The Irish Tales

Corked ! (The Lost Weekend.)
　
It is a cold and wet Friday in late February, or perhaps it is a hot, sunny day in June ?
Who can say ? Not me, for sure. Not after all this time.

All I know is that I am on a mission to succour my friend and rival Tomas, who cannot ride to save his life, but now seems to have a cancerous growth in his stomach, even after the poteen cask has been removed.

And so I board the silver bird and fly the across the Irish Sea to Cork, birthplace of my grand-mother ( the nice one) and naturally I doze and my mind wanders hither and thither, imagining what can lie ahead.

I see myself consoling a pale, sickly man, who coughs up blood every time he speaks and murmours quietly about sweet Mary, holy mother of God and the only true virgin.

So, I am a little unprepared for what greets me in the arrival hall of the Cork airport.

"SWEET MARY, MOTHER OF FUCKING GOD AND THE ONLY TRUE VIRGIN ! ROSSITER, YA ENGLISH PRICK ! COME THIS WAY AND WE’LL HAVE A SMALL DRINK TO WELCOME YA TO CORK!"

Now, there is no such thing as a small drink in Ireland.
This needs to be said from the outset, in order that you can make some sense of what follows.

(And if you can, you are a better man than I, Gunga Din.)

However, I am fresh-faced and rosy-cheeked at this moment and I follow Tomas quite happily to the bar, where over a couple of large Jamiesons, he tells me that before setting off to his stable-yard, we are going to meet Hugh for a fresh-fish lunch at a mighty fine establishment in Cork town centre.

As I am sharp-set with hunger, this seems reasonable and indeed a delight, for Tom’s place is only an hour or so up the road in Tipperary
and we are only going for a quick bite.

"We’re only going for a quick bite," says Tomas as he slews the car onto a double yellow in the main thoroughfare. "This’ll do fine."

Now, just as there is no such thing as a small drink in Ireland, there is also no such thing as a quick lunch.

Especially when the restaurant is as fine and airy as this and the fish are fresh and tasty and we are dining with Hugh, who has bought Diamond, the steel grey mare I love to ride when in Wexford and later in life, was the very same Hugh who lamped Billy the Pig at Tom’s wedding – but that is another story.

And when you throw in many bottles of a fine chablis, followed by something close to brandy and then more fine chablis, it will come as no surprise to find that it is almost half past the hour of six and the restaurant wishes us to pay up and leave, as they must lay the tables for their dinner clientele.

"We are in no state to drive to Tipperary," says Tom, as we weave our way along the pavement, something with which I am forced to agree.

"Besides, I have no idea where the car is," he continues.
"Perhaps we should go and have cup of tea ?" I venture, to which Tom nods vigorously.

"I know just the place !"
And so he does, although I doubt very much that tea is its principal attraction.

For after much walking through a maze of side streets, during which I am wondering if indeed we are still in Cork, we come to a public house.

It is called the Hi-B and it is not just any public house, but the most republican public house in a city renowned for its republican heritage.
Tomas beams with pride.

"Come along, Father David. Come along and meet your ancestors !"

Now, I am as republican as the next man, who happens to be Tomas and so I enter the hallowed halls with some anticipation, which is not diminished at all by what I see.

There is a fiddler in the corner, plaintively singing something about Wolf Tone, I think. He is nearly drowned out by the Oysterband’s "Blood Wedding" booming from the speakers.

There is an extraordinary ugly woman in another corner, doing instant thumbnail drawings of anyone who will give her a few Euros and damning their eyes if they don’t.

My eyes are drawn towards a strange figure, holding court in front of many admirers.
He has a shock of long silver hair and a beard to match and he is clearly a Poet.
What is more, he declaims in the ancient Gaelic, a tongue so musical that I am held helpless in its strange magic.

Now, the Hi-B is owned by Brian and has been as long as anyone can remember, which is an awful long time in Ireland.

Brian is famous for suddenly appearing and ranting at his customers, banning anyone who catches his eye and once, famously, he stops all bar service whilst he conducts a Mahler symphony in its entirety.

"Would you ever get us a fucking drink, Rossiter." shouts Tomas and I nod, vacantly.

"Good evening, sir. May I have a vodka and tonic and a Jack Daniels and coke, please?"

The bar falls silent. It is my own fault. My usual cod Irish accent deserts me and by default, I resort to received English. I sound like the worst kind of absentee landlord, come briefly back to accept my homage and my rents.

"Would ya like a slice of fucking lemon with that now ?" says Yer man.
"Yes, fucking please," I reply with a look of pure iron, or maybe tin.

However, it seems to work and gradually, the room resumes its normal volume and the fuckwit from England is ignored.

And so, now grudgingly accepted, I sit with Tomas and our drinks and look around me.

I am struck most profoundly by the large number of lovely, red-haired ladies, who wear broad smiles and revealing dresses.
This is most acceptable and I find myself nodding and smiling to their bold, but mostly unintelligible remarks.

In fact, I am starting to feel quite at home here, even though it would seem that some of my comments about Michael Collins do not go down too well, the Lord knows why.

I mean, for heavens sake, de Valera is not exactly a saint now, is he ?
And this is when the evening turns dark, dear reader.

After Tomas has been rebuffed for the fourth time and we have sunk more than a few fresh ones, I seem to notice a slight chilling of the atmosphere, not to say a certain hostility towards us both.

In fact, I am feeling a distinct urge to get the fuck out of here.
"Tomas," I say.
"Yesh, Fadder," he replies.
"Let us get the fuck out of here, brother. Before I am squashed to a pulp by that big tall red-haired fucker over there."

The red-haired fucker in question has been staring violently at me for a while now, the Lord knows why and he suddenly makes his move.

That is to say, he stands up abruptly and puffs out his chest, knocking over the drink-laden table before him, then, in slow motion, falls headlong onto the floor.

Tomas nods slowly. "I know how he feels, sure I do."

It is about this time that Tomas discovers he has mislaid his mobile phone.

"The restaurant ?" I suggest.

So naturally, Tomas grabs my phone and calls the restaurant and naturally it is shut, but there is an automated message giving a number to call, so he calls that and all the time I am thinking, fuck me, each call is being routed via England and it will cost me a fortune, but naturally I say nothing for a friend in need is, well, to be honest, a bit of a bastard......


(To be continued)