I woke up this morning with another boiled head.
A week ago, the Hangar Queen arrived on my doorstep and since then it’s been non-stop carousing and generally acting the maggot, and I’m no longer a young man. Obviously when HQ arrived, we had to go out to Sniffle’s house for wine and beer and food. Which was great, with first class conversation, but a lot of wine. Much wine and beer.
I woke with a boiled head, but hey, it was Friday, which meant going out to the pub. You couldn’t have a guest over from America and not take them straight to the pub, could you? I thought it would be a good plan to introduce HQ to a gang of drunken queers who later dragged her off to some filthy gay haunt while I stayed where I was for more carousing.
I had another boiled head on Saturday morning, but there was no escaping the Blog Awards in Cork. I drove with my eyes shut in case I bled to death. Anyone who was there will tell you what an all-night party that was, which meant that I woke on Sunday morning with a boiled head.
Sunday evening there’s always a good bluesy session in Nancy’s and you couldn’t have a guest over from America and not take them to that, could you? We couldn’t leave it there, and so we went on to another establishment where there was another band playing, and where we had a few more beers, resulting in a boiled head on Monday morning.
Now, you couldn’t have a guest over from America and not take them to the pub on Monday evening, could you? HQ, as it happened, made her own way into town, and met up with Mr Darwin, who happened to be playing music in the establishment, preparing for the launch of his new Depression-era band. And so we had a few beers, and swapped a few stories, and had a few more beers, resulting in a boiled head on Tuesday morning.
Incredibly we didn’t go out that night. Bullet was sick and I was keeping an eye on him, but he’s much better now. And that was why, on Wednesday morning, I didn’t wake up with a boiled head, but it wasn’t to last. Just as I dropped HQ at the airport for the long journey back Stateside, the phone rang.
It was the Wild Man From Conamara, on his Significant Birthday Tour of Ireland, looking up all the friends he knew back in the days when people existed on a diet of homemade beer and magic mushrooms.
Well? When are we going out?
Oh fuck, I groaned.
What? he demanded. You don’t lightly cross the WMFC.
Nothing, I said. Did you have a time in mind?
I had, he replied. We’ll go now.
Oh Jesus, I told him.
What? he growled.
All right, I said.
And so we headed to Nancy’s, and then on a mini-tour of Limerick where we met all manner of lunatic, and then we went home to slug back a bottle of wine he’d brought. A fine vineyard called Chateau Bang-for-your-buck. Which meant a boiled head this morning.
Now, they’re gone. HQ to America, and WMFC back home. And so I thought a nice quiet night would be good. That was when the phone rang. It was Darwin.
There’s a table quiz in Jerry Flannery’s to raise money for injured rugby players and I was thinking —
So that’s that. I know what’s facing me in the morning: another boiled head. And it’s worse than you think. You see, the Tedfest is on Inis Mór this weekend, and when I spoke on the phone to the Rockhopper last week, he said
D’you know what? I was thinking of going home to the Rock for Tedfest. What do you reckon? Will we go?
It will be an all-weekender, which, I fear will cause …