The Oireachtas is difficult to explain to someone who's never been. On paper it sounds like the dullest festival imaginable, unless of course you have a genuine penchant for book launches and sean nós singing. Admittedly I'll happily suffer the odd book launch if there's lunch and/or free booze involved, but I think I'm allergic to sean nós singing. Sitting reverentially while someone whines like a bag of consumptive cats is not my cup of tea; one of the highlights of my weekend was a new friend belting out a particularly whingey sean nós version of the Spice Girls' Wannabe in McGing's on Sunday night, to my delight and the disgust of some of the other patrons. Clapping enthusiastically when someone I've never heard of wins a prize for writing a book or poem that I'm unlikely ever to read is a little hypocritical, but I'm a whore for a glass of wine and a ham sandwich*.
Once you get past all that shite though, there is a world of fun to be had. There are the comórtais if you're that way inclined (competitions testing one's proximity to one's Irish roots; storytelling, shitetalking and dancing on barrels are all traditional arts here) I managed to make it to just the one this year (strictly in a viewing capacity) but if you're going to go to one, make it the damhsa ar an sean nós. You'll find videos of it on You Choob or you can watch this year's competition start to finish on www.tg4.ie (Steip: Beochraoladh ón Oireachtas - 3/11/2007) if you're so inclined, but there really is no substitute for watching it live. It's not often you go to a dance competition where you and your hangover can enjoy some lucozade and crisps while you clap, stomp and whoop at the competitors. I don't think the atmosphere comes across too well on the tellybox, but then if it did then everybody would want to go. The bar's busy enough already.
Ah, the bar. And the hangovers. All of the competitors get a second chance to steal the limelight when they take to the stage at Club na Féile, the nightly club for the demented that keeps the festivalgoers off the streets til the wee small hours. Very wee, very small hours. When I was leaving Saturday night's club at 6am there was a singsong going on in one corner, someone was hammering out the sean nós dancing on a tea tray in another, a TV presenter was serenading the crowd in the courtyard from his balcony (and in his boxers... he didn't look half as edible as The Gorrilla did in his) and everyone was having an absolute whale of a time. I'd been on the go for three days at that stage though, instinct told me it might be time to call it quits. My instincts (presumably dulled by the three days carousing) also told me it would be a fantastic idea to stay another night and go drinking again, but that's another story.
*All credit to the Westport Plaza, they had sushi instead of the requisite ham sambos. Everybody but me was impressed, as I've never managed to cultivate a liking for fish. Or coffee, whiskey or licorice. I remain a woman of peasant tastes.
Once you get past all that shite though, there is a world of fun to be had. There are the comórtais if you're that way inclined (competitions testing one's proximity to one's Irish roots; storytelling, shitetalking and dancing on barrels are all traditional arts here) I managed to make it to just the one this year (strictly in a viewing capacity) but if you're going to go to one, make it the damhsa ar an sean nós. You'll find videos of it on You Choob or you can watch this year's competition start to finish on www.tg4.ie (Steip: Beochraoladh ón Oireachtas - 3/11/2007) if you're so inclined, but there really is no substitute for watching it live. It's not often you go to a dance competition where you and your hangover can enjoy some lucozade and crisps while you clap, stomp and whoop at the competitors. I don't think the atmosphere comes across too well on the tellybox, but then if it did then everybody would want to go. The bar's busy enough already.
Ah, the bar. And the hangovers. All of the competitors get a second chance to steal the limelight when they take to the stage at Club na Féile, the nightly club for the demented that keeps the festivalgoers off the streets til the wee small hours. Very wee, very small hours. When I was leaving Saturday night's club at 6am there was a singsong going on in one corner, someone was hammering out the sean nós dancing on a tea tray in another, a TV presenter was serenading the crowd in the courtyard from his balcony (and in his boxers... he didn't look half as edible as The Gorrilla did in his) and everyone was having an absolute whale of a time. I'd been on the go for three days at that stage though, instinct told me it might be time to call it quits. My instincts (presumably dulled by the three days carousing) also told me it would be a fantastic idea to stay another night and go drinking again, but that's another story.
*All credit to the Westport Plaza, they had sushi instead of the requisite ham sambos. Everybody but me was impressed, as I've never managed to cultivate a liking for fish. Or coffee, whiskey or licorice. I remain a woman of peasant tastes.
