Crunchy on the outside

I was out the Friday before last. It happens so rarely now I feel I must tell you all. There was once a time, not so long ago, when I’d be out in the pub at least once a week. While there’s many who find such a habit worrying, there are also many who would see it as terribly conservative. But for now, that seems to have been my peak pub-going period. These days, it’s maybe twice a month. Probably once a month. The whole thing of having no mates kinda hammers regular drinking on the head. Actually, I do have a few cans once a week, but that’s only my blissful Heineken and cheese and onion Hunky Dory’s (The Best Crisps In The World, very militant about that we are here) of a Friday night. Slapping a pint on the table and chatting shit is something I don’t get to do much these days. But that Friday I did. And did rather well.

Those of you who’ve met me will have noticed how drunk, loud, obnoxious, rude, lairy, seedy, attention-seeking I can be in a pub. I assure you if I could stop it, I would, but instead I simply yak on still someone gives me some look and I wander outside, look at the stars and text someone. That Friday night had the potential to be like that; one of my bad bad nights. I’m waiting for one to slap me across the face any day now. Whatever the reason, the night takes a turn for the worse and suddenly every single thing becomes completely uncomfortable and I have to leave. Only this time I didn’t because it was out at my cousins.

It started with me spending €13 to get there in 33 minutes which is quite a departure for me. It’s always worth it, because since last Friday night I’m convinced I have: The Foolproof Night Out.

For someone as insecure, neurotic and anti-social as me, The Foolproof Night Out is quite a significant milestone. It’s a near-rock-solid guarantee that a good night will ensue should you follow the established pattern. Nights out here in the suburb are good-to-cacky (OD meetings excepted), nights out in Dublin are moderate to ok, sometimes exceptional. Nights out in Mayo would be fine if things fell into place the right way, and the occasional forays to other cities have produced some truly memorable evenings. Nothing compares, however, to the consistency of a night with the cousins.

It begins on Monday, when I text cousin Anne with some filthy, semi-illegal joke about bishops meetings or John Leslie with something he’d done earlier. Anne replies in approval and mentions the fact that we haven’t met up in ages. I mention I’m free every Saturday night (for I am always guaranteed Sunday off) and she suggests a date. Nothing is then mentioned until Friday evening/Saturday afternoon when Anne confirms a time and place. Approaching the designated time, I then get a bus to the outskirts of the city and a taxi across, talking to the driver about the Port Tunnel or the “bleedin’ traffic”, disembark and meet up with Anne, her husband Bill and perhaps cousin Andrew. I get bought lots of pints as I regal them with tales of call centres, stuff that I’ve noticed and rudeness, as well as what I’ve seen on telly. In other words, this diary in spoken word form.

I got slagged about what Sambuca calls my “millionaire Bruce Wayne” polo neck. I wasn’t gonna wear it only it was all that was clean. I took it off and regaled Anne’s friends, two young ladies around my age, tales of bull. This combined with drink, a bloke it turned out I knew already and most importantly a generally happy demeanour about me, meant I had one of the top ten nights out this year so far. I was the centre of attention, perhaps, for a bit too long and unfortunately this is one of the things I thrive on. But maybe I deserved it; as self-centred as this diary is, I’m not like that at all in real life. In fact, I know far too many people I shouldn’t care about, people who are simply idiots and I’m too polite to shun them. I should have friends, people I actually enjoy spending time with and admire.