol! Well, it was a wedding after all. I won’t bore with the details but, suffice to say, that once this concept was grasped and embraced, the whole affaire was a grand success and everyone had a whale of a time all round.

Which leads me back to my reverie and thinking that I could do with a top-up on my on-going education in spoken French.

Well, it would be rude not to reinforce the entente, n’est-ce pas?

As they say in another French(ish) speaking part of the world; Laissez les bon temps rouler…..!!

Please don’t use the receptacle provided……..

OK, I have a puzzler for the more laterally-minded and quizzical in nature out there in the ether. 

I will keep this short and sweet because I am currently employed on the graveyard shift and will all too soon be hard at the drudge in the nether hours when all you good little flaxen-haired cherubs will be enveloped in the arms of Morpheus.  I need to get me some shut-eye meself  afore I go back into the belly of the beast….

I was recently out and about in the general environs of Stratford in the east of London, as is my wont. For those of you kindly souls who are not familiar with the area (or indeed, the country, come to that!) it is where they are digging like furious banshees at the present in order to render unto us a glorious sporting arena, that we may welcome athletes from foreign shores with open arms, kindly smiles and marvel as they win all the medals, drink all the beer, do some sightseeing, buy some tourist tat and bugger off home again from whence they came.

Personally, I don’t know why they don’t just get all the money for the project, throw it in a hole with a liberal sprinkling of accelerant and apply a naked flame. It would be, frankly, more honest an act and less convoluted in the long run. It really would be a kindness all round. 

Ah, but I digress. Truly, I do. Where was I? Oh yes….

There was I in the glorious edifice that is Stratford station and I hied myself hence to the Jubilee Line (the purpose of my journey both escapes me and is of no consequence for the purposes of this harangue). I had just boarded a waiting train and was patiently biding my time till we got underway.  

Whilst sitting in quiet contemplation on the nature of things, I noticed a small but rather outré addition to the platform furniture. 

What was it, pray, I hear you cry? Well, I shall show you rather than describe. It had my mind agog and perplexed me mighty, I can tell you. Have a gander for yourselves and see if it doesn’t fox you just a wee touch, hmmm?

Here we go, dear reader. Cast thine own gaze ‘pon the source of my confabulation and render your own feelings regarding this most perplexing matter, won’t you? Splendid!  

Well, quite…..

A short, pithy, instructive indicator of what this is most emphatically not. What is it then, if not a waste receptacle?

This conundrum was further exacerbated for me when one of the platform staff blithely strolled up with an armful of detritus gleaned, one has to presume, from the morning commute, smiled at me and dumped said collection in the ‘not-a-bin’.

I mean to say, really. What is one to make of such a ludicrous state of affairs?  Any and all answer are welcome. Just be sure and put them in the properly labelled receptacle, hmm? 

How to have your cucumber and eat it too….

My cousin is a sick, sick man. To my mind, that is one of the more endearing characteristics he has. He is a constant source of the odd and bizarre that is out there in the ether. He is a very giving man also. He has absolutely no problem in sharing his largesse to his kith and kin. 

Frankly, he will show his oddities to anyone who is prepared to answer his emails. Like I said, he is a funny boy and I love him so. 

With this in mind, I have just been the recipient of a video he sent me which has brightened my otherwise mundane Sunday. I have been inundated with the world of academia all the weekend and my mind is sore in need of some irreverence. This fits the bill. 

Puts the concept of high tea into perspective, don’t it? Another slice, anyone? 

That’s why they call me Mr Fahrenheit…….

In light of the recent events in the shining new edifice that is Terminal Five at Heathrow I saw this ad and, oddly enough,  found a compelling connection.

Plus it just plain makes me laugh.

If you flew into T5 within the last week you have my sympathies but you might just spot your luggage careening down the runway here at a breakneck speed…..

  

So, let’s all get drunk, and go to heaven……

So it is that time of the year again when the world feels the need to be green and everything Irish is the absolute essential, it seems. Most especially to our American cousins who are not ones to do things by halves. Faith, begorrah, top o’ the morning and all that fecking nonsense, yes? St Paddy’s Day is on us again.  Give me strength…

 

 

 

Actually, I protest too much really. I do enjoy the annual celebrations that surround the patron saint of my people. I generally get quite a kick out of the fact that a country so small in the global nature of things has had the ability to engender such feelings of goodwill that Paddy’s Day is celebrated across the planet. Some places more so than Ireland itself. I refer you back to our ‘friends across the water’. 

 

For one day of the year everyone gets to be a paddy – if only a plastic one! Not a bad deal, even if I am a bit biased on this one. It also means that I get to take some time off from work for the legitimate act of doing nothing more complicated than going to the pub all weekend with my friends, drinking the good stuff till I hit my limit and stagger off home after singing old drinking songs to the wee small hours.

 

 

 

The best bit is that no-one looks at me like I need some form of therapy or an intervention to save me from myself. In fact, I think that they would be more worried if I had decided to work over this holiday of all holidays.  I would certainly get some seriously askance looks and comments from those who know and love me best. 

 

This is a view shared also by my very good friend and flat-mate – a native of good ould Dublin town – who very often accompanies me on my more protracted periods of alcoholic abuse and has done for many a year. We hath done drunk the good stuff in more places than I would care to consider and, by God, we did ourselves proud.  

 

Which makes what I am about impart to you, dear reader, somewhat disturbing and not a little embarrassing to say the very least.

 

My dear ould pal (we shall call him Soppy Bollix for the purposes of this account) works in the hospitality business. He has worked in the licencing trade for the majority of his adult life and there is pretty much nothing that he does not know about the pub game and all it’s intricacies. He has even owned a number of bars himself in his time. Currently, he is the licencee and manager of a large bar for a very well known pub company in the UK. He works in one of the larger towns in Essex and is running one of their main bars in the town. This is not a small place. He does a shitload of business on a regular basis. It keeps him well occupied. 

 

With all this hard work, it naturally follows that a boy needs some R and R. So Soppy booked himself some annual leave and made sure that he was going to be off for the duration of Paddy’s Day weekend. He ensured that all was ready for his staff to take over and ensure that the place would run swimmingly in his absence and left with a light heart knowing that all was well and his time was now his own for three glorious weeks.

 

…..Or so he thought……

 

Given that we have been talking about St Paddy’s Day and my friend’s manner of making a crust, what I am about to impart is all the more embarrassing for his wee soul. In fact, he was quite insistent that I didn’t keep telling people what he did as he was having a hard enough time as it was trying to live it down.

 

Sorry, pal. Tough…

 

He came home from work late last Friday night with a sheepish visage and the conversation went something like thus: 

 

“Alright?”

 

“Yeah. You?”

 

“Naah, not really”

 

“Why? Bad night in the bar?”

 

“No. The usual. Packed with arseholes but no big deal. We were busy, though”

 

“So what’s up? Why the face?”

 

“I’m in the shit at work!”

 

“How come? What did you do?”

 

“It’s what I didn’t do….”

 

“Go on….”

 

“I forgot to order any Guinness for Paddy’s Day. We only have 5 barrels left and we did 2 today at lunchtime today”

 

“Say what?!?”

 

“Yeah…….I know. Not sure what I am gonna do”

 

 

There you have it. What words are there? My mate, the Irish publican, is now off work now after forgetting to order any Guinness for St Patrick’s Day weekend in one of the largest bars in Essex. When they are dropping the price to less than £2 a pint (for those not in the UK, trust me, that is a damn good price for a pint of the good stuff)! 

 

I know. I was speechless too. Oh, how I laughed! What an absolute arse! You could not write this shite if you tried. Honestly, he gives the Irish a bad name the world over. 

 

Suffice it to say, I shall be reminding him of this for some time yet to come. You know it makes sense. I know you would. 

 

I guess I will have to help him drown his sorrows on this of most wondrous of all holidays. ‘Tis the least that a pal can do for his best mucker.

 

On balance, though, I think that I will be choosing the bar. We don’t want to end up in a pub with no beer now, do we?

 

Finally,  Beanachtai Na Feile Padraig to all of ye out there, you fine people. Till we are all sober again, eh?