Two dinners

Last week I googled "the responsibilities of a best man."

It was in preparation for my debut in the role at my brother's wedding later on this year. A lot of it seemed straight forward enough but no matter which site you looked on, they did all emphasise one common theme. The need to be always on hand and available to the groom in your responsibility as best man.

My first test of this was to come sooner than I had expected.

At my brother's stag do last weekend in Marbella I knew a lot of the guests. In fact I knew them all quite well, but they didn't all know each other. I imagine this is one of the main purposes of stag do's. For the wedding guests to get to know each other before the wedding.

Try as I might inevitably this ended up in people breaking up into smaller groups as the day went on. Personally I had no problem with that. But it did leave me in a precarious situation. I was caught between several groups. For the most part everyone got on but it did throw up one interesting conundrum for myself.

At 8pm on Saturday I was starting to get hungry. One of the groups I was with offered me to come get food and I didn't need a second invitation.

After a nice meal I'm walking down the road on the way back to the hotel and who do I bump into only the groom himself.

Unbeknownst to me he had actually gone back to bed for the afternoon and was now ready for dinner.

"You coming for food?"

Without a moment's hesitating I agreed.

People talk about moments of fight of flight in life but this was really only a moment of one option and that was to fly. What am I gonna do, say I just went for dinner with all the others without you?

I could probably eat another starter anyway.

Walking down the road a stark realisation hit me. We would almost invariably completely definitely end up back where I was.

Not more than ten minutes after I left the restaurant I was walking back into it.

"Back again?" The waiter quizzed jokingly having just served me no more than ten minutes previously.

To be honest it wasn't a massive restaurant but I did think it was big enough for him, especially with me being part a group of six, to have forgotten me.

No chance.

Taking our seats at this point I was just going to fess up but then I thought to myself "if I can eat the soup for starter surely I can find it in myself to eat one more main course as well?"

I owe it to the founders, hell the forefathers of hilarity to order the main course as well.

It was settled.

"Back again?" The waiter repeats looking at me and me only as he comes back over to take our order.

I smile but again don't acknowledge it. At this stage I'm in it as much for my own amusement now. No point walking straight back into a restaurant and ordering a second meal without playing nonchalant about it as well.

To his utter disbelief he takes my order and then as soon as the pen leaves his pad dashes straight back to the kitchen to tell everybody what has just happened. Out of the corner of my eye I can see him pointing, faces looking over counters and lots of people nodding heads.

It's at this point the manager comes over and asks me directly, smiling.

"Weren't you just here?"

Captive to my role, I shake my head sincerely. Dumbfound, she returns to the rest of the waiting staff who are now all beginning to question their sanities. A restaurant in disbelief.

I got through the soup ok and although the lamb shank wasn't the best of choices for a second main course in an hour given its size I did manage to get through that as well without much plight.

For the entire duration the waiter tried desperately for me to fold. Eye contact, smiling, asking me if I was hungry today, but I gave him nothing. We paid the bill took our stuff and left.

Few steps down the road and I had forgot something and had to go back. Of course I went back in and told the waiter what had happened.

To this day I don't think I've ever seen relief like it.

"Thank god. I thought I was losing my mind."

Last night I get sick

Puked everywhere last night, was trying to get back to the room but stomach was having none of it. Too much whiskey. Quite hilarious when I went to try and retrieve the situation this morning.

"Last night, I get sick."

"Sorry?"

"Last night. I got sick. Sick." *demonstrate person getting sick.

"Ah ok. Yes."

Pause.

I was trying to find where it happened so I could offer to clean it up, or at least tip the poor unfortunate that had to do it.

"So where did it happen?" I say.

Pause.

"I don't know? *shrugs shoulders".

"You were one who is getting sick, how do I know where you get sick?"

The search continued out to the pool area where I asked another lad about it. The pool boy.

"Do you speak English?"

"No."

I decide to do what everyone else does in this situation and continue to speak English anyway.

"Last night, I get sick." *demonstrates getting sick

"Yes."

"Where did it happen?" * my hands in the air*

He encouraged me to follow him and eventually we get to the place of the incident, wet floor sign on the ground signifying it. He points.

"Sorry." I say. Looking at the ground now clean. I hand him a 20 and his face lights up. "Thank you!"

If he could speak English he probably would have encouraged me to puke again tonight.

Kevin Spillane RIP

Today I'm going to tell you a story about a friend of mine by the name of Kevin Spillane. Unfortunately Kevin passed away this year but he left such a lasting influence on me that he will never truly be dead.

I could tell you many funny stories about Kevin each one more hilarious than the next but I thought of one in particular today and felt I had to share it.

It all happened a few years ago when we were in Tenerife for a poker tournament. One day we were walking through the town and we stumbled across this makeshift bookies in a pub and being the sick gamblers that we are naturally enough we went in and had a few bets.

There was two guys running it and in fairness to them they had a lovely little business because the place was fairly jointed and it was a bar too and it was just full to the brim with exactly the kind of punters you'd want. Old. Clueless. Betting €5 ew on 33/1 shots because it has Alice in it's name and their wife is called Alice and it's probably like 150/1 on Betfair.

Anyway were having a few muggy bets ourselves and we have a good time and we actually win a few quid. So towards the end of the session I see this football sheet with all the prices for that night and they're absolute hold up prices most of them. Except one. Burton. For whatever reason Burton are down as 7/4 but in reality are no better than 6/5 anywhere. So I show Kevin anyway and he wants to have everything on it. I kind of agree with him so I decide to go along with it. Luckily for the lads neither of us were going too well at the time so we end up having something like €400 on it between us. So we walk up to the counter anyway with the slip wrote out. "Burton to beat Plymouth Argyle €400 @ 7/4."

Now basically this is not only for sure the biggest bet they've laid that day but probably that year and maybe even ever. And it's on fucking Burton. And in fairness to the wannabe bookies they lay it. First guy looks at the other guy and they shrug their shoulders and they lay it. Fair dues.

So we go off anyway and we're sweating the match on live score and it's 0-0 for the most part. Then around probably minute 70 or so Plymouth score and we're fucked. Now Kevin was also one of the greatest after-timers that ever lived. It's at times like these that you realise how Kevin got his nickname the bull. Because that's exactly what he was like.

"That was a fucking horrendous bet to make." He declares.

"Like we know absolutely fucking nothing about Bournemouth or Plymouth or whatever the fucking team was. Sure I don't even know what fucking division they're in or anything."

Without further delay he calls the bar man over and promptly orders two fernet brancas to calm himself down. A drink I've never heard of and with a taste so bad I'll never forget it.

Then Burton score. 1-1.

With just over five minutes left I knew they were going to win it. As sure as night follows day they were going to win because all the worlds a stage and us merely actors.

Minute 91. Burton score. 2-1.

As you can imagine it was just cheering and shouting and hugging and clapping and before too long it was full time. We'd won and all the wisdom which was being dished out 20 minutes previous was not only forgotten it was like it never even existed.

"Jesus Christ bhoy ten years ago I would have had 20 grand on a bet like that."

All I could do was laugh. And we laughed and we laughed and we laughed. I even had another fernet branca to celebrate.

The next day we go to collect and the two boys can't get out of their chairs quick enough when we come in.

"You lucky fucking Paddies! How on earth did Burton come back to win that game? Jesus Christ we were celebrating like crazy in the John Bull when Plymouth scored. We were sure we were gonna win. But what on earth made you back Burton?"

Bollox. What to say? I was floored. If they had seen my face it would have been similar to a ghost. How did I never think they'd ask that? But it didn't matter. It didn't matter because I had Kevin.

No sooner had the question finished than the answer was out without even a flinch. A combination of a wry smile and just the slightest hint of nostalgia. I'll never forget it.

"Ah. I used to go out with a girl from Burton."

Santa letter 2013.

Dear Santa, I'm not asking for much this year. In fact I'm only asking for three little things and they're all for other people.

1) Now that Phil Taylor's out of the darts as we agreed and considering our mutual dislike of Dutch people and with Adrian having already won it twice before surely this is the year that James Wade can finally becomes a World Champion? His finishing on double tops and double tens has been very good this year and he's gone to bed early most nights now that he has that hot new girlfriend so lets give him something nice this year like the Sid Wadell trophy on Jan 1st.

2) Another boy deserving of something nice this year I think is Tom Brady of Foxborough, Massachusetts. He's had a bit of a rough time of it lately trying to make new friends bar Julian Edelman but I'm hoping next year he can get more acquainted with a few of the others around him and he gets his just rewards for being the best little QB you could ever meet with a Vince Lombardi trophy on Feb 2nd.

3) The final thing I would ask from you this year Santa is that Tony Romo, formally of Burlington, Wisconsin can be given the presence of mind to not fuck it up in the final quarter of the crucial "win it and in it" NFC east tie against them hooligan Philadelphia Eagles on Dec 29th. I know this will probably be the most difficult of my gifts to find this year but maybe if you look really hard you'll be able to find it.

Many thanks Santa and I wish you well on the arduous plight of the next few days.

Regards to the rain-dears.

Gary Clarke (aged 27).

Poker Tournament Review - Fitz EOM 29/8/2013

Just as you approach the dinner break in the Fitz EOM its safe to say your edge at this point is massive.

With a salad counter, hot food counter and a dessert counter I don't think there's much more you can do but get stuck in there. You're essentially getting three for one on your money.

I got to the dinner break with about average hunger but it was at that point that things really got going for me.

The first really key decision of the night I guess was when the waitress asked me was it chicken or beef I wanted. This is always a tough spot but I guess the standard play is beef. It's definitely the right play with 20 green beans or less but anything more than 20 green beans on the plate and I think you have to look for a better spot elsewhere.

The problem is that the chicken has a funny sauce which I don't like but I've seen some people eat it to varying degrees of success. I guess it depends on your attitude towards high variance.

As it happens I went for the more popular line and choose the beef which paid off as I was sitting very comfortably after it. It can throw up some tricky indigestion calculations but more often than not your getting your beef good there.

With still ten minutes left on the clock I decided to open up a bit before the antes kicked in with a small slice of mandarine crumble cheesecake. As you might expect, an opponent of this nature was always going to be a bit trickier than the more conventional strawberry and lemon varieties but I was happy enough to get it in my mouth there.

With time running out I decided it was time to make a stand with one of the first solid holdings I'd seen in a while, apple tart and cream. It was to be my last food of the night as it happens but I've no regrets as having looked at folds and folds and folds of whipped cream in the Fitz all night I don't think there's much more you can do but get it in your mouth there.

Yes I've seen a lot of people go broke in this spot but the Fitzwilliam Card Club is definitely plus EV food-wise.

The Great Dane

Two things I shall never be.

1) a full tilt poker brand ambassador.
2) voted one of People magazine's 50 Sexiest Men.

The Great Dane Gus Hansen is not only both of these things, he's so much more than that too. Winner of an unprecedented three world poker tour titles and a world series of poker bracelet, he is one of the most recognisable faces in all of poker. He's also an absolute bollox too.

Two things I shall always have.

1) A conscience
2) Common decency

Not only has Gus Hansen got neither of these things, he seems somewhat proud of the fact that he doesn't too. Renowned for stealing pots, the Great Dane would probably steal your wife, your sister, your mother and your grave too if you gave him half a chance.

Two things that Gus Hansen thinks he's is but isn't.

1) Genuinely famous
2) Sound

Now, as a full tilt qualifier this weekend in Galway I'm not quite sure what it is my full tilt poker ambassador does for me. In fact as a full tilt qualifier this weekend in Galway I have very little interest in what my full tilt ambassador does for me. One thing I hope they wouldn't do however is I hope they wouldn't take a girl from under me in a residents bar at 4am in a hotel opposite the venue.

Obviously this is what Gus Hansen sees his role in Galway this weekend to be. A man of impeccable disregard for the plight of the everyday fella.

But one thing I will always have is a conscious. Because from here till the day I die I will never take a girl from under a lad who has been courting her all night.

For the Great Dane however that's just another day at the office. Stealing women is like stealing pots, all the great players do it.

Deleted

It’s with much regret that I must report the deletion of me by one of my friends. I thought we bonded but it appears that my friendship was merely short-term. Like any relationship - we had our differences. But in the end we just didn’t cut it as friends. I felt us drifting apart but to be deleted from somebody’s life was a crushing final blow. It’s like being laid-off by your social circle, sacked from their life, terminated from their existence.

The odd like of their status, a comment if they’re lucky, you know the type. We weren’t childhood buddies but we were perfectly acceptable as facebook friends. I certainly have friends of lesser importance on there. We’d met each other more than once and the time we spent together was enjoyable. I doubt we left any permanent impressions on each other; we were simply friends through a friend.

I can’t remember for definite who added who but I believe it was my friendship that was requested. Maybe I was one of those ‘People you may know’ that I never seem to know. Perhaps I was added on a temporary contract, a 6 month loan deal or an internship with no guarantee of imperishable friendship.

Admittedly, the distance helped drive us apart. She lived in London, I lived in Dublin, and we just didn’t make the effort to commute. It’s with remorse that I contemplate the situation. I know I could have done more. A facebook chat, a post on her wall, simple little efforts could have held our friendship together. But I guess it wasn’t to be.

Now it’s time for a name and shame. Like one of them old ITV programmes about dodgy builders.

ANNABEL JONES – GOOD RIDDANCE.

The pub crawl

10.30pm on a murky Monday night in Lisbon I had two options. One, I could go back to my hotel, stare at my ceiling for at least three hours and eventually submit my brain to sleep. Or two, try stay out, on my own, in a city where I know nobody and desperately seek somebody to be my friend.

After a couple of brutally awkward conversations with bar-keeps in themed bars I was taxi-rank bound. Then, as if planted there by a higher power, the answer popped into my head. "A pub crawl" I thought. That's the answer. Meet some people. Make some friends. Make a night of it.

You never know, you might even pull.

A quick google search and ten minutes later I was introducing myself to four English lasses and two Canadian broads at an organised pub crawl. All of a sudden I was the man in demand. I often amaze myself too how well I hold up in these situations where everybody feels so awkward. Funny. Spontaneous. Charismatic. I say things I could never come up with usually.

The first two bars I was on fire. The crew had now reached double figures and was rising sharply. The only difference this made to me was that I was becoming friendly with more and more people.

Alice was the first of the English girls I got properly chatting to. She told me about her Irish grandparents. She told me about her childhood visits to Ireland. She was nice to me and I liked her for it.

Deborah was a loud Canadian who completely latched onto the idea of me being a poker player. She was dramatic, she was excited, she treated me like a rock star. I didn't stop her.

Chris was a girl with a boys name. She was another of the English girls and had hair that vaguely reminded me of a girl I used to fancy. I never spoke to her much and I wasn't too bothered. I had so many options now that it didn't matter.

It's been a while since I've come up with one of those eureka ideas only to be told its a multi-million-dollar industry. You see, pulling on a pub crawl is about as original an idea as using a sightseeing tour to take photographs.

Bar number three and competition had started to thicken. Canadian's Greg, Tom and Mike were all boring as fuck but cool as hell. They got the Canadians girls laughing. They got them talking about Ontario. They got me as the afterthought.

"So what hostel are you in?" I get asked at one point to make sure I'm still alive. My blabbering answer was boring before it began and was responded to in kind.

Once we reach bar four I'm toast. People answer back. The sympathy laughs are spent. You're a fraudster. We don't know who you are so stop acting like we do.

You're not in the hostel.

With the Canadians all tied up I make my way back to the Brits. They're now joined by two guys who I assume to be their boyfriends such is their familiarity but who are in fact just two South Africans who've joined the crawl. They're obviously professionals as I've never seen two guys to be so familiar around two girls so quickly in my whole life. Hugs, hand holding, leaning, back rubbing, shite talking, peck-kissing, the girls loved it.

Onwards to the club and the end of the night. The sounds of Franz Ferdinand and Kings of Leon boomed through the room along with a host of cosmopolitan bodies. It was like a school disco that got to serve alcohol for the first time.

Deborah was still surrounded by her weasel-like country man. His needy dancing and constant eyebrow raising was desperate but distracting. She saw me and her face exploded but the weasel held her firm. I moved on.

Chris, the girl with the boys name was now shamelessly kissing the South African waving her nostalgic hair all over my space.

My last sighting in the club was Alice. Cheerfully talking to the overly-handsome South African, I can't help but feel he's left a beautiful wife and daughter at home tonight to prey on her.

What started off as something to do had turned into a night of blue.

I had to leave.

The late night diner

"Can I borrow this seat?"

The single greatest response a man can receive from a woman to this question was issued to me last night at 5am in a Grafton St McDonalds.

"Only if you sit here."

People don't pull in nightclubs see. We've all been fooled. Posters on their website and rap videos may suggest otherwise but we all know the place for business is the late night diner.

Serving the needs of customers in more ways than one since nightclubs were invented, the late night diner has been the cornerstone of match making for generations.

Daylight breaking on Sunday morning, mating season is in full swing. Drunk, hungry, lonely, horny, it's last chance saloon for many. But fear not because this last chance is also your best chance.

As the coke sticked floor attaches you to your seat, people don't care anymore. They don't care that they look a state. They don't care anymore that this person in front of them is a completely different age. All they care about is having something, *anything* to show for their night's efforts.

Your courage kicks in too. "Give us your number." A statement which seems so far from your lips only an hour earlier is now flung about the room with consummate ease. Hail Mary, we need a touchdown and sometimes we get it. The number. The kiss. The lot? Ok well never the lot. But either way it's a result.

The troubled faces, the head shakes, the back turns and all the other nightclub rejections are now a distant memory.

The late night diner saved the day.

Any holidays planned?

And "what are you doing with yourself these days?" are two fine questions both of which I'm completely incapable of answering. They are my Achille's heel.

There isn't a question in the world you could ask me that derives as much hesitation, awkwardness and general social discombobulation than these two fine questions.

They actually wouldn't be so bad if they were asked in the middle of a conversation. I'd be OK with them then. I'd have "my eye in" as it were and have little problem stringing the few sentences together necessary to answer them both. But if you catch me cold with these two Q's boy do I turn into a babbling mess.

The truth is I don't have a job or take holidays. My life is a vocation. My life is a holiday. There's not one day in my life I don't enjoy anymore and that's the truth. I'm in the car business. I'm a gambler. I'm a ducker and diver. I'm not a plumber. Sometimes my pursuits send me on journeys which are like holidays. In fact I often treat them as such.

Life is for living and not for looking forward.

If you hate your job, leave your job. If you want a holiday do whatever it is you do on your holidays this weekend. If you want sunshine move out of Ireland. Life is so simple and yet we make it so hard.

Live in the present and the future will look after itself.

That's my take on it anyway. Life.

Meditation tapes to follow.

Traffic jam vulgarity.

There's few things in life that people can agree on unanimously but I suspect the dislike of traffic jams may just be one.

Dublin traffic is particularly bad. We get to see scouring faces, dismal, dewy weather and most of all, an abundance of mostly boring, always silver, cars.

You never quite know who's sat in the car next to you. Could be a millionaire. Could be your future spouse. Could be a murderer. Could even be all three? Today I'd be getting to meet one of my fellow commuters face to face.

Tiptoeing my way through three lanes of traffic on the Long Mile Road, the collision happened.

The screech rings through the air like the noise of a coke can scraped along the ground by a foot. It's the sound of two cars scratching against each other. One moving. One stationary. I, driving the moving car, feel every inch of the scrape like a nail against my skin. The motorist of the idle car can only furrow their brows and flood their brain with insults, accusations and general hatred towards me.

A friendly chat this would be not.

Like any deranged woman, neither a hoard of traffic nor the very real chance of death stopped her from diving out of her car, onto the main road, to confront me.

"You bett'r have insurance" screams the banshee as she makes for first the passenger and then the driver's side window, unaware of where I might actually be found in my vehicle.

Following a minute or so of abuse I finally shut the deranged woman up by pointing at the traffic which is starting to move around her.

We relocate to a nearby McDonalds where I once hosted my birthday to continue our discussion on the disrespect of youth today, boy racers and of course the uninsured driver.

"I've worked in the courts for four years." She says whilst shaking her head furiously. Such a righteous woman, hard to believe she didn't just have me arrested there and then for all my misgivings.

 

We needed a quote for the damage and it wasn't long before my Dad came to assess the repair costs.

"He needs to be thought a lesson" she says after we all agree a figure.

 

I guess I am lacking a bit in indecency.

So I got clamped.....

Yesterday at around 5pm. The sign declared "DO NOT ATTEMPT TO DRIVE AWAY" and to be honest I had no intention. Montague Lane can be a lonely spot at the best of times (not least when you've done your conkers in the Jackpot) and yesterday was no exception. But Valentines day 2010 was not about teddy bears and chocolates or even flowers for all I could see was tarmac, puddles and a big yellow hindrance on the front wheel of my car.

With no parking fees on a Sunday you would guess its pretty difficult to get clamped. This was not the case (as the notice on my car was only too happy to tell me). Clamping is an all-day job and I'd bet it would have taken the full 24 hours too had we played "find my car in Dublin's city centre". But find it they did and clamp it they did and then I had to pay €80 to get it removed.

As the rain spitted down I got to see a full range of today's couples, arms linked. They strolled by my car ever so slowly in what was some kind of Valentine's piss take. Much like Romeo I was not so much in love as I was in love with the idea of being in love. Elderly couples even, walking around Montague Lane! I wanted off this set as it just didn't add up.

Then I called the clampers. I must say, the operator was tremendous. He got the tone just perfect, like a funeral director alone in his office. "How may I help you sir". To be fair, I think he knew what was coming next.

With the car reg, credit card, location and fine amount confirmed, everything was in place for me to get home and listen to the Smiths or something. €80 worse off and an ETA of one hour 15 mins all I could do was sit and contemplate the wasted time and money which the evening had resulted in. I could have been at home on facebook or having €80 on Dallas to win the Superbowl but instead I was a prisoner in my own car. On Montague Lane.

But the operator had one more question.

"OK Sir. Everything is now in place. Finally, would you like to receive a text message alerting you when your clamp has been removed for just 20 cents?"

"Nah. Sure I'll be able to see it being removed when I look out the windscreen."

The meander

It's never good when you're overtaken at 3mph. I was coming to the end of my walk this evening when the episode happened. Apparently a lot of these incidents take place close to home and this one was no different. She was a walker (you know the type - female, 40s, black gloves, swaying arms etc) who overtook me slipstream-style. That is, she trotted right up behind me, breading down my neck almost and then weaved out violently to the right and past. The initial reaction was one of shock. Disbelief. It was only a short while after the event that I began feeling dejected. I keep telling myself it was a 'leisurely stroll' but it will not over-ride the voices. It will not conceal the fact that I am in fact a snail.

L'escargot may have halted the run of Red Rum's Grand National wins but being thought of as the snail of my local area is a frightening thought to me. It floods back many ill-fated memories of heel clips in corridors by those walking at normal speeds behind me. Like a learner driver, a cargo train or the slow boat to England, nobody likes a plodding walker. To be honest the whole concept of walking or 'going for a walk' is probably somewhat foreign to many in my age bracket. It doesn't quite have the same ring to it as 'going on the lash' does it? I don't have headphones in either for that would distract me. Walks are for thinking and especially muttering. 'That's Limerick City' I muttered at one point tonight for absolutely no reason.

During one of my summer walks I was stopped by the police on Greentrees Rd. The car pulled up alongside me at a walking speed as if I were a hooker. "Name" is all I heard from the passenger’s seat. I'm not sure what way they're thought in Templemore other than the critical tutorials into the development of bad attitudes. Either way, the result is when they graduate they don’t talk in their native accent, ask questions or talk in coherent sentences. Instead they learn a list of words which are randomly juxtaposed and fired at 'individuals'. He was like one of those gangsta rappers that say random one word statements like "Word" and what not. I was flummoxed. Looking around me like a bad liar all I could muster was "What?” The officer repeated his one word statement and eventually I gave him my name following a moment of needless reluctance. He looked me up and down as I continued to play the role of prostitute. Dressed in a hoodie and trackie bottoms it was also well past midnight all of which led him to his concluding statement. "Away home now Gary"

Orange Juice Heaven

They say ‘You are what you eat’ and if that’s truly the case then I’m a crisp sandwich. You see packed lunches have been as much a part of my near 20 years of schooling as books have. My earliest memories of packed lunches were on field trips. Remember the class trips in school when you had to bring a double-lunch? Gosh you’d be stuffed. I got sick into my jumper coming back from Mosney one year. I figured it’d be more polite to get sick into that than the girl sat next to me. People kept asking me the whole way back to Kimmage Manor why I did it, why did I ruin my jumper. They wanted the girl puked on, evil bastards.

Speaking of girls. In an amazing turn of events last year, my reliable carton of Sqeez doubled as a cross-journalism-classroom-flirtation-mega-prop in which I captured the heart of a (possibly) Belgian girl. As I pierced a hole through film then carton, I knew it was on. Her eyes glazed over and she paused in mesmerisation. Suddenly and without warning she snapped out of her daze and reached into her schoolbag in a love scene taken straight from the script of a Deep Riverrock ad. And there it was a two litre carton of Sqeez, which she drank with both considerable ease and allure. My pen dropped, still wet from my mouth. It was a match made in orange juice heaven.

It’s also a unique gambit to a best man’s speech. Speaking of weddings don’t they always seem to involve cake? Now cake is a dish which is usually served casually. That is, its rarely part of a sit-down meal. “Will ya have a bit of cake?” is a favourite line among many a pastry giver. With two arms full of saucers you feel obliged to help the lady out. So you accept it grudgingly, you might even take a bite to please the host. Mouthful of Heineken and double chocolate fudge: sure isn’t that what were all after?

But it’s not over there. Oh no. You have now become a cake eater and they won’t relent until you burst. “Will ya have another bit of cake, there’s a load left?” and before you can begin to answer there’s another plate in front of you. Their eyes light up when they see you- the cake givers. People who wouldn’t dare speak to you all night suddenly approach you like you’re their long lost brother. If they associate your face with cake, that’s it.

Just a closing thought on food-offerings-politeness. It’s important to leave 1/8th of your food if somebody makes you a meal. An empty plate is a great insult to somebody’s generosity. How are they supposed to know if they gave you enough? Although it’s a thin line you walk, anything less than 2/3rd’s of an empty plate and you hated the meal. “Ah you probably don’t like sausage and chips?” is one such jab you may get.

They also say ‘the quickest way to a girl’s heart is through her tummy’ and filling it with alcohol certainly seems to do the trick. For me it’s been somewhat of a role reversal 20 years on except the girls aren’t getting sick in jumpers. Part of me wishes I took the chance to get sick on that girl while the offer was on the table and it was still deemed acceptable. If nothing else it was a certain crowd pleaser. I can still hear the mixture of laughs and gasps – somewhere in my imagination.

The Disko Bar

Trudging down the tight, windy staircase surrounded by metal walls I should have known this was no ordinary nightclub. The entrance was suspicious too, a tall wooden door like that of a haunted house.

Never a man to shy away from subtle curiosity, I had to pop in for a look.

Located on the main thorough-fair of Latvia's capital city, you would have thought it was a reputable spot. Only a select few bars are open at 1am and fresh from poker and NFL punting success I was in no mood to go home. The Disko bar was the perfect night-cap for me.

Upon entry I was treated to an open-armed welcome and a cry of "Come in!' by the friendly barman. Gosh there was hardly anybody in the place yet he could still muster a smile.
The barman proceeded to wax lyrical about the range of drinks he had to offer before I cut him short and plumed for a bottle of the local beer.

Not long into my second bottle, we were greeted by the arrival of a pair of local stunners who stumbled down the stairs full of giggles. Hesitant by the lack of people inside they almost turned around but alas gentle persuasion remains a man's best friend and it wasn't long before the two were perched alongside the drunken Irishman and his impossibly good humour.

"Drink for the girls?" suggested the bar-keep. It was like he had read my mind.

Sambuca x 4 and vodka cocktails was the order of the day and before too long we were all up on the dance floor raising the roof and running the show.

I was drunk and there was no escaping it.

It had all the makings of the Eastern European party you would never forget. Beautiful women are so plentiful in Latvia that they have to hang out somewhere. Tonight they'd be partying with me. It was a story which no one would believe but I didn't care. I was too high on life and vodka cocktails.

"The bill, Sir?" Says the friendly barman just as the DJ lowers the tempo of what had been a rocking set.

€218.40 is a figure that's difficult to compute no matter how drunk you are. It would also prove hard to forget as I'd be reading it 5 times on my bank statement the following morning.

Let the disko-bar-beverage-buyer beware.

The uninvited guest

It’s not something you do when you’re sober is it – walk around the side of a house and look underneath the half shut blinds. It seems there’s nothing quite as hypnotic as the sound of guitars blasting and drunkards whaling when you’re walking home from a night out. It’s like a magnet which draws you in – regardless of gates and vehicles for obstacles. I have no doubt what I would have done had I been caught too. I would have run for the hills like a burglar who’d got the lot.

But the allure of the late night party is all encompassing. You convince yourself that you knew their cousin or you’re friends with the man that put in their alarm. The common ground is endless once the house owner gives you a fair trial. Lenient owners will often agree with you. ‘Ah you know Kevin who put in the alarm? Marie he knows Kevin who put in the alarm. Get him a can of Carlsburg there.’

I’ve had some incredibly ridiculous conversations at these sorts of parties which never seem to happen under normal conditions. Like 1990s formula 1 racing, Harvey Keitel films or whether or not David Connolly played up front for Wolves with Robbie Keane. There’s always a trivia buff at these gatherings it seems - whose useless knowledge is otherwise redundant normally. Often, when you play back the arguments which take place you realise it was him that had brought up the Jos Verstappen pit-stop fire in 1994 so he probably did know what team he was driving for at the time.

We all have guilty pleasures like eating Liga or making 100s of prank calls but there’s something about the late night party which makes it both the greatest and most illustrious guilty pleasure of them all for me.

There have been quite a few shindigs which I’ve rambled across whilst plastered and I have often wondered what the etiquette is. At the time I’m always convinced ‘it’s what they would have wanted’ when I loiter outside a house for hours. I tell myself if I was hosting a party I’d want nothing more than passing drunken traffic calling in for a chat and a free drink.

But it’s not really what they want is it? In the cold light of day I now know it’s not ‘what they would have wanted’ and if anything I should be reported.

The Student's Union Councillor

“Here, that microphone was supposed to be returned by 11am” began the voicemail. I’ve learned through experience that anybody who starts a sentence with the word ‘Here’ will always be difficult. Attacking a man on the telephone when you know he’s hungover is cruel but leaving it in a voicemail is cowardly. I wouldn’t have minded as much if I hadn’t to wait hours the previous day to get a hold of it. 11.03 in the AM and she’s already on my case.

Their offices look like something a five year old would design. There’s pink walls, huggie pencils and posters everywhere. There’s a shelf full of opened envelopes and an unlimited supply of sellotape. Picture a crèche without the coloured balls. They have “campaigns” to get in and they were persistently bullied throughout school. They are Students Union representatives and they sit there, eating Haribo, full of their own importance.

All set for a long and prosperous career in HR they spend their entire work day either shaking their heads or passing the buck. They are the people responsible for Jock Soc, Block Soc, Dock Soc and Lock Soc. Hundreds of thousands of taxpayer’s Euros wasted on these societies whose sole purpose is to provide logo-ed hoodies, facepaint and rented bouncing castles. I recently had to hire a microphone from these kids and good Jesus was it vexing.

“Is this for the LGBT night?!” asked one boy excitedly with neatly folded hair. There are a lot of these acronyms in college and despite being tired of them I had to ask him what that was in English. “Oh it stands for the Lesbian Gay Bisexual and Transgender society.” In the moment of insultation I weakly used the acronym myself in demanding “Why, do I strike you as an LGBT?”

I was hurt yet unsure which of the four I best represent. College is all about overcoming social adversity. With the bullies weeded out, people are free to be young free and gay. Having social charisma is about being different. I sometimes wonder if I was less normal would I become more popular. I’m not an L a G a B or even a T and I still can’t see the hilarity in Ultimate Frisbee.

I did eventually get the microphone back, albeit in three journeys. Her face became more disgruntled on each of my reappearances. Maybe the more she sat and glazed expectantly the quicker and more efficient she thought I would become?

The one time I actually required her services she was gone. I planned to collect my deposit after the final leg of the microphone returning shift but sure enough all that was left was a burly, curly-haired assistant. I looked around in confusion, like a dog that’s lost his ball. “There’s a very important meet-e-onay going on in there.” He was like Ned Flanders trapped in the body of Leo Cullen. The one administrative service I required was put on hold because of the very important meeting - probably to decide if the walls should be painted yellow next year.

The unknown victim

We live in a society that demands shoes taken off at the front door. We are all au fait with our coats being taken as a house guest, just look at 'Come dine with me'. But it won’t be long, I predict, before you hear the phrase ‘Can I take your shoes?’ upon house entry. For a long time now I have automatically taken my shoes off when entering my home. This may seem daft to some but for the rest it’s normality. Today, I’m regretting my stance on this issue.

One of the best forms of adrenaline is that which comes from the moment when you know ‘this is going to hurt’. Climbing smugly down the attic stairs following an impressive darts session, the glee was quickly wiped off my face as my feet went from under me. I crashed through the half-open door like a first-and-goal running back to hear the yelps of ‘Are you all right?’ 0.25 sec after I hit the ground. You’re never quite sure if you are in fact all right until about 5 seconds after. All you can do is let your senses reset and hope that you’re not greeted with agony on the other side. Thankfully today there was nothing broken. Just a few grazes but they never get any commiseration.

In these moments of hilarious stupidity I always rue my habit of wearing socks indoors. I fall down the stairs about twice yearly and every single time it is for that reason. Gasping in a heap all I can do is cuss the lack of grip with which my socks permit me. I could consider buying those slipper socks but a vague recollection tells me they were pants not to mention shoe unfriendly. No point wearing socks that you can’t wear shoes over I say.

When it comes to spills we all have fond memories of the RTE news ice faller but spare a thought for those who didn’t get the limelight. On Christmas Day last year while most were eating pudding or unwrapping bad gifts, I fell twice in as many roads unnoticed. In one footstep I went from perfectly upright to flat on my back. Duncan Stewart tells us that ‘gas is a silent killer’ but that ice is no godsend either.

In 2005 ice broke my elbow after it turned over my moped on a trip to DIT. Two doors down from my house, I swore like a Chinese rapist through my fogged up helmet. Abandoning both bike and reason, I stormed back to the house while the wheels spun and the engine continued purring in the background.

Society demands injury for sympathy and I’ve learned from experience that my recent slip will go largely uncommiserated. ‘Show me the wounds and I’ll show you my pity’ is the general consensus I have found and without a sling I am but an unknown victim. I urge those of you who un-shoe to take care around the house. Carpeted stairs are particularly hazardous.

Life as a layabout.

It’s quite the fright you get when you open your curtains in the morning and there’s a man staring back at you. I’m not sure who got more of a scare but I guess he certainly had more to lose. If you get a fright on a ladder it’s a long way down, although my head went perilously close to the roof. Washing windows is not a noble profession but the last thing you want is a person looking out at you suddenly from the inside. It makes the job a whole lot worse.

We all have unfond memories of hard labour but I think I might be allergic. One of the reasons I stayed in college so long is the sheer threat of getting up in the morning and having to go ‘ta wurk’. Women love men who can put up a shelf yet I can barely put out the bins. Manual labour may make you more masculine but it seems like the pursuit of the mindless. It’s all 6am starts and carvarys at noon, sweating your way through the day.

I once had to dig up Harolds Cross greyhound track and I don’t think I’ve ever recovered. In and out of tractors, cutting your hand twice an hour and wanting to punch someone on your way home was the customary day. Wearing your worst Adidas bottoms and a pair of your old runners it’s seems like after the first couple of minutes you couldn’t wait for a shower. Maybe it could be your calling in life but the only thing I could hear were swear words.

“Don’t mind me” he says, barging through the door of my room. To be fair this chap was a gentleman. Watching Racing UK in my boxers and scoffing a bowl of Raisin Splitz at 11am, he must have thought I was an absolute layabout. Yet he didn’t pass any comment. He was a man at work and I wasn’t many grades up from a corpse. We shared a delicate few minutes as he washed the inside windows and I lay in silence. I thought about making conversation but my self esteem was not at its highest. In fact the only steam apparent was that which left my ears on his departing comment.

“Good night.”

Close call with a phony thief

Its 5am and the warm November Tenerife sun is about to come out. I'm stood outside a house waiting for the kind soul who 'happened upon' my phone to return it and am looking forward to getting home after another very drunken night which begun and ended as a solo excursion.

'I believe you lost your phone mate?' the guy says as both statement and question. Tiresome, drunken and altogether fed up I can only nod in agreement. He gives me a consoling look and begins walking in the direction of a nearby gateway to an apartment complex. We share some small talk for both situation and language constraint reasons as villain number two enters the set shielded by the black gate.

Carrying what looks like an ice cream tub, my latest villain is of Romanian descent. 'You want your phone back, you pay me 400' he begins whilst fumbling through at least eight iPhones in the tub. In the moment of exasperation all I could do was remember back to only a few days previous when I heard a radio discussion panel declaring that swinging an iPhone around at night-time was the equivalent of waving around a €300 banknote.

Crestfallen, indignant and more than a little annoyed with myself I pull out €180 from my pocket in partial belief the thief would be treating himself to some cash as well.

But sometimes the storm eases when you fear it's at its worst. There would be respite on this occasion and I guess I should be thankful that thieves are still as thick as ever. I'd be getting my phone back instead of the more obvious route of getting robbed for the lot.

At this point, rather hilariously, we had to figure out which of the stolen iPhones was actually mine. After a while of looking at photos of cats and strangers' girlfriends eventually he got up a photo of a car I had recently taken and I declared 'That’s mine'. As he handed me back the phone I correct myself by saying 'the phone not the car' with a giggle in a transaction which could only be reserved for absolute rage.

On the face of it I'd certainly prefer to lose the €180 than the phone and as a budding optimist that's the reflection I'll leave with. Yes I should have called the police. Yes I was being an idiot. But also yes to the capacity for rational thought and safe guarding of phones waning after the last of the '3 shots & 3 cocktails for 3 euro' is sunk.

Maybe you might learn something from my mistake. Hopefully I will.