Tuesday, May 27, 2008

The wedding.

Text message from 5x: "I don't care who asks you, if I find you have seen the Sex And The City movie I will find you and I will hurt you. Do you understand?"

Reply: "Does that mean I have to cancel Friday?"

His reply: "Just the appointment. Not the day. I need it."

Well I'm back with you, enbosomed by my lonely palace and ready to tell the tale of Johnny and Aisling's wedding.

The last week has been a maelstrom of insanity, from the collecting of the suits last midweek to the leaving of Johnny's flat in Dublin at 1am this morning.

The suits collected, we headed to the pub for some refreshments, and proceeded to get refreshed off our box. I was feeling a bit below standard so I didn't tarry long, wanting to save myself for the upcoming nuptials.

And so to Thursday. I hopped on a shiny train to Castlerea to be picked up by the bride. She greeted me in a frazzled and unearthly state, the hasslings of the occasion clearly leaving her bewildered. She was back to her best when we landed at the hotel in Ballinlough, though, and I quickly made myself at home with Johnny's in-laws.

The night came and Sean, pater to the groom, ushered me over to the pub across the road. He threw a pint of lager beer down in front of me, asking me what I wanted with that?

"Jameson."

Oh Jesus. We got substantially fuckled did myself, Sean, Johnny and his uncle Billy.

Woke up in a right state on Friday - Wedding Eve - and was pretty much alone with my hangover until 4pm. It was over to Aisling's then for a massive feed and more beer. The beautiful country setting was perfect for what was a serene seeing off into married life.

Then we went to the church for the wedding rehearsal. The priest, Father Des Walsh, struck me as a slightly more enthused version of the sergeant major from Full Metal Jacket. He even scared Sean, an impressive man himself, with his constant "HANDS BY YOUR SIDES AT ALL TIMES OR I'LL FUCKING SWING FOR YOU!" Well, words to that effect.

Thankfully that didn't last too long as I was in dire need of a fart, so I quickened to the jacks in the sacristy for the holy mother of all ablutions.

Friday night and myself and Johnny were under strict guidelines to be good. I stuck to the water as my stomach had yet to settle down, save for a last gasp pint of stout. Nice. Later that same night and Owen Cowzer forewent his trousers as he piled into the room with Danny Quinn and onto Johnny's bed.

The groom took it well, but it was an uneasy sleep for what was to be his wedding day.

= = =

And so it came to be Saturday. I remember waking early and staying stuck to the bed, paralysed by fear that I would prove the worst best man in history, that I'd start off Johnny and Aisling's marriage by forgetting the rings or cracking one off during a quiet moment of reflection at the mass.

Thankfully, my bowels had steadied themselves and the rings ended up on the fingers with ne'er a fuck up in sight.

74,414 photos later we headed for the beach at Salthill. It was an hour and a half drive but it passed fleetingly in the excellent company of Aaron, boyfriend and future husband of Johnny's sister Jill. 192,354 beach photos later and we landed at the hotel (got lost first) whereupon I pressed the flesh and made nice with the guests.

The speeches came and went - my own was well received and garnered 10 points from the Norwegian jury - and then the madness.

I began drinking and drinking and drinking to the point where I was affected by alcohol. I was luckily alert enough to spot Danny with an engraved champagne glass, stolen from the bridal suite. He and his brother Deccie got in by stealing the key from Johnny's pocket while dancing, schemy bastards (they had earlier gone the reception route but were stonewalled thanks to Richie's warning to the staff to let nae fucker into the room.)

Anyway, seeing Danny drinking from the glass led me up to the suite with Jill and Aaron.

Toilet roll everywhere, strawberries mashed into the bed, toiletries emptied to the bath, champagne broken into. A mess.

We cleaned it up as best we could, before I went to reception. I reasoned that someone from outside the wedding had broken into the room, that I was blaming the hotel staff and I'd be taking legal action if the situation wasn't remedied. They replaced the champagne, remade the bed and put Humpty Dumpty back together, all before Johnny and Aisling were aware of a thing.
Got it done.

Anyway, soon after was bed and then up the next day for more drink before returning to Dublin. Called down to the lads last night to see them off and wish them well on the honeymoon. Oh, and I got drunk. Same old.

Saturday, May 17, 2008

Machine gun madness.

5X has returned to these shores, albeit briefly.

He summoned me to ale last evening. I had been out thrice already in the week, so when I arrived in John Mulligan at 4pm didn't I order tae. The cheek of me. This did not go down at all well when my king nemesis - residing nowadays in Paris, you remember - arrived in a whirlwind of Fennellness.

He remedied the situation for me, fixing me with a stout and that most devilish of grins as I supped meekly and brokenly on my porter.

He's more 5X than he ever was, loving the French way of life, a divil for the romance. I didn't stick around long but promised him I would cross his path before he goes back on Tuesday. At that stage Gersende had shown anyway, as well as Fell and Dave Delany, so I knew I was leaving him in good hands, the shindig only starting. Me? I was in bed by 9.30.

Monday had seen me in the Ferryman with Johnny, finalising wedding arrangements and the order of the speeches. I am to be a toastmaster, no less. That was a term new to me. Anyway, once I'd taken stock of my best manly duties - to be carried out a week from today - we went for a few crafty halves and banter. No better men than the two of us, I figured.

Wednesday night I was at the Olympia via the Stags and later Brogans. The National played powerfully but it was a little fleeting for my liking, barely got an hour out of them. No matter, it ended as it began, with myself and Cowzer and Ollie and the belle setting the world to rights, as it should be.

What was Thursday? Oh yeah, Dave and Emma Nar took a thirst and led me to Bowes, but aware of my 8am start the following day I kept it to five lager beers and went.

Consistent drinkage throughout the week, but only Wednesday did I go beyond the call of relative sobriety.

Off tomorrow, which pleases me. Have to finally write this speech, have found myself jotting notes throughout the week and I think it'll be good to go by tomorrow afternoon. Taking her handy tonight, gonna put on Apocalypse Now for myself there.

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

Boobies.

I have made a new friend, dear Radgites, and her name is Rosie. Will add a link to the Spanish Exposition on the right hand side of this here. Go and see her, she got style, she got grace...

Elsewise it's the most boobysome of days, as in there are lots thereof floating around dirty Dublin, turning men into horndogs and me into a gawping idiot. I can't help it. I feel I must 'in' myself. Powerful drying too, I've had the jeans on the line for a couple of hours and damn if they aren't already fit for framing the Radgebottom.

There's a buzzing fly about my head at the minute too, distracting me into third personing myself and writing paragraphs independent of each other.

I saw that 'Forgetting Sarah Marshall' this afternoon. It's always been my opinion that the best place to spend a glorious day such as this in the dank of a pub snug or the dark of a cinema. In a cruel twist of irony, the film is set in Hawaii - a place that's no stranger to a heatwave - and it did remind me constantly of what I was missing outside. I didn't really care, though, as it's very enjoyable fare. No 'white shite' this. No no, it's funny stuff, and even Russell Brand manages to steal a scene or two. The annoying fucker from Big Brother in big screen success story shocker. Then again nothing surprises me this weather, which, incidentally, is very nice indeed.

Thursday, May 08, 2008

Network Two.

It's not in every phone conversation that the subject of RTE2 becoming Network Two becoming RTE2 comes up, but it did just there with Denise when she told me how she used to wait for programmes to start by watching the on-screen 'test clock' or whatever it was called back in the day.

Herself and her brother Paul, up bright and breezy, Sugar Poofs coursing through their systems, waiting o waiting for the televisual start. In the days before onscreen EPGs and 87 digital channels (introducing UKTV Oven Cleaning, 24 hours dedicated to a more hospitable cooker), we were forced to scan the papers daily for our favourite cartoons or cookery programmes, circle them and wait. Miss them and you'd regret it. Repeats? Not for at least three years.

My favourites were always...

Voltron - A cartoon with a plastic toy range spin-off, with five crusaders who'd come together and form one big monster type thingy - the eponymous Voltron - in order to set the universe to rights. This had a great storyline. One of the characters was a French lad whose name I can't remember. He got killed and replaced by a princess or some such, and I lamented his demise daily. He eventually made his return but by then I was on to petty theft, cans of Bulmers and breasts.

Hart To Hart - I remember the theme tune, Max and Robert Wagner being suave. Even as a five-year-old I thought his suits were really rather natty.

Glenroe - This was bittersweet to me. While I gorged on the love triangle between Teasy, Dinny and the actor David Kelly from Waking Ned, I knew that come those final credits I was facing nothing but bed and a week in Scoil Mobhi. But, at least, on Monday nights, I had...

The Krypton Factor - Gordon Wood was the presenter's name. I'm sure of it. Teams would compete physically and mentally for some sort of prize - probably a weekend retreat to Butlins. Still, there was genuine tension and skill involved, and something to look forward to once I'd done my sums.

London's Burning - I was a bit older for this one. Myself and Anne had long since seen our Sunday bedtime extended to 10pm, so we'd never miss the adventures of Sicknote and Hallam and the fat fucker who looked like Neil Ruddock. May have contained scenes of mild peril.

Baywatch - Appealed to my inner pervert.