It’s been a manic two weeks. Burning the candle at both ends in London, and pretty much here in Dublin too. It’s been a prime example of work hard/play hard – I’m stuffed.
But yesterday was no time to surrender. My last night in Dublin, I had to push through. To still see and do and imbibe as much as I possibly could before flying back to Joburg tonight. (Via Paris. Epic. Jesus – stopovers at midnight suck le ass.)
Anyway, I know another South African here, and he came to meet me at Ely’s, a bar on the canal/river. One forgets Dublin is on the coast.
Well. I temporarily fell in lust last night.
It’s honestly been a good tree monts since I last had tingles doing funny tings with my bodily functions, but in I walk from the pouring rain, and there’s a big press junket for the Galway Arts Festival at this place. The manager of this such bar just happens to be a fallen god.
He chats to me as I tentatively sip on an O’Hara Celtic Stout, and everytime he smiles at me (and everyone smiles – these are Irish people), I just want to, like, have an aneurysm.
But he’s working, I’m a customer, and well, it’s not an ideal situation. He’s a wine connoisseur but not a ‘this has a fruity nose, with a tinge of raspberry’ wine connoisseur and that such crap, he reckons: ‘Oim not that kind no woine goiy, I just loike woine. The rest of that pretentious crap can go to hell.’
God, he’s hotter than an anthracite stove, yet he's not a funky bastard.
(Cue cartoon hearts pulsing from my eyes)
So while he’s attending to PR and general management, I meet my friend and we see his flat and I then go to Temple Bar. Alone. When last did you do a pub crawl alone? I didn’t meet the person I was meant to meet there and what a meat market obviously – tourists snogging other tourists – and so I had another Guinness and had lots of time to think.
Most people contemplate life whilst sitting on a beach or in a tranquil quiet setting – me, it seems packed pubs are good think tanks. People watching and eye contacting and stuff in between. And 1) I really like Guinness you know. I thought I’d have one and vomit, but it’s actually a bloody nice drink. I might just carry on drinking it when I get back home. On analysis, it’s the creamy white froth at the top you can’t beat. It’s not that heavy – it goes down smoothly; the creamy foam is scrumptious. It’s excellent craic. Excellent.
2) I wish I’d stayed at Ely’s and chatted more to the super [oh my god, HOTTER than a set of Swedish lesbians] manager. OK, he probably has a girlfriend, the probability certainly lies in his favour. But hell. HELL.
Anyway, did about 15 kilometres last night. All round the city, just walking.
A flight to Paris tonight, then Joburg. Then if you can believe it, on arrival, I get into a car and head to Natal. Swear to fuck. With 8 friends.
It’s my 10 year school reunion this weekend. In the Midlands. It's something that we've all be organising for the last 2 years. People are going to be exchanging large expensive engagement rings, I'm going to be giving out business cards. (Don't have a large diamond on my hand...)
How, pray, am I going to stay awake? Exciting and crazy and the opportunity to see, like, my entire standard, but shit…what am I running on?
(If I close my eyes, it’s the Irish guy at the bar. Wow. That smile!)