Ralph the Wonder Llama

The other weekend, as those of you paying attention will remember, I went to Ireland for a bit of a break down in Kildare with my friends Jan and Dave. They were heading back from a wedding further up north and we arranged to meet at Dublin Airport. Having left it till the last minute there were very few flights to be had and those that remained were fairly expensive. The solution, it turned out, was a very early morning train journey from Edinburgh to Manchester Airport and one of the last two seats on an Aer Lingus flight from there. £80 all in.

I never did find out what made Dublin such a popular destination on that particular weekend, but evidence of some of the standard reasons was to be found in abundance at the gate: two “teams” of women, one that looked as though they ought to be old enough to know better and probably didn’t, and one who looked to young to know better and who plainly had no intention of finding out, not on this trip thank you very much. The one thing they had in common was their apparent chosen sport – Having a Good Time, and fair enough, so long as I know where they’re going (Temple Bar, odds-on) and can go somewhere else. One team had an official strip commemorating in emerald sequins a birthday (50) on the back, with their names, so handy for the Garda later on, on the front. The other had no strip (well, not yet…) but a clear captain, who was wearing a bridal tiara and a look of intent. Lucky lucky boy…

Anyway, the trip was, as Our Lord John Cleese once so wonderfully observed, relatively crash-free, not to mention short. 35 minutes after leaving Manchester I was in Ireland and ten minutes after that I had a pocket full of Euros and a pint full of Guinness. Not the best, but certainly the most expensive, of the weekend. But t’is an airport, and I had a wait. What to do? Anyway, the bar was right next to the ATM and I had to make sure the money worked didn’t I?

Ireland. Tropical Paradise. Almost every time I’ve been there I’ve come home with a tan, or at least partially burnt. One has come to expect a certain climate, and it was only late October after all. And so, as I awaited the arrival of the Strachans, I watched from the snug confines of the, erm, snug, as what looked suspiciously like rain lashed down upon those poor, unfortunate Guinnless souls outside, while I turned my attention to finishing off A Suitable Boy. The book, you understand…

Retrieved by Jan and Dave, we drove south into what was now, inescapably, irrefutably, rain. Another illusion shattered. Or at least had a dampener put upon it. Never mind. We stopped in on the way at Tesco for essential supplies (flowers, vodka, fruit cider) as the rain (for now there was no doubt) got heavier and heavier. You may have observed a theme here: good. Hold that thought.

After a much-needed lunch (and proper pint) at the Thatch, we arrived at Joan and Mike’s to find only Mad Buddy in residence, who proceeded to demonstrate his pleasure at seeing us all by going a little bit extra bonkers just for us. Bless. He is, I’m pleased to report, much recovered from his run-in with he local post van some time ago. We had a preparatory game of Quiddler which I cunningly lost, thereby lulling my opponents into a false sense of security. Soon enough Joan and Mike returned home. And there was much rejoicing.

That night we all went out (having eventually won the argument with the taxi driver about What Time It Was) to a very nice gastro-pub called the Brown Bear for dinner. Several large steaks were consumed. David had venison. Which was a bit deer. The Guinness ice-cream was a definite hit, and indeed the whole meal was fab. Thank you to Mike and Joan, who very generously treated us

After a couple of drinks in the bar and some spontaneous beermat-flipping competition, we decamped back for a proper game of Quiddler which, for once, I won. Yay me.

The next day, after copious tea and one of Joan’s typically wonderful and enormous breakfasts, we headed out to a pub by the Curragh for an afternoon throwing good money after bad animals or, as it’s known locally, betting on horse racing. Now I should admit a prejudice here: since the age of five I’ve never much liked horses. I remember being put on one for a walk around a small field and being terrified. To this day their bigness troubles me. Same thing with cows. Llamas are fine. But then, we’re nice. Horses aren’t. Horses are shit. I proved it too. I bet some proper cash money that some of them might get past the post nearer the front than the back, and not a single one of them did. Not one. Well, some of Mike’s did. Even the odd one or two of Jan’s and Joan’s did. And judging by the reactions of the lads at the bar, most of theirs did. But none of mine did. And that’s what counts. That’s why horses are still rubbish.

The highlight of that afternoon occurred before we’d even left the house, however. Well, before most of us had left the house, at any rate. Preparing to leave, David was standing on the threshold, awaiting a gap in the, you’ve guessed it, rain. And, in fact, fairly large hailstones. It was fairly persistent, but showed signs of easing off. The car was parked temptingly close to the front door. It wouldn’t take long to scramble in, it was simply a question of timing. David wavered once, and then again. Sensing he needed encouragement, I gave him a small, helpful and well-timed shove in the back. Mind made up, he started the dash for the car. At that precise moment what must have been the heaviest and most localised hail storm in Curragh history dumped a inconceivably large deluge of water and ice down slap bang on top of the car. Or, more accurately, on the gap between the house and the car. Where David was. It’s really quite surprising how wet a man can get in three seconds. Even the inside of the passenger door was soaked.

30 seconds later it had stopped as, by lucky hap, had the most extreme of the laughter. The rest of us, recovered enough to walk, ambled the few dry yards to the car and got in, taking care not to start laughing again. Well, not too hard anyway.

Back at the house we prepared for the Hallowe’en fancy dress party at which Mike was playing, which we’d taken as an invitation to crash. The costumes were most impressive and in David’s case not a little scary:

Joan and I were both pirates, Jan a vampire and David went as Michael Myers from Halloween. Mike went as a sort of cross between a cowboy (fearsomely armed at one stage as well) and Johnny Cash, which latter he does pretty easily anyway. On arrival at the pub Joan encountered another pirate queen type against whom she immediately took. At one stage it looked like it might get dangerous. And indeed later on swords were broken (although, to be fair, they’d only been mended earlier that day) when Joan started duelling with me – this must run in the family.

This was my first chance to see Mike play live and it was wonderful to watch. I spent a fair bit of the evening “down the front” as it were:

The man can play, that’s for sure. He was joined later on by a series of guest vocalists, not least Paul Dixon for The Fly and the Millionaire. Hilarious stuff, and the sort of thing that one imagines happens in Irish country pubs all the time, not just at Hallowe’en 50th parties.

Strangest costume of the evening went to the least intentional. I don’t think the local Gardai had an invite but they turned up (the same ones) on four separate occasions that evening, for reasons even they seemed unclear about. Upon their first visit they came in for a look around and some wag remarked upon the authenticity of their costumes. At this the male Garda remarked that his Bean Garda (female) colleague was, in fact, the stripper. Which got a laugh from most quarters, and probably earned him a slap.

On one of their later visits, a few pints down the line, one of the guests took a shine to the police and decided to offer them some, erm, entertainment:

which might, on another night, have seen them end up in the back seat. And not for that, either. Strangely enough, after this affectionate assault, they didn’t come back again. Must have been exhausted, poor things.

The night was late by the time we’d played a stack of old Hillbilllies records, discussed the finer points of Led Zep 3, and compared notes on various covers of The Race Is On. Good times.

On the Sunday we had to bid farewell, and drove north through ever-heavier rain (just for a change) to Belfast, to embark on a rocking ferry ride back to Stranraer, through most of which we slept anyway. David had a horrible drive back to town the other side, so horrendous was the weather. I’m glad it wasn’t me having to do it, that’s all I can say.

So a grand – if soggy – time was had, and was much needed. It rather shattered my illusions of Ireland as sun-soaked paradise. But at least I’m still two-thirds right, huh? And never let it be said that a weekend at Joan and Mike’s is ever dry. Thanks folks.

[EDIT: thanks to Jan for correcting my terrible sassenach lexical fauxs pas ]