Hair of the Dog

‘Are you going to Slane, Bertie?’
‘Am I fuck, Giblets.’
‘But it’ll be your last chance to see them.’
‘Me Da said that twenty five years ago!’

So that’s what’s going on, I forgot, The Strolling Bones are playing in Slane castle tomorrow a few miles out the road. There’s definitely a buzz around town but it’s not the usual Slane buzz, too many Zimmer frames. I thought it was an outing for the Day Care Centre.
After last night’s Birthday shenanigans, I’ve taken the day off work. Giblets stayed off in sympathy and we’re sitting in McFools about to start on our third hair of the dog.

I go to Slane every year, with the exception of Madonna and U2 (I fuckin hate U2!) and once I even bought a ticket. Slane was always the opportunity to put into practice our guerrilla training, sneaking in was an obligation. No way was I buying a ticket to walk on that stolen land.

Me: So, where did you get this land?
Lord Henry Mount Charles: My ancestors fought for it, Bertie.
Me: I’ll fight you for it now!

Sometimes we’d hide in the trees, for days, and wait for them to build the fence around us, and on the day we’d climb down and go crawling through the woods in our camouflage to the gig. Them was the days!

A couple of motorised wheelchairs pass by.

‘I see Hell’s Grannies are doing the security this year.’
‘Anything’s better than those usual goons they hire!’

I’m convinced that The Strolling Bones’ P.A. System has a secret, more sinister function. Not only does it amplify the geriatric warblings of the once great band, it also sucks the life force out of the entire audience and injects it into the aging rockers through their instruments. It’s how they’ve lasted so long. Just look at Jagger, he can hardly contain the rush of youthful vibrations as he gyrates maniacally across the stage clutching his microphone/youth juice injector. And Keith Richards? He clinically died years ago, leaving the energy leeching ghoul that we know today.

‘So you’re not going, no?’
‘No.’
‘You know ManDonkey’s found an underground dried up river, it’ll get us right into the middle of the village without having to go through any checkpoints, if we leave now we can be in the gig just before The Bones come on’
‘Don’t care.’
‘That’s not like you Bertie, what’s up?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Are ya havin' another?’
‘Yeah.’

Planes, trains and the Divil knows what else

A half hour car journey, a three hour flight, a half hour bus trip, a quick stop for a chat and a pizza with Finnish Euge in Helsinki, a twenty minute tram ride, a two hour boat trip and a half hour walk and I'm finally here in Tallinn and trying to get to grips with this cyrillic keyboard. The Tallinn trip is just a detour to buy shit loads of cheap booze before heading to our lakeside cabin in Finland on Saturday where we will be joined by Finnish Euge and his girlfriend Spolkki, Mr and Mrs Man Donkey and Giblets. It has the making of a crazy week. On the other hand it has the makings of a horror movie where there is a mad axe murderer on the loose in the woods and people disappear one by one. Better sharpen me axe so!

The Child Particle Accelerator Experiment

Last night in Gorf’s house whilst sipping on a few alcoholic beverages I decided to conduct a scientific experiment. I’m sure you’ve heard of CERN and the work they do in particle physics, well my experiment was similar but instead of using electrons and what not, I used children, Gorf’s and Man Donkey’s to be precise, four and three years old respectively.
The particle accelerator itself was the kitchen, the sitting room and the hallway. You can walk in a loop from the kitchen into the sitting room to the hallway and back into the kitchen via the other door.
Acceleration was provided by the ‘Rarrghh!’ game, you know the one, you shout ‘Rarrghhh!’ at the top of your voice and the child, through the primal flight or fight instinct, loses all control of itself and half giggling, half screaming turns and runs away. Extra distance and velocity can be achieved by the stamping of your feet a few of times after them.
A couple of ‘Rarrghhhs!’ into the game I successfully manipulated the kids so that Gorf junior was constantly coming to one of the kitchen doors and Man Donkey Junior to the other. The experiment was ready to begin and by my calculations the ‘particles’ should collide somewhere around the sitting room door. The results were as follows:

Attempt 1:
Gorf Junior didn’t quite make it to the sitting room door. Longer ‘Rarrrgh!’ for him next time.
Man Donkey junior didn’t attempt the turn into the sitting room, instead he ran straight for the front door.
Attempt 1. Failed.

Attempt 2:
Gorf Junior behaved perfectly, turned and ran straight out the kitchen door through the sitting room door and into the hallway.
Man Donkey junior’s flight or fight mechanism decided to fight this time. He let out a huge ‘Rarrrghhh!’ back and battered me in the nuts. A much louder ‘Rarrrgh!’ for him with some very loud stamps next time.
Attempt 2. Failed.

Attempt 3:
Gorf junior behaved as before and ran straight out into the hallway.
Man Donkey junior, with some extra coaxing turned and ran back out the kitchen door into the hallway.
There followed a couple of milliseconds of silence, a loud smack, more silence, then an unmerciful cacophony the likes of which had never before been heard in 27 Andrews Park as two small children made their way back to the kitchen and their respective parents in floods of tears.
Attempt 3. Success!!

I can be an evil bastard sometimes.

The Horror

Two days now in the shit and filth, crawling on our bellies like the worms we are. It’s dark and eerily quiet. It hasn’t been this quiet for so long now. What are they up to? The rain beats down and drenches us in our water sodden coffins. There are only two of us left.
Giblets was the first to go, he lost his mind, said he’d had enough and made the dash out into no-mans land. Gorf tried to restrain him but it was no good, he was gone before we could do anything. I don’t expect we’ll see him again.
Man Donkey’s demise was the hardest to take. There we were, the three of us laughing for the first time in days when suddenly he took four hits and toppled like a giant oak tree felled by a foresters axe. All attempts to revive him failed. That leaves Gorf and me, we’ve been like this for hours, waiting, afraid to move.
Suddenly, there’s a WHOOOSH off to our left then a huge explosion. The sky lights up. This is followed by more explosions, the noise is deafening. Among the explosions we can hear the screams of what sounds like thousands of people hysterically crying out. This must be it! They’re coming. In the light of one of the explosions I look over at Gorf, he looks pale, almost dead. This is it! Footsteps approaching and a voice crying out over the din;

‘Bertie, Bertie!!!’
Thank fuck, it’s Giblets!
‘Over here!’ I cry, ‘Over here!’
‘Oh man, I found yiz, Quick c’mon The Killers are coming on to the stage’
‘Right so, I’ll get me wellies!’

I lash out and give Man Donkey an unmerciful boot in the hole.

‘GET UP YOU STONEY BASTARD!!’

Some of me mates....

Here's a short list of some of me mates, in no particular order:

ManDonkey

ManDonkey is a beast of burden. With hands the size of shovels and feet that will only fit into shoe boxes, ManDonkey once carried his then 5 yr old daughter on his shoulders, a rucksack on his back, a rucksack on his chest and a rolled up 4st Tibetan carpet on his head whilst trekking through the Himalayas for a month. Many Yak, at the spectacle of such a feat, died of shame.

Gorf

Gorf is a very talented chef whose signature dishes include, 'Sausage a la Botulism' which he fed to the extremely yappy neighbours' dog and 'Pan Fried chicken with stuffing a la Gentleman's Relish' which was served up to restaurant staff that pissed him off once. One fucker you don't want to be stuck on a desert island with as he's just waiting for the opportunity to cook up and eat some 'Long Pig'. Once gave himself a dose of salmonella just to get 6 months off work.

Giblets

Giblets is ......well..... just giblets.