That was the weekend.
Paulaner beer is a dangerous mistress. Like the enticing smell of a plotting seductress, this German beer also emits an intoxicating scent. If you were left alone in a room with a pint of it, you would soon start to feel crowded. Drinking it does the same thing. Run a spoon through a freshly poured glass of it and you will encounter a bizarre resistance. Dip and finger in it, and you may never play the piano again. If beer made a sound, Paulaner would be My Bloody Valentine, at their bloodiest. I don’t know what it is, but a number of weeks ago I woke up on the floor of my flat to the sound of the opening credits to the Late Late. I’d been out drinking since 7, the Late Late starts at 9.30, so this was only two and a half hours later. On Friday, I went to Coman’s in Rathgar to look at girls, but after a measly 5 bottles of it, I was tucked up in bed at 10.30, giggling to myself. Some weeks ago, I also went to see Ladytron and drank Paulaner. Allegedly. Not since the days of Furstenburg, when waking up on the Ferry to Holyhead was a regular occurrence, have I been beaten by a beer so badly. Am I alone?
Anyway, this part of the post goes out to my Sister, who thinks I’m drinking too much, and by proxy my Mum, who believes everything she tells her.
Anyway, Saturday was given over to domestic self-abuse and Euro 2008 before I finally emerged to attempt to go and see Jape and Dan Deacon in Vicar St. After a series of heated Lisbon related rows some friends, I was off home, Jape-less. It’s funny, nights out in the last 10 years or so have been largely politics free. Nights out with Fakey back in the early 90’s used to see us at each others throats about the state of the nation, but recently people just didn’t seem bothered. In a way, whether I agree with the outcome of the vote on Thursday or not, it is good to see people talking again. The General Election last year was a damp squib (Squid, Fakey?) and anyway, it clashed with Big Brother so nobody even noticed. But all this talk of spiraling costs, job losses and euro-skepticism has re-ignited normal folks interest, and as I emerged from the pub on Saturday night, with my pride (and chin) bruised, it felt good to back, in an 80’s nostalgia kinda way.
Sunday was father’s day, which involved a roast dinner, some spectacular defeats in swing-ball to both my nephew and my sister (yes a child AND girl) and about 5 kilos of Rhubarb.
Oh, and there was the food poisoning.
And the blocked toilet.