STRANGE BRU

Hey folks, I'm back, ye all miss me?

Well Clara came back into town once more, despite strict instructions i left with the immigration authorities no to let her back into the country under any circumstances. My constant correspondence with the Special Branch, plying them with photos of her with the caption "known terrorist" seems to have gone unnoticed. So she slipped through the net somehow, and I met her and her mother in the Porterhouse once more. We visited the whiskey distillery in Dublin, where I warmed my cockles (yes I said "cockles") on some free Jamesons. It gave your a warmer glow per euro than the arse-rapers at the Guinness Brewery I tell you that much for free. Clara volunteered her mum to be an official Whiskey taster, a job she enjoyed with a relish that belied her previous "Oh I don't drink much at all!"
Come To Ireland, And Leave Your Liver: Bord Failte you can have that one for free.

The next day they coaxed me on a bit of a road trip. Bonnie (that's Clara's mom) decided to rent a car, and so began one of the most hair-raising adventures of my life. Clara wouln't ride shot-gun, as she was too terrified, and all I'll say is that my fringe has whitened considerably and I'm sure my underpants received a couple of fresh understains on the journey. One unexpected problem came from the layout of roads around Newgrange. If you choose to drive up the wrong end, so that Newgrange is conveniently right in front of you, you are told to drive for half an hour in towards Slane, where no doubt you'll get lost again like we did, and then get ushered like a tourist-cow into a little exhibit-pen, where you're milked for all your worth if you don't have your purse-strings tied up in a shipman's knot.

Yet Brú na Bóinne was passage-tomb-tastic. The five-thousand year old mysticism, mystery and majesty interrupted only by the whiney drawl of a Canadian accent. Well at least Clara has learned one valuable lesson. It was older than the Pyramids. It was an interestingly spooky experience: When the tour guide switched out the lights to emulate the winter solstice, the old lady next to me asked whether or not there was ghosts. What didn't help was that when total darkness was achieved, she grabbed my arm in a panic. I got a bit of a shock, which serves me right, as I was just supressing the urge to do owl impressions.
Bye the bye, I just got a text message from Clara: "totally smuggled and swiss army knife into the airport..."
I told them! But would they listen?

The Brú na Bóinne Visitors Centre sometimes likes to hide in the woods.
It can be coaxed out by biscuits, clucking sounds and American accents

When you arrive in the Boyne Valley, no need to remember to look at signs. This plonker delights in reminding you.

When visiting Knowth, be careful. This is NOT a passage-tomb. His name is Paddy and he just wants to be left alone.

THE BARTENDER, THE BLACK, THE PARROT, THE HORSE, THE BUTTERFLY, THE TASMANIAN DEVIL AND THE STAGS

Ventured Dublinward again I met up with Sarah, a wee Clontarf cherub, and Jim O'Hara, a good mate and complete English wanker. He was over for an English stag do, which made him the bane of Dublin existence. Yet this was no ordinary Stag do. Oh no. The groom was almost 75 years of age, and his entourage wasn't much younger. The group probably had an average age that rivalled that of the Rolling Stones. Still, it must have been hard for them. Viagra took care of that.
To my surprise, Crapman and Awn-ya turned up, in a rare venture into the city centre. I refer to her as Awn-ya here, as I got into trouble for referring to her as the "Crapwife" in a recent Flog entry. Her sister Knoola called her to rat on me: "Did you see what Flash wrote on the Flog, he called you the Crapwife?!", but the Crapwife herself turned out not to be so crap, who explained to her the etymology of the term, being a compound noun derivitive of Crapman. Why Crapman is called Crapman is an etymological and historical quagmire you will thank me if I don't clarify.
A laugh was had, and the crap jokes spewed out. For James' benefit, Crapman wheeled out an old favourite of Hayman's. And by old favourite I mean he tells the gag every time you meet him (it starts off as if it's going to be a racist joke, but afterwards you realise it's not so don't worry!):
"A black man walks into a pub with a pub with a Parrot on head. The Barman says: 'Where did you get that?' and the Parrot says: 'In Africa, it's f*ckin full of 'em!'"
Anyway, suitably steamed we made our way home on the drinklink, where a red-faced blathered aged drunk decided to sit down next to Crapman. The look of mild panic on his face was hillarious, he looked like a small boy trying to comprehend why Santa may not exist. This look only intensified when I said:
"He seems like a lovely fella, do you want me to introduce you to him?!"
The fella chatted away to nothingness, hardly comprehensible, pausing every once and a while to emit a slurpy puffy laugh. Well, it was either a laugh or he was farting through his head. We only deciphered a couple of sentences through the nonsense:
"He says he can speak in morse code (slurpy puffy laughter), not f*ckin likely!"
"And what code are you speaking in buddy? " is what I wanted to say but didn't. It's probably safer not to penetrate his booze-cloud, I thought, a sudden snap into reality might've been too much for him, he was so heavily saturated it probably would've given him the bends.
The second time coherence almost surfaced was: "blahbubblebinggrizzlerangdibbler (think the Tazmanian Devil highly excited) ringblitherburpwillybummerwuzy, (slurpy puffy laughter) they said drink was involved..."
"Really?" I said, "Do you think?"

The following day I went down to Awn-ya's gaff in the afternoon, to watch Crapman pick up a bucketload's-worth of doggie poo from the back garden. Just the sort of social activity that all friends should enjoy together. Having watched that for 20 minutes I somehow tucked into a mammy-made meal and took myself into town to meet Butterfly and Courto. A swift chat, a brief lament for lost loves, a gentle hug and a friendly smile, and I was on the road again, back to the 'Nock once more, back into
Awnya's to test out her new bar, the same bar that I wrote of a few Flog-entries ago that me and crapman had nearly died whilst transporting there. After much intoxication we finally agreed to Christen it "The Black and Parrot." The "Afro-American and Parrot was suggested, but it was quickly discarded. I told a joke to christen the bar:
"A Horse walks into a bar, and the Barman says: 'Where did you get that?' The Horse says: 'What?' And the Barman says:
'Oh sorry, I though you were someone else...'

PUBE GRUB

The Flog seems to have gone full circle, I find myself here again in sunny Brighton. There are some changes to the landscape; firstly the Western Pier had suffered a sad death since I last visited, a victim of an arson attack in recent times. Its blackened corpse still stood definantly against the blue horizon, a grisly charred skeleton that emitted a strange sort of beauty as the sun descended, painting the shadowy frame with its ruddy licks.
The other change to the landscape is that Clara was here; coincidently, I find myself visiting her here almost on the anniversary of my last visit, which also made it on the Flog. The weather was hungover and Clara was damn hot, or perhaps it was the other way around. To take advantage of the sunshine, Clara bought herself a frisbee, despite the fact that the beach was blacker than the Western Pier with people. Throwing it would have resulted in - at worst - a fight, or - at best - a nicked frisbee. Clara was giggling as she opened the packaging on the Frisbee.
"What is it?" says I. She pointed to the packaging which read "Not suitable for children under three due to small parts."
"That's got to be one heck of a three-year-old that tries to swallow a frisbee," says Clara. I tapped the label on the red plastic.
" Sorry, not Frisbee: 'Flying Disc'"
"Correction, Professional Flying Disc "
I was nominated by some mysterious non-verbal bitch-whipped method to carry around said 'Flying Disc' for the remainder of the day, never even getting to see its maiden flight. Probably a good thing though, I'm suspicious of any game which a dog could beat me at. A dog, I tell you. Evolution happened for a reason, damn it.

I met up with some old buddies there, all the old Blimey's crowd. I lived in Brighton for half a year about, spending more time that was healthy in a small pub on the Western Road that was then called Blimey O'Reilly's. Of course, with a name like that most Irish people would avert it like the plague, assuming it to be pornographically twee and oirish in the Tom-Cruise-and Nicole-Kidman-starring-in-Far-And-Away sort of a way. Yet, It's there where I warmed my barstool with many a Guinness-fart, and endured potato-farmer jokes and single-handedly financed its overhaul and metamorphosis into the hip, chilled-out The Jugger pub. From there, I gained my stout buddha-belly, from there I developed a taste for the world famous British Kebab, originating in India. Ah, it was good times.
So on my return to Brighton, I met Lyndsay and Simon, two of my highly traumatised ex-barpersons, along with Dave, one of the old regulars, and it was like slipping on an old glove. An old glove that was sweaty and smelt like booze.

Speaking of such tasty images, I savoured the tastes of Brighton with Clara and company. Well maybe savoured is too strong a word. One occasion had us plowing into some pub grub in the Bath and Arms in the lanes (I name them for shame), only to get to the bottom of the dish to find what could only be a soft curly pube sitting at the bottom. We all gasped, and Clara's Friend Rachel gagged.
The Naked Chef, how are you. Why do I immortalise in the Flog things that are more likely to scar me for life?


The Western Pier: One more payment and it's mine!