BOOTY-FALL

The day after St. Patricks day is like the years during a nuclear winter. There's a dirty stillness in the air, and all about there is the pugency of death. Mutated sub-humans cling to the shadows, and peer out into the piercing sun with black resentful eyes. Only cockroaches have survived it; well cockroaches and those still pissed from the night before. I regarded the sullen yellow-faced post-revellers as I walked down Cork's Summerhil road. They all may as well have "regret" tatooed to the foreheads; "regret" but in smaller print beneath: "but sure wait til I meet the boys down the pub tonight and tell them all about the hi-jinks I was up to, sure wasn't only hillarious, especially that thing I did with the traffic cone. I may regret it now but I'll be feckin a legend later." Luckily most Corkmen's foreheads are large enough to contain this information. With complete glossary and explanatory notes. I should know, they're me kin.

Today though, I'm not suffering as this Patrick's day wasn't quite the embarassing spectacle my "Wept for St. Paddio" (See March 2004) was last year. I left the anonymous multi-national corporation (ie. work) at 10:30, and tried desperately to play catch up, to limited success. I found Donz on her lonesome in The Oval, doing some Claresque sleep-dancing but still somehow managed to stay more or less veritical for most of the night. I do say almost, because she did perform a graceful backwards dive into a crowd of burley men, who helped her to verticality with a courteous push. The whole effect was impressive and looked suspiciously pre-staged, I'm sure I've seen the same effect in Moulin Rouge. Nevertheless, fair play to her she saw out the full night in The Works, despite the fact that she seemed to be oblivious to everything except how much she hated the venue she was in.

When we finally climbed Summerhill and Ballyhooley Rds - two roads in cork that exhibit the x-files-worthy phenonenon of becoming steadily steeper as the the night progresses - I fell into bed... while Donz just fell. They should have ads on the telly giving stark warning about the dangers of removing your boots under the influence, something along the lines of having some fun-loving youth coming home from the pub, and in a carefree manner trying to flick off his shoe at the heel with the point of his other shoe, and then falling out a window and falling on top of a small child. That would get the message across.

Now, I sit here, in the anonymous multi-national corporation, shielded form the nuclear winter with layers of corregated steel and rays of artificial yellow light. There are morlocks all about me, all suffering from post-traumatic stress. And judging from the pained hobbling, there was a lot of unshoeing-related disasters to... erm... boot.