Tuna Canoe (2)

The resulting drink was simultaenously both the most expensive drink I’d ever heard of and the most expensive drink I’d ever bought. A pint glass, containing a double measure of vodka, Aftershock (the most dangerous widely available legal drink on sale) and as much Smirnoff Ice as could fit in. In other words, alcohol poisoning in a glass. 17.90. Oh dear.

I rested it on the table to gawping mouths. Ah, now they noticed me. I reeled off the ingredients, the price, sat back and just folded my arms. What in God’s name was I to do? Drink it? And turn my blood into vodka? Or abandon it, writing off a 17.90 investment? I chose to abandon it, leaving it to the others to cautiously sip and pronounce in various expletives the utter horror of the drink. It really was rank.

This got Mullie and me talking. Mullie was the guy I tried to copy when turning from hyperactive child to semi-credible teenager. If I faced a dilemma, a choice, I’d ask myself “what would Mullie do?” Mullie was always the Irish version of what Americans call a “Jock”, only his nasty streak soon faded away. And despite us only meeting every couple of months or so, we get on really well despite my blantant attempts to grab his girlfriend’s arse. Which he doesn’t like so much.

So the night kinda wound up ok. We’d missed the Nitelink home, so a taxi was eventually procured on O’Connell Street after I skipped the taxi and appealed to the waiting punters about how much sense it would make for six people to take the eight seater Mercedes people carrier rather than one. Especially seen as we were going so far. And amazingly I pulled it off, to the delight of Mate and her mates. So that was nice.

Went home alone. Went into Sis, she had a good night too. Catherine, her friend that I have to Humbert Humbert thing with despite her only being three years younger, met this guy Niall a few weeks ago. Niall asked her to his debs (prom). She said yes and was thrilled, now she’s in England for two weeks. But now Sis’s friend Fiona was tryin it on with him and may or may not have succeeded that night. Which should come as a shock to poor Catherine when she gets back, since there’s a news blackout on that particular piece of gossip.

Spent a bit of Monday morning building a Beetle. I hadn’t drunk so much after abandoning The Concoction, hoping that the lack of following drinks would make up the financial loss of not drinking a 17.90 pint. So I put together a Bburago 1/18 model of a Volkswagen New Beetle, which actually needs very little screwing. [Insert screwing joke here] I used to love collecting model cars (which I refuse to accept is geeky, since everyone agrees cars are sexy and I have lots of Ferraris, Porsches and even a Maserati), but I grew out of it. Which is silly, since fathers and grandfathers collect them too. So to try and justify buying a model/toy car at the age of 21, I bought a 24.50 model kit in Spain. And besides, it’s much easier to pack than a built one so I was being practical too.

Bburago is a fascinating company. They’re building intricate scale models of exotic cars for years in a small village in Italy called Modena, which is where a lot of fast Italian cars ending in “i” are developed. So they spend ages with the car measuring and drawing it. As a result, they’re consistently some of the best scale models you can buy. And the way they’re built is quite strange. The pieces are made in a factory, yes, but they’re assembled from kits by local housewives in their homes. So what you can do when you buy a kit is see if you can make a better job of it than your average Carla.

And I….didn’t. I couldn’t, it was really badly designed. The wheels simply couldn’t fit tight onto the axles and so the car sits in this silly-looking bow-legged stance. The stickers are nasty bastards that you have to painstakingly cut out with a scissors, dip in water, separate from the backing and attempt to stick on before the shakes overcome you. Needless to say, there were disasters and I did construct my own interpretation of a high-level brakelight by cutting a line of red sticker intended for something else, along with forgetting to correctly install the steering wheel.

But now it’s built and look half-decent in it’s new attic home. It’s blue and I must show it to you if you ever come round.