The Irish Tales

Corked ! The Lost weekend (Part Two)

Before I know it, we are outside on the street, after stepping respectfully around the sleeping body of the red-haired fucker and I am vaguely disconcerted to find that I am accompanied by two Tomases.

"Bernie is going to open up the place and let us look for the phone," one of them tells me.

Being a little cunning, I smile at the one whilst addressing the other, as it seems the safest way.

Tomas looks at me sideways and says, "Why are you talking to the lampost?"

I wave my hand nonchalantly, which is extremely difficult when one is disconcerted.

"Because it’s brighter than you?" I reply.

And so we wend our way back to the restaurant, where Bernie awaits us.

Bernie is a pert young thing with knowing eyes and innocent breasts.
Bernie is also female, as you may conclude.

Tomas certainly does. And so do I, but I reach another conclusion altogether, which is confirmed by what follows.

Possibly.

A quick search reveals no mobile phone anywhere in the place, which is not at all surprising, as I believe I see a familiar shape in the inside pocket of Tom’s jacket.

I say nothing, but I am thinking plenty. Oh yes.

So here we are.

In the middle of Cork, in the middle of the night, besotted with drink and (in one case) possibly lust, looking for a place to meditate.

Naturally, we go to a nearby Chinese and naturally, it is a mistake.
We are not at all hungry, we are very, very pissed and although the waiters like our money, they do not like us.

Oh no, not one bit.

They are surly and slow and have looks of hate in their eyes.
This may well be due to Tomas addressing them as "gooks" and "slanty-eyed divils", something which is not condusive to good relations between nations.

Bernie doesn’t seem to notice. In fact, Bernie notices very little apart from Tomas.

I must admit, I find womens’ interest in Tomas a mystery.

He is small and wiry, has a gob wider than the Irish Sea and – which is most important – cannot play polocrosse to save his life, the little tinker.　
However, I can see a train coming when I’m standing on a railway line, so I call for the bill.

Naturally, there is an argument and naturally Tomas does not want to pay it. There is something of a verbal fight and a lot of staring and swearing, but eventually, I believe I pay it on my Amex.

The only proof I have for this is that the next day, I find my card is sticky with sweet and sour sauce, which is where the manager throws it after he finds I have left no tip.

Now, it is no lie and barely even an exaggeration to state that by now, I only wish to lay my aching head on a pillow and snore very loudly.

It seems that we are all in agreement regarding the finding of a bed, though possibly for different reasons, it occurs to me.

And so it happens that we find ourselves outside a big, flash Holiday Inn type place and we seek sanctuary.

As we check in, a thought occurs to me.
"What about the horses?" I say to Tomas.

"What horses ?" replies Tomas, looking around him.
"Your horses," I say back.

"Jeez, they’re in Tipperary, eejit."

I sense there is something wrong with this answer, but I am too tired to care, so whilst Tomas repairs to the bar with Bernie, I stagger to my room and sink gratefully into bed, still clothed and smelling strongly of Cork.

I do not sleep well.

In fact, I dream that the big red-haired fucker has followed us to the hotel and is trying to smash down my door.

He has an axe in one hand and a statue of Wolf Tone in the other with which he intends to beat my English brains to pulp.

I sing the "Fields of Athenry" to him, but that only serves to inflame him even more and the hammering on the door gets louder.

It finally dawns on me that there is indeed someone knocking on my door and so I cease singing, fall gracelessly out of bed and open it.

"I seem to have lost my phone," says Tomas.
"And we need to see to the horses."

I blink at him.
"What horses ?"
"My horses."
"But they’re in Tipperary…."

"And we’re in Cork, you English prick. Now, get your toothbrush and come with me. We have to find my phone and then find my car and then find the way home."

Of all three, finding the phone proves the most difficult.

Clearly, it must be in the Chinese restaurant but not only is it closed at that time, but we are both secretly glad it is, as our leaving of it is still fresh in our memory.

"Fuck it," says Tomas. "We still have your phone." Indeed we do. although something is troubling me.

The car is where we left it, miraculously without any ticket and with all its wheels.

We set off for Tipperary, eventually finding the right way out of Cork and it is then that I realise something.

"I left my phone charger at home, Tom," I say.
"And the battery is very low."

Tomas gives me a look of utter disgust, which I feel is unfair and not a little uncalled for, but I am past caring and fall asleep.

So does Tomas, I notice, which is a trifle scary as he is driving.
We get there in the end though somehow and here my tale must stop.

For good as the weekend is afterwards, it cannot compare to what has already occurred.

It took me barely an hour to fly from England to Cork.
And nearly 36 hours to get out.

Ireland can be like that.

(Concluded)