AUSSIFIED PART 2

I left the tropical climes of the Rebel County to grapple with the Arctic Circle that lies within the M50. Dublin has suddenly become so frigid that you can't lick your lips for fear of them fusing together. Turning onto that wind tunnel that is O'Connell street, I felt my groin recoil in terror, and attempt to ingest itself within my body. Not only that, but I felt my nippular area elongate ansd stick out suggestively. In other words, Dublin weather turned me into a woman.
I wormed my way through the throngs of other cold-induced recent post-op transexuals to collect Clara from the Avalon house. We cheekily started having a vodka-flavoured diet cokes in the hostel foyer, and then - like a pair of knackers - took out innocent-looking beverages down towards the Mezz in Temple Bar. Waiting outside to finish our illicit cocktails, a homeless man approached us.
"Sorry mate" I said, giving him a sympathetic fob-off, "we're back-packers (a half-truth), ye know, we haven't a penny ourselves..."
It was then that Clara exclaimed in in loud and proud voice:
"Aw man, I gotta go to the bank!!"
I half expected her to continue with: "... thank you mr. homeless man for reminding me of all my worldly riches, I'm off now to spend all my money on booze! Sucka!"

So began our "Goodbye Kerry" weekend. Sniffety sniff, the expletive-spouting Aussie was departing Cork much to our collective despair. I had missed out on sharing the coach ride up with them, in which I gather there was an incident with one of our companions (who shall be very grateful if she remains nameless), a Pringles box and a full bladder. No more needs to be said there I think.
After The Mezz, we took ourselves onto Whelan's then, in which another onslaught of bevvies were consumed. Clara was so untidy towards the end she very admirably achieved the skill of dancing and sleeping at the same time, a strange sleepwalking boogie Intersparsed with a trip to the loo every five minutes or so. I should've just given her a Pringles box and been done with it.

To the Turk's Head the next night, for more of the same shenanigans, merriment tinged with a slight air of sadness, knowing that very shortly Kezza would be flying away. The fact that we ended in the night in that fine establishment Zaytoons was more than fitting. It has been the rounder of so many good nights.

The next morning, my Dad drove me into the airport. Half panicked, I said "Her flight leaves in half-an-hour", to which he responded that there was a lot of building going on there, and wasn't that a grand garden there, and they've dug a ditch there all along, and wasn't the traffic heavy for this time on a Sunday, and sure would you look at that, a big tree lying across the road well I'll have to go around the long way I s'pose. I responded to his carefully slow Sunday driving with quiet (very quiet) gratitude. He did finally say, "sure, it'd be a pity if you missed her all the same"
No shit Dad.
But all was well, we watched her wiggada wiggida (some sort of traditional Aussie dance) through departutes, moaned and shed some tears.
"F*ck off ya c*nt" I said, and I could see that she was touched.

When the lads all went back down to Cork, I took Clara to see the book of Kells.
"How old is it in relation to the pyramids?" she said, as all historical events must be referenced with the age of the pyramids for Clara. Which is strange, considering she doesn't actually know the age of the pyramids. She read a display which stated: "Peacocks were associated with Christ and the Resurrection, as it was believed that Peacock flesh did not decompose."
"Man," she said, "they musta been pretty dumb, I mean if I saw a dead peacock, I'd say 'hey look, it's decomposing'."
She had a point I guess, but thank God she was never in any of my medieval tutorials, I would've been stumped!
She found the Book of Kells pretty underwhelming actually; mind you they did have the book turned onto one of the few pages of the book without a single illustration. That's Trinity for you. F*ckin c*nts.

I dropped her home then, and feeling a bit peckish, I bought myself a small packet of pringles.
For some reason, they didn't have the same appeal they used to. I suddenly imagined I smelled piss, but that just might have been O'Connell street.

A WEE STORY

A bloke has spent five years travelling all around the world making a documentary on native dances. At the end of this time, he has every single native dance of every indigenous culture in the world on video. He winds up in Australia, in Alice Springs, so he pops into a pub for a well-earned pint of the local "amber nectar". He gets talking to one of the local Aborigines and tells him about his project.

The Aborigine asks the bloke what he thought of the "Butcher Dance."

The bloke's a bit confused and says, "Butcher Dance? What's that?"

"What? You no see Butcher Dance?"

"No, I've never heard of it."

"Oh mate. You crazy. How you say you film every native dance if you no see Butcher Dance?"

"Umm. I got a Corroborree on film just the other week. Is that what you mean?"

"No no, not Corroborree. Butcher Dance much more important than Corroborree."

"Oh, well how can I see this Butcher Dance then?"

"Mate, Butcher Dance right out bush. Many days travel to go see Butcher Dance."

"Look, I've been everywhere from the forests of the Amazon to deepest darkest Africa, to the frozen wastes of the Arctic filming these dances. Nothing will prevent me from recording this one last dance."

"OK mate. You drive north along highway towards Darwin. After you drive 197 miles, you see dirt track veer off to left. Follow dirt track for 126 miles till you see big huge dead gum tree - biggest tree you ever see. Here you gotta leave the car, because much too rough for driving. You strike out due west into setting sun. You walk three days 'til you hit creek. You follow this creek to Northwest. After two days you find where creek flows out of rocky mountains. Much too difficult to cross mountains here though. You now head south for half day 'til you see pass through mountains. Pass very difficult and very dangerous. Take two, maybe three days to get through rocky pass. When through, head northwest for four days till reach big huge rock - 20 feet high and shaped like man's head. From rock, walk due west for two days and you find village. Here you see Butcher Dance."

So the guy grabs his camera crew and equipment and heads out. After a couple of hours he finds the dirt track. It's is in a shocking state and he's forced to crawl along at a snail's pace and so he doesn't reach the tree until dusk and he's forced to set up camp for the night.

He sets out bright and early the following morning. His spirits are high and he's excited about the prospect of capturing on film this mysterious dance which he had never heard mention of before.

True to the directions he has been given, he reaches the creek after three days and follows it for another two until they reach the rocky mountains. The merciless sun is starting to take its toll by this time and his spirits are starting to flag, but wearily he trudges on until he finds the pass through the hills - nothing will prevent him from completing his life's dream.

The mountains prove to be every bit as treacherous as their guide said and at times they almost despair of getting their bulky equipment through. But after three and a half days of back breaking effort they finally force their way clear and continue their long trek.

When they reach the huge rock, four days later, their water is running low and their feet are covered with blisters. Yet they steel themselves and head out on the last leg of their journey. Two days later they virtually stagger into the village, where the natives feed them and give them fresh water. They begin to feel like new men.

Once he's recovered enough, the bloke goes before the village chief and tells him that he has come to film their Butcher Dance.

"Oh mate. Very bad you come today. Butcher Dance last night. You too late. You miss dance."

"Well, when do you hold the next dance?"

"Not till next year."

"Well, I've come all this way. Couldn't you just hold an extra dance for me, tonight?"

"No, no, no! Butcher Dance very holy. Only hold once a year. If hold more, gods get very angry and destroy village! You want see Butcher Dance you come back next year."

The guy is devastated, but he has no other option but to head back to civilisation and back home.

The following year, he heads back to Australia and, determined not to miss out again, sets out a week earlier than last time. He is quite willing to spend a week in the village before the dance is performed in order to ensure he is present to witness it. However, right from the start things go wrong.

Heavy rains have turned the dirt track to mud and the car gets bogged every few miles, finally forcing them to abandon their vehicles and slog through the mud on foot almost half the distance to the tree. They reach the creek and the mountains without any further hitch, but halfway through the ascent of the mountain they are struck by a fierce storm that rages for several days, during which they are forced to cling forlornly to the mountainside until it subsides. It'd be sheer suicide to attempt to scale the treacherous paths in the face of such savage elements.

Then, before they have travelled a mile out from the mountains, one of the crew sprains his ankle really badly, which slows down the rest of their journey enormously, to the rock and then the village.

Eventually, having lost all sense of how long they have been travelling, they stagger into the village at about 12:00 noon.

"The Butcher Dance!" gasps the bloke. "Please don't tell me I'm too late!"

The chief recognises him and says: "No, white fella. Butcher Dance performed tonight. You come just in time."

Relieved beyond measure, the crew spends the rest of the afternoon setting up their equipment - preparing to capture the night's ritual on celluloid as dusk falls, the natives start to cover there bodies in white paint and adorn themselves in all manner of bird's feathers and animal skins. Once darkness has settled fully over the land, the natives form a circle around a huge roaring fire.

A deathly hush descends over performers and spectators alike, as a wizened old figure with elaborate swirling designs covering his entire body enters the circle and begins to chant. Some sort of witch doctor or medicine man, figures the bloke, and he whispers to the chief: "What's he doing?"

"Hush," whispers the chief. "You first white man ever to see most sacred of our rituals. Must remain silent. Holy man, he asks that the spirits of the dream world watch as we demonstrate our devotion to them through our dance and, if they like our dancing, will they be so gracious as to watch over us and protect us for another year."

The chanting of the Holy man reaches a stunning crescendo before he moves himself from the circle. From somewhere the rhythmic pounding of drums booms out across the land and the natives begin to sway to the stirring rhythm.

The bloke is becoming caught up in the fervour of the moment himself. This is it. He now realises beyond all doubt that his wait has not been in vain. He is about to witness the ultimate performance of rhythm and movement ever conceived by mankind.

The chief strides to his position in the circle and, in a big booming voice, starts to sing...

"You butch yer right arm in. You butch yer right arm out. You butch yer right arm in and you shake it all about..."