Schizophrenia and Alcohol; The story of different types of drunks

Well my friends it's been a long time since I have written to you. Allow me to start by re-affirming how utterly amazing you all are and that if it was within my power, I would without a doubt make gentle love to each of you in the amber glow of the morning sun, just as a snowdrop blossoms its preemed white petals to welcome the start of winter. Afterwards we would hold eachother in the cold morning and watch as the embers of the throbbing fire in our idyllic log cabin that doesnt exist anywhere, flint outwards; each taking flight before landing perfectly on our white tiger rug, thus setting alight the entire ambiance with a verve that is only matched by the 'power of love' sung by Il Divo. Yes my friends, my ridiculously pointless blog has returned. So what happened Deco? Why didnt you write in so long? Well, I got lazy. Thats it. Moving on. Did you achieve your goal of not drinking until Christmas Eve 2009 last year?...... I feel I must be honest, sadly I did not. I broke 3 weeks before Christmas. The festive season of wonder and love penetrated my objective faster than a gigantic penis beckoning a lady garden. BUT not to worry because like the ending of the mighty ducks, I didnt win but I learned something far more valuable; That alcohol is ABSOLUTELY AMAZING! So where does the blog go from here? Adventures? Activities? Stories? Who knows? Who actually cares? I'd like to think we can still observe and report on the by-products of drinking no matter what they are. So, this brings me back to the title topic; The story of different types of drunks. We all react differently to alcolor. Whether you are one of those people who transforms into an absolute bollox or the person who uses the words 'love' and 'you' in such a deep sense when talking to your close friends, that your eyes close and you literally conjure tears to demonstrate how serious you are. Perhaps you're a shy axe murderer who just needed the little push from Dutch Courage to kick off that haywire killing spree that has been making its way down your to do list? - for obvious reasons. WHO KNOWS? The most interesting part of this topic to me is the notion that people tend to believe 'the truth comes out when one is drunk'. I personally believe there is a level of truth to this common statement. Not to the point where-by I believe it should be used to interrogate criminals; Although if we did get Jessica Fletcher drunk im sure she would confess to being the one behind all of the deaths in Murder She Wrote; her life is just too fucking convenient for me to believe shes just writing a bloody novel, the bitch. Anyway, what do we know about being drunk and letting go of our feelings? The big castle wall that guards that thing we just cant put our finger on? Well the beauty of my musing here is that there is no real answer which allows me to make up as much nonsense as I like. But like my other posts, I will be as candid as I always am. I believe when someone tells you something when they're drunk; however profound, it tends to be rooted somewhere deep inside. Whether it be they have feelings for you or that they just think you're one big stupid prick that flaps around pointlessly in the wind. How deep can we dive with this topic?... Lets see; Why do they think that? What is the perception this person has of me? What do they know about me? What have others told them? Do they have jealousy problems with the fact they're nose looks like a beak? All of these wonderful questions and more, can help determine why someone might blurt something out that they otherwise wouldnt when sober. But as we've come to learn in my previous posts, alcohol slows the brains cognition, it relaxes the mind and transforms it slowly, from the perfect functioning super computer that it is into a direct translation of Brian Cowans recent radio interview; numb, incomprehenisble and horribly slurry. But the reality is that we've all had our cringe-worthy moments. But, how many of you can honestly say there are some things you dont regret doing when you were absolutely puddlefucked? I'll have one from the top and six from anywhere else please Carol. What? Exactly, pay attention. The thing we also need to note is that different drinks produce different types of drunks. Crazy drunks, stupid drunks, nice drunks. We're all victims of our own subjective nature. Vodka for instance sends me into an uncontrollable frenzy where I'm likely to do anything from telling Samantha Mumba to fuck off in Barcode, to reciting 'On Raglan Road' to a homeless person that did in fact look like Patrick Kavanagh, sitting on Raglan Road - both actually happened. Beer turns me into a sloppy slurry slobby blobby floppy mess and wine turns me into a wannabe connoisseur. In any case, what we need to know is that if we want the portcullis to remain closed, perhaps we should moderate what we drink. Finally, a series of offensive words; Fuck, bollox, shite, offensive, twat, jerk and you big silly bastard.

Bottom line 23 - Im convinced its been Jessica Fletcher all along.

Normally I outline what my next blog topic is going to be but instead of keeping it confined to the realms of Alcohol, im going to close this blog down and post on random things.

Lets blow up this bubble and see where it takes us :-)

Slan mo Chara,

Deco

Decepticons are very real my friends

Some believe, some dont believe; that is the very nature of humanity. Whether it be in aliens, Gods or ghosts the thing that separates us is the reasoning behind our belief's. However, make no mistake that your discretion is not required in what I am about to tell you... There are secrets roaming the earth, hidden in the deepest and darkest of places. Things so truly horrible that only few have ever passed through the eye of the needle to be able to see them on the other side. Secrets so terrifying and corrupt that the very ground we walk on would crumble under their revealation. Thankfully for you however, I am one of those people. I have survived the baptism under fire and today, I will dare to shake the earth; I refer to a conspiracy, a set of chess pieces that have been placed among us so cunningly, hidden in plain sight and in daily use under an unassuming impression of insignificance. One of these chess pieces my friends; is a straw. You may not think it, but straws are among the most dangerous of what I like to call, 'The decepticons'. Its purpose to you is known as an aid to drink. However it is no mere coincidence that it is believed the first ever straws were used by the Sumerians to drink beer (to avoid solid byproducts of fermentation); but rather the result of a well laid plan by Alcolor divised long before the employment of modern warfare tactics such as target consumerism or strategic marketing. By introducing the straw as a 'filter', Alcolor made the Sumerians as a result, drink more alcohol and subsequently, generations later, us too; Genius. Over time however it would appear that the straw has developed another use for the darkside; such as making you look like a mute Soprano Tenor belting out the cresendo of a beautiful melody as you hover around the rim of the glass with your mouth open searching for the straw while otherwise occupied in conversation. The true embarressment that spawns from this is the poor soul who refuses to simply look down to reconnect their mouth-to-eye co-ordination and as a result, when they raise the glass to their mouth, they completely overshoot the course of the straw and it goes right up their nose; pulling power for the night once again, reduced to zero. Please, stay with me, as difficult as this is for you to read you must know it is vital that we as people discover the truth about the decepticons... I will therefore continue; Ice cubes - what bastards these are. Their use to 'cool a drink' is yet another decieving ploy. You come to the end of a drink and find there is still a couple of ice cubes left in the bottom of the glass. With great caution you tilt the glass into your mouth, craving the final drops of the drink but at the same time hoping to catch just ONE ice cube to munch on. What ensues can be alikened to a scene in Braveheart; the William Wallace of the ice cubes telling the rest of them to 'HOLD'....'HOLLLLD'.........'HOLLLLLLLLLLLD'..... until all of the cubes avalanche towards your face crashing into your two front teeth. Wonderful. Occasionally I step back from all of this madness and ask myself; "how deep does the conspiracy go? At what point does a simple inanimate object cease to fulfil its genuine intention and seek to make a mockery of me?"; as a result I find myself being wary of every little utensil, every possible decoy. Knowing that I could no longer trust anything to fulfil its sole purpose, I discovered another decepticon; The Bar stool; "Ohhhh come have a seat Declan, I will take the strain off your legs and allow you to enjoy your alcohol more comfortably"... comfortable MY BOLLOCKS. I challenge anyone to find a bar stool that sits perfectly without wobbling, doesnt creak as if its about to explode under your weight and has a cushioning that doesnt make the backs of your legs sweat - how attractive. However I must note there are only some bar-stools that are in fact decepticons; In the hope that someone will crack an outrageously funny joke and you will lean back with the force of the laughter, the evil stool has cleverly omitted the back support. This is where the design of the stool is critical in inflicting maximum pain and optimum embarressment; as you are falling you instinctively reposition your hands to save yourself but because the stool is so high off the ground they cant find the floor and so, on your way down you resemble that poor kid you always see in a swimming pool who cant swim; thrashing around for dear life grasping for something to keep you afloat. In extremely hilarious situations, you find that something in the form of a passing elderly person and you pull them down with you. They are truly everywhere my friends - each item brimming with more evil than the last. I will continue to reveal Decepticons in my posts. But for now, fly my brothers and sisters, fly like the beautiful dazzling rainbow birds that you are...

Bottomline no 22; Be aware of your surroundings

Next post: Schizophrenia and Alcohol; The story of different types of drunks

Slan mo Chara

Deco

Alcohol makes us do the 'stupidest' things - part 2: The Punching Game

Now, as we established in one of my earlier posts, alcohol slows the cognition in your brain. It also makes you piss like a camel with a kidney infection, but thats irrelevant. I recall when a couple of friends and I were walking along the outside of the garden of remembrance at the city center entrance to the Phoenix park when we spotted someone leaning up against the railings further on ahead. The time was nearing 6am; we had collectively decided to take on the challenge of walking the entire distance home after a crazy night on the town(bad idea if you're wearing a cheap rip off of caterpillar boots); Round 1 - Alcolor. In any case, as we drew nearer to the person we realised that he wasnt leaning against the railings rather he was completely supported by them; this guy was BLAFLEWLALOOLOOLOLLOXED. Swaying to and fro as if he had been momentarily shot with a potent tranquilizer dart, he regained his composure only to fall asleep standing up, the black grill gate acting as his bed. Normally in a situation like this, my friends and I would wake the chap and flag a taxi to help get the poor punter home; but at the time it was much more entertaining just to pull his pants down. Lovely little story Deco but whats your point? Well, basically - this guy was completely unaware. He was not ready for absolutely any possible outcome of his actions, no matter how minute they were. While I was in Ninja school in Trinity College; I trained as a master of stealth, a black assassin of the night-sky, a son of the shadows, a deadly instrument of invisibility and I occasionally liked to pick poppi's in the warm summer sun. My now late Ninja teacher, 'Master George' always taught me the value of awareness and the cunning of wits. I became a lethal weapon who could strike at any moment. Trying to bestow the value of awareness upon my friends that fateful night, I created 'the punching game' (Round 2- Alcolor); designed to test how drunk you are at intermittant stages throughout any given evening. The game is quite simple; you must catch your friend unaware with a sly but rather hard punch to the face. If he sees you and dodges, he gets a free punch that should not be met with retaliation. If he doesnt see you then theres a good chance you'll knock him out or chip one of his teeth in the process(Quick shout out to my close friend Al who recently attended the dentist following a night on the piss with a sober person; me). This game is dangerous and should only be played in the absence of parental supervision and under the influence of alcohol. Indulging in this game has caused me a number of problems; One of which I can recall was when I had arrived in 'Heaven' nightclub completely tinkerbelled and greeted a mate I had not seen in a couple of weeks with a friendly upper-cut to the chin. Within seconds I found myself battling a group of Hungarian Bouncers with another technique that Master George had taught me; running away very very quickly... Another such occasion took place in a rather quiet pub in the city centre; My friends and I had been drinking for most of the day and the 'punching game' had already begun. I had received an unmerciful blow to the jaw for which I was seeking revenge. The friend who had caught me off guard was in deep conversation with a beautiful girl at the bar; this was my chance to kill two birds with one stone - to get my vengence and cock block the shit out of the bostard. I strolled over casually and stood behind him for a moment, the girl seemed to be completely unaware that I was a close friend of the person she was chatting to while she whispered something in his ear which referred to 'the weirdo standing behind you'... When John turned around to see who this might be, I swung an almighty left hook; out of sheer instinct John ducked with such speed that, like the kid from that film about a big friendly whale, gave himself enough time to watch my 'Willy' sail over his head and right into the girls face. Well done Deco, you've KO'd another innocent girl. No wonder Im single. Anyway, apart from being branded a woman beater and being banned for life from that particular pub, the whole mishap was rather hilarious. The game began to spiral out of control when I started to throw in the odd drop-kick and it eventually escalated into using broom-sticks, mops and back-handers. Eventually we reeled it back to just punching after I stabbed one my mates with a broken bottle of Corona while away on a lads-weekend in Newcastle. Much of the above are sentences I never thought I would write from the first person perspective so please understand that I am neither insane nor in need of mental attention; or at least not while im sober anyway. But then again, arent we all a little crazy with some booze in us? I think the degree of lunacy on a night out progresses through a particular hierarchy. The necessity of stupidity, on either a large or small scale becomes present after having consumed alcohol starting with things like; laughing at farts or getting hysterical at something as simple as someone falling over; right the way to a disturbed, almost insane sense of humour. Alcohol makes us do so many stupid things but the question I hear repeating over and over in my head is; 'If I moisturise, will I look any younger?'... Who knows

Bottomline no 21; You can do one of two things to remain aware on a night out; Either not drink too much or drink too much - either way you're not going to feel the punch

Next post; Decepticons are very real my friends

Slan mo Chara

Deco

Alcohol makes us do the 'stupidest' things - part 1; 'Swords'

It was 10pm on a Sunday evening; I was aboard a landing flight into Dublin airport following a relaxing week in Madrid with two friends. I had indulged in the usual sea, sand and cocktail experience with great control and calming measure. Yes, I was at one with myself; totally at peace and at perfect zen with my CHI. My friend, sitting to my right turned to me and said; 'I cant wait to get into my own bed again'. I promptly replied; 'yeah me too, im nackered' - with that the plane wheels touched down on the Emerald Isle and 'LETS GET PISSSSSED!' inaudibly forced its way out of my mouth as if I was possessed by some kind of demon trying to tell a priest to shag off in Latin... Within moments of collecting my luggage I had already organised a band of troops for the liver assault. Doing nothing short of driving directly from the airport to the local pub, I met my crew waiting beer in hand at the bar, my spot reserved by their sides; I knew from that moment, that this was going to be a dangerous night...Fast forward to the next morning, I've woken up completely paralised with a hangover. I can feel grains of something chafing against my half naked body in the bed. I look under the duvet and see hundreds of sand particles all over the place. 'Beach party in the nightclub, great'. I instantly remembered that because the nightclub was filled with 30 tonnes of sand I decided to lie down and completely bury myself in the hope that from the outset, my friends would look down, as if in some kind of army movie where the soldiers hunting them have been trained to blend into any surrounding; and see only my eyes right before I would rise from the sand in slow motion and instantly break their necks. Unfortunately, it being a nightclub in which its capacity is somewhere in the region of 500 people, I was instead trampled close to death. Round 1, Alcolor. In round 2, we had all left the nightclub and we were standing outside mingling with the locals in search of a house party. When the hope of continued lunacy seemed all but lost, I decided to bring 4 of my wildly drunken ape-friends back to my house where my father and mother were sleeping soundly against the quiet of the night. We get there and raid the fridge, remaining completely silent. But then Alcolor delivered his third blistering blow; we decided it would be a good idea for some strange reason, to sit out my back garden in the soothing -63 degrees and continue to pluck the alcohol to our veins. There we sat, drinking directly out of a 1962 chevignon blanc bottle and laughing at the moving hallucinations that pitch blackness and stupid volumes of Jesus-juice makes you see. After the next door neighbour shouted out the window 'David will you be quiet, its 4am on a Sunday' and feeling the onset of a sure-fire cold, Alcolor was really winning the fight (yes, I hate it when people get my name wrong. I dont care if my brothers name is David - I AM A LIVING BREATHING INDIVIDUAL WITH FEELNGS AND EMOTIONS). So we moved inside and up to my bedroom, which proved to be the 'game set and match' for the already leading contender. Why? - There, hoisted on my wall, were two professionally sharpened, full tech samurai swords and a set of nunchucks. My friend recounted me trying to display my skill with the latter weapon and described the exhibition as 'spectacular' - not because of my awesome skill but because I let the nunchucks fly out of control knocking myself unconscious for a number of seconds. But like all heavyweights, Alcolor saved his best til' last; so im lying in my bed, theres sand everywhere, im bruised to hell and wait a minute, my arm is stuck to the bed sheets... Then I get a text message from one of my last-night-in-attendance friends and it reads; 'What happened last night? I have stab wounds all over me'. I call him and we simply cannot recall what happened. I turn to look at why my arm is stuck to the bed sheet and then I realise what has happened. I peel the sheet away from my arm to reveal a nasty open wound. I scurry to the bathroom and spend the next few minutes cleaning this 3 inch gaping wound on my arm; As I nurture it with a bandage I desperately go over all of the events of the night; I recall that the beginning of our drunken madness was marked by my best friend doing a handstand into the live singer in the local pub (the twanging sounds of the interupted guitar strings and the distortion from the amplifier still ring in my ear). After that I begin to get flashbacks of me trying to lift a girl on the dance floor, show boating to the lads while I positioned her body in mid air to give her a make-believe spine-buster; only to discover that either she was too heavy or I was too weak as the downward momentum proved too much for me to control; resulting in what others perceived to be as me rugby tackling her into the DJ box. But I just couldnt figure out what happened to my arm. I lie back into bed, now wide awake and feeling utterly disgusting when I begin to look through the media on my mobile phone. I open the video folder and sure enough, there is a fresh recording... With great hesitance I open the video. At first it is just a still recording of one of the corners in my bedroom, TV and guitar in view; but quickly there is movement; From each side of the frame, enters my friend and I branishing the samurai swords. Facing eachother with absolute focus. I could not believe my eyes when I witnessed what ensued.... Alcolor is not evil because of what he does to people; he is evil because of what he makes people do to themselves and eachother. The wound on my arm was too big for me to ignore, so the following day I went to a chemist to buy paper stitches. Upon being quized by the pharmacists as to how I got the wound; I simply told them I saw an old lady being mugged and when I tried to help, I came out of the confrontation with 'this' - as I point to the deep gash. They thought it was so heroic, they gave me the stitches for free. Should I feel guilty? Probably.... do I? - Not in the slightest....

Bottomline no 20 - A drunken, fully fledged Samurai sword fight is neither funny nor cool; Stay in school kids.

Next Post: Alcohol makes us do the 'stupidest' things - part 2; 'The punching game'

Slan mo Chara,

Deco

Leftover Spare Change

Every so often 'we' (as a race of people) purchase new handbags, wallets and purses. Note the 'every so often'. We know that for a man, a wallet serves a string of simple purposes and they are to hold some cash, a bank card, 16 dozen receipts (amoung which are ones for Atlantic Homecare for some strange reason?) and a multitude of concessions to a premier lap dancing club. For a woman however, an oversized handbag harbours everything from a full array of beauty cosmetics, a hairdryer, a travel Iron, a miniature GHD and Osama Bin Laden. But as if that wasnt enough, they buy another form of bag to go into their already laiden-down suitcase to hold their spare-change; The Purse. Now if I wasnt duely accustomed to getting absolutely monkey'd on a weekendly basis I wouldnt understand the need for a purse. However, in order to better explain my understanding, I feel perhaps it may be best to tell this story from a male perspective. So, any lady readers, I will count backwards from 5; you will be relaxed and calm, clear your mind and allow yourself to be transported into the drinkery of a man; 5,4,3,2 annnnd 1; Its Friday, you're just finished work, you're sitting on the bus eagerly anitcipating the oncoming booze-up. You get home and indulge in the '3 essential S's' ( shower shit and a shave), gel the hair and BOOM; you're ready to rock. What happens thereafter is not all that dissimliar to a lady's night out; you spend your night sitting under the livin da vida loca bucket only its filled with vodka instead of water and you dance around like a flightless pelican desperately trying to get airbourne. But here is the tricky part; You started the night with 3 crisp 50 euro notes in your wallet however, as the night progresses you notice that you are paying for drinks with what appears to be an unending amount of 20 euro notes that deplete into 'tenners' and eventually into 'fivers'... You have nestled your taxi money away in the tiny pocket inside your jeans in order to avoid spending it 'accidentally' and you've measured your spending to accomodate your end of the night 'munchies'. However, while you're standing there in the fast food queue, you cant help but notice a whole host of gypsy beggers staring at your bollocks - just blankly staring; their whorish mouths watering as if they've stumbled across a free stash of the 'Big Issue' - pure profit. You dont know what they are staring at until you realise that because you so intelligently paid for all of your drinks with fresh notes, the spare change in your pocket has manifested itself in what appears to be a massive erection (now personally, I bask in the illusion that my manhood is the elliptical size and shape of half a tennis ball before reaching in and taking out a handful of coins to pay for my food. I notice again however that I select the 2 euro coins instead of the 50 & 20cent coins... Makes sense to maintain the consistency of my stupidity and continue to hope that no-one pushes me into a river). You get home and take off your jeans and flippantly throw them across the room watching them anchor in mid air and smash through the floor, plummiting through the ceiling in the apartment below you and knocking the residing OAP unconscious (either that or the landing is met with a dull thud). So, you wake up the next morning to a pyramid of copper and gold coins that are lying on top of an aptly placed bank statement that you opened and stuffed back into the envelope; Its a real pain in the arse. Yet STILL - when you get ready to go out, you select the higher valued coins to take with you!!? Over time you begin to save this loose change that isnt deemed worthy enough to go back into your pocket (usually in an empty aftershave box or a tennis ball container) and it slowly and surely builds and builds; Some weeks down the line, its 10 days to pay-day, you spot the container brimming with change (that you have began topping off with 2 and 1 euro coins) and off you go to find one of those change machines in a spar that will count it for you. Its not enough that the frickin machine takes 5% of what it has counted but its so loud that it may aswell have a pre-recorded repeating voice message that plays through an attached speaker blaring; 'LOOK AT ME EVERYONE, IM A FUCKING LOSER'- how God damn embarressing. I guess the salvation comes in the fact that there was a healthy 50 quid in the savings jar and you now possess the ability to go on the 'razzmatazz', as D4-ians call it (D4-ians - deco-ism - the collective name for people from Dublin 4). On the flip side, there is always the point in your 'richness' (RIGHT after payday) when you've dropped a couple of coins and you dont bother picking them up. ' OH NOT TO WORRY I JUST GOT PAID'- you think to yourself. Or when you're cleaning your bedroom and you stumble across some loose change that you just suck up in the hoover solely to hear the sound of it ricocheting off every internal componant on its way to the bag. It boils down to the pressure that we think we are under when the shop clerk/bar man asks for the amount due - we quickly scramble through our pockets feeling like we are against the clock and then we just end up giving them a 50 euro note anyway...

Bottomline no 19 - Expect to see me with a man-purse from now on

Next post; Alcohol makes us do the 'stupidest' things

Slan mo Chara,

Deco

The Battle to the Bar

The sun rises over the hill to the east. Goliath stands in front of you in the form of dozens of people just as eager to reach the same goal. Its such a great feeling to stare at an army so vast and know that you dont have to take them on, as it is not yet your round. But as all good things come to an end, you must soon find a passage that will allow you quick and easy access through the mob of people if you are to retrieve your liquid-gold. Normally I use my height (or lack there-of) to squeeze in and out of the tiniest gaps between people as I inch my way through the crowd but there is always an initial sticking point - the first of many stages where I am trapped in an awkward position between 5 people and not able to move my face out of the back of some unwitting girls hair. As she notices my nose hiding in her bun , I have spotted an opening 7 people away and bid her farewell by telling her that her hair smells lemony fresh and I ask her what shampoo she uses; she looks me up and down and completely ignores me (wrong chat-up approach?). By now you can hear high-adrenalin battle chanting choir music playing in the backround which reminds you of your objective; bending in and out; around and over; sideways and back-ways, you negotiate the hoardes of drunkards that stand between you and your destination. Now you reach sticking point number 2; where you are locked between a girlfriend and her boyfriend; you can hear absolutely everything they are saying including the anti-catholic filth that is pouring out of their mouths - maybe they're just on a first date?... You're completely fed up listening to them so you make a break for the 'empty-drinks' section of the bar; the place only staff are allowed to park, in the hope that you can swindle a sly order out of a weak bar-man (kind of like when you want to change lanes while driving your car, you pull up beside who you reckon looks generous or 'weak' enough to let you in). After giving up when the bouncer asks you to clear the space, you return to battling through the obsticle course of large and sometimes quite stubborn nacker wannabes whose hair-cuts dont completely fulfil their ambition to be 100% arsehole; you brush passed them deflecting their 'im going to fight you stare' with a gentle pat on the back or lower forearm as you 'thriller-move' your way on by; your body now in an 'im a little tea-pot' position. After you've Egyptian posed your way out of a solid beating from a berserker punter, you now find that you are behind someone at the bar. Now at this point, in my experience, I sometimes come across the 'are you having a laugh-ers'; these are generally quite attractive girls who for some bizarre reason ask if they can get in ahead of me...? Honestly now little lady, DO YOU THINK IVE JUST BATTLED THROUGH WHAT APPEARED TO BE AN OVERCROWDED HARRY POTTER BOOK SIGNING QUEUE JUST TO LET YOU IN FRONT OF ME? NO, SO PISS OFF! Whats more is they act really annoyed then when I say no? Oh Im sorry, did Daddy not tell you about something called the real world? Anyway, so you're standing at the bar (which in my case is usually up to my chest - What a pain in the rear hoop that is might I add) and you have to order your round of drinks at least 6 times because the nature of a nightclub is to make the music so bloody loud, that you cant hear anyone speak; usually come the 6th repitition of ordering your round you have confortably reached the point where you are using sign language to communicate your order (this comprises of you pointing to the brand of drink you want and holding up the proportionate number of fingers to the quantity required - I love when the bar-man/woman nods with such assuradness that you are convinced that they not only successfully deciphered what you order, but you now think they're sound; only to discover they got it all wrong - but you accept what you've been given because you're not arsed going through the motions again. Now comes the difficult part - getting back to your seat without spilling a drop... In my experience, I often take an unmanagable 5 glasses between two hands and slowly begin to navigate my way back through the hussle and bussle completely conscious of the fact that I can feel one of the glasses slowly slipping out of my grasp and if I dont make it back to the 'home-table' in the next 10 seconds, one of my friends are going to be drinking their beer off the ground. You just make it time to see that your friends are all sitting pretty with new fresh drinks because while you were fighting the war on constrictive body movement, they've just called the waitress to their table and had a round of drinks delivered with ease, purely because you took so bloody long to get to the bar and back.

Bottomline no 18; Spot the waitress, it will save you alot of grief.

Next Post: Leftover Spare Change

Slan Mo Chara

Deco

The Toilet people

There are many things I can never understand and things I never will. However, something that initially perplexed me but has now boomeranged all the way around confusion and landed right in my lap of resolution; is the concept of the people that work in the toilets in pubs and nightclubs. Or as I have come to call them; 'the toilet people'.
I recall the first time I walked into a toilet and was ambushed by a lucky lucky man spraying me in the eyes with a stinging mace of Jean Paul Gaultier and forcing me to wash my hands before I had even taken a piss and I must say; after my initial instinctive reaction of punching the poor guy in the face and following the realisation that I wasnt in fact under attack; I felt compelled to give the chap some money. The glory of it all; that was exactly what he wanted. From then on they became more plentiful, taking over more and more toilets across Dublin but it seemed their CEO had passed down a directive that employed customers of the bathroom voluntarily asking for some aftershave rather than a 'give first ask for money after' policy. I just couldnt get my head around it; I continued saying to myself, 'imagine working in a toilet during the messiest times of the night; Its confined, its not exactly the cleanest and you would have to deal with every drunken incarnation of Jar Jar binks there is'. But these guys are actually outrageously cunning business-men and they use every level of psychological strategy to fill up their black marble ashtrays. Example; I walk into the toilet after ballooning my liver out the lounge window following a barrage of hell-shots, I look to the urinals; they're completely occupied but to my luck someone is just coming out of a cubical - so in I go. While trying to write my name on the surface water with what can only be described as my uncontrollable jetspraying power washer, I begin to drunkenly text someone that Ive just seen upstairs in the nightclub who I havent bumped into in months, telling them they look like a radiant sunflower blossoming in the middle of a golden meadow; but suddenly someone begins to knock furiously on the cubical door and they are screaming at the tops of their lungs a mix of words that I simply cannot understand. I scramble my belt buckle closed while inadvertently saving that text to drafts (which I will discover in 'drunken text messages'), I walk out to find it was just the 'Toilet person' expiring my pissing time that was so clearly sign-posted in big flashing lights before I entered the lavatory. So I walk over to the sink and as I reach for the tap, the toilet person picks up his bottle of Palmolive (I raise my boxing guard to defend myself, thinking im about to be soaped to death) and he uses it to push down on the hot water tap. "Phew...". As I allow the water to wash over my hands, provocative spurts of coconut handwash land perfectly between my cupped hands as the 'Toilet person' cocks the bottle from afar like an early 18th century handgun. Ive cleaned my hands now and I need to dry them; Im one of these people who'd rather use toilet paper because unless its one of those new Dyson-super driers, im generally standing there until last orders waiting for my hands to dry under the gentle heat coming from the ordinary, wall mounted articulated truck exhaust pipe (that always harbors a message about saving trees). But the 'Toilet person' has of course thought of this and he hands me a blue hand towel that purely because of its colour, together with the stark white surroundings has now made me feel like im in a hospital. The problem here is that because its not the super absorbent Bounty hand-towel, it has crumbled in my hands and I need at least two more if im going to satisfyingly dry my mitts. With great hesitance I ask for two more towels and he looks at me like hes just about to giraffe kick me to the testicles. "Oh Im sorry Mr Toilet person, If you werent here id surely be thinning out the toilet paper in order to be more eco-friendly". So he cautiously gives me another two and directs me to put them in the blue bin, not the red one (what the hell?). Now, I havent indulged in any assortment of lollipops, chewing gum (usually 'Juicy Fruits') or aftershave yet I still feel I owe this guy for doing something as simple as washing my hands... Do I give him money? My arse - he can shag off if he thinks he's providing a service by removing my independence of pushing down on the pressure tap to relieve the repetitive strain injury I have from typing this post. But what I will say is that those minor actions are in fact a stroke of genius because it plays on the same psychological principal as the homeless person who starts washing your car in a traffic jam - you feel like you must give them something for their efforts. Not to mention that during your time in the 'Toilet persons' hospitality, they've been laughing with you, dancing with you, asking you how you are and how your night is going and generally just becoming your new best friend(albeit of course excluding the death stare he gave you earlier for contributing to the death of a sapling).However, in the instance when I do feel like giving a 'Toilet person' a few quid, I usually leave 2euro MAX; for it I get 2 under-arm sprays of the aptly present ‘Lynx Africa’, two sprays of after-shave and the friendliest thank-you-pat-on-the-back ever. Is this return on my investment even worth it? Of course not but the principal is that the condiments are there when you want it and because you dont want to smell like you've just ran up the 700 steps to the top of the Eiffel tower(ive done it although it was more like a brisk walk). I can only imagine the money that these people make; I know it always looks like their ashtray is empty but thats only because they pocket the 'big money'. On average a nightclub holds generally between 200-300 people; now imagine, between the ladies toilets and the gents toilets that 150 of those people left 1 euro even 3 out of the 6 times they might visit the toilet. That my friends is serious cash for a night in the Jon. Im in the wrong business; im going to start at home and expand - imagine that; my dad walks in at 3 in the morning, turns on the light and sees me standing in the corner with a serving of aftershaves, lollipops and some blue hand towel; he'd either go into cardiac arrest with fright or do the same thing I did initially when I thought I was being attacked; punch me right in the face and the 'zomble' back to bed (zomble - Decoism- to describe someone still in a state of sleepiness). The most likely of the two being the latter; I think ill stick to my day job, even though im not terribly good at that either...

Bottomline no 17; No matter how drunk you are, be sure you get something from the plethora other than clean hands

Next Post: The Battle to the Bar

Slan mo Chara

Deco