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Published: February 1st 2006
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Final Night In Ireland
My great friend and flatmate Sarah losing control of her bodily functions. And me old mucker Megan down there getting ready to cop the full force of a Gene Simmons - like tongue. Nice one Joe. So I'm on board this blogging phenomenon, sweeping across the globe. Welcome to the mind of the Slink. I promise i won't refer to myself in the third person and as the Slink TOO often. It's time to publish my travels in the dark and seedy crevices of cyber land. And i'm jumping on board a little late, as I'm nearing the latter stages of my South American adventures. So i'm backtracking baby. And where else to start but the beginning.
Let me take you back, way way back, to wherever you were just 3 months ago; and forget it all, cause this is all about me. You are now going to see through my eyes. Just relax, you are getting sleepy, take a breath, hold In -------and Out, breath IN------andOut------Now, you´re in the lively, passionate and small isle of the ever friendly and globe invading irish folk. It's Friday the 11th of November 2005 and approaching midnight at Kelly's Bar ('Not just a Pub´). This will be last night in Strandhill and the Republic of Ireland. You're having your eighth double rum and coke bought for you, and the drunken "I Love you's" are flying from one side of
Stevo Muther F·*'ka
The Great man Steven Horan in all his hairy ginga glory. You rock mate the bar to the other. Like some sort of inebriated verbal tennis match. 'Simpson serves to Middleton. And the young Irish girl returns the serve with vigour and a swagger. Simpson hit's back with an "I love you" lob. To which Steven Horan runs from the gents to smash the lob with a fly-zipping "I love YOU maaaannnn" back down into the young australians chest. Beaten, Simpson takes a knee in an attempt to contain an emotional outburst. And to retrieve a dropped cigarette which he knows won't help his game. Overwhelmed he goes to his chair to rehydrate. And that's game, set and match. He's not getting back up from his chair'.
The next 3 hours are a blur. Kind of a metaphor for the 12months you've spent in Ireland. The constant nights out, having the Craic (drinking to paralysis). After work, day's off, during work, before work. One year in a perpetual hangover. The one phrase that would be under section 1a in the Irish constitution, "Hair of the Dog", was fatal but always so effective. It goes hand in hand with alot of fun. Singing and dancing the nights away. Or just plain talking nonsense down The
The Last Shift in The Countess
My number one local and alround top guy Padraig! Can be a little chatty though. Strand, Kelly's or The Countess (with a silent "O"). With the Fab 4 of Megan, Sarah, Stevo and the mighty Mauritian Ashvin your partner's in crime. Knocking back the Budweiser, Martini, Guiness, and Heineken with lime, respectively.
Now picture the many and constant day-afters. All those hangovers, there was only one solution. A dip in the ocean, and the long awaited attempt to learn to surf. You slip into that undersized wetsuit, squeezing your eggs up into the pelvic cavity. Grab that board and begin that long excruciating walk through the village, geared up like the Thorpedo. With not quite the same physique. You stumble down the sharp and tricky shore protecting rocks. You hit the water, and the initial coolness, along with the oncoming waves, inspires you to start paddling like a maniac. Duck under that first wave and you feel the chilly water streaming down the inside at the back of your wetsuit. Your thinking the cheaper 2nd hand suit might not of been such a bargain after all. But it's the feeling in your hand's and feet that go first. Still trying to get past that first break. Hoping you're far enough away from the more than
Irish Decadence
One of the many drunken sessions, Ash,Lynne, Lynne's bro, Next golf legend of the world Cialin, and the mighty irish viking warrior Peter Neilson impressive local surfers as not to be embarrassed (Aussi's are all expected to surf), but close enough to gain their attention when in need of life-saving assistance. Ten minutes later, you and your recently started cigarette smoking guiness hammered body make it out the back of the sets. AAHHHH, it's tea-bag time. Bob on the board and recover. Gasping in the big breaths, you take off on your first wave - paddle, paddle, paddle......you don´t make it, sliding off the back of the wave. And now you're in a spot you don't want to be. Still having trouble manoevring the board quickly, you get smashed by the following wave. Oh and you don't have a leash so you hold onto that board through thick and thin. After the continuous tumbles and darkness and much anticipated pop-up, the paddling process starts again. After an hour your arms feel like jelly, and there's a pain on the right side of your lower chest and back. Which forces you to the doctor.
Forty euro's later, no real accurate diagnosis, the local GP prescribes paracetomol for a so-called muscular problem. Pills are taken, Pain persists, which according to the T.V ads means you must
Great Scenic Sights
Some great sets rolling In. One of the lads at Strandhill Beach. And Typical Irish Backdrop, Sheep and Castles and alot of Green see a doctor. Bugger that! Fortunately, Joe Fallon, local publican, current landlord and alround top guy, assesses the problem and diagnoses a dislocated rib. After two weeks of Fallon recommended exercises, and easing up with keg deliveries at work your back on the board and paddling your booty off.
After numerous sessions you manage to get up on your feet. And the time standing precariously gets longer and longer. A sixtieth of a second. A half a second. Two seconds. Oh my god! Four or Five seconds. Your riding waves BAby!And there's that buzz all the Dudes are on about. Your hooked! That's it, all the pain and perseverence and humiliating walks to the waves have paid off. It's time to celebrate! It's off to the pub!
So enough of this pretending you're all hypnotised. Seeing how fantastic life can be through my eyes. When I count to three, you will no longer be me. Uno, dos, tres. Oh bummer hey, back to reality!
I still remember taking the farewell party back down to the house and partying on with friends and gate-crashers alike. It wasn't till around 5am when i had to ask a guest to leave,
Surf and Scenery
Maybe "Black Rock". Point not far from Strandill Beach. And The Mighty Knocknarae Mountain. Brings back painful memories of The Warriors Run that i felt like wrapping things up. When the girl in question didn't like my idea of removing her dog from my living room and out of my house for the second time. She proceeded to make negative remarks about the hair on my upper lip and it's so-called bumfluff like quality, along with incoherent screaming in my face. She had definitely crossed the line when dissing my mo. I put alot of time into that mo. Luckily there was one of those girls around, who you just wouldn't mess with. A local friend called Kim, removed this now unwelcomed person from the premises. So, that often debated and controversial question whether a man should strike a girl, remains narrowly un-avoided once again.
So that's just a small snippet of my year-long inhabitance of Ireland. I could go on for many hours, but this has become quite long as it is. I look back at the 10 mile brutal Warrior's Run; and the lanky aussi cursing his way up the mountain as the rain came in sideways. And the many fun-filled times of living with a volatile head-chef. Are there any other kind? Or smelly scottish fishermen.
But let
Irish Rocks
Another great artistic photo supplied by ozzie Ian of Kawana. Big up Ian me just sum up by saying how fortunate I am to have stumbled upon the sweet and salty surfvillage that is Strandhill. It was only by pure chance that I wandered into Strandhill and setup camp in Michael and Carmel's wee hostel. Now it's definitely somewhere I consider a home away from home. I want to thank all the folks in Strandhill for welcoming me into your community and giving me a chance to live a warm irish experience. You even inspired me to write a little poetry.
LET ME SET THE SCENE
IN THIS WESTERN IRISH TOWN
THE SEASIDE SITS SO PRETTY
MOUNTAINS TOWERING ALL AROUND
THE LOCALS NEVER HESITATE
TO GREET AND CHAT AWAY
THEY'RE MORE THAN PLEASED AND USUALLY CHUCKLE
TO A HEARTY AND FRIENDLY G'DAY
´COS IT'S THE FRIENDLY BANTER OVER A JAR OR TWO
THAT KEEPS THIS FOLK CONTENT
THROW IN A FLUTE, A FIDDLE AND THEY'LL TAP THOSE SHOES
TILL THEY'VE DRUNK THE WHOLE MONTHS RENT
AND WE CLIMBED KNOCKNARAE JUST YESTERDAY
TO FIND A VIEW THAT TAKE'S ONES BREATH AWAY
I COULD SEE WHY MANY COME TO STAY
AND REMAIN IN THE VILLAGE NEVER TO STRAY
BUT
Bubblin in Dublin
With my great Irish fashion consultant, Shamone (simone), showing us a good time in Dublin. I STOOD UTOP OF QUEEN MAEVE'S TOMB
PERCHED HIGH UPON THE PEAK
MY GAZED LURKED OVER ATLANTIC AND BEYOND
FOR IT'S THE AMERICAS THAT I NOW SEEK
YES IT'S TIME TO LEAVE THIS EMERALD ISLE
AND CHASE HORIZONS ONCE MORE
I SHALL REMEMBER MY TIME HERE WITH A SMILE
OF THOSE BLACK PINTS I SHALL GUZZLE NO MORE
SLAINTE!!!!
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megan
non-member comment
That about sums it up alright. Good to know we still hold a special place within the beautiful heart of our favourite Aussie. Loving the poetry. Come home soon, there's one in the till for ya mate! We miss you terribly, mwah!