Last weekend something monumental happened. From out of nowhere, probably from some crevice by the Lee that had gone unnoticed for centuries, Cork suddenly pulled out and dusted down some culture. Clara was back in town, so of course I was feeling a little tender from the night before, as that woman usually arrives upon a wave of alcohol and carries you with it. Well, she can't really be blamed but I like having a patzy for my raging alcoholism.
Anyway, I wandered through Patrick street with drums pounding inside my head - no wait - that was some drummers giving it a bit of welly. I found the dudes then, whereupon we absorbed the bands and with a wee helping of beer the hair of the dog was fully licked. And then, as darkness descended, we went on to see the fireworks.
Now, arming firey rebel Corkonians with 3500 kilos of fireworks may seem like an extremely unwise thing to do, but they gave us plenty to look at, successfully managing to leave buildings unscorched and faces unsinged. In the middle of it all there stood what can only be described as a massive dildo on Patrick's bridge with a few more off in the distance. That's my ideal job I've decided, a cast model in dildo factory. I feel like I should offer it up to the female community, after they've given me so much. In fact I'd do it pro bono. Ahem.
Meanwhile back in the real world, after the fireworks we got ourselves some chips and stuff and then on to the Mardyke where the official party was. The tag line for the event was "Where's me Culture?", a corruption of the home-grown Sultans of Ping anthem about having your geansai nicked in a nightclub.
"So where IS me culture?" says I.
"Aw look there it is!" Donna says, pointing to the weirdo performance art dancers in the midst of the the beer-swigging big-fish-little-fish boogiers. They were all clad in white - It looked for all the world as if it was out-patient's day from the looney bin. Everyone gazed embarrased into their pints, hoping that if they didn't make eye contact they'd go away. Me, Donna and Clara spent the first 40 minutes trying to locate the cloakroom, and we found it in the bowling alley of all places. Clothes hangers were stretched across the lanes and the guy you handed your stuff to - knowing he couldn't mark the lovely buffed floor - had to nimbly leap between the lanes in order to find a home for for your jacket. It was actually very graceful and entertaining. We hopped ourselves between the many room and events the Mardyke had to offer, losing people along the way. That crazy canuck Clara (try saying that very fast!) disappeared completely, probably riding on her alcohol wave or off being bauld somewhere. Meanwhile, the rest of us sampled the eclectic acts that were popping up around the place celebrating the fact that Cork had, after a long exhaustive search, found its culture.
It was down the back of the couch all along. Typical. I keep finding my virginity there too.
Giant Dildos invade Cork
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