The Irish Tales

Tomas and Ivor (Part Two)


It was a typical September night in Ireland; misty, moist and magnificent.

The road to Wellington Bridge from Foulksmills was a single-laner, empty of traffic, but full of demons.

"Slow down there, Kate !" yells Ivor. "It’s a tricky bend ahead of you now!".

The road refused to comply, carrying on straight as an arrow.

"Ah, jesus! Be steady now, darlin’. Big right-hander coming up !"

The road once more carried on, straight as a dye.

In the back, I was convulsed with laughter, as was Tomas. Jay was sipping discreetly from a coke bottle which was full of bacardi.
Aidan was fast asleep.

"We’re fucked now !", screams Ivor. "Tis a massively big u-turn ahead!"
There may well have been, but Kate had already spotted the chippy and was turning in gently to the carpark.

Ivor wiped his brow. "Mother of Mary, but that was a close run thing."
Kate turns off theengine and smiles sweetly at him.
"Shall we eat now ?"

You’d think that it would be easy, after that hellish drive, wouldn’t you ?
And you’d be right, nine countries out of ten. But this is Ireland and these people are high on horse adrenaline and whisky and the sheer joy of life.

So we tumble out of the Jag and stagger into the café bar at Wellington Bridge, where the finest fish and chips in Wexford are on offer. Allegedly.

The place is packed, not a seat to be had. One area is cordoned off and Ivor and I brush through it and knock on the door.

Yer man opens it and we are welcomed in heartily, to a cool, clean dining room. Tomas has followed us and we sit down gratefully, whilst some very charming waitresses take our drinks orders and ask what we wish to eat.

Cold white wine appears at once and we are quite happy until we realise that we are rather few in numbers.

"Where is Kate?" asks Tomas.
"Where is Jay?" asks Ivor.
"Where is that mother-fucking cunt Aidan ?" I ask indifferently.

Being nominally responsible for two of them, I walk out through the door and look.

I see Jay and Kate and a sleepy Aidan standing in line with the poor people, looking rather lost and it wickedly occurs to me that it might be funny to leave them standing there, but my damned inate kindness makes me gesture furiously to them and they join us in the private dining-room, although I do get a slap from Kate.

And from Jay. Sheesh, kids today.

Ivor and Tomas find all this highly amusing.

I ignore them and sit down to my delicious fish and chips, which only lacks a little salt to garnish it.

I reach for the cellar and pour lavishly, then take a mouthful of chips, which I spit out immediately.

It is sugar, not salt and now the whole gathering is in fits of laughter.

I feel like kicking the whole table over and wreaking a shambolic revenge, but my natural breeding restrains me, so I simply drop my head, smile shame-facedly, pour my chips over Jay and steal some of hers in return.

The supper descends into a very Irish chaos.

Ivor, who is a very large man, but not at all fat, is also a very hungry man.

He orders a curry and chips, which disappears in very quick time, then eats the rest of my fish. And Jay’s.

His capacity for food fascinates me.

I compare him with Thomas. Tom is small and skinny and wiry. Ivor is tall and wide and, well, large.

Both are superb horsemen, in their very different ways.
Both are superb drinkers, in a very similar way.

I adore them both, as does Jay, but then she would. She has nothing to compare them with, being only 17.

I find myself wishing that a fight would start, feeling the need to work off some excess testosterone, but looking around I find nobody I really wish to hurt.

Suddenly, we are outside, looking for the car, but it cannot be said we are forming an orderly queue.

In fact it seems that a number of young girls and Aidan have disported themselves along the Jaguar’s long, sleek bonnet and it also seems that Jay is amongst them.

Kate has claimed the passenger seat and I find I’m obliged to do the driving, which is not made easy by an almost complete lack of forward vision.

At a maximum of 15 miles per hour, with frequent stops to collect fallers, to urinate in the hedgerow and – for some who shall remain nameless – to empty their stomachs copiously, it was not until the early hours that I turned into the long drive at Horetown House.

I was in fact asleep at the time and the car gently rolled into the bushes and stalled.

Only 4 hours later, Ivor bangs on my door and shouts : "Dave ! I have two horses saddled outside. You coming out to ride off the stress ?"

I try to tell him to fuck off and leave me alone, but all that comes out is a faint croak.

Eventually he walks off and at the same time I become aware of a strange pain in my groin.

Groping through the bedsheets, I find a long hard thing.

Closer inspection declares it to be an empty brandy bottle. I let it drop from my fingers and turn over.

Relaxing in Ireland is very hard work.


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