Stephen Fry night on BBC2 - could there be any greater concept in the delivery of televisual entertainment? I Love QI (with a capital L). Excuse me if I drop some QI gems in here and there in fancy parenthesis {}.
The perfect end to a great day.
Admmittedly September 29th started with a hangover which isn't the best start to a day. September 28th saw me out on the town celebrating my new job; an interesting Communications Officer job with an NGO that definitely isn't teaching :)
I met Martina and her WIP (Washington Ireland Programme) buddies in Dakota. It was Friday-night-wedged and is one of those massive barns of Dublin pubs that is so filled with the sound of people talking that you have to yell to communicate. You know the type place where you can only hear the person immediately beside you and in a group conversation you find yourself nodding along even though you can't hear a thing. It's a vicious cycle of roaring and bellowing and only alcohol helps really.
{Did you know that when a tree is hit by lightning the sap boils and tree explodes? And men are 6 times more likely to be hit by lightning than women?--Do you reckon that's cause they're taller or cause they hold the umbrella more often?}
A few glasses of wine in, more Wippers arrived, one of whom was one of my new colleagues at the NGO - she said lots of nice things about how fantastic I was in the interview which made Ms Bones exceedingly happy and ready to celebrate all the more. I switched from wine to Swedish cider.
{Lightning strikes the earth an average of 17 million times a day.}
A while later Keith arrived with a bank buddy, both three sheets to the wind having gone drinking straight after work. Keith tried to pimp myself and Martina off to his buddy (who had a girlfriend) and spent ages telling Martina how fabulous and stylish she was. (She really is in fairness).
{One guy got hit by lightning 7 times in his lifetime--he eventually committed suicide by shooting himself in 1983}
Martina, Keith and I had enough of the shouting by 1145pm and headed off to meet more people in Whelan's. Unfortunately Whelan's had the cheek to be charging people to get in which was an affront to all of us young workers. We adjourned to the Bleeding Horse.
{Electric Eels are not actually eels, they're a type of fish. The contain 650 volts but are like batteries and get run down after a few minutes}
There Martina (who had not been drinking all night) bought Ms Bones that 'one drink too many' (more Swedish cider) and there followed some table dancing, a lecture from the security guard about the table dancing, floor dancing, Keith's classic strip dance--you know-- when first the jacket comes off, then the tie, then the collar comes up and he really starts to dance.... You know it's a good night when...
{Termites contribute the most methane to the environment of any animal. And there are termite suicide bombers who protect their lairs by exploding at predators}
Hence the hangover.
Today involved the nursing of the hangover with smoothies and coffee, two Dublin Theatre festival shows (bobrauschenbergamerica and Homeland--both excellent), one hour of intense shopping that found me a dress for the ball next week (finally!), tapas and a glass of wine. Basically you're average perfect day in the big city.
Well Dublin--looks like I'm here to stay. Reckon you can be as much fun as Paris? As stylish? As cosmopoliton?
Ok maybe that's a big ask.
Just don't crush my spirit with the never-ending rat race of consumerism that is the modern urban jungle.
OK?
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Follow your dreams, ladies and gentlemen, follow your dreams.
Carnivals and cotton candy
Carousels and caliopes
Fortune tellers in glass cases
We will always remember these.
We're on a carousel,
a crazy carousel
and then we go around again,
above the ground again
and then around again....
Merrygorounds quickly turning, quickly turning for you and me
And the whole world madly turning, madly turning
till
you
can't
see.
(Camille O'Sullivan's opening song of Le Clique).
Well my time at the magical circus world of the floating Spiegeltent has come to end. My body and liver are happy that they're finally getting a rest but the rest of me is quite deflated; life will forever feel quite dull compared to those few weeks of sparkle and wonder.
We ran two shows a day for 16 nights in the mirrored, velvet-draped round hall. Le Clique went up at 730pm every night and a second show, be it gig, club night, cabaret etc would follow at 10pm. For staff it was a manic evening getting two shows set up usually involving completely different seating structures (if I never see those stacks of 8 wooden chairs again I'll be a happy woman) Once the second show was up and running, however, we could relax a bit, have a German sausage or chips (only food available), enjoy the show while clearing some glasses now and again.
The most enjoyable late shows for me were: Camille's cabaret night 'The Cat's Miaow' where Jack L sang without a mic playing a toy accordain, and Duke Special played the Steinway grand piano, his beautiful singing voice (with a lilt of Belfast) ringing clearly through the venue. Pirate Sounds as detailed in the previous blog, especially the rendition of Hey Day by all the musicians at the end of the evening. Seasick Steve hobo/blues man who thoroughly rocked the venue; at one point, with every soul stamping along to a tune, I genuinely felt worried for the structure of the tent. The Vertical Rhythm Club ran by my swing teacher Jessica featuring the Hi-Tones and lots of dance performances like Charlestons, Steal Dances etc was turbo enjoyable for me, we swung and lindyed and basically shook our booties till the wee hours :)
Le Clique was just magical: from Miss Behave, one of the world's few female sword swallowers to the delicious David O'Mer and his bathtub, the acrobatic (and muscley) British Gents and Hoolahoop girls, Amy G and her kazoo up the yazoo act (I'll explain over drinks some day), Camille's saucy rendition of 'In these shoes?' and throaty 'Ne Me Quitte Pas', Ireland's own Tumble Circus acts and just in the final few days the hilarious Tina C. drag country singer act--'Gimme a hell ya!' discussing her gig with Pave-erotti at the Pope's funeral "I couldn't quite understand the grief...I mean surely it was more of a pet situation than a parent situation.....Y'all were gonna get a new one!'
Captain Frodo aka the Incredible Rubber Man was my favourite. His two acts had impeccable comic timing and always caused the most jaw-dropping behaviour in the audience. First off he pushed his naturally double-jointed body through two tennis rackets (while dressed like a tennis player from the 70's) bending, contorting and dislocating on his way and later he climbs a tower of wobbling cans before sitting on the top on (size of a can of beans) and bending his two legs behind his back. He gives a speech from the top of the cans beginning 'Isn't it amazing what you can do for a living?!' and going on to urge the audience to give their own special talent (no matter how freakish) a go. "Follow your dreams, ladies and gentlemen, follow you dreams' he concluded and each time he said it, it sent tremors through me.
I watched le Clique every night and never tired of it. Once I knew the show inside out I just watched the audience; the gaspers, the sighers, the ones who hid behind their hands but most of all I loved the sea of smiles, really radiant, genuine smiles that showed people utterly lost in the moment. For me that's what theatre should do; it should take people out of themselves for even short time, make them forget their everyday worries and deadlines. It should make them laugh or gasp, and clap or cheer, not just sit there in uncomfortable silence.
I know a lot of my theatre buddies will say that's just escapism and that theatre needs to be more political and meaningful but frankly does it? People have enough misery in the lives without being depressed by tragic plays (*cough* Eugene O'Neill *cough* Sean O'Casey* *cough* Arthur Miller) on their Friday or Saturday night. When did cabaret/vaudeville/comedy become 'low art' and tragedy the only acceptable 'high art'? Make 'em laugh god damn it! Entertain them, show them something they can't see on TV or the internet. Get a reaction!
Go to the circus people and bring your kids. Embrace the magic whenever you can; life would be so boring if it weren't for circuses and carnivals, costumes and the stage. Life is a cabaret old friend, come to the cabaret....
Carousels and caliopes
Fortune tellers in glass cases
We will always remember these.
We're on a carousel,
a crazy carousel
and then we go around again,
above the ground again
and then around again....
Merrygorounds quickly turning, quickly turning for you and me
And the whole world madly turning, madly turning
till
you
can't
see.
(Camille O'Sullivan's opening song of Le Clique).
Well my time at the magical circus world of the floating Spiegeltent has come to end. My body and liver are happy that they're finally getting a rest but the rest of me is quite deflated; life will forever feel quite dull compared to those few weeks of sparkle and wonder.
We ran two shows a day for 16 nights in the mirrored, velvet-draped round hall. Le Clique went up at 730pm every night and a second show, be it gig, club night, cabaret etc would follow at 10pm. For staff it was a manic evening getting two shows set up usually involving completely different seating structures (if I never see those stacks of 8 wooden chairs again I'll be a happy woman) Once the second show was up and running, however, we could relax a bit, have a German sausage or chips (only food available), enjoy the show while clearing some glasses now and again.
The most enjoyable late shows for me were: Camille's cabaret night 'The Cat's Miaow' where Jack L sang without a mic playing a toy accordain, and Duke Special played the Steinway grand piano, his beautiful singing voice (with a lilt of Belfast) ringing clearly through the venue. Pirate Sounds as detailed in the previous blog, especially the rendition of Hey Day by all the musicians at the end of the evening. Seasick Steve hobo/blues man who thoroughly rocked the venue; at one point, with every soul stamping along to a tune, I genuinely felt worried for the structure of the tent. The Vertical Rhythm Club ran by my swing teacher Jessica featuring the Hi-Tones and lots of dance performances like Charlestons, Steal Dances etc was turbo enjoyable for me, we swung and lindyed and basically shook our booties till the wee hours :)
Le Clique was just magical: from Miss Behave, one of the world's few female sword swallowers to the delicious David O'Mer and his bathtub, the acrobatic (and muscley) British Gents and Hoolahoop girls, Amy G and her kazoo up the yazoo act (I'll explain over drinks some day), Camille's saucy rendition of 'In these shoes?' and throaty 'Ne Me Quitte Pas', Ireland's own Tumble Circus acts and just in the final few days the hilarious Tina C. drag country singer act--'Gimme a hell ya!' discussing her gig with Pave-erotti at the Pope's funeral "I couldn't quite understand the grief...I mean surely it was more of a pet situation than a parent situation.....Y'all were gonna get a new one!'
Captain Frodo aka the Incredible Rubber Man was my favourite. His two acts had impeccable comic timing and always caused the most jaw-dropping behaviour in the audience. First off he pushed his naturally double-jointed body through two tennis rackets (while dressed like a tennis player from the 70's) bending, contorting and dislocating on his way and later he climbs a tower of wobbling cans before sitting on the top on (size of a can of beans) and bending his two legs behind his back. He gives a speech from the top of the cans beginning 'Isn't it amazing what you can do for a living?!' and going on to urge the audience to give their own special talent (no matter how freakish) a go. "Follow your dreams, ladies and gentlemen, follow you dreams' he concluded and each time he said it, it sent tremors through me.
I watched le Clique every night and never tired of it. Once I knew the show inside out I just watched the audience; the gaspers, the sighers, the ones who hid behind their hands but most of all I loved the sea of smiles, really radiant, genuine smiles that showed people utterly lost in the moment. For me that's what theatre should do; it should take people out of themselves for even short time, make them forget their everyday worries and deadlines. It should make them laugh or gasp, and clap or cheer, not just sit there in uncomfortable silence.
I know a lot of my theatre buddies will say that's just escapism and that theatre needs to be more political and meaningful but frankly does it? People have enough misery in the lives without being depressed by tragic plays (*cough* Eugene O'Neill *cough* Sean O'Casey* *cough* Arthur Miller) on their Friday or Saturday night. When did cabaret/vaudeville/comedy become 'low art' and tragedy the only acceptable 'high art'? Make 'em laugh god damn it! Entertain them, show them something they can't see on TV or the internet. Get a reaction!
Go to the circus people and bring your kids. Embrace the magic whenever you can; life would be so boring if it weren't for circuses and carnivals, costumes and the stage. Life is a cabaret old friend, come to the cabaret....
Monday, September 17, 2007
The Amazing Tale of Hobo Bonesy
'Twas the night the pirates invaded the Spiegeltent; Aye, there was Mundy and Lisa Hannigan, the Walls and Cathy Davey...a crowd of such thievin' varmints you never did see--skuttle me skippers but they took other folk's songs and played them as their own...scallywags. The real show wasn't what was on the stage but with the landlubbers who had stepped aboard the good ship Spiegeltent and embraced Pirate culture for the night...savvy? Shiver me timbers but the place was awash with Long John Black Beards, Dirty Davey Jones, Peg Leg Petes and more eye make-up then was strictly necessary (Johnny Depp has a lot to answer for).
The crew also turned buccaneer for the night; dressing in appropriate attire, swashbuckling across the deck and saying 'arrrrghhh!' quite a bit. Needless to say twas more fun than a festival at Fiddlers' Green. Wednesday Sept 19th be 'Talk Like a Pirate Day'--keelhaul your lily-livered workmates if they don't take part.
The real story of that fateful night took place after the pirates had all gone home, the decks had been swabbed, we'd drunk all the rum and circa 4am the taxis took us home. A little shaky on me timbers I made my way to the front door of younger brother's gaff (temporary residence), inserted the key and pushed. Hhhmm door a little stiff, another, harder push...still unresponsive. Actions repeated with greater force, door not budging. Baffling--could someone have bolted door from the inside?
Ring Brother. Also unresponsive. Huh--small dilemma on my hands. Send frantic text messages to brother in CAPITAL letters--might get more of a reaction.
Nothing.
Ring brother again. Still no answer.
Bastard.
Shit. Locked out at 4am, cold, need to pee, dressed like a pirate.
Right--- forget being considerate of brother's housemate--ring doorbell.
Nothing.
Ring doorbell several more times at length.
No lights, zero response.
Double shit. Housemate's at boyfriend's, brother obviously out on the lock somewhere.
Ring brother again, leave distressed voice mail.
Realisation of total lock out hits, just as a gentle mist rolling in off the Irish sea begins to tickle my skin.
Shit, shit, shit. Cold, hungry, tired and now getting wet. Can't even get into my car because the keys are inside the house...
...or can I?
Remember faulty back window broken by mate on road trip to Carlingford (Thanks Bob) Slide window down and open door, crawl into back seat--salvation at last! Car contains a pillow and mountain of cardigans due to lazy unpacking. Carefully arranged they stave off the worst of the cold...suddenly I'm looking more hobo than pirate. Rain starts to bucket down outside; this is ok, things could be worse.
Ring brother again--answer your goddamn phone!
5am rolls around, no sign of brother returning--what if he doesn't return? What if he's passed out on a friend's couch and spends the next day there? What if his housemate stays at her boyfriends'? I'll have to go to work the next day dressed as a pirate! Incapable of sleep due to anxiety, cold and mounting pressure in bladder. Curse that rum.
Contemplate peeing into an empty bottle in car. Thankfully realise co-ordination is not the best and don't attempt it. Scrabble way back out of cardigan mountain once rains stops and wind up peeing behind a big bush in the garden. And I thought being locked out was rock bottom.
Clamber back into the car, set alarm for 8am and go to sleep praying no members of public will see me but that brother or housemate will when/if they return.
Several restless hours later I emerge from the hobo-mobile and re-try the door bell. Housemate answers (Halleluja!), gives me a funny look, puts on her coat and leaves for work. She was here all along!
Tramp upstairs and find hungover brother in bed. HE was here all along! Double bastard!
Witness self in mirror; eye-liner, curly moustache and goatee still in place. Weirdest walk-of-shame ever.
Realise that I don't want to be a pirate anymore--want four walls, comfy bed with a duvet and a hot cup of tea. I am a lily-livered, landlubber lass and that's that. Now I know why it's 'talk like a pirate day' and not 'live like a pirate day'. Can't believe I have to go to work in 6 hours time.
Oh but what a cup of tea that was...blow me down but twould be a scurvy dog would say otherwise.
Dammit can't stop now. At least I'm ready for Wednesday--are you?
The crew also turned buccaneer for the night; dressing in appropriate attire, swashbuckling across the deck and saying 'arrrrghhh!' quite a bit. Needless to say twas more fun than a festival at Fiddlers' Green. Wednesday Sept 19th be 'Talk Like a Pirate Day'--keelhaul your lily-livered workmates if they don't take part.
The real story of that fateful night took place after the pirates had all gone home, the decks had been swabbed, we'd drunk all the rum and circa 4am the taxis took us home. A little shaky on me timbers I made my way to the front door of younger brother's gaff (temporary residence), inserted the key and pushed. Hhhmm door a little stiff, another, harder push...still unresponsive. Actions repeated with greater force, door not budging. Baffling--could someone have bolted door from the inside?
Ring Brother. Also unresponsive. Huh--small dilemma on my hands. Send frantic text messages to brother in CAPITAL letters--might get more of a reaction.
Nothing.
Ring brother again. Still no answer.
Bastard.
Shit. Locked out at 4am, cold, need to pee, dressed like a pirate.
Right--- forget being considerate of brother's housemate--ring doorbell.
Nothing.
Ring doorbell several more times at length.
No lights, zero response.
Double shit. Housemate's at boyfriend's, brother obviously out on the lock somewhere.
Ring brother again, leave distressed voice mail.
Realisation of total lock out hits, just as a gentle mist rolling in off the Irish sea begins to tickle my skin.
Shit, shit, shit. Cold, hungry, tired and now getting wet. Can't even get into my car because the keys are inside the house...
...or can I?
Remember faulty back window broken by mate on road trip to Carlingford (Thanks Bob) Slide window down and open door, crawl into back seat--salvation at last! Car contains a pillow and mountain of cardigans due to lazy unpacking. Carefully arranged they stave off the worst of the cold...suddenly I'm looking more hobo than pirate. Rain starts to bucket down outside; this is ok, things could be worse.
Ring brother again--answer your goddamn phone!
5am rolls around, no sign of brother returning--what if he doesn't return? What if he's passed out on a friend's couch and spends the next day there? What if his housemate stays at her boyfriends'? I'll have to go to work the next day dressed as a pirate! Incapable of sleep due to anxiety, cold and mounting pressure in bladder. Curse that rum.
Contemplate peeing into an empty bottle in car. Thankfully realise co-ordination is not the best and don't attempt it. Scrabble way back out of cardigan mountain once rains stops and wind up peeing behind a big bush in the garden. And I thought being locked out was rock bottom.
Clamber back into the car, set alarm for 8am and go to sleep praying no members of public will see me but that brother or housemate will when/if they return.
Several restless hours later I emerge from the hobo-mobile and re-try the door bell. Housemate answers (Halleluja!), gives me a funny look, puts on her coat and leaves for work. She was here all along!
Tramp upstairs and find hungover brother in bed. HE was here all along! Double bastard!
Witness self in mirror; eye-liner, curly moustache and goatee still in place. Weirdest walk-of-shame ever.
Realise that I don't want to be a pirate anymore--want four walls, comfy bed with a duvet and a hot cup of tea. I am a lily-livered, landlubber lass and that's that. Now I know why it's 'talk like a pirate day' and not 'live like a pirate day'. Can't believe I have to go to work in 6 hours time.
Oh but what a cup of tea that was...blow me down but twould be a scurvy dog would say otherwise.
Dammit can't stop now. At least I'm ready for Wednesday--are you?
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Update
Basically I'm still homeless and only employed for another fortnight. Dublin is proving to be a difficult mistress *shakes fist at the spire*.
In the meanwhile I have great pleasure to present a guest blog by my favourite reader (ok one of my only readers)....as he gives his account of the now infamous Flee to Spraoi episode of 2007.....ladies and gentlemen Mr Declan Burke!
In the meanwhile I have great pleasure to present a guest blog by my favourite reader (ok one of my only readers)....as he gives his account of the now infamous Flee to Spraoi episode of 2007.....ladies and gentlemen Mr Declan Burke!
Flee To Spraoi – Or Weekend Lunacy in the Arse-end of Ireland
By Declan Burke
What is always liable to catch people off guard about travelling from Galway to Waterford is actually how hard it is to get there. Getting to the occasionally sunny south east involves travelling through such centres of inbreeding as Oola, Boher, Cahir and Gort. Such a journey is not aided by roads that are as far from Autobahns as you can go without careering over dirt tracks and is invariably made worse when there are 5 people squashed into a car and with nothing to do but play 20 questions.
So, you may ask, what would tempt anyone to make such a journey? Well in this case it was an event dubbed the Flee to Spraoi; a weekend of merriment and intoxication that was being hosted by Jennifer (who happens among other accomplishments to be my girlfriend) in conjunction with Spraoi, a street theatre and music festival that counts as one of Waterford's few contributions to culture (after the "blah" of course, it’s pretty much a bap but don’t tell them that).
Travelling down to Waterford from Galway was Ms Bones, Peter, John, Pat and my good self while waiting for us with Jennifer was one Dangle Roughly. We'd all been friends for years through college with the exception of John, a Dub who showed up in Galway at the start of the summer with a guitar on his back, an inexhaustible supply of crazy stories and a thirst for drink. Unsurprisingly he gelled with us immediately.
The Irish summer being what it is Waterford was completely rained out when we arrived on Saturday. Confined to the house, we had to make our own fun, a task made remarkably easier when you’ve just stocked up enough beer to host a George Best memorial drinking competition. Jennifer helped matters by cooking an amazing meal, supplemented with some fine banter (there’s no bias here by the way – among many other things Jennifer is a great cook). Now that we were drunk and well fed, Pat produced his secret weapon: a game called Snatch. The best way of summing the game up is to imagine if Scrabble had been invented by a thieving bastard. The object of the game is to make words from lettered tiles upturned one at a time, but said words can be stolen by other participants to make new words. Needless to say as I was pissed and wrecked I didn’t excel and instead I retreated to bed.
Now the thing with parties involving my Jennifer is this: don’t expect a good night’s kip. Built by the American military to out party the Soviets in the 1980s, Jennifer doesn’t suffer faders to any great extent. As such John and she spent the whole night boozing and singing songs by Bob Dylan and Bright Eyes. Sleep I did not get.
Waking up more refreshed than I should have, and having a kickass fry up to boot; Dangle, Pat, your good narrator and Ms Bones headed into Waterford to enjoy some of what Spraoi had to offer. As one might imagine for a street festival given the appalling weather, a number of the activities were either cancelled or being staged indoors but one of the shows we did get to see made the trip into town worth it. The show in question was the Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain, whose repertoire extended from jazz standards to rock classics to classical music and in some great places a mix of the whole three. You haven’t lived until you’ve heard “Wuthering Heights” and Handel’s Messiah on a Ukulele.
Once back at the house, it was time for that rarest of beasts: a gazebo barbeque. After consuming a number of barbecued fatted calves John made a disturbing realisation: "after this crate of beer, and the other two crates beer there's only 2 crates left!". In the panic that ensued we returned to Tesco and made off with substantial supplies to last the night. Once this was accomplished we decided that it was time to see what Spraoi could really offer. It was time to go bushing at the festival parade in true Galway style: avec Buckfast.
Buckfast, or as I prefer to call it hobofuel, is the perfect drink for these occasions. Despite making you pissed as a fart, Buckfast’s diabetes inducing sugar content gives you the energy to stay alert and active all night (whether you’re compos mentis is another question). Being a champion of the stuff, I had over the past number of months converted Ms Bones to its tender pleasures. With a bottle of the brown stuff to hand, we all trundled down to the quays to watch the parade.
Hobofuel or no hobofuel, the parade was brilliant. Having a western theme it was chocked full of every cowboy and Indian film cliché around, with salons and honky tonks, drunken sheriffs etc. Once the parade was over (and we had hidden our drunken antics from the tallest guard I’ve ever seen) we then followed the crowd to the quayside where we were treated to a first rate fireworks display while liberally imbibing alcohol. One of the few drawbacks of al fresco drinking is that you’re vulnerable to intrusion from randomers. Deciding it was a good idea to start baiting the locals, Peter and John were set upon by semi-feral children brandishing cans of silly string. That they escaped with their lives (their dignity was forfeited long ago) can only be a matter of good fortune.
Once we had regrouped, we then set off to Downes pub, a bar that is rightly considered the best in Waterford. With logic firmly put to bed, conversation hinged on smut (thanks to Dangle), Joyce’s Ulysses, Waterford hurling among many, many more all of which were fuelled by Downes unique No 9 whisky in addition to the booze we smuggled in. However, with all this craic and energy, momentum was building up that was propelling the night beyond the confines of the pub. With heading back to the house ruled out, we decided to try the Spraoi Festival Club.
However there was one small problem with this. Due to our wastrel antics by the time we got to the club, they had closed the door and weren’t letting anyone else in. For most other people this would provide a sufficient barrier to entry. Luckily for us, Jennifer considered this to be a trifling matter and after 20 minutes of arguing with the security staff we all got in.
The club turned out to be absolutely hopping once we were inside. Playing on the main stage was a band called Torann who played thumping rhythmic drums creating a sound that could best be described as rave via the medium of tribal drumming. They had the crowd, us included, dancing like savages to the extent that John felt compelled to take off his jacket and top and go searching for women. The rest of the night was spent dancing like a loon to 80’s music in a DJ lounge upstairs, manned by a local Thin Lizzy fanatic.
Getting home after the club was a less enjoyable task. Waterford' taxi fleet is not particularly large and Jennifer’s house was too far on unsteady, danced-out legs. In our attempts to hail a cab we encountered nothing but chip shop queues and in one memorable instance a couple of rent boys coming out of a park (well that’s what Dangle claimed they were). Only once Jennifer had sufficient strings pulled and had favours called in did we all finally get a taxi home.
When we woke up on Monday there was, as perhaps the American Military would say, a lot of “collateral damage”. John perhaps was the worst of our number as, due to alcohol intake that can only be described as heroic, he had fallen to sleep in a bathtub after I had dragged him off the pavement outside with no memory of the festival club (or his attempts to crack on to a certain Ms Bones ***cough cough***). However the patented Irish hangover cure of a fry up helped restore matters somewhat and the rest of the morning/afternoon was spent piecing together whatever recollections that existed of the night before.
And that was that. The Flee to Spraoi had run its course. We had learned that Waterford could be a fun place if you tried hard enough and that it was possible to survive a weekend of insanity even if your dignity (and/or immune system) didn’t.
What is always liable to catch people off guard about travelling from Galway to Waterford is actually how hard it is to get there. Getting to the occasionally sunny south east involves travelling through such centres of inbreeding as Oola, Boher, Cahir and Gort. Such a journey is not aided by roads that are as far from Autobahns as you can go without careering over dirt tracks and is invariably made worse when there are 5 people squashed into a car and with nothing to do but play 20 questions.
So, you may ask, what would tempt anyone to make such a journey? Well in this case it was an event dubbed the Flee to Spraoi; a weekend of merriment and intoxication that was being hosted by Jennifer (who happens among other accomplishments to be my girlfriend) in conjunction with Spraoi, a street theatre and music festival that counts as one of Waterford's few contributions to culture (after the "blah" of course, it’s pretty much a bap but don’t tell them that).
Travelling down to Waterford from Galway was Ms Bones, Peter, John, Pat and my good self while waiting for us with Jennifer was one Dangle Roughly. We'd all been friends for years through college with the exception of John, a Dub who showed up in Galway at the start of the summer with a guitar on his back, an inexhaustible supply of crazy stories and a thirst for drink. Unsurprisingly he gelled with us immediately.
The Irish summer being what it is Waterford was completely rained out when we arrived on Saturday. Confined to the house, we had to make our own fun, a task made remarkably easier when you’ve just stocked up enough beer to host a George Best memorial drinking competition. Jennifer helped matters by cooking an amazing meal, supplemented with some fine banter (there’s no bias here by the way – among many other things Jennifer is a great cook). Now that we were drunk and well fed, Pat produced his secret weapon: a game called Snatch. The best way of summing the game up is to imagine if Scrabble had been invented by a thieving bastard. The object of the game is to make words from lettered tiles upturned one at a time, but said words can be stolen by other participants to make new words. Needless to say as I was pissed and wrecked I didn’t excel and instead I retreated to bed.
Now the thing with parties involving my Jennifer is this: don’t expect a good night’s kip. Built by the American military to out party the Soviets in the 1980s, Jennifer doesn’t suffer faders to any great extent. As such John and she spent the whole night boozing and singing songs by Bob Dylan and Bright Eyes. Sleep I did not get.
Waking up more refreshed than I should have, and having a kickass fry up to boot; Dangle, Pat, your good narrator and Ms Bones headed into Waterford to enjoy some of what Spraoi had to offer. As one might imagine for a street festival given the appalling weather, a number of the activities were either cancelled or being staged indoors but one of the shows we did get to see made the trip into town worth it. The show in question was the Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain, whose repertoire extended from jazz standards to rock classics to classical music and in some great places a mix of the whole three. You haven’t lived until you’ve heard “Wuthering Heights” and Handel’s Messiah on a Ukulele.
Once back at the house, it was time for that rarest of beasts: a gazebo barbeque. After consuming a number of barbecued fatted calves John made a disturbing realisation: "after this crate of beer, and the other two crates beer there's only 2 crates left!". In the panic that ensued we returned to Tesco and made off with substantial supplies to last the night. Once this was accomplished we decided that it was time to see what Spraoi could really offer. It was time to go bushing at the festival parade in true Galway style: avec Buckfast.
Buckfast, or as I prefer to call it hobofuel, is the perfect drink for these occasions. Despite making you pissed as a fart, Buckfast’s diabetes inducing sugar content gives you the energy to stay alert and active all night (whether you’re compos mentis is another question). Being a champion of the stuff, I had over the past number of months converted Ms Bones to its tender pleasures. With a bottle of the brown stuff to hand, we all trundled down to the quays to watch the parade.
Hobofuel or no hobofuel, the parade was brilliant. Having a western theme it was chocked full of every cowboy and Indian film cliché around, with salons and honky tonks, drunken sheriffs etc. Once the parade was over (and we had hidden our drunken antics from the tallest guard I’ve ever seen) we then followed the crowd to the quayside where we were treated to a first rate fireworks display while liberally imbibing alcohol. One of the few drawbacks of al fresco drinking is that you’re vulnerable to intrusion from randomers. Deciding it was a good idea to start baiting the locals, Peter and John were set upon by semi-feral children brandishing cans of silly string. That they escaped with their lives (their dignity was forfeited long ago) can only be a matter of good fortune.
Once we had regrouped, we then set off to Downes pub, a bar that is rightly considered the best in Waterford. With logic firmly put to bed, conversation hinged on smut (thanks to Dangle), Joyce’s Ulysses, Waterford hurling among many, many more all of which were fuelled by Downes unique No 9 whisky in addition to the booze we smuggled in. However, with all this craic and energy, momentum was building up that was propelling the night beyond the confines of the pub. With heading back to the house ruled out, we decided to try the Spraoi Festival Club.
However there was one small problem with this. Due to our wastrel antics by the time we got to the club, they had closed the door and weren’t letting anyone else in. For most other people this would provide a sufficient barrier to entry. Luckily for us, Jennifer considered this to be a trifling matter and after 20 minutes of arguing with the security staff we all got in.
The club turned out to be absolutely hopping once we were inside. Playing on the main stage was a band called Torann who played thumping rhythmic drums creating a sound that could best be described as rave via the medium of tribal drumming. They had the crowd, us included, dancing like savages to the extent that John felt compelled to take off his jacket and top and go searching for women. The rest of the night was spent dancing like a loon to 80’s music in a DJ lounge upstairs, manned by a local Thin Lizzy fanatic.
Getting home after the club was a less enjoyable task. Waterford' taxi fleet is not particularly large and Jennifer’s house was too far on unsteady, danced-out legs. In our attempts to hail a cab we encountered nothing but chip shop queues and in one memorable instance a couple of rent boys coming out of a park (well that’s what Dangle claimed they were). Only once Jennifer had sufficient strings pulled and had favours called in did we all finally get a taxi home.
When we woke up on Monday there was, as perhaps the American Military would say, a lot of “collateral damage”. John perhaps was the worst of our number as, due to alcohol intake that can only be described as heroic, he had fallen to sleep in a bathtub after I had dragged him off the pavement outside with no memory of the festival club (or his attempts to crack on to a certain Ms Bones ***cough cough***). However the patented Irish hangover cure of a fry up helped restore matters somewhat and the rest of the morning/afternoon was spent piecing together whatever recollections that existed of the night before.
And that was that. The Flee to Spraoi had run its course. We had learned that Waterford could be a fun place if you tried hard enough and that it was possible to survive a weekend of insanity even if your dignity (and/or immune system) didn’t.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Electric Picnicity
Mayhem and chaos and wildness and tumult and general commotion has been my life for the past 10 days. Not only did I learn how to Sound Op a play in a one day crash course but I also did a job interview (yet another one), checked out 3 rooms in Dublin (not one that was habitable) and attended my first Electric Picnic in Stradbally, Co Laois.
Phew.
And for all that I'm still unemployed and homeless :(
The play was very strange and wonderful 'Biography of Bernie Ward' by Jesse Weaver being produced by Painted Filly Theatre. It was on in Players' Theatre in TCD so it was nice to be back on familiar stomping grounds. The play involved a hell of a lot of phones ringing and being answered so I had to be on the ball to make sure the sound effects lined up ie avoid "hello? *ring ring*" from happening.
The play also involved on-stage masturbation, sex-change operations, exhumation of dead bodies and a ghost. Seeing the reactions of the crowds every night was most entertaining.
We headed down to Stradbally early on friday morning avoiding all traffic and getting tents etc set up in a good location nice and early. Jennifer the wonder-organiser had a huge gazebo with her which proved a real asset as a place to sit and chat sheltered from the breeze and (fortunately infrequent) rain. I knew a tonne of people at it; old school and college buddies, people who had been to India with me and even (kept running into him) my brother.
There was a huge variety of music at it, good comedians, great food stalls (mmm sushi) and loads of great hippie weirdness like 'peace gardens', an inflatable church and random art everywhere.
My most enjoyable moments involved:
The Polyphonic Spree's joyous cover of Lithium by Nirvana,
Modest Mouse playing with Johnny Marr,
Bjork's colourful mayhem,
Duke Special's band crowd surfing at the end of his gig,
Rahzeal the wicked human beat box with the Mixmaster Mike,
Dublin Gospel Choir Sunday morning,
NUI, Galway Dram Soc's Complete Works of Shakespeare--really hilarious,
Dancing is some random Reggae hut with the girls 4am sun morning
AND
basically just being in a fun happy place with loads of mates.
I'll be back.
Meanwhile I have managed to procure some paid employment with the Dublin Fringe Festival working in the Spiegeltent for the next few weeks ( http://www.spiegeltent.net/) which should be interesting.
*Sigh* Yet more mayhem to come....
Phew.
And for all that I'm still unemployed and homeless :(
The play was very strange and wonderful 'Biography of Bernie Ward' by Jesse Weaver being produced by Painted Filly Theatre. It was on in Players' Theatre in TCD so it was nice to be back on familiar stomping grounds. The play involved a hell of a lot of phones ringing and being answered so I had to be on the ball to make sure the sound effects lined up ie avoid "hello? *ring ring*" from happening.
The play also involved on-stage masturbation, sex-change operations, exhumation of dead bodies and a ghost. Seeing the reactions of the crowds every night was most entertaining.
We headed down to Stradbally early on friday morning avoiding all traffic and getting tents etc set up in a good location nice and early. Jennifer the wonder-organiser had a huge gazebo with her which proved a real asset as a place to sit and chat sheltered from the breeze and (fortunately infrequent) rain. I knew a tonne of people at it; old school and college buddies, people who had been to India with me and even (kept running into him) my brother.
There was a huge variety of music at it, good comedians, great food stalls (mmm sushi) and loads of great hippie weirdness like 'peace gardens', an inflatable church and random art everywhere.
My most enjoyable moments involved:
The Polyphonic Spree's joyous cover of Lithium by Nirvana,
Modest Mouse playing with Johnny Marr,
Bjork's colourful mayhem,
Duke Special's band crowd surfing at the end of his gig,
Rahzeal the wicked human beat box with the Mixmaster Mike,
Dublin Gospel Choir Sunday morning,
NUI, Galway Dram Soc's Complete Works of Shakespeare--really hilarious,
Dancing is some random Reggae hut with the girls 4am sun morning
AND
basically just being in a fun happy place with loads of mates.
I'll be back.
Meanwhile I have managed to procure some paid employment with the Dublin Fringe Festival working in the Spiegeltent for the next few weeks ( http://www.spiegeltent.net/) which should be interesting.
*Sigh* Yet more mayhem to come....
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