I thought that being in a hotel and not at home would mean a different routine. Mostly I was right but on one small front I was very much mistaken. There is this thing that happens when Bert and I are going out. Firstly I set a time to leave. Nine times out of ten it’s not a time that is set in stone, it’s just a suggestion, you know like “lets leave around 8ish?” As I’m writing that even I know I’m lying. It’s usually not just set in stone but signed with a death penalty attached. Every now and then I do let up and give a time that isn’t bound by any prime directive, although it’s not often. Anyway, as I said, the first thing that happens is I set a time to leave. There is no point Bert setting a time as if we book a table somewhere for 8pm he thinks that means we leave the house at 8pm.
So five minutes before the deadline I’m usually sat in the kitchen, car keys in hand, wondering whether I should just nip into World of Warcraft and have a quick battle with someone as I know Bert won’t be ready. As the deadline passes I shout upstairs to see if he’s ready. “Yeah, just putting my other glasses on,” comes the reply.
Five minutes later I’m sat in the car and he comes out, locks the front door, opens it and goes back in. A further five minutes pass and he comes out but this time goes back in without locking the door. Finally at anytime between 8.15-8.30pm he comes and gets in the car and I being to pull out the drive. “Oh hang on, I haven’t changed my glasses!” he says and we have one more visit inside.
Being in a hotel and not at home does not change this.
“Are you nearly ready baby?” I ask.
“Yeah, I’ve just got to put my shoes on,” he replies.
“Okay, will you ring reception and book a taxi? I’m just going to nip out and have a cigarette, I’ll see you downstairs in a few minutes.”
“Yeah, I’ll do it right now.”
As I walk out the room I hear him on the phone to reception asking them to book us a taxi and as I bypass the various people milling around the corridors in wedding outfits and a pissed mother-of-the-groom I keep my fingers crossed that the reception will actually a book a taxi and Bert really did just have his shoes to put on. Two cigarettes later, after I’d been staring at the taxi Bert finally turned up.
The taxi ride to the restaurant was short and as we pulled up outside Ask everyone else was also just arriving.
The eight of us – Laura, Rob, Diana, Milly, Tracey, Vicki, Brad and me – sat down at our table and the problem of choosing what to eat began. I’ve never been a big fan of tomatoes and in my younger years was actually allergic to them. I blame my mother, so did the doctor, as tinned tomatoes were her craving during pregnancy and she overdosed on them.
Being in an Italian restaurant and not liking tomatoes meant the menu was quite limited. Thankfully just because I don’t like them doesn’t mean I won’t eat them, I just don’t like huge amounts so the menu wasn’t that limited. As it was I chose a dish that didn’t have tomatoes. It was small but beautiful – just like me – and I could have quite easily eaten it twice.
The next day Laura suggested the reason I got so drunk was because my portion was small and there wasn’t enough food in my stomach to soak up the alcohol. This may be partially true but the main reason would be that I’m a light-weight and cannot take my drink.
The dinner conversation turned to poo, wank socks and tissues, pissing in teapots and Pringles, much to the disgust of the people behind us who seemed to finish eating quite quickly and escape into the night. Pringles became the buzz word of the night and was shouted in varying places and tones followed by anything from willies, boobies, poo and mother-fucker, all in a tourette stylee.
Once the bill was sorted, a story I’m not going into, we moved onto the first bar a place called the Quay Side. It was, I thought, a very contemporary place with high backed stools at the bar and nice small tables around the place and quiet music so we could really talk and get to know each other. We toasted a glass to Kelly who initially was going to try and come over but didn’t in the end so she could spend her holiday time with the mister, and who could blame her? He’s obviously a wonderful man from the way she talks about him in blog and in person. We heart Mister – Send Kelly! The whole getting to know you thing didn’t really happen but instead we laughed, joked, drank and had a great time but as we left I realised I was still non the wiser as to who the new bloggers I was meeting were really.
Obviously I’d met Laura before during her mammoth travelling in May for the Berlin blog meet – a week at ours, then Berlin then a final week back at ours. I’d met Rob in Berlin as well and the entire time there I’d not once called him Bob, the second I see him outside the restaurant I shake his hand and say “Hi Bob, good to see you again,” and instantly apologised for calling him Bob. I’d also met Diana in Berlin and me and her sat and enjoyed a wine or four together in the restaurant and then in this bar. I’d met Vicki when her and Laura came to meet us at the station but the conversation went as far as grabbing a burger and where we were going that evening so she was just as much as stranger as the others. Obviously I knew bits about them from reading blogs but essentially they were, as I said, strangers.
During the walk to the next bar, a place called Zillis, I talked to each one, trying to make sure I got to know them all a little better and this carried on in the next bar. We sat outside as the night was warm and so the smokers, in the majority for once, could smoke. A half-pint glass of wine was thrust into my hand by Brad. I’d have complained about it being a half pint but he was too busy complaining about how the Amstel he’d ordered and they’d given him was not Amstel but some piss-poor replica or water-down rubbish.
Now, it’s from this point that my memory starts to become hazy. I’d like to say this is due to swine flu or SARS as that way I’d have a proper real forgivable excuse for forgetting a fair old amount but in reality I got trollied.
I know Vicki disappeared and came back a few minutes later with some fluffy light-up bunny ears for me which I wore all night, in fact when we moved on to a bar called William Wilberforce the DJ dedicated the first song we heard to “the man with the bunny ears.”
When I say DJ I’m actually using the term very loosely. I get very pissed off when people call themselves DJ’s when all the actually do is either play some MP3′s through a laptop or stick on a CD or two. Some of us were real DJ’s back in the day when you mixed music properly! Bastards!
Much more drinking followed and I remember at one point drinking something that looking like baby sick but tasted like Baileys. It turned out to be Banana flavoured vodka or something like that. it was horrible but I was past it so drank it.
Dancing followed to various camp classics such as Tragedy by Steps, Chain Reaction by Diana Ross and Reach for the Stars by S Club 7. Apparently someone has a video of me dancing and when you see the size of me you’ll realise when the camera is a bit shaky. The drinking, singing and dancing continued until it was time to move onto the next place. I didn’t realise it but by this point we were already one member down.
Heading to the next place Milly and I decided to make it a goal to get as many pictures with cute guys and girls as we could. Actually I think I made it my mission and Milly, bless her, joined it. This had actually been going on most of the night but now, as we walked, we became more determined to get even more pictures.
Sadly as we walked the fresh air hit me and my intoxication became worse. I remember almost falling in some ruins of something but it might have just been some road works. The state I was in was not good and in the end the decision was made that Brad and I should head back to the hotel. I honestly couldn’t tell you who made the decision but Brad didn’t seem to mind so we went and queued for a taxi. After thirty-odd minutes of waiting it arrived and I made sure the driver was told to drive slowly and carefully or I’d vomit in his cab. He was happy with this for some reason but I did assure him I would get plenty of notice if I was going to puke. I then proceeded to give him a lecture on being a taxi driver in Galway and how unfair it was on all the real taxi drivers as they were allowing anyone to be a driver!
Finally back at the hotel we stumbled into the lift and pushed the button for the fourth floor. We stopped at the first floor and in came a bride being held up by two bridesmaids and a man who just stood there laughing at her. So did we. For some reason the bride took a bite out of one of her bridesmaids as the lift filled with the shrill of “Michelle dernt beyte meh!” in the strangest accent I’d ever heard. As the doors opened the bride let go of her supports and she fell out the lift flat on her face, leaving a shoe behind. As the doors started to close Prince Charming (Brad) threw out the shoe to the pissed up Cinderella on the floor and the pair of us started laughing.
As we got in to the hotel room I turned to Brad and said “Now I’m not that bad am I?” Before he could answer I’d collapsed on the bed and demanded he got me a drink of water. With the window open and the
comfort cooling
system running I drifted off to sleep with the thoughts that I’d had a fantastic time, met some wonderful people, made some great friends and drank far too much.
So, here I am, in glorious Technicolor, pissed and waiting for the taxi. Apparently there is a video of me dancing but I don’t have it, haven’t seen it (don’t want to!) and know nothing about it. Brad took this one. The shame!
Coming soon… the morning after!
P.S. All the pictures are clickable for a bigger version.
