In Bodhran

The Velvet Underground's plays 'Venus in Furs in a pub in Cork City. It started pissing down rain as I was looking for an internet cafe to kill time, waiting for a bus that leaves in about three hours from now to Bantry where my first farmstay will pick me up. I guss a downpour is a good enough reason to order a pint of Guinness. As I look around me it looks as if many others are of a similar mindset. Outside, people huddle under awnings, some have umbrellas, some just bear the wet, used to it by now. It's like New York was, random torrential downpours that could last long but usually fizzle out after ten to thirty minutes. It's just a lot more extreme here, and whereas in New York it was warm rain that you knew would end soon, this can get quite cold and has the potential to last for hours.

The bartender just leaned against the back of the bar and said 'I can't take it anymore...' put the remote control to the telly to his head and clicked a button; the power button? the mute? did he change the channel? I guess I'll never know. There is a jolly drunk old man two seats down from me at the bar. There is no shortage of those types here in Ireland. A friend and I decided that jolly old drunks are one of Ireland's main natural resources. I only hope that the rest of the world doesn't catch on to this fact... I pray there will be no jolly old man famine...

I have struck up a conversation with the bartender between his serving other customers... or rather he has just started griping at me about his patrons, just talking to him about mundanities of their life, he doesn't care, damnit! He is Scottish, says he just got drunk one day and came here, and now it's been seven years. Actually he has three stories he's told me and others as to why he's here in Ireland, in another he went to the airport to have drinks at the bar there and to look at the departures list, drunkenly deciding to hop on a plane, just sort of a variation on the first one, and in the final story he claims that he's not welcome in anymore bars in all of Scotland. He seems like the kind of guy that gets drunk all the time or, at least puports to, doesn't remember half of it and makes the rest up on the spot, and to him it might as well be the truth. He is fairly thin with short cropped hair and sharp features. He just took a shot of Jagermeister when he thought no one was looking. He says he doesn't drink whiskey anymore because he just gets too crazy.

A new jolly drunk old man has moved to the seat next to me, the previous one having departed a few minutes ago. This new one is drinking Beamish stout down like it's water. I look at his full pint glass, just ordered, a minute or two later it is gone and he orders another. It's amazing how the Irish can put away this thick stout, also amazing how expensive it is for being the usual drink of choice, the standard price of it being now about 3.70 euro. He started out coherent enough, he said some things to me with the thickest of accents so I couldn't understand but I knew he was making words. Now he is literally bumbling completely unintelligibly 'bubbada bulbada blebbebeedoo...', I kid you not, on and on. It is puntuated occasionally by him laughing to himself, so I think that he's faking it, just getting a kick out of making people feel uncomfortable, the volume of his blathering fluctuating almost reaching a near-yell at some points. The bartender leans to me and says, 'there's some real nutters in this city...' and winks at me.

Farther down the bar are two kind enough fellows around my age but a little older. I never caught their names but I've had a few conversations with them at the bar and while huddling in the doorway outside smoking cigarettes. One of them, with a faux-hawk and scars on his face, just got back from Vegas where he says he paid $150 to shoot a bazooka, says he couldn't pass up the opportunity; I'll call him Vegas for ease of writing from now on. The other, wearing a leather jacket, is being prodded and harassed by some punk-ass I'll call Hilfiger because he's wearing a Tommy Hilfiger sweater. I could tell he was looking for trouble the second I laid eye on him. Through my short experience I've learned there's plenty of these types in Ireland as well. We were outside smoking and Hilfiger was literally stepping on people's toes, Leather Jacket politely tells him to watch out and Hilfiger, this time purposefully, steps on his toes a couple more times. He then taps my toe, leans to me and says 'there's a lot of crazy people in this damn city...', I just roll my eyes and give him a yeah-wouldn't-you-know-it kind of look. Hilfiger then proceeds to position his cigarette behind Leather Jacket's head as if he's gonna just sink it into the back of his neck. Someone notices this and asks the coward 'You alright, mate?' and he desists in his infantile harassment.

Back in the bar Hilfiger is continuing to harass Leather Jacket, putting his fist up to his face repeatedly as if punching his chin. Leather Jacket says to him, 'See that in front of you?' referring to his pint, 'We're here for the same reason, mate.' Hilfiger just continues to harass him, 'Look, I'm trying to be your friend.' I have to give it to Leather Jacket, he has patience, even though I'm sure he knows this Hilfiger isn't one to be reasoned with. He's also harassing Vegas, 'What's wrong with your face?' he asks him, 'it's all fucked up.' Vegas responds that his scars are a result of having cancer removed from his throat, this shuts him up for a bit but then he follows Vegas outside Hilfiger outside to bum a third cigarette from him. I hear, in between the door opening, Vegas refusing to give him another, saying he's losing his patience with him. The door closes and I hear banging and half of me is hoping it's Vegas giving Hilfiger a good beating, finally. But alas, Hilfiger comes back in unscathed. Only to find our faithful bartender has poured out his pint. 'Here's your money back for your pint, mate. I can't serve you anymore. Sorry.' While he was outside, Leather Jacket threatened the bartender that there'd be trouble if Hilfiger kept harassing him, as he surely would have, and the bartender did the right thing and took care of the situation. That was that, Hilfiger left. Vegas came back in and asked the bartender to look after his laptop while he went and 'took care of that punk'. Vegas looks like a guy not to be fucked with, while the scars on his throat are from cancer, the scars on his face look like they're from fighting. He leaves and comes back a little later with a shopping bag with a book in it, maybe he was all talk. While there's plenty of punks like Hilfiger here, there quite outnumbered by the good friendly people always open to newcomers like me, the Hilfigers are only a problem when they roam in packs.

Just before leaving, I'm having a smoke with the bartender. He offers that I should take a break from the farm and come back to this bar some night he's off work, 'I'll take you out for drinks and we'll pick up a couple o' tramps.' I say that sounds good and make my way to the bus station, smiling to myself and thinking 'goddamn I love the Irish.'

written by  Dan Schoo on August 14, 2008 from Cork, Ireland
from the travel blog: A cowboy boot to Europe's ass...
tagged CorkCity
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