Luckily the savage cop got tired hitting Fuckface and My Irish Molly. They met up with me in the Stag’s Head. To describe the Stag’s Head as an old piece of furniture with a few doors would be apt. You could also describe it as a place for country students to write home about.
“Off to a gig, lads?” the surly but burly barman asked.
“You can’t put me down. I don’t respond to the man.” The barman looked at us like we had run away with his sister Siobhan and did nasty things to her. We didn’t.
The place was busy. We sat in the midst of a large German family. There were a lot of them, Kelly family size. I was finally starting to feel a little buzzed and asked in my best and only Deutsche,
“Bonjour. Du hast durchfalls? Ya? Ya?” (I was nudging the youngest child while saying this).
The mutter was not impressed and asked me what I meant. My Irish Molly leapt to my defence by saying the only Deutsche he knew to their 12 year old girl,
“Ich will in eine reiche Familie einheiraten. Liebling, Ich will dich.“
Neither Fuckface nor I nor it seems My Irish Molly knew what had just been said, but the leader of the family, the Vater, became furious and started shouting at us, forcing surly but burly barman to calm him down and ask us to leave. We compromised by going for a cigarette. Seconds later our jackets were thrown out the
door and we were told to fuck off. The last thing we saw was Danny Glover recognising us from the bar. I clenched my buttocks tight and quivered.
A ghostly child appeared from behind the curtains…
Blah, blah off we went. Shuffling toward the next hostelry with a pact in place not to talk to any more humans. I needed rum, so we headed into the South William. To describe the South William as a place where quirky people got to meet their quirky friends would be very apt. Once in the door, we knew we weren’t cool enough, but we held strong and demanded rum doubles and beer chasers, which turned us demented. My Irish Molly went to the toilet and ended up in another pub. We had to sit at a table that would have been perfect for an old woman eating an eclair or maybe a scone, no, an eclair.
A man wearing a pink jumpsuit glared at us and joined his friends on a lush sofa. They all had dyed hair and one guy wore a waistcoat, hat and skinny jeans or no-arse trousers as we know them. It was like a low rent version of a Clockwork Orange. Fuckface was apoplectica.
“Hey you there! You can’t wear a hat indoors, where’s your fucking respect?”
“Hey, chill dude, we’re just trying to have a noice time,” said a laid-back guy with angular hair.
“Don’t dude me missy,” Fuckface retorted.
“Lads, is everything okay here?” smarty but arty barman said.
I drained my rum and beer (fearing imminent eviction) and jumped in,
“Yeah, fine. But you must admit it is a lack of respect to wear a hat indoors.”
“I don’t understand,” smarty but arty barman said, not so smarty now, still very arty though.
“Look goys, I’ll take it off if it really bothers you. Huuhhhhh” the hat wearing guy said.
“Why thank you!” Fuckface oozed.
Things calmed down for a minute and we chatted back and forth about having no bottom and buying jeans. They were pleasant enough people really and even Fuckface agreed we were a little harsh. Smarty but arty barman was pleased. Then My Irish Molly crashed into the glass front door and bounced back on the pavement. A kindly man held the door open for his second attempt and he wandered up to us wearing a pirate hat he’d found in a skip and holding a large bottle of cider in his hand. This enraged the skinny cool people.
“What, no parrot?” I said.
“Hey, if we have to remove our headgear, this dude has to do the same!” said indignant man with oversized designer dress.
My Irish Molly dragged him off the chair and screamed something about kissing Captain Sparrow. We separated them and removed ourselves from the premises and immediately bumped into a local sex-peddler I knew called The Mysterious Dark A. We demanded he come to Metallica with us. He declined saying he had to go back to work as today was the Sexy Saturday Sale of the Century. Ahhhh, we said silently. He told us not to forget to go the gig as we had probably missed a few bands already. So we went to scuzzy rock bar Bruxelles and wondered would we make Alice in Chains.
The ghostly child stared at me and my skin crawled…
To describe Bruxelles as a bar evolved from a toilet would be damn true. Down the stairs and into the dark bar. The jukebox was playing Prong at ear-bleeding levels. The three of us smiled at each other, knew we were in the right place and hit the bar. We stood close together and basically said nothing. Fuckface looked at me and said something I could barely hear. I raised my eyebrows and kinda smiled. Then turned to him and said something uninteresting. My Irish Molly held up his hand to say something, but stopped. For about 20 minutes we looked everywhere but at each other while everyone else had a great time. Seeing this uncomfortable silence could last all day, I ordered whiskeys. Success, well kinda. Within minutes we were screaming and roaring at each other and head banging off-rhythm. I started to sense we might not even make the gig at this point and dragged us out to the street.
“We must Depart from the Bar,” I cried. Fops, cretins and dandies nearby tipped their hats to my illogical yet alluring rhetoric.
“Huzzah” they said, prompting us to go into McDaids for vodkas. We’re never going to make this fucking concert now.
The ghostly child touched my forehead with its finger. The blood left my body and the lights went out…
We legged it to the green of St. Stephen, with indigestion so bad, you could have bathed us in Andrews and we would still have been a belching mess. I hailed a cab for a while and then realised I was at the rank. This took longer than expected after I demanded to drive. They were not pleased. Fuckface fell in an open door and demanded to be taken anywhere but here. I jumped in. Where was My Irish Molly? Fuckface told me the nut had started some conversation/argument with a crazed religious guy (complete with mic and amp). The last thing I recalled before putting my hands over my eyes was My Irish Molly urinating, then running at the religious guy, kicking his amp into a bunch of tourists and screaming,
“God did that!”
to be continued at a later era