Tequila Slammers

Before starting college, I worked in a Manor House Hotel called, Redmond Hall. It was a spectacular building. A half mile of private road ran through rolling hills and woods. Ancient trees towered over all who approached, reinforcing the status of those who lived in such splendour. Once it was the seat of a warlord, who butchered and plundered. Now it was a retreat for the rich and famous.

The road circled each side of a cascading tiered lawn before joining again at the entrance. The main building was three stories high, crowned with parapets and a majestic dome. At each end, a two-story annex extended in welcoming embrace. The rear of the building boasted more gardens, and a terrace, perched above a meandering river, 60 steps below. The main door of the hotel did a lot to describe the place; it was perpetually closed. Entry was a privilege, not a right. There were only a small number of bedrooms but they were all palatial. Prices were not displayed or discussed.

The staff quarters were a different story entirely. Mothers nightmares were made of this place. Dozens of hot-blooded teenagers and early twenties all living on top of each other. It was fantastic! Drinking, parties, fights and sex; the four pillars of youth. I’ve loads of stories from this place.

Once, at Christmas, we had a group of rich couples check in for the holidays. They were VIP's, nothing was out of bounds. Before dinner, the champagne was flowing. Toasts were made and the halls rang with high spirited laughter. They dined like kings, finishing the meal with vintage ports and cigars. Later, they settled themselves around the marble fireplace in the library. Even though they all had drinks they asked me to bring them a bottle of Tequila, lemonade, and some tall glasses.

"Squiddie," giggled Mrs Ryan, as I put the bottle in the middle of the table. She grabbed me from behind and pulled me into her lap. Mrs Ryan was a stunning woman, so I was not all that upset, but the fact her husband was sitting right across the table was weird, to say the least.

"You get the first one Squiddie," she cooed into my ear, while splashing tequila into a glass. I was still only seventeen and the warmth of her bosoms was giving me an expanding issue, if you know what I mean.

"I would love one, but the boss will kill me," I said, trying to free myself from her encircling arms.

"It's a tradition," her husband said, shoving the glass closer. "We always get the bar man drunk. Last year, poor Sean got so plastered he went arse over-head, all the way down to the river."

"I can't. I just can't," I pleaded, noticing the owner appear in the doorway. I looked beseechingly in her direction, but all she did was shrug her shoulders.

Mrs Ryan was persuasive but I remained resolute. It was at this point one of the other women at the table decided to lend a hand, in this case literally. Mrs McLaughlin leaned forward laying her fingers high up on my thigh. She was in her late twenties, while her husband was forty-five if he was a day. He was a big name in men's clothing, apparently, and not short of a few quid by the look of the diamond on her finger.

"It's Christmas Squiddie, everyone deserves a little fun. Have one for me," Mrs McLaughlin said. Her long red nails making gentle strokes on the inside of my leg, moving fractionally up each time. This was not helping at all. Soon things were going to get really embarrassing. I looked at the boss again who nodded her head saying, go on.

"Alright so. But just the one,"  

"Wahay," they coursed, and Mr McLaughlin filled the rest of the glasses.

The third couple at the table were Alison Wiseman and her husband Ben. I liked them the best. She was in her thirty's, slim, with a radiant smile. She had long auburn hair that hung in gentle waves on her shoulders.

"Have you ever had a Slammer before Squiddie?" asked Mrs Wiseman from her position on the couch next to Mrs Ryan. As I was currently sitting on Mrs Ryan, she was technically sitting next to me as well. For a moment I was lost in her deep brown eyes. She looked searchingly into mine and the air about my head crackled with electricity. Mrs Wiseman was more intoxicating than any drink. It might have only been a second but to me it seemed much longer. I felt my cheeks go red when I said “No.”

"Here is how you do it," she said, taking a glass from the table. "One measure of Tequila and about the same amount of lemonade. You need a tall glass because it will fizz up. Put a couple of beer mats over the top of the glass and give it a good, sharp, thump, then drink it all down in one go. Just like this." Mrs Wiseman covered her glass with a beer mat and put her hand over the top. She lifted the glass about a foot off the table. SLAM! The glass hit the timber a fair wallop. I thought it was going to smash. Inside, the liquid exploded into a mass of white foam. She downed the lot in one go, throwing her head way back. A little of the foam escaped and ran down the silky skin of her throat. When the glass was empty, she drew the back of her hand across her lips, wiping away the spilled liquid. Her deep brown eyes played across my face intimately, and for longer than was polite, in front of a husband.

"Now you," Mrs Wiseman said, her voice husky with the burn of the Tequila.

Slam went my glass. I chugged down the foaming drink, the bite of Tequila making my eyes water, but I got it all down. My nose tickled from the foam and my stomach burned with the heat of alcohol. That’s when the coughing started, and kept coming, until a little foam came out my nose. They laughed as I half choked. All the time, Mrs Ryan was massaging my back, discretely. Mrs Wiseman put her glass on the table and leaned very close to me, until we were eye to eye, her hands cupped my face, her thumb wiped away the flecks of foam from my lips.

"See," she said, "that wasn't so bad." She kissed me slowly, on the left cheek, the corner of her mouth played across mine, which left me breathless.

"Another, another," chanted Ben Wiseman.

"Nope that's it," I said, finally releasing myself from Mrs Ryan's grasp.

"Not so fast young lad," said Mr McLaughlin. "Once the bottle open, you have to finish it."

"I can't drink a whole bottle of Tequila," I said in dismay.

"Well if you don't then the girls get to take advantage of you," he said.

"Feck off, yea messer. I got to get back or I'll get the sack," I said picking up a few glasses. At last I managed to make my escape.

***

For the rest of that night, the bottle of Tequila stayed on the table. Every time I took a round of drinks over, they made me sit on one of the women and do another slammer. I managed about five before I felt them kicking in with a vengeance. By this time, most of the residents were in bed, and the lights were dimmed all over the hotel. The glow of the fire sent shadows dancing around the room, while Mr Ryan strummed a guitar. I wobbled over to their table with a fresh bottle of champagne. Yet again, they tried to make me have another slammer.

"No way lads," I said. "I can't drink anymore." By now, they were all well drunk themselves.

"Is that your final word on it Squiddie?" said Mr Ryan while he strummed a chord.

"Afraid so," I said, full of alcohol powered confidence.

"He's all yours, girls," Mr Ryan said to the delight of the group. The three women jumped to their feet, surrounding me, rubbing my hair, stroking my shoulders and chest.

"Ha, very funny," I said.

"I don't think they’re joking," said Mr McLaughlin. "You better be able for all three of them, or they will be upset."

The girls started to drag me away towards the door. I decided to play along with the joke, and give the lads a laugh. I made a play of looking over my shoulder and calling back to the men. "See you in an hour or so."

Once out in the hall I stopped walking, but the women had other ideas. I tried planting my feet but they just pulled harder. I was holding my own up to the point Alison Wiseman tripped me. The other two grabbed my legs and pulled me along the hall, into the lady’s toilet. Once inside, Mrs Wiseman sat on my chest, her knees and hands holding my arms to the floor. She was laughing; loving every minute.

"Ah come on now, Mrs Wiseman, enough is enough," I said, half laughing but getting a bit nervous. What exactly was going on? More to the point how much did they think was coming off. Okay, all men might think that having three lovely women drag you into the toilets would be a dream come true. If I was a man, it might well be, but to a teenager, it was majorly unnerving.

"Relax," she said. "It's only a bit of fun." I was still hoping she meant a joke on the boys. As Alison Wiseman's lovely brown, but slightly bloodshot, eyes stared into mine, Mrs Ryan and Mrs McLaughlin stripped my shoes and sox. Mrs Ryan then moved up and kneeled above my head. She took off my bow-tie and began unbuttoning my shirt. With each button she got closer and closer to the area I was having difficulty distracting myself from. No not that area, but Alison's crotch. She had to lift herself off my chest to allow Mrs Ryan's hand move lower, for more buttons.

Seizing the opportunity, I bucked and sent Mrs Wiseman toppling off me. I jumped to my feet and made for the door. They tried to stop me but I had too much of a head start. I pulled open the door and came face to face with the owners fifteen-year-old daughter. She’d been in the kitchen, making a midnight snack, when she heard all the commotion. Finding a shoeless, soxless and nearly shirtless, bar man coming out of the women's loo with three drunken women right behind him could only seem bad. No way was I staying there to explain. I just pushed past saying, "It's not what it looks like."

Everyone had a great laugh at my experience. The men couldn’t care less how far the women had managed to get. When I had a chance to get myself pulled together, I went in search of my shoes and sox, but they were on the missing list. Shoes or no shoes, I had to finish out the shift. For rest of the night I was serving drinks barefoot, but at least they didn't try to make me drink any more slammers, or sleep with anyone's wife.

The next day my shoes were found hanging from the Christmas tree in the lobby. I often wonder what could have happened in that toilet had I only struggled just that little bit less.

Stephen My Brother

Some people are blessed with perfect families. I was just blessed.

I want to tell you a little about my brother. He was born just over a year after I arrived. For the first three day's of his life everything was perfect. On day three my world changed. A tiny virus so small it can't be seen wrecked everything. Stephen was only day's old when he got meningitis. The worst kind of nightmare illness. I was only a baby myself so knew nothing of the horror that was unfolding in my family. This tiny invisible thing wrecked havoc on my parents and my brother.

For days Stephen fought for his life. The doctors and nurses worked, my parents were devastated, I was oblivious while most important my brother refused to give even an inch to this monster. An adult may come through such a thing once in a dozen cases, a three day old baby, one in a million. That is my brother for you, one in a million.

When you live so closely with another person you are not aware of differences. That is how it is with us. To others he had problems. They could see them but not me. He was always my brother, nothing more. The virus caused his head to swell as a baby, it was half again as big as mine. I just called him big head. He had trouble balancing. I climbed, he did not. He struggled in learning, so what. I was oblivious to any differences.

That changed one sunny day when I was in first class. Stephen was in senior infants. I came out for big break and found him crying in the yard. He would not tell me what was wrong, he just cried and tried to hide away from everyone. My best friends brother told me a boy in Stephens class called Niall Reddington had been bullying him, calling him names and pushing him around. I can still feel the rage I felt that day.

I cried hysterically with fury. Not little tears but huge sobs from deep in my chest. I never knew hate but that changed. I wanted to kill that boy, really kill him. I went after him but Thomas and a few others physically held me down. Pinned me to the ground while I cried and fought to be free. In the end it was Stephen that stopped me from hurting Reddington. He  came up to me and asked what was wrong, was I ok. He did not understand that it was his tears that had triggered my melt down. To him  I came first, my pain superseded his. To this day I have never forgiven Reddington for bullying my brother and never will. I don't know what Stephen thinks because he never mentioned it again.

This was the first time but not the last time for such horrible incidents. Each one galvanising a rage in me I would otherwise be incapable of. I am sorry to say I have dealt out punishments with a vengeance that scared me. Sometimes I felt outside myself, it was terrifying. I wish I could say that the bullies were always so easy to deal with. I cant. Of all the shitty things I have done in my life there is only one I would go back and change at any cost. It's is a simple game of fort.

I was about 8 and Stephen 7. We were living in the haunted house in Galway. Dad had just begun adding on a bathroom. He had a land drain and a septic tank sunk into the field out the back of the house. It was summer and the neighbours kids had come over to play. The clay had dried into lumps that exploded with puffs when thrown. The clouds of dust were just like hand grenades to an eight year old mind. We had formed two army's and took up defensive positions on either side of  the open tank. Thomas commanding one battalion and me the other. Stephen wanted to play. To my shame I did not want him on my team. I shoved him and made him leave,  not letting him play with us. Even now typing these words the shame of this simple betrayal makes my skin crawl. He left in tears. Stephen nearly never cried. He walked away quietly. Even then not wanting to make a big scene.  As we played that day I knew in my eight year old brain my sole was tainted forever. His look of disappointment is burned into my mind and I will never forgive my self for causing it.

We both went to the same primary school but after that I went to the Tec and he went to a different school. At least we were on the same bus. Stephen always sat beside the bus driver. Some times I did as well but others times I sat at the back with the other boys. I can't ever remember anyone being mean to Stephen or the others from his school on the bus. Mostly because Joe the bus driver was a scary dude and would have ripped you a new arsehole if you were.

After finishing secondary school I went to college in Dublin, Stephen stayed home. He kept some birds and worked in a local pottery centre. He loved both of these things. He never smoked, never drank or chased women. These were my pursuits. I never noticed how he had changed but looking at photos now it easy to see his health was waning. About a year into my college life I got a call to say that Stephen was sick and to come home.

He had a tumour in his spine. It was causing him to have pins and needles as well as making his balance worse. The doctors wanted to operate but it was not straight forward. This tumour was actually attached to his spine. He went in on a Friday for the operation and that was the last time I saw him standing by himself.

When he woke from the anaesthetic he began to spasm with pain. Not an ache. Spasms of pain so intense his whole body would arch in agony. Only his head and heels remaining in contact with the bed. Slowly it would abate only to happen again minutes later. Again and again it would happen until between the drugs and exhaustion he would collapse into sleep. I slept in a chair by his side during these nights. The rest of the family stayed with him during the days. The hospital did not ask us to leave or even respect visiting hours. They gave us coffee and sympathy. Between the spasms if you asked Stephen how he was doing. He looked at you with those innocent eyes and said "I'm fine," only to be bowed with agony a moment later.


That is the most wonderful thing about Stephen. He never once felt sorry for himself. If I was in his shoes I would have raged against the world. Not him. He was always fine, never gave out, never once complained or was even in a bad humour. That has been said about a lot of people. When I say never, I mean never with capital letters.

What ever my brothers illness took from him it also gave him gifts. He never knew what it was to tell a lie. (Not that his truths were easy to take). A contrary old neighbour once said to Stephen in front of my mother "Your such a good boy, would you not come and live with me."
To which Stephen replied "I would rather sleep in the ditch"
"Stephen!!" my mother scolded  but he just looked perplexed and said "What? it's the truth". Even my mother had to admit he had a point.
He had no greed in him and was granted patience and good nature enough for a nation.


For years his condition worsened. His mobility slowly decreased. He began using a stick, then a walker until at last he ended up needing a wheelchair. His spine began to twist, his hearing became weak. He was loosing feeling in his legs by the day. At last he was called to the specialist office with Dad.

"Stephen" he said " we can do something about the curve in your spine but it will mean that you will never walk again."
Stephen just said with all his normal candour " I cant walk now, what difference will that make" another life changing decision made simple.
He never let his difficulties stop him doing anything. He still cared for his birds, went to work, cooked his own meals. He directed his life on his terms. Once the operation to fix the curve in his spine went ahead, the pace of his problems increased. With the lack of movement came pressure sores and infections. In the beginning they were once and a while. But soon became more frequent.

I don't want to go into the years of hell that he endured, hundreds of painful procedures, dozens of infections, countless hours of probing and humiliation all taken without one word of complaint. Not one word ever!

Stephen was 33 when I got a call to say he was back in Hospital and it was not good this time. He had kidney infection and was not fending it off. They rushed him to Dublin where they did everything they could but by now none of the drugs were working. A week later they sent him home to our local hospital were he could be near his family for the end. He died in the ambulance on the way back but Stephen would not be told what or when to do anything. It was on his terms or none at all.   He died, but refuse to leave. Back he came.

A hour turned into four and then a night. Stephen was still with us but his body was running on pure will. The infection spread to his lung. Slowly the fluid began to build As he lay in his bed he began to drown. The doctors increased his medication to make him comfortable. Day and night one of us were by his side. I was alone with him when a miracle happened.

It was a little after four am when his movements changed. His breathing became less laboured and he opened his eyes. I stood and leaned over his face. His eyes were looking around and seemed to be taking in the room for the first time since his medication was increased. I smiled and he looked directly at me. I held up my thumbs and shouted " IS EVERYTHING OK" what a stupid thing to say.
I saw his mind registering who I was and putting together what I was trying to say to him. That was when he said the words that broke my heart and still break my heart now.

"I'm fine".

Having endured more than any other person I have ever known he said I'm fine. Then he faded back into sleep. He never woke again. He fought and fought for another five days but his body could not take it any more. I sat in the room with mam, dad and my sister when he took in his last breath before slowly leaving it all the way out. Never to take another. Hours earlier I had silently pleaded with whatever god was out there to take him and not make us suffer like this.

When his chest did not rise again I was relieved. I want to say that I was relieved for him but it was for me. I don't think I could cope anymore with such agony. Selfish, selfish, SELFISH!!! Another moment I will hate myself for eternally. Tears dribbled into my shirt as I mourned the passing of the bravest man I will ever know. Not for the way he left this world but how he had spend every hour since he had been born 33 years earlier.

I love you Stephen and your always with me.

Profile Porkies

I spent some time today on facebook. I like having a nose through the lives of my friends without them knowing. But after an hour I was getting a bit depressed and convinced I was doing something wrong in my life.

Everywhere I looked there were smiling photos at gigs, concerts, clubs, parties and other random days out. People were constantly signing in at fancy restaurants, city breaks or far flung shores. I was getting distressed at the exciting lives everyone was having. I seemed to be left out of the loop on all this frivolity.

It got even more confusing when I came across a post from Liam Daly which said "Having a Fab night at the new Superman Movie with  XXX and YYY" (Names are hidden to protect the innocent).

Liam is the most miserable sod I have ever come across and that is saying something. If there was a world championships of misery Ireland would be unbeatable. I only ever seen Liam smile when he thought of something to gripe about. The locals in the bar have taken to calling him "Les" behind his back. As in "Les Miserables" . In my minds eye I could see him sitting in the cinema complaining about the cost of the popcorn. Droning on about how this new movie was not a patch on the original blah blah blah. Poor X and Y.

It must be a lie. If he was having such a fab time at the movie what the hell was he doing on his phone. If that is a lie, what about everything else. Is it all a lie, the whole flipping thing is just one humungous sham? Facebook my arse.

Why do we really go on to these websites. Is it to catch up with friends and loved ones? The more I think about it the more I am  not sure. Looking at my own time line with a cynical point of view I realised I was putting up things that would reflect well on me. Not always necessarily the unvarnished truth. How may of us think first thing in the morning "I must post a photo of this on my time line". Hair sticking wildly in all directions. Half a beard, mouth feeling like a canary has been nesting there. Peeing blindly in the general direction  of the bowl while snapping away with the old i-phone. I don't think the world is ready for that sight yet.

Just as rarely will you read "Feeling cranky as hell right now & my boss is an Enormous Prick!!!" on status updates.

Such moments are part of life, the majority of it perhaps. We don't roll from one amazing experience to another. Highlights are punctuation points in sentences of mild drudgery. I am starting to think the facebook's of the world are just masks people wear. Wanting us to think that they are living life to the full. Posting pictures in the company of the fabulous people extends beauty to ourselves. Likewise with fame. All this is the search for the grail of popularity.

I am proud to say I have never know a perfect person. If I did, I doubt i'd like them. I love my friends in spite of their faults or even because of them. They must be a forgiving bunch to be friends with me. I have far more faults that I care to admit. Some day's I honestly don't even like myself. Why should others. I think real friends remember your good points even when you have forgotten them yourself. They don't need status updates to remind them that, even though your are being an "Enormous Prick" right now most of the time your fairly sound. My friends are my diamonds, rare and beyond value.

To anyone out there feeling a little less than wonderful today. Take some solace in the knowledge everyone looks crap in the morning and has more down times than good. Take a chance and let someone into your life as a friend. Expect them to let you down a little and be less than perfect. You wont be disappointed.

Blind Date

I just had to share this little story with you all. With my hand on my heart, every word I’m about to tell you is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

Last Friday night, I had a country music band booked for a dance. I'm aware that a lot of people reading this are living across the pond in good old US of A. I want you to put from your minds any thoughts of, Brad Paisley, or Rascal Flats; rocking stadiums full of ecstatic twenty something’s. Country music here tends to attract a more mature audience. Older couples lazily circling the floor in a shuffling three step and last Friday night was shaping up to be no different.

As I got the back bar ready for opening, the band were setting up. Bursts of drum- machine blared out occasionally. Guitars were coaxed into some form of tune. The band was called, Country Kings, but their gear had seen better days. Everything supported a myriad of chips and scratches. No two pieces matched. Cables were held together with miles of Duct-tape.

However bad the equipment was, the two boys using it were in far worse condition. They wheezed as they dragged flight cases out of the back of a battered transit. I was sure that one of them would expire long before the first song played. Their massive beer guts suggested the only exercise either of these guys got started and finished at the elbow.

Like Noah's ark, the customers came in, two by two. Aging couples taking up their regular tables around the small dance floor. Cups of tea, a few soft drinks, and the odd pint was all I could hope to sell to this crowd.

At quarter to ten, the musicians waddled toward the stage with pints filling every available hand. I was glad they had gone from their perch near the bar. One of them had constantly farted, not caring about the nostrils of those around him. I would have said something but I couldn’t figure out which one of them was doing it. With a burst of feedback, they launched into the first song of the night.

As the evening progressed, I saw an older couple who looked at home in this crowd in the company of a younger couple, which I took to be son and daughter, sitting at a table away from the dance floor. What made them stand out was that they were very well dressed for a night at a pub dance. Eventually, the older man came to the bar for a round of drinks.

"Grand evening," I said as I poured his order.

"Sure it is, thank God. Mind you, we could do with a bit of rain soon." Right away I knew he was a farmer. Only a farmer would look for rain during the only sunny day we've had for years. He tone was harsh; you could tell this man was his own boss.

"True enough," I agreed. Being a bar man, I would agree with just about anyone, at least until the cash hit the till.

"Are you on a family night out?" I asked, nodding towards the three still sitting at the table.

"In a way," he said, not looking at all pleased with the fact. "That's our daughter. The lad is her…friend."

The hesitation was hard to miss. I took a look at the uncomfortable looking young lad, he seemed alright to me.

"He seems alright to me," I offered, calling a spade a spade. The old man leaned closer over the bar in a conspiratorial way.

"They meet on the internet. His name is Simon."

"That's nothing strange these days. I hear a lot of people are doing this internet dating. I was nearly going to give it a go myself," I say, trying to make the old man feel a little better about things. "How long have they been together?" I asked.

"They only just meet."

"This week?"

"No, tonight," he said, without a hint of a humour.

 I was stunned. I put his pint on the counter and had to check. "So they are on a date, here, tonight? Their first date?"

"Yea," the man said, taking a sip from his pint and throwing the young lad a sideways glance. "Me and the missus like to know who is taking our Sharon out. Anyway, this Internet thing is full of weirdo’s," he mused walking away with his four drinks.

I couldn't take my eyes off them for the rest of the night. The hard way the older couple were watching the young man across the table. The young girl somehow seemed less young. She acted like a shy teenager, but her eyes looked downtrodden. She seemed dwarfed by the looming personalities of her parents. The young man looked okay, I'm fairly good at spotting a wrong one. He sat ramrod straight in his chair, you could feel the stress radiating off him. In the end, the young man took the girl for a dance. Her parents never let them out of their sight. At one stage the father actually stood up to watch.

I saw the shame in the girl’s face, but also the resignation that comes with years of dominance. I wouldn't have bet even a bent penny that Simon would brave a second date. Deep down I hoped he would, for the girl’s sake. The romantic in me wanted him to whisk her away to some type of freedom.

Like I said, I wouldn't bet a bent penny.

With Sox

Summer time in Ireland is normally exactly like the winter, except the rain warms up. This year has been a fantastic departure from the norm, with nearly three weeks of unbroken sunshine so far and the promise of even more to come.

I think that the good weather brings out the best in nearly all women. They swish by in flowing dresses, lots of sun kissed skin, long bronzed legs and miniskirts. It makes driving a car near impossible. Well done girls! I know what you'r going to say, they can't all look like that. True, true, but girls are more in touch what brings out their best side, it's a skill that should be applauded. We've all seen the mistakes, laughed behind cupped hands, wearing that dress from five years ago but it seemed to have shrunk, or bedraggled cardigans over dresses made of discarded nuns' habits.  These examples only help to prove the rule. 

With that said, the Irish men of summer are a different breed. Mother of divine heaven, what happened to the men? At the first glimpse of sunshine, any guy who thinks he's got a half decent body whip's off the top, parading about with his t-shirt draped over a shoulder, or tied around his waist. I wish I could tell them how huge a mistake this is. Firstly, that skin hasn't seen ten minutes of sunshine in its entire time on the planet, it's whiter than the arctic snow. The sight of this, topped off with tufts of bum-fluff-chest-hair, will not make a woman go weak at the knees, or at least not with desire.

Another thing. What's with the walk? Yesterday all these lads could manage make it down the road like normal people. Today the council are out widening footpaths to make room for the swinging shoulders, puffed out chests and held in tummies. A beer belly is a beer belly whether you hold it in or not. Take a hint from the fairer sex on this one. Less is more.

Grand, get a bit of sun on that alabaster skin, but do it in your own backyard or at the beach. I must admit I've fallen victim to this in younger days but I hope I've learned from my mistakes. When you see a beautiful woman in a flowing skirt and crisp linen shirt, you have a fair idea what is underneath. Like in a good book, the hint of something lets the imagination take hold. A wistful picture more alluring than reality can achieve.

This brings me to my next bone of contention. WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU WEARING!!!! On a particularly warm evening my bar looked like a team of blind drag queens had gone riot in TK Max. Mad colours, bold patterns, nothing matching. Every pair of shorts look like they were made for someone either two feet taller or in some cases two stone lighter. One abomination had surpassed himself, he was kitted out from head to knee like Michael Jordan's midget albino cousin, then to finish it off he was wearing black leather shoes, and SOX! I wanted to poke my eyes out with a sharp stick.

Don't generalise, Squid, I hear you say. Guilty I'm afraid. There are some very stylish men out there and I am super jealous of them. They have the eye, and confidence, to know what looks good. They brave the jibes of the ignorant of multi-coloured buffoons. Sadly I don't live in their camp either. I've had my fashion disasters, time to hang my head. 

So, who am I to give advice? No one, but it seems everyone has an opinion these days, I like to stay with the crowd. In general I'd say I'm a tad dull. My resolution is to watch the best dressers and take a few hints, to learn from my betters and I encourage the bare chested out there to do the same. In the end its all a bit of fun. People should be happy in their skin, or clothes, whatever guise they take, but draw a line at the sox, for the love of God.

The Mix Tape

A girl came into my pub today, not this one, but the photo reminds me of her. We got chatting at the bar, while she had a cup of coffee. She was charming, funny, intelligent, and not so difficult to look at. We discussed books, movies, and music. I asked her what the first record she ever bought was? She looked at me like I had two heads.

"Do you mean CD?" she asked, genuinely

At that stage I realised two things. I actually did mean record, the shiny black disks I loved and stored in orange cases, during my youth. The second, was that this girl was a completely new generation to me. Both, were sad realisations.

As you do, when talking to beautiful young ladies, I covered up my gaff as best I could.

"Sure, CD, or even Download," I bluffed, and we went on from there. The conversation was vibrant, her smile flavoured her voice with cinnamon kisses. Her eyes laughed, and hinted at nights of abandon, not for me sadly, but some other lucky man, more like her. When the time came for her to leave, I felt real sorrow.

When she was gone, the bar was quiet and while I cleaned around the tables I thought again about the CD-record blunder, and the gulf that it represented between her generation and mine. For her, it will be all about download speeds, on line share sites, play lists, I-tunes and headphones. I don't get the emotional attachment that's possible with a download file.

I still remember my first record, I won't tell you what it was, because I would be embarrassed. But that record was my treasure, my precious. I played it eternally on a portable record player, which happened to be red. I only ever touch the edges, with stiff, careful, fingers. I would blow any dust from the groves, hold it to the light inspecting for new scratches, before laying a needle to the delicate vinyl. Each new scratch I found, hurt me as if it had appeared on my heart, rather than the vinyl. I had gathered an extensive record collection, until I had to leave home for college. The was the one down side of leaving home, moving all that with me, was just not an option. You went to the mountain, even if you were Mohammad.

During my college years, records were soon replaced by tapes. Much more transportable, thanks to the, "Walkman". Even still, I only had twelve tapes to keep me company as I moved from Dorm, to Digs. The intimate knowledge of making a mix-tape will mark you as a child of the 80's.

I loved mix tapes. I’m sure everyone did, in some form. I think this love was directly proportional to the time we had to put in to make them. The feelings in our heart directed each song to be picked. Always with the intended recipient at the front of our minds. Waiting by the radio, with fingers hovering over the record button, waiting for the damn DJ to shut up and stop talking over the intro. I’m sure they were doing it on purpose, to frustrate the legions of hormone-infested teenagers, putting angst into musical form.

We made mix-tapes for girls we fancied. Picking each song to give her subtle hints that screamed, " I THINK YOUR HOT!!!" As if giving someone a mix-tape wasn’t hint enough. We made tapes for making out, we made tapes to bring to parties, (only cool songs on these even if you hated them). But mostly we made tapes to ease a broken heart. Songs were picked, like music for a funeral mass. Once the tape was finished, it would play into the night, sending me too sleep with dreams of missed love.

These tapes the were perfect balm to spread on the wounds of romance, some of the scars still remain today. "Brass in Pocket," is my all-time favourite, and most used, breakup song.

My thoughts followed the girl from the bar and I wonder about her life. I wonder what things will be remembered as precious in her future. To be sure, they will be different than mine, but I imagine the building blocks will be the same. Each failed romance having an anthem, just the DJ's will be less of a nuisance. I smile to myself. I envy the one she might make a play-list for…but you will never beat a mix-tape!

The Haunted House

When I was six and a half, we moved to Connemara. For those of you that don't know Ireland well, this is the most westerly scrap of land in a part of Ireland called Connaught. It was said, the next stop on any journey through Connemara was America. It’s a wild and windswept place, fantastic cliffs and bays, cut by the constant pounding of Atlantic waves.

It may be pretty but you can't eat a nice view. The grey, limestone-bedrock lies under the thin skin of this county, like the ribs of a starving dog. So poor is the soil here that when the English's invaded, they occupied everything east of the River Shannon, while famously telling the displaced Irish rabble, "To Connaught or Hell".

Surviving on this barren headland was no easy task hundreds of years ago. The hardy men of the west managed as well they could. They fished from boats made of cow hide, sealed with tar. They gathered seaweed to spread on the meagre soil, fertilising it. Back breaking work done with a donkey if you were rich, or by hand if you were not. Many a back was flayed in this endeavour, rope cutting into flesh, dripping sea water and blood.

Galway is the main city in this area and is rightly called, "The city of the Tribes". People from all over Ireland flowed across the River Shannon, to make a new life. With no food, little work, or prospect of survival, mass emigration was the only choice. Coffin ships left port constantly. Tightly packed with eager but starving people, on this side of the ocean. Arriving near empty in the new world, leaving a trail of floating corpses in its wake. Millions fled in a time where journeys were measured in weeks and months. Such migrations are beyond our imagining today.

My family's move to the west took place late in the 1970's. The country was in recession and we had to follow the work where Dad could get it. He had finished his apprenticeship in Cork and worked for a number of years in the Ford Factory, before he was laid off.

"Sorry Tony," the foreman said. " Just the way things go."

Like that our little family was on its uppers. By now, Tony and Nancy had another boy and a little girl. I was the big brother and had to look out for them. I might not have under stood everything that was going on but I knew that something was wrong. I heard Mam crying in the night and thought she was having scary dreams. They were cross with each other sometimes, and Dad came home all wobbly and smelling funny once or twice.

In the end, we were all loaded into a beat-up Morris Minor, and followed the promise of a job in Galway city. The only down side to moving in my mind, was that I had to leave my school in Cork. Telling the truth, I didn't care one bit for the school, but Miss O'Brien was another matter. She was so tall and nice. She was always smiling and we played fun games every day. Even the lessons were fun. I think she liked me best, because she always put her hand on my shoulder when she taught me my ABC's. When mom said we were leaving, it broke my heart. I was inconsolable. I cried like I’d never cried before, or since. No matter what she told me, I knew I would never find another teacher like her.

I sulked while we loaded the car, and cried as we pulled away from our old house, but soon enough the excitement of the journey won through the tears. When we arrived in Galway, Mom shook me awake too look at the lights as they twinkled off the water in the bay. The big white truck with all our things in it, was behind us all the way from Cork. I thought truck drivers must be so clever to know exactly where we were going. I thought I might even be one, when I grew up.

The first days in Galway were a whizz of new places, new people, new everything. My brain wasn’t big enough to take it all in. We stayed with Aunt Molly, one of Dad's aunties. Dad said she was his auntie and that made her my auntie as well. I didn’t like her so much; she smoked all the time and spit in the fire. The house was small, so we all slept in one room. I couldn't figure out why we left Cork, there we had three rooms, grown-ups are silly sometimes. In the end, I didn't mind, because it was a great adventure. One morning, my dad started his new job, in the timber yard. He didn't go every day, but some days. It wasn’t long before it was time to move again. This time, we only went a few miles, out into the country to our very first house.

The first day Dad took us to see the new house, I thought we were lost because he took us down a tiny road with grass growing in the middle. There was only fields and hedges for miles, and from the back window you could see the ocean away in the distance. The grass around the house was so high, it was over my head. There was no running water, or bathroom, so we did our pee-pee in the field, out back. In the middle of the house was a big kitchen. Off each side of that, was a bedroom. Along with the house we had a few acres of land. I thought we were big farmers, but Dad said the only thing you would grow in those fields were rocks.

What I remember most about the first house, was how cold it was. Outside, it was a lovely sunny day, but inside it was so cold, the goose pimples came up on my arms. Another thing I remember was my sister, Katie, she wasn't happy at all. She cried so hard the first time she went into the house, my ears hurt. In the end, Mam took her outside where she stopped bawling, after a bit.

Moving day came, and the truck man that knew everything, came back. We loaded the house things from Cork, back into the truck. I thought we were like the snails in the garden, dragging our house around behind us. I thought we should live in the truck, and save all the moving. Dad said, I was a clever-clogs. I don't know what clogs are, but clever was good, so I smiled when he said it. Soon, we had all the boxes piled up in middle of the kitchen floor, of the new house. We were all tired after unloading the truck. Mam lit a fire in the range, and made bean's on toast, with the red sauce. Then Dad pulled the big double mattress in front of the fire, and we all slept there for the night, like camping. It was the best night ever. I didn't even mind the funny smell that came in the middle of the night.

One thing about Galway people, is they're very friendly. Soon, every neighbour for miles had come to say, welcome. They brought gifts, mostly cakes, breads and jams, made in their own kitchens. Eggs and milk, came from sheds, not the shop. Water was gathered in a tank from the roof. We never had this many people visit us in Cork.

A few weeks after we moved in, Mam had us working on the grass in the front garden. She was cutting it down with a thing called a slash hook. We all had to stand well back when she was swinging it. My job was to gather the cut grass into piles. One minute we were all alone, the next, an old man was leaning over the stone wall looking at us.

My Mam got a big fright, and said a bad word. I went over and stood beside her. When Dad wasn’t home, I was the man of the house. He said and had to look after Mam and the kids. So, I was watching this fella to see if he was a bad one, or not.

"Good day Missus" he said, doffing his dirty flat cap.

"Hello" said Mam, still red in the face. "You put the heart cross-ways in me."

"Sorry about that, I didn't know anyone had moved in," he said. "How is the old place for yea?"

"Hard work," Mam said, rubbing the sweat from her forehead. "I'm sure it will be fine in the end.".

He looked down at me, and said. "Who is this fine young man?" I think he knew I was keeping an eye on him. Mam rubbed my head, even though she knows I don't like it, she's always doing it!

"This is Squid. That’s Stephen and Kate over there, and my name is Nancy McFinnigan," she said, holding out her hand to the old man. When they shook, I saw his skin was dirty, with big cracks and ugly nails. I was a bit nervous because, only bad ones had such ugly hands.

"Squid is it?" he chuckled. "That's a quare name for a young-fella." He dipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a roll of sweets. He broke them in half, and offered some to me. I didn't know what to do so, I held on to Mam's leg, even though I knew, I was the one that should have been looking after her.

"It's okay," she said. "They're Silvermints."

I held out my hand, and took the half packet of sweets. They looked like white bits of chalk, but bigger. When I sucked one, they made my mouth tingle and tasted oh so good.

"So, what’s your name?" Mam asked.

The man said, "Willy Barrett, Missus. From the next parish over, but I’ve a few fields down this way." I made my mind up then and there, Willy Barrett must be one of the good ones, because only good ones would have Silvermints. I left them talking, and went to share the sweets with Stephen and Kate.

"Squid!! don't give Kate any, she is too small," Mam shouted, when she saw what I was doing.

I didn't listen to much of what Mam and Willy Barrett were talking about, but I did hear him say, "This old place has been empty a long time. People come and go from it. Don't remember anyone staying too long." Soon he was on his way down the road. I hoped he would come again and bring more Silvermints.

We didn't sleep in the kitchen any more, like we had that first night. Mam, Dad and Kate, slept in one room, me and Stephen, had bunk beds, in the other room. Because I was the oldest, I got the top one. Kate still didn't like the new house, and sometimes cried in the night. She said she didn't like the old man, he was ugly. Mam said it was only bad dreams. I knew she was wrong, because sometime Kate cried in the day as well, and you can't have bad dreams in the daytime. The funny smell that had come the first night, came back sometimes. Now, even Mam could smell it. She pulled the kitchen apart looking for what was causing it, but she never found it.

One night, she was sitting in the kitchen plucking the feathers off an old hen that she had killed for dinner, when the smell came. Dad was home.

"There it is now," she said, sniffing the air. Dad took big sniffs as well, so did I, but only for show, because knew the smell already. It was like turf fire and hedges.

"That is strange," said Dad, at last. "It's pipe tobacco." The smell would stay a while, and then just go again. It happened so often while we lived there, that Mam would say, "He's here again." Like there was someone at the door. I don't think Mam or Dad ever minded the smelly pipe smell, but Kate hated it, and was never happy in the new house.

Later in the year, the winter was coming, and we were on our holidays from school. It was Halloween time, so we were getting dressed up to go to the neighbour’s house; trick or treating. There was only one neighbour, but we were excited anyway. Stephen was dressed in an old jacket, wellies, and had a fork. He was going to be Willy Barrett. Since the day Willy scared my Mam, we became great friends. He always had Silvermints for me, and I would help him working in his field, or feeding the calf's when they were born. Tonight, I was going to be a fisher man. I was dressed in all my Dads fishing clothes, but Mom took the hooks off before she let me put them on. That was a pity, how can you be a fisherman with no hooks to feed the fish?

She had me standing on the table, rolling up my pants, so my feet would stick out bottom. I was looking out the window, across the field at the back of the house. I couldn't see the ocean today; it was very strange weather. The ground was covered in thick white clouds, so you couldn't see your feet. Mom said it was a sea mist, rolling in from the ocean. The evening was still, and the mist was sitting low on the ground. The cows in the field looked funny, they looked like they had no legs, and were floating on the mist. Every now and again, they ducked their heads into it, and when they came back up again, they were munching on grass.

I was watching the cows, when the scariest thing ever happened. A huge bang! The back door flew open, slamming into the wall a few times. Cupboard doors flew open and banged. A glass smashed on the ground, all the pictures on the wall flapped and clattered. Then the front door flew open, and all the noise stopped.

I had let out a big scream, but so had everyone else. Katie and Stephen were crying, I didn't, but I was scared…lots. Mam got an even bigger fright than the day Willy Barrett looked over the wall, she was shaking all over. Things had fallen out of the presses and all the pictures were facing the walls. Mam cuddled us all at the same time and said, "Sush, it's okay, lads. Sush, it’s only a bit of wind."

When I was a little less scared, I went and looked out the window. When I did, I knew that Mam was wrong. The cows were all still floating on the clouds outside. The wind should have made a mess if it had been blowing.

After that day, things were never as good in the new house. Kate saw the old man more and more. She had lots of scary dreams, in the day, and the night. One of our cows was hit with lightening, right in the field where it stood. Dad lost the job at the timber yard, and even the car stopped working. In the end, we had to sell the house and move back to Galway. 

The truck came again, and again, we loaded all our things. We had no car this time, so a friend of Dads, came to give us a lift back into Galway. I looking back at the house as we drove away. Just before we got out of sight, the curtain on the kitchen window billowed as if the wind caught it. A dark shape inside the house was watching us go. It made my tummy jump and feel sick. I looked away as quick as I could and decided not to tell anyone about what I had seen. Let me tell you, I was very glad we weren't going to live in the smelly house any more.

Happiness V Fulfilment

Happiness or fulfilment. I think I have been getting them confused lately. I thought, if my life was fulfilled then I would be happy. I was thinking about this while I walked my dog's in the wood today and realised they are two very different things. I believe they are both vital but in very different ways.

"So what is the difference?" the crowd enquired. 

I think, fulfilment is an ambition for the future, a goal that we set ourselves. This goal gives us something to strive towards and organise our efforts around. I know from my own experience that steps on the way to achieving many goal's are often hard, tedious and sometimes downright unpleasant. It is the end result which holds the promise of fulfilment. We are industrious little animals, us humans. We need some aim in our lives no matter what it is. I think our mind's need this focus.

Did I not mention happiness? I am fully convinced that these two, seemingly identical emotions, exist on completely different plains. Happiness, true happiness can only exist in the moment. The now. This is where I feel I have let myself down. I have been failing to fully enjoy the moments as they happen, the small one and the big ones. To make best use of them I think I need to abandon the past and the future. Exist only in the moment and take all it has to offer.

Which delivers me to the crux of the issue, balance. If they are both important, which is more so? Where should the balance lie? Okay, the answer is easy, I haven't a notion.

The old saying "to much of anything is bad for you" is very true. I seriously doubt that running around hugging trees or cooing at butterflies, like some demented hippy will lead to a lasting happiness. However, taking a few moments each day to enjoy what the world is showing us can do a lot of good. Without a plan we  are in danger of letting the days slip by with nothing to show for them.

We can't all fly to the moon or climb Mount Everest. No goal is more important than another. What matters is how important the goal is to you. Time is fleeting and I have no idea how much of it I have left in the tank. My goals are set, and journey has begun and believe it or not, if you're reading this, your coming along for the ride. Hold on, it might get bumpy.

 

The new normal

The question, what is normal. Did you ever have the feeling you just don't fit in. I have had it all my life. Yesterday was driving along in the car it was a fantastic day. Sunny but not too hot. The radio was tuned to a talk show with a very interesting guest.

He was talking about social interaction. How things that are unacceptable become acceptable once the perceived majority are taking part. Germany for example in the late 30's. People now wonder how the normal citizens back then allowed the terrible acts that took place each and every day. The answer seems to be that the perceived majority appeared to be involved in these acts (even if they were in fact a small minority) so it became the norm and the citizens feeling of guilt and unease were therefore abnormal.

What this radio guest said next got me thinking about all this. He said that the fifth addition of listed medical mental conditions is due to be published and it is now massive. It is expected that 50% of the entire population of the world could be classified under one or more of the listed conditions. This begs the question, which half will end up the norm. This guest also had a very good explanation for this dramatic rise in mental conditions.

He puts forward that when people existing in a "bubble" or a closed in sphere of either mental attention or human interactions they start to make decisions that become more and more introspective. Such as people researching mental issues. They spend days and days looking for brain problems. Low and behold they find one, that leads to finding another then another and another. Somewhere in this daisy chain they have crossed over the universal line of the normal but are unaware of it. I think this same thing has been happening with Health and safety legislation and the legal profession for years.

Driving along in my car I jumped back a few decades in my mind and wondered what people would have thought of all this. Back then if you were a little different you were a character. If you were a lot different you were "Some character".

Do the powers that be want us to give up all creative and individual impulses. Were we all to become a huge heard of sheep. Anaesthetising ourselves with massive amounts of TV, on line gaming and fast food. I think we have lost sight of what is important in life. We are too tied up in tat and possessions to live a life that is fulfilling. Even though i am putting this out in a blog I feel the Internet is also being taken over with mindless rubbish. It is sucking the hours out of our days leaving us isolated and eventually alone.

In my humble opinion we should embrace the non normal ideas, let them free to see where they take us. I would bet that the vast majority would find this liberating and actually good for there mental health. There will be a few that go to far and there always have been. We should not stifle the many for fear of the few. So go on, you know you have your own quirks. I bet you have them hidden away in a safe place deep in your mind. Why not let them out for a little bit, take them for a walk in the sunshine and let them breath. Why not it's official now, no one is normal.  

What Love looks like

The first time I knew love was a moment I shall never forget. It was one of the most important moments of my life and the two people involved never even saw me. Thinking back, I am not exactly sure that they did me any favours, perhaps I had better explain a little bit more.

I was twelve or thirteen years old and travelling to England from Ireland on the ferry. Excited by the prospect of adventure and a tiny bit sea sick I went wandering the deck during the middle of the night. As the ship ploughed through rolling waves, I lurched around the dim and deserted boat, trying as best I could to look like I belonged. The sting of salt spray on my face was uncomfortable and exhilarating at once. The dim running lights of the ship held no power over the all-encompassing gloom of a mid ocean night. The waves rose higher, causing me to wonder if being on deck was all that wise, but wisdom and youth rarely sit well together. I wandered on, swaying side to side, hands firmly driven into my coat pockets, far too cool to use the hand rail. After walking around for a time I found myself on the top deck, looking into a near deserted lounge through a sea spray speckled window. That was when I saw them.

So young, but older than me. They seemed to shine in the way no light could in the dark of a mid ocean crossing. They had an exotic hue to their skin, far too tanned to be Irish, perhaps Spanish or French. She had long dark hair past her shoulders and was very beautiful. She wore a short green jacket with a wool jumper underneath and jeans, comfortable but stylish in the way a movie star must in dress the hours before a scene is shot. The man was just as dashing, his chin coloured with stubble, and unruly brown hair fell to the shoulders of a leather jacket. Their beauty was undeniable but that was not the quality that changed my heart forever. It was the way they were together and alone at once that struck me dumb.

The Girl sat on a bench with a book in her hand, the man slumbered, his head nestled in her lap. In that perfect moment I fell in love, not with her or him but them.  It was the intimacy that they shared which captured me so completely. Even in that public place it radiated off them like heat from the sun. As she read, her fingers teased and rolled the locks of his hair. Slow languid movements. As he slept she cared for him, watched over him and protected him. To each other they gave themselves, willingly and completely. Such an innocent movement of her hand was far more tender than any poem I had ever read. I don't even know if she knew she was doing it. In truth I hope she didn’t.

I stood outside that window and watched. The ocean spray carried on the wind, glistened like tiny diamonds as it landed on my clothes. I was mesmerised, I couldn’t take my eyes from that couple. I wanted what they had. The connection to another so strong, so close that you aren’t even aware of it, until it’s broken, like having a limb taken from you. In the end I found my family asleep and unaware that I had been changed. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was feeling. I felt happy excited and a little sad at the same time. Right then I wasn’t even aware how big an impact these people had on me. But that image has never left my mind. Over the years it come now and again reminding me what I found that day on a windswept deck in the middle of a dark a dismal squall. Love, pure and simple.