And it came to pass that Andrew was alone at home, with little to do. And yea, the Plasmafish did offer his company for the evening, as it was the Oyster Festival and the Plasmafish’s cousin was competing in the oyster-opening championships. Verily, did the cousin triumph in his trials* and much merriment was had in drinking the black stuff and eating oysters.
OK, then. AN oyster. We now know from experience that the black stuff is traditionally drunk with oysters to wash away their taste.
After what seemed like an inordinately short period of time, the cousin left with select family members and so Andrew and the Plasmafish were once again at a loose end.
- Let’s go somewhere else for another pint.
Right you are.
Pub crawling in Galway is embarrassingly easy. If you started at Eyre Square and had a pint in every pub on the way to the bridge, I doubt many would be able to stagger beyond Cross Street. But we made straight for one local emporium of renown and pushed our way to the back bar.
- My turn. Two pints of the black stuff please.
+ Tuuuu pints, oyyyy.
Thanks! Er, so, what part of the North are you from?
(At this point, the temperature in the bar drops at least fifteen degrees, and both bartenders turn to glare at the idiot who’s just opened his stupid gob.)
+ WE’RE from the Southern part of the North.
Oh, really? Hehe. You mean Monaghan? … er, Dundalk?
+ Donegal.
Hehe. Er, yes of course.
- Want to sit over there?
Oh hell, yes.
In my two years in Galway, the laid-back-horizontal capital of Ireland, that was the first time I had ever been self-conscious about being a Northerner – even the Plasmafish commented on the palpable chill. From my (admittedly limited) experimental data, I can now confidently report that if you are in Galway and hear a Northern accent, there is a 90% chance they’re from Donegal, and a 25% chance they have a sense of humour about it.
The rest of the evening we spent enjoying the Princess’s new band, chatting up Finnish girls, stealing borrowing pint glasses, eating kebabs, smashing pint glasses, bleeding and talking a lot of shop. But you don’t want to hear about all that.
Bro and the Karate Kid arrive in Dublin Airport in 36 hours precisely.**
* He will be representing Ireland in the finals on Saturday, which I shall miss. Go on, ye boy ye.
** Go to Portadown. Go directly to Portadown. Do not pass Galway. Do not collect
200 euros.
“The rest of the evening we spent enjoying the Princess’s new band, chatting up Finnish girls, stealing borrowing pint glasses, eating kebabs, smashing pint glasses, bleeding and talking a lot of shop. But you don’t want to hear about all that.”
Actually, I kind of would. Like to hear about all that. Especially the bleeding part.
…didn’t know I read your blog, then, did you?
By: Kate from the States on September 26, 2008
at 1:56 pm
I thought you were too delicate to enjoy stories of bleeding. Let’s just say that someone decided to ride his bicycle home while carrying his spoils in his hand.
And before anyone asks, no I wasn’t the one chatting up Finnish girls – I was the one cramping his style. The minute I got up to dance, she nearly chewed through her own leg to get away…
By: andrewgdotcom on September 26, 2008
at 2:34 pm
Yaeh, that was one of thought “Want to go for one?” notice how One was almost one too many!, included bring one empty glass back and smashing my hand into it as i fell from the bike!
Still was worth the craic
By: Darragh on December 12, 2008
at 1:08 pm