“What’s a traveller?” asked Westy.
“Well, they’re a gypsy people Westy. They live in Caravans, mend those pesky damaged pots that we all get sometimes and engage in a kind of hokey ritual that involves beating the living shit out of each other. Think Riverdance, but with fists”
“Aa, bit like a posh Glaswegian” He replied.
“You’ve been living here for 2 years now and you didn’t know what a Traveller was?” I asked, “You do know what a Culchie is don’t you?”
There was a loud shriek of a bagpipe, before he looked back up at me, his head shaking from side to side like a mournful thistle.
“Right” I said, with my voice, “Time to educate you!”
Living, as I do, at the top of Harcourt Street gives me a distinct advantage in the observations of the Irish human. I merely have to lie on my bed and I can hear the loud drink fuelled symphony that floats in my windows from Copper Face Jacks. I can now call your county colours by sound alone. The Kerry native, for example, generally sings like a lost Moose. I can confidently proclaim Donegal people to be ‘in the house’ anytime I hear that distinct, ‘slow motion’ ambulance siren type sound that they wail through the night. And I can tell the Limerick gang are knocking about by the amount of gunshots. Westy though wouldn’t know a Langer from Ladyboy, so I decided where better to start his naturalisation than good old Harcourt St.
It was 3am, and the place was mental. Westy remarked that he had not seen chaos like this since he accidentally tossed his Caber into the viewing stand at the 1992 Highland Games.
“Do you know what a ladyboy is?” I asked him.
He nodded sadly, like someone who had just remembered a regrettable event.
“Not the sexy ones Westy, I mean the ‘Leinster’ ones!”
I pointed at a pool of vomit. It was of a fine and sturdy consistency, with the unmistakable fizz of Prosecco bubbling from beneath the frothy surface. There were also traces of Cappuccino and cocaine.
“That product Westy, was served up by a ‘D4’ head. Typically a Lenister Rugby fan. Commonly called ‘Ladyboys’ by their detractors. ”
The next pavement exhibit was that of a Culchie. It’s lumpy layabout was arranged a bit like a poster in Supermacs. An astonishing amount of ingredients seemingly matching County colours. Whole back puddings bounced on top.
“A culchie Westy. Somebody from outside of Dublin. Genetically, 99.5% similar to humans. Can be tracked down to their lairs by simply following the scrape marks on the footpath. From their knuckles Westy”
“What’s this one?” Westy enquired, needlessly running his finger through the paving Picasso.
“Ah, that’s a girls projectile, my curious Celtic cousin, can’t you tell?”
There were tiny droplets of tanned sick floating on a thick green fruity smelling liquid. A heavy infiltration of orange colour proves what we fear, that they’ve started tanning their insides too.
I led Westy like an aging belled cow trough the crowds to the next sidewalk stomach sample. This one was mostly made of chips, but was a volatile heap. Minor explosions, probably caused by the chemical additive of Dutch Gold meant distance should be kept. Old betting slips and watches appeared occasionally from beneath the mist
“That, I’m quite sure, is the gastric gathering of a Skobie. Very rare to see this Westy, as they usually scoop it up and have it for dinner.
Westy was absorbing the info nicely, and despite his pre-occupation with slurping his cock-a-leekie soup between lessons, he was a good student.
Our next belly bonanza was the most curious one. Of the selected tarmac tummy towers this one had me scratching my head. It was of typical stock, lumpy in all the right places and a level of vegetation that proved that this person lived well. A staggering amount of what appeared to be palazzo della torre wine made up the rest of this outdoor oesophagus offering, and it was neatly topped by a freshly ironed pair of socks
“Ah, that’ll be Fakeys” I said to Westy.
