After mam's dramatics, my day improved. Pretending to be musicians, my brother and I blagged our way into one of the gigs (this one, as it featured my love interest from that weekend in An Cheathrú Rua...). Typical me, The Festival of World Cultures and there I am, hanging out in the Gaeilge tent. From there we headed up to catch a bit of Dónal Dineen's set in one of the hotels and again, typical me, I ended up drinking in the car park instead and talking to random strangers. Interesting ones though; these boys. I must keep an eye out for their work.
From there we got a lift into town from a kind if directionally challenged friend (we ended up taking a spin in the wrong direction down Harcourt St's Luas line but beggars can't be choosers- the queue for a taxi in Dun Laoghaire would make your eyes water). On to the POD for a bit of a Pogo and more vodka than was strictly necessary, and then my brother and I barrelled drunkenly into Aprila's chipper, in Portobello, for a bite of dinner. Civilised drunkards that we are, we strolled down the leafy-with-love banks of the Grand Canal and sat down on a bench to enjoy our fare. I had just stood up to shake the curry chips out of my skirt and start for home when I noticed a figure about 20 yards away, standing on the path and wretchedly puking on his own shoes. "Look at this poor fucker!" I exclaimed in glee (always fun to see someone drunker than yourself) and my brother craned his head for a gawk, just in time to see the poor sot pitch head first off the footpath into the canal.
I ran to his rescue, with all the grace of a flat chested C.J. Parker. Just as I reached the spot he'd launched from, a hand shot up from the reeds, and then another. He struggled to standing in the 2ft deep water, huffing and puffing, and breaking his bollix laughing. I helped him out, and backup arrived (in curry-chip stained jeans and a fit of the giggles). "Are you alright, mate?" More giggles. From all three of us. He began fishing various sodden items from the pockets of his biker's jacket, a dripping mobile phone, wet banknotes, smelly canal weed. I asked him if he'd far to go and he explained -with the frank honesty of the truly drunk- that he was close to home, he'd been drinking in The Barge Pub and had just wandered down "for a dump". How glad am I that he wasn't mid shite when he toppled in. "Have you a pen and paper?" he asked. "Take my name and address, and remind me that this happened. Not tomorrow though, in a while, like. Maybe next year. No, in three years time. My name's Stephen, Stephen Boyle. Nice to meet yiz."
I made him promise to walk on the lower path, away from the water, and he staggered off, leaving a dripping trail and laughing spastically to himself. I hope he made it home.
From there we got a lift into town from a kind if directionally challenged friend (we ended up taking a spin in the wrong direction down Harcourt St's Luas line but beggars can't be choosers- the queue for a taxi in Dun Laoghaire would make your eyes water). On to the POD for a bit of a Pogo and more vodka than was strictly necessary, and then my brother and I barrelled drunkenly into Aprila's chipper, in Portobello, for a bite of dinner. Civilised drunkards that we are, we strolled down the leafy-with-love banks of the Grand Canal and sat down on a bench to enjoy our fare. I had just stood up to shake the curry chips out of my skirt and start for home when I noticed a figure about 20 yards away, standing on the path and wretchedly puking on his own shoes. "Look at this poor fucker!" I exclaimed in glee (always fun to see someone drunker than yourself) and my brother craned his head for a gawk, just in time to see the poor sot pitch head first off the footpath into the canal.
I ran to his rescue, with all the grace of a flat chested C.J. Parker. Just as I reached the spot he'd launched from, a hand shot up from the reeds, and then another. He struggled to standing in the 2ft deep water, huffing and puffing, and breaking his bollix laughing. I helped him out, and backup arrived (in curry-chip stained jeans and a fit of the giggles). "Are you alright, mate?" More giggles. From all three of us. He began fishing various sodden items from the pockets of his biker's jacket, a dripping mobile phone, wet banknotes, smelly canal weed. I asked him if he'd far to go and he explained -with the frank honesty of the truly drunk- that he was close to home, he'd been drinking in The Barge Pub and had just wandered down "for a dump". How glad am I that he wasn't mid shite when he toppled in. "Have you a pen and paper?" he asked. "Take my name and address, and remind me that this happened. Not tomorrow though, in a while, like. Maybe next year. No, in three years time. My name's Stephen, Stephen Boyle. Nice to meet yiz."
I made him promise to walk on the lower path, away from the water, and he staggered off, leaving a dripping trail and laughing spastically to himself. I hope he made it home.
