Now that I’m past the early confidence-shattering experience of being rejected yet again by the Irish bloggosphere (you know who you are), it’s probably time to go into denial. After that comes the anger phase, I think, which is followed by …
Hold on. I can never get this bit right. Is it acceptance? No. that doesn’t seem right.
Anger? No. We did that. Denial? Nope: done.
Wait a minute! Now I remember. It’s revenge, isn’t it? Revenge. The most heavenly of all virtues. When kicked in the teeth yet again by the Irish blogging community, since this is after all a Christian country, you have to ask yourself, what would Jesus do? And you know that answer already. Jesus would track down and slaughter those responsible. Every man-jack of them.
Serious Jesus-revenge. That’s your only man.
Apart from the crushing, all-pervading rage and lust for retribution, things went very well this weekend, and I met loads of folk who were previously nothing more to me than a high-speed stream of ones and zeros.
Wandering into Mulligans of Poolbeg Street, as arranged, it was very hard to miss Eolai. All I needed to do was search for this:
Conan wasn’t much more elusive, considering the fact that he jumped up and said Howsitgoin, I’m Conan!!
Shortly afterwards we were joined by Medbh and the extraordinarily tolerant Mr M, but not without confusion: the boys reckoned we were looking for yellow slingbacks, but I knew better and informed them that the lady would be wearing shiny patent red bootees, imposed by the patriarchy. How right was I? And how wrong the drunken dolts? Yellow slingbacks? Pah! Medbh turned out to be far younger than I expected, much better-looking, much funnier and without discernible horns, cloven hoofs or tail.
Several pints later, the howling fucking mob that is Mulligans on a Friday evening were threatening to rend us limb from limb if we didn’t surrender our spare seats, but luckily Eolai looked just that little bit too scary for them and they held off long enough for our beloved Devin and the utterly incomparable Sam to arrive. Late. Drunk. Hungry. But welcome. We got horrible kebabs somewhere and picked up Gimme along the way. We stayed up late drinking beer and talking shit (hey, it was a bloggers’ weekend, y’know?)
Saturday was much the same except with more people and more drink. Sam couldn’t get up before noon, so Dev and I wandered into town. She had to assassinate some guy in a record shop while I stood around outside looking menacing and listening to my radio on a scary-looking ear-piece, and we had lunch afterwards, as one does, following a merciless killing.
Dev and Sam went to Sabrina Dent’s disgracefully sexist women’s meet-up in the afternoon while I went back to bed. Fucked from drink and up-lateness.
Wandering towards the Alexander Hotel later, after a hot shower I stumbled across an incident that has come to be unfortunately all too typical of our modern society. I came across Sniffle screaming abuse at an unfeasibly large policeman, and I say that advisedly, as Sniffle is a sizeable gent himself, but a mere dwarf in the shadow of this copper.
Gas him, I urged the cop. Tazer him. Kick him in the bollocks!
Ho! Ho! Ho! replied the policeman, clearly bored out of his mind standing outside our parliament defending it against nothing but demented bloggers.
Come on Sniffle for fucksake. We’ll miss the rugby. And we did, for we could find no pub in Dublin showing the Munster match. Fuck! After that I needed a pint, and rushed straight to the bar, waving at Mulley (who was too busy to talk) as we shot by.
I met lots of folks at the Alexander. Many. Much. Very much many.
I also missed lots of folks, unfortunately, and probably mainly due to drunkenness and being bad at schmoozing.
Who did I meet? Well, I met Jesus. And of course, I met Twenty. again. The bastard. And Fustar, from Limerick. Not only Fustar from Limerick, but also Shane of Cheebah, who came with his partner, Niamh of Impact Theatre.
Then there was Deborah who had a seat in front of us and was all supportive and generally good and nice and good. And nice. Did I mention nice?
I also met Sharon, who won something. You might remember Sharon for being attacked by a homeopathic charlatan bastard. I wrote about it here a while back but I’m too lazy to find the link.
From last year, we had the revenant Sweary and the Swearing Gentleman, which was very nice, and I was glad to meet them both again, as they were the first actual internet people I ever met, all those months ago when I first got into this ridiculous business. From last year as well, we had Maz from Style Treaty who really does deserve to get an award and I hope it’ll be soon.
Let us not forget Annie Rhiannon and Bjarni, though I regret I might have been somewhat under the weather by the time we met up. I’d say I had a touch of the flu or something. Whatever. It was the kind of cold that makes you slur your speech and talk unmitigated shite.
I’m sure I’ve forgotten loads of people, but in my defence all I can offer is the fact that I was extremely drunk most of the time, and also eaten up with vicious small-minded rage and a desire for revenge.
For now, all I can do is show you a few pictures of people accepting awards, the bastards. I’m sorry the pics are somewhat grainy, but I had the speed turned up to the scut, and I was using the non-threatening camera.
There are no names on these pictures so you’ll have to use your imagination.