chapter 1

Chapter 1 Days Of Thunder

Soundtrack: Spacemen 3 “Big City, Bright Lights” or Japan "Life In Tokyo"



"De la puta madre!"

Café-en-Seine on a Friday night and the tension is brutal. Myself and G. have just gained entrance and are assessing the situation like the seasoned pros that we are. Left, right, receding hairline, dandruff, cut of their stitch, shoulders, bum... -We're on recon mission scoping the pre(o)mises. We're sussing, we're checking, but of course we're not looking -that'd be so cheap! So unrefined, and we are not -let it be known- we are not the uncouth type. Besides, can't make it too obvious eh. I'd say the main talent of a hunter resides in her cunning and stealth (...if it isn't the same). Discretion is everything, discretion is the key, and I suppose I'm the one to ask: my recent record very much bears proof to how invisible I've become of late... Discretion's my middle name so -unlike some other people I won't point out lest it should sound like I'm slagging me homegirl. Hence our foray into tonight, me and Georgie.

Now, I like to think of myself as pretty clued-up, that's why Café-en-Seine makes perfect sense. It's the right choice, like... suntan salon heaven. You want washboard stomachs and realigned teeth? You need to be coming here. But Georgie begs to differ. Georgie reckons it's full of poseurs, she thinks we should pass on this one: "I mean, it's not like Dublin's running short on pubs is it!" Fast-forward two recent hours of debate in my kitchen (and half a dozen Bacardis), and she accepts to give it another try. If only for my sake (i.e. this is where I scored last!). The way I lie to myself now, as I get all icequeen and not at all bovvered, it's just us two, briefly passing through. It's just us two dropping in for a quick drink in peace. ...A quiet drink in peace at Dublin's Café-en-Seine on a Friday night.

We're like inside the place, so. Scope, scope, scope.
To be fair, not much hunk stands out. Pulse remains definitely unlit. At first sight, all I can see is your run-of-the-mill polo and jeans -even worse: jacket with jeans (!!)- a lot of stubble too ...a right bunch of clowns. Never trust someone who fancies himself big time, says I.
But we're in the place is the main thing, and can now advance in friendly territory. Glance to the left, glance to the right, proceed. Somewhere over our heads Carly Simon (I think the name is) is singing that song about Warren Beatty. We slide our way through the throng as efficiently as female elbows will allow, i.e. not an awful lot. True that, it's like an assault course in here, everyone seems to have had pretty much the same idea and the scene doesn't give in too easily. A bit like life I guess, you have to dive in and fight your way through or something... A bit like life -but at least with colognes coming at you from all corners. I ignore the otherwise fragrant armpits at my nose level and join Georgie in the attack -Banzai!

The Babel of voices that passes as the Celtic Tiger's soundtrack beckons: I can distinguish affected English-from-England, French, Spanish, German, Louditalian, Eastern European (that would be mainly from the staff) and, at long last, some good old Dub. Earnestly talking sports bollix, that would be blokes. Blokes are just weird. The weekend's kicked off in Dublin pubs and all they can think of is going out to discuss rugby. Next thing you know, they go on holiday together on the Costa del Sol to spend their time in a pub watching Sky Sports eating fish and chips singing "You'll Never Walk Again". Men are just weird.
I take it these ones are Leinster fans. Leinster are (is?) the local team, the club de rigiour for any self-respecting D 4 type. Mainly (that much I know) it is the club of Ireland's official number one sex-symbol: Brian "O'Driscoll" Drico. The B.O.D. himself. Your man is sometimes spotted about town, going on about his business, but I for one haven't managed that yet. (Maybe I should get myself down to the stadium sometime, that'd help.) Right now, I'm only scouting Café-en-Seine, this super swanky "drinking emporium" that would give any French brothel a run for its money. Not that I would be familiar with French brothels either.

"To be perfectly honest wit you, another couple of deals like this and I'll be good to go, retire in Dubai my good man! Strike it while it's hot! And then cheerio, that's me done -On my holiers forever! Just imagine: Dubai under the sun... Playing golf all day, chillaxing on the beach with rich bitches in bikinis... Bring it on baby!"
"For real?"
"For real. Right now, all the indicators are go, the feeling is on -All I need now, really, is to close -what?- three or four more. Five or six at the max and then... Happy days! Viva la vida loca, baby! I ain't shitting you, man, right now we're currently working on a new securitisation package that will blow people's socks off! Watch - this - space! It's proper mental rates we anticipate, and they can only rise even more with the derivatives involved! Win-win situation, mate. Win-win situation."

Georgina and I are shimmying our way through cool as you like. We're swinging it with as much nonchalance as another couple of Sunrises and a Tropical Reef downed on our way will allow us to. Funny that, but feel quite sloshed already, in high spirits (oh high "spirits" is right, see what I've done here!!!)... The main thing is though, maintain your dignity. Maintain at any cost. No-one likes a lush, let alone the maudlin type. (There was this t-shirt I once spotted that read "Everyone loves a drunk Irish girl!" -Somehow, I'm not sure whoever came up with this slogan was a girlie...) Anyway right now, everything's grand, it's all going horribly right. The world sways pleasantly enough all around me -the problem is, I'm not moving. Am kind of stuck. Try as we do, our valiant efforts to move forward are not exactly meeting with unqualified success, we're like in the thick of the thick. We haven't made much progress in the -oh- three/ten minutes we have entered the arena and now me bladder's playing up. Blame it on the sudden heat, the human steam, the general din... it is brutal. It won't be denied, even in my happy state. I don't feel well, all of a sudden. All this exaggerated laughter, these after-shave assaults, the place's heaving and so could I, any time soon. ...It would appear that two packs of mature paprika crisps and a low-fat prawn sambo are not nourishing enough for a growing girl such as myself.
To take my mind off the spectre of a surge in my abdominal region (ewww), I decide to apply my naturally legendary sagacity to our whereabouts. What's the story here?

Well, pretty much as could be expected at this stage of the game... Mobile TxT addicts, seminarists let loose for the week-end, above-it-all vamps, 30-something Barbies, wide-eyed tourists, ten-inch hairdoes, rolled-up jacket sleeves, oh so sincere smiles, dandruff showing up under UV light, and the leathery skin typical of an Australian over 40. 'Creep gives me The Look, I give him The Finger. Would-be model at the bar, a drunk at her hear going "Haven't I seen you somewhere, I'm sure I've seen you somewhere, was it you giving the Lottery results huh? 'You the girl giving the Lottery numbers? You a spokesperson for a company or something? The Taoiseach assistant? A newsreader? Are you the weather girl... or was it "Readers' Wives", can't remember right now"
Revellers come and revellers go, leaving only personal whiffs behind. Look here, I'm not saying that the smoking ban was wrong but... I'd have to say that, ever since it came into practice, odours that once were masked are no longer hidden. Some odours... that is to say brut B.O. -God some people stink! Like total gag yeah! You'd be surprised, but even  in this swankiest of places you come nose to chest with some mighty fly magnets! That weird mixture of sticky shirt sweat and expensive perfume liberally splashed on top... I know it's been a long day but there is some serious yuck in here!

Cedarwood Sunrise by Jean-Hubert de D. drifts from somewhere on my right (top drawer, that!), Cristal Fatal from that blonde's wake on my left. Ah that's better. After a while, you get to recognise a few. Now there may be hundreds of flagrances about, people only choose from the same dozen. That Jean-Paul Gaultier yoke was intriguing for a couple of months for instance, and then it lost its mystery, its novelty factor. Once it got adopted by skangers there was no way back.

"I could spend hours listening to you... When I'm with you, I don't know why, I feel so relaxed... At long last I can be myself..."
"Oh you handsome swine, how could I resist you..."

"Hit them hard, 'only language they'll understand!"

"'Says she's got a great sense of humour and leads an active life... Is just as happy dining in a fancy restaurant as staying at home with a DVD and a glass of wine -'Think she could be the one?"

"No creo que es una rubia, cabron"
"The index is up, the prospects hot -it's all good, knowwhatImean!"

-"I like long walks on the beach, petting small furry animals and roasting chestnuts; how about you?"

-"How about you swivel on this, creep!"

"Hash cakes, hash cakes! Has anyone seen a dog called Hash Cakes?"

"and -look!- it can also take 72 DPI pictures without making a sound; that's the new Japanese model, specially adapted"

"?! No no, it's not what it looks like babes, it's not what you think! Here, let me explain!"

The jungle's rumbling. What else have we got here...
Someone's clearly been let loose with her other half's card at Brown Thomas this afternoon: check out the top-to-bottom that's been freshly liberated from its packaging -Cringe! I can totally make out the creases in her outfit!

Next to the clotheshorse, a not even thirty-something going on fifty in my book: Heaven help us if he's not going for the golfer look! You know what they say about golf gear… (It’s a white man excuse for dressing up as a black pimp.) Feel tempted to tell him, think I'll refrain.

A hot waiter waltzes by, holding aloft a tray that must weigh at least a ton. Does so as if it were the easiest thing in the world. Your man sniffily arrows his way through the circle jerk of rugger-bugger fans and merges back into the fray with not a care in the world for their undoubtedly gripping tactical talk. The circle instantly reseals itself cos’ that’s the thing, 'ever noticed no matter where you stand in a crowd? There’s always someone who needs to head right there!

As I negotiate my way past your basic dayglo rococo pillar (it's only crowned by an understated kaleidoscopic ceramic statue of a Greek bodybuilder god holding up a deep red crystal vase overflowing with cascading vines that spread out under the suspended three-tier Art Deco crystal chandelier), I lose my footing for a second. Bending down to readjust the strap, what - do - I - spot?
A pair of Blahniks! A pair of actual Blahniks under a parade of legs that rise all the way to an an excuse of a miniskirt slash kitchen apron -dear me, she hasn’t left much to discover has she? Standing up, I sneak a look and almost gasp at the fakeness of the owner’s face: there’s been a load of work gone into these diagonal cheekbones and fulsome lips! Nose: drawn with a compass. Eyebrows: geometrical. Skin: flawless. (In fact, some might even call it foldless ...like unnaturally super-tight, yeah? like lifted as high as her panty line, she mustn't be able to blink for fear of losing control of her bowels!)

I'm thinking this, I'm thinking that, and then I realise I don't actually mean it. That was rather uncharitable wasn't it? Sheer jealousy, standard kneejerk reaction... If anything I probably feel for her, she must be -what?- second divorce age range, maybe even third, but she clearly's decided she won't give up just yet, she ain't going down without a fight and we ought to respect that. She's still good to go, she’s still up for it, and if money can buy her ten more years -well that's her choice to make. Fair play to her says I -and then I realise on reflection ten minutes later that she was a he.

(Of The Varied Uses Of "fair play to you", A Little Vocabulary Lesson:
-"And a very good morning to you Philomena, you look radiant! Any news on the grand-child situation yet?"
-"Indeed I have, Deirdre: Clauda gave birth to a baby boy last night!"
-"Oh did she? Fair play to her!"

-"Hey there Deco, how's she cookin’ bud? But hey, what's da?? What's with da leg pal??
-"Howsa. See dat? I only broke me leg in three places falling off da scratcher!"
-"Holy shite! Fair play to you pal!")

But back to the real world: back on the manpath.

With me lagging behind, Georgie has got herself ahead; she's a bloodhound that one, always has been. Georgie once got described as "Sex And The City" Samantha meets "Basic Instinct" Sharon Stone -only with less patience. She is not known for her pussyfooting but that's in the nature of her work: her game is to try and get rich old farts to part with their money in exchange for stamp-sized squares of canvas splattered with scribbles that don't even look nothing like a bleeding horse in the first place. They "hmm...", they "ahh...", and they usually cough up just to show off to that bit of skirt. More power to you sister! Her greatest claim to glory is to have once extracted a six-figure sum from a motorcar racing gentleman for a piece from local artist Damo Thirst titled "Of The Impossibility Of Realising One's Wrong". The piece consists of a framed mirror.

"Georgie, Georgie! Wait up for me!" And here we touch upon one of sisterhood’s vital features: the choice of a tactical Best Mate.

Now a Best Mate is not chosen lightly, it is not a matter left to chance; I'd say that selecting a Best Mate is a momentous decision that may well determine your sexual destiny for the next ten years (do we keep friends longer than ten? I have yet to find out). Get the proper one and you will be in with as many chances as everyone else in the great pool of life; get the wrong one and you will be doomed from the start. The Best Mate requirements go something like this:
yous must have lots in common (so that yous can actually have something to natter about); yous must be able to understand each other implicitly (like d'oh!); and, last of all, she must be able to get your jokes. If yous don't speak the same language you're fecked. Attention wingman / wingwoman, this is your captain speaking! Follow my lead and learn how to recognise my signals: Some fellows are worthy of getting bought a drink from, some I don't even wan't to breath on me.
The main thing though, you want to choose someone in your league.
A Best Mate is like a reflection of how you picture yourself, it's a self-projection, an imagined double. It says: "Hey everybody, this is how I rate myself, what class I belong to, what category I associate with. Only approach us (i.e. try for me) if you measure up." With that in mind, you'd better go for a decent looking alter ego then.
...But not too decent looking either.

How should your designated Lovelife Support look like then? Well, you want someone close (but not clingy), someone grateful for your consideration (but not to the point of arselickedness) ...and someone obviously not as attractive as you (but not too much so, see above). Of all factors, the attractiveness surely has to be the most important one. Eh! The last thing you want to be is be upstaged! What you want is to stand out when compared to your sidekick ...men are sooo discriminating like that. This is where you wanna pay special attention to her size and figure. A recent study in one of these highly informative mags came up with this startling revelation: fatness is nothing else but a contagious disease. Think about it. As friends spend time together, they match each other's drinking and snacking, they mimic each other, and they end up not noticing their inevitable evolution -cue gaggles of sequined rhinos suttering on pebbles!

Now I don't want to be blowing me own trumpet, but I like to think I hold my own next to Georgie. We're tight as a new pair of jeans us two, having been B.F.F.s forever. By now we understand each other explicitly and make it work perfect -in other words, we rock!

Talking of the devil (in Pravda, hee hee), I finally catch up with our girl to discover that she seems to have hit the jackpot. By amazing chance, she's found herself wedged in right between two sets of pecs. These pecs belong to a pair of dreamboats queuing at the bar. Hmm, strappy. Wouldn't mind taking an option on either one. She's a clever girl like that is our Georgie. If she'd just wandered -oh- all of three feet down her right, she would have deffo got closer to the Purveyor Of Happiness (that would be your man behind the bar) but no, no she somehow seems to prefer it here -What do ye know! Not that she's paying attention to the two Ralph Laurenites surrounding her, she's markedly lost in contemplation of her mobile. I don't know, must be some super important SMS that holds her attention like that, I've never known her to be so focussed on a plastic toy when two such fine specimens of hunkitude happen to sandwich here...
Me, I just observe; I shall most certainly not pass judgement on my girl.

After a suitable period of no more than thirty seconds, G. finally looks up from her phone and discovers the abovementioned dreamboats.
"Oh. And hi to you too, sorry... I was miles away, something's come up. I was-Hey, is that pure silk? Your tie, is it pure silk? Can I touch it?"
A picture of innocence she is. Total baby lamb awakened by dewy drops out on its first tentative trot.

"And what did you say your name was?"

Flow away restraint, flow down booze. "Here, try one of them! They're called Screaming Orgasms. No no I ain't messin' widcha, it's their name heh heh! Dead sweet it is, dead sweet but classy oh yeah, totally classy. Drinks like milk. Try it! All the lay-dees luuuve Screaming Orgasms! Here, have one for yourself and one for your friend, tell us what you think". Screaming Orgasm taken care of (didn't last long -boom boom), we now move on to tequila.

Famous last words, that: "...and then we moved on to tequila shots." Many's a night when this will be the last thing I distinctly remember. For some reason, the two gobshites seem dead intent on forcing the icky stuff down our throats, I don't know, the worm at the bottom of the bottle must remind them of something familiar or... Anyhoo G.'s playing along, I play along. I'm not here to go all argumentative and cheeky -that's my daytime job, that- I'm just here to go with the flow and enjoy so bring it on, boys! Show-off like we're impressed! As they out-swing their dicks waving their card about in the general direction of the bar-staff, G. and I exchange a blink: "Still good to go, sis'? -Still good to go!" Am really not too sure about this shots thing though... Don't fancy finding myself all of a sudden making a beeway for the gutter! You see this happen all of the time, past a certain hour,  pub sprinters off to spread themselves inside out against a car... yuck!! Not for me oh not for me! (Aka cliché number one, to be closely followed by cliché number two: "Dear God, never again...") Fun as the evening is, I still need to keep my wits about. I don't like to lose control. It's the eternal battle between us and fellows isn't it, it's an ever more difficult balancing act, and, if the fading lights of my conscience are anything to go about, it's a battle I seem to be losing fast now.

G.'s being worked on by the tallest one, a jumped-up clown who-works-in-finance naturally; I have inherited the brown haired one. Didn't quite catch his name, Quentin Gavin Kevin or something. I call him Boastin'. He's also the financial type. The kind who flashed his business card like he expected me to have one of my own. First thing: I don't have any. Second: I am unimpressed. Your man must sense something's not playing right cos' he changes tac' and now turns on the act: charming as one can be, all sympathetic (or is it empathetic, I never know); not predatorial at all, caring and loving as a trainee trader thingy can be. (Oh, hang on, maybe he meant to swap phone numbers and emails? So that's what it was about er...)

From beyond the rapidly rising fog in my head, I hear your man at pains to reassure me how dead sound he actually is -oh yes you are. Totally ethical he is! To be sure, it's only a profit-based re-calibrating hedge fund operation that has to meet the acceptable criteria and expectations of its stakeholders but... (take a drink here) but that doesn't mean it's all abstracted from reality, yeah? The traders type, they're not all boring -see him, for instance. Is not he trying -in his own way, yeah?- to be like more chilled about it, more switched on and totally relaxed about the whole thing? Cos' it's only a job yeah. A multi-million (or was it billions?) business but only a job. Boyo's so down with it. Feels it's his mission. Contributes to the GNP and all, is so educated and responsible cos' (something something something) thass what he's all about. He (another verb missed here) face of compassionate capitalism, yeah babe.

Little does your man suspect I've already forgotten what he's talking about. My guess is... himself. Is he a hairdresser? Probably not. A rat-catcher? Neither. Candle snuffer? Mattress stuffer? Chimney sweeper house cleaner graffiti remover jukebox tuner trench digger dog catcher? Equally unlikely. Maybe he loots abandoned houses for copper and lead, maybe he sniffs and disinfects chairs in offices -there's money to be made there and he seems to go on an awful lot about lolly. One thing is sure, he appears to be on a commission from Baccardi given the liberal amount he keeps ordering for himself and sometimes me.

"They're just a bunch of bleeding spanners", your man authoritatively informs me about whoever. "Bunch of nerds glued to their screens all day all night. Dow Jones junkies. Geeks. Social inadequates. Come here til I tell you, these guys are no fun to be around! 'Don't know how to enjoy themselves -Unlike ourselves, right?" Unlike himself is right. He continues. "They don't know how to chill, see? Thass nerds for you. They're like... no life, boring as hell -bunch of robots!" Good thing he didn't sell out like them oh no. Didn't sell out -'Proud Irishman he is! Still knows-how-to-enjoy-himself! "Slainte!" And then he brings up golf.

Yes, golf.

Now I may be blessed with a rare sense of compassion and tolerance, I swear the following five -or five hundred- minutes spent hearing him going on about golf are five -or five hundred- I will never get back so help me God. Is he out of his mind?? Yadda yadda yadda. Fast-forward and he's still at it. From what emerges, it appears the poor thing has got a handicap -surely he should have it seen to by a doctor, I kindly suggest? Your man's drink exits his nose. What, what? what did I just say? Whatshisface is in stitches despite the throbbing nose. "See a doctor about it! Hey Gav', come here til I tell you!"

Drinks pass, time follows.

"See whass so grand about golf is that -another Baccardi? you sure?- iss more than just a sport, in fact issall about connections -Conneshons, gurrl! Business, like! See all the good and great yeah? Where do you think they get their deals done? Issall get done on the green! Isson the green is where iss at! Shake on it, Michael O'Bleary! Get in there, Malcolm McDrool!" (...) "thass why iss Lemon Brothers for me and no others!" (...) "See me pal Gerry, right? -thass Gerry Ryan to you Miss- Well I know him personally!!" (...) "jetting over whenever I want... All I need to do is get it booked at least two weeks in advance and the company takes care of it! Serious!" (...) "Obi Wan Kenobi, Yabba the cunt -and then me toes started to freeze! For real!! Here, have another -Did I tell you about the time I went hunting in the Czechoslovanian Republic and shot myself a bear?"

Men, A User's Guide. Show some interest, prod a little -you don't even have to actually ask them much- and off they go like it's 1999!
"My massive position my lethal vroom vroom my flat screen plasma TV my videogame console my own flat my 100 meters times ((fifteen years ago, though)) my "Star Wars" toys in pristine condition my time in the Third World where I went "traveling" my five thousand quid watch my sore tummy my Daddy didn't love me my laptop my DVD player my funky alarm clock my skateboard my dick -Maybe you would like to see them? Starting with the last item."
Just nod at regular intervals, flutter your eyelashes like you're supposed to, widen your eyes in an incredulous (they'll think impressed) manner and grunt a supportive "aha?" every thirty seconds. Don't forget to breathe though -this is the one where they last more than ten seconds. You may also want to slightly tilt your head to one side like the mags advise you to so as to give the impression you are -like- totally enraptured by their bollix. Most importantly do not interrupt them, Let them drag out their high tales to their well-rehearsed conclusion.
Have a heart here, let the poor dears feel good about themselves for once.

"And then -Bang!- the beast was dead! Not ten feet away from me! (Make it twenty, tops.) I was like... all shook up -but totally grand obviously. Cool as Tiger at the US Open, cool as the Fonz at the Prom, ah yes... what a day it turned out to be..." And the gobshite smarms at me like he's invented painless depilation or something.
"Say there, 'don't know about yourself, but thissis thirsty work this! Could do with another one meself -You want one? Huh? You answer?"

The truth is, Bonzo probably doesn't remember my name either.

"'Course you do! I'll get you one! Another Sex On The Beach comin' your way heh heh!"

Buffalo Bill attends to his duty and gives me a well due breather. G. is bearing up well down her end, so I can see. She's still standing. Mind you, it'd be impossible to even slouch, packed as the place is. Sardines pushed up, everyone on intimate terms with their neighbour's elbows and bums -You'd think this is the January sales or something! Good thing I'm smashed as I otherwise might go claustro. This is brutal in here, one step from oppressive even. You couldn't escape if you had to. How the hell did we all manage to fit in? Is no-one allowed to leave and the place's just filling up non-stop until it bursts? Now take a breath Lily, take a deep breath, don't start stressing, it's only the booze speaking, nothing's gonna happen... All sorts of queshons pop into my head. What time did we arrive again? How long's it been now? Have we really been here all that time? Isn't there anywhere else better we could try? ...And be able to breathe, for a change? Nope, hmm, I seem to remember this was our intended port of call, 'may have even been my idea in fact, yep my idea, pro'bly suggested we try our luck in here... with all the Jeremys of this world.

Your man hands me a drink like I need another one -this is not going to end well, I can feel it. Isn't it weird though how he still hasn't made his move? I politely dip my lips but can't really be assed -I'm done. Four sheets to the wind. I've hit the wall and can't even cling on to it. If only we could get some fresh air, if only we could breathe... Quick gulp of the devil thing. God is that revolting; it's like sooo sweet, I'm totally not getting it: How can anyone enjoy this shite? You might as well plug me to a Squishy machine! Must have gone pass eleven for sure, even midnight maybe. Have they got a late license? 'Course they have a late license, it's definitely gone pass midnight now, I wonder what time it is, where's me mobile
And then the needle jumps off the record.
-"Listen, you couldn't give me your friend's number by any chance? Iss pro'bly a bit cheeky but"
STOP. (Needle falling off record -check with the sound dept.)

"Girl, Interrupted"

Stop I'm not having that. Stop I wanna get off. If there's such a thing as Words Of Doom, "you couldn't give me your friend's number?" surely ranks in the door-in-your-face category. No feckin' way am I giving you my friend's number!! No chance in hell am I ever!! Does he seriously expect me to?? Well he picked on the wrong one! Like feck I will! I am simply not having that, no not again! Talk about big dumb males... how deluded is that on a rate of ten?? Thass... thass criminal, that! Bang out of order! I am so shocked I could fall on my arse right here and now. Except I can't, due to (essetera essetera).
I don't actually blame poor old Georgie -hassgot nothing to do with her. Georgie, she's like the sister I never had, she's me bessie and this guy is... well, nobody. Funny I couldn't get his name, I must have known there was som'ink wrong with him, it's like I smelled a snake, I smelled a snake from the start, I must have sensed he was fishy! Something about his eyes, his poxy shirt, 'thinks all he needs is the latess thread and we'll put out -Well he thought wrong. 'Thing is, being currently engaged with the other Hooray Henry, I'd say Georgie has got to be unaware of whass going down here. I have the grim satisfaction to know that should she ever look our way, it'll be only to check on me and not on him. 'Bleedin' eejit doesn't even exist in her eyes! She wouldn't recognise him if he were stood on a pedestal starkers, holding an apple in the middle of Market Square tomorrow!

"You couldn't give me your friend's number by any chance?"

Ah sure I could... 
(A splitting headache's hitting me now, something massive.) Is so unfair! It can't be happening! It's like, who's playing Best Mate now, who's being told to make way? That wasn't in the script! I was supposed to be the one! (The adrenalin that's been building up all along strikes back with a vicious bite, a serious migraine is on its way.) Do I have "Second Choice Ride" printed on my forehead, huh? "Go-Between on standby, takes Sex on the Beach as payment"? Well he can stick her number right up his arse! I didn't come here to take this shite! This is supposed to be my night! It's like my story's running away from me! I'm -like- purple. Doncha know who I am? I am Lily feckin' Monaghan, I'll have you know! That will be Lily-from-the-radio, if you please!
...But clearly he doesn't know.

I am fuming. I am fuming and yet deep down, deep inside I must admit. I must admit it's been happening a lot recently. It's not the first time, it's not the second either. My head is killing me now, and oh I wanna ditch these heels too. 'Deffo weren't worth the torture juss to gain three inches, what wass the point again, talk about making an impreshon, ah yes that's it, make an impreshon well helllllo miss pearl, why don't you come and meet Mr. swine!

Now then. Now then, let's not take the easy way out -Get it back together, girl! Grab hold of your thoughts! I grab them good and try to analyse whass going on here. Please please please, can emotions keep still for just a sec? Can I stop waffling about for a change? Less try to get to the bottom of this and less be honest...: Just how many times have I been blown off recently? Not too sure I really wanna keep accounts (-keep accounts??) but... Sure there was that time at the Girls Are Loud movie premiere, when she locked herself in the disabled toilet with the sweetie I had my eye on... OK so that's one. Then there was the horsie awards thingy at the RDS, and the landed gentry were all over her like a bad rash. Waited ages in the car for her to finish. Oh yeah, and then there was -That's quite enough thank you. Can't be spending the weekend listing them all can I? Besides, am in no proper state to carry on this charade, is so hot in here... I wanna go home.
Meanwhile the handicaped golfer is still waiting for my reply, towering somewhere above me. Suave as you like, he'll be standing here all night, pretending to mind his drink. Well he may be up for a long wait.

Whatever happened to me? Have I irrevocably lost ground on Georgie? What subtle shift in pulling dynamics turned me into the proverbial bridesmaid? Bridesmaid, bright mate -that wasn't part of the plan! I wonder. I have to wonder. Is that it for me already? Is this the new script and I haven't been invited to the first reading? Well hellllo Mr. Director, but I'm still here, I'm still standing -with all my teeth! I wanna get me a big scene! A big scene with satin sheets, roses, curtains that flutter in the wind, lard on the lens, and all the trimmings! No "dancing aunt at the wedding, background left" for me, thankyouverymuch -This is Lily-from-the-radio and if they don't know who they're dealing with, well the jumped-up pillocks can go take a jump! All sorts of questions, disturbingly along the same line, race through my pickled brain and I don't like the answers I come up with. It's like I'm chasing my tail.

"You alright there?"

No one thing I'm not's alright so just SOD OFF! Crawl back to Temple Bar if you're so desperate! Grab a granny! Copper Face Jack's not too far! Ah some people they just can't recognise a good heart when they see one! A good heart and... honesty and... lovely personality and... and... -awww feck it, amoutovhere!

"Saturday Night In The City Of The Dead"

I push my way out as I pushed my way in, negotiate the door almost on my own, and finally eject onto the pavement. A hundred eyes assess my exit and are not impressed. I am studied, judged, and instantly dismissed. The eyes return to the object of their affection, and that will be your man guarding the door.
Now you can say what you want about Dublin -that it's often filthy, afflicted with nasty weather, notoriously expensive, home to The Bono, a devil to park in, boasting accents impossible to understand without the help of a dozen Guinness already down your neck (and that's just from the barstaff), invaded by English stag nights every weekend, cold, not Barcelona, gloating about literary geniuses it made no balms ignoring while they were alive- but one thing is sure: its watering holes are in no clear danger of going bankrupt any time soon.
There are queues outside the smoking area (also known as "the entrance") thick as the ones inside by the bar or the rip-off ATM ("Polite notice to our clientele: This machine will take a standard 10% percentage of your transaction to account for administrative costs, thank you."). Makes you feel really wanted, doesn't it: You vacate the place, ten people are exchanging elbow jabs to replace you inside. Look them going "Me, me, Sir!" like kiddies to their teacher, except they're fully grown adults touting themselves to a monobrow monolith dressed from shaved head to steeltoes in black -and you can bet your man has already selected whose piece of skirt he will allow in next. Suckers!
Ah well I guess it's probably my current mood speaking -Bitter, moi? H'a! You must think I swam up the Liffey if you imagine my recent little contretemps with the business card fetishist's affected me in any way! (Cough, cough, retch.)

Better off without. Let him deal with Georgina direct for all I care! Stand him up leaving him to pretend I've only popped out for a sec'. See how this'll play with G., she won't fall for it. Ten quid says she'll ring me up in five seconds.

Meanwhile I'm back in the land of fresh air. I needed it.

"What the hell 'you doing at this ungodly hour reading a book? Don't you know reading'll turn your head! Huh? Waiting for your bus?"

"...building on these projected figures I was telling you, the market's a right cakewalk!"

"Ah but Dubai's totally different! Nothing like Saudi Arabia!"

"All you need is three percent deposit -not even that sometimes! Ah I tell you pal, the conjecture is filled with win!"

"Er... do you come here often?"

"What da! Do I look like a focken Culchie?? Can you believe this guy??"

"Only losers take the bus love. Here, let me give you a ride."
"Enough already, man -You're wrecking me bonce! I don't know who the hell you think you talkin' to but I ain't biting! I ain't buying no poxy flat do you get me? "
"Now then, you don't want to be walking all the way back so hurry up, 'ain't got all night!"
"I have an idea lads! Let's cross over and do ourselves a skanger, I've got my golf clubs in the boot."
"Chillax -we ain't in Baghdad!"
"Huh!? Where did she go? Anyone 'see that bird I was talking to? Said she was off to get her lighter -Never returned!?"
"Ya bleedin' cabbage... Look the top bollix on dat munter!"
"Looks like a Billy-no-mates -Think we should have a crack?"
"Allons-y!"

This wasn't on the cards last time I checked. Back in my gaff this afto, everything had seemed so simple, it had looked so easy... All we had to do was tart up a bit and swing by a couple of pubs. Sounded like a plan! No biggie, done and dusted by the stroke of twelve, notes compared the next day. Yep, only a few hours ago Dublin was ours for the taking... (My phone's still not ringing, I can't believe Georgie's hasn't noticed!) Well get yourself a bottle of cop-on missy, tonight still won't be the night and you can forget about getting back in the saddle. Iss just another evening wasted frankly, paintjob in vain and torture heels for nothing. So what are we looking at now? The walk of shame I guess, the taxi home, shuffle, shuffle, and crash. That'll be the end of it, money well spent... I light a fag to think. 'Doesn't make it any easier. Although I do notice something: Creeps are circling around, sniffing for closing time rejects. I hail a cab.

...

"Ah don't worry love, he must be a very silly man" offers the driver from his side of the plexiglass. I look up from my mobile (still no message from G.), sounds like my sigh must have carried... Your man checks me out in his rear view mirror, all concern and professional experience. I say, aren't Dub taxis becoming quite the new social workers! They're usually known the world over for their running commentary, but some of them now seems to branch into suicide watch. "Surely 'can't be that bad..." he goes. I'd rather not answer; instead, I roll the window down. The city flies by, unconcerned. Weekend shifts have clearly taught him, he must know the human heart almost as well as a bar-tender by now. A bar-tender or a hairdresser, even. The old pro's keeping an eye on me, assessing the damage. I know what he's thinking: Will I be sick in the back of his cab? "In my experience, nothing's ever as bad as it seems" he goes. I take in the fresh air full in the face and make sure not to close my eyes. I won't be sick in the back of his car. His eyes meet mine again. Is it my imagination or is he having a go? Isn't this against the law or something? "'Nice girl like you..." Brash as they come; mind you, he's not too decrepit... he looks reasonably healthy (cabbies, they usually pay the price for their lifestyle in their bellies.). This one doesn't seem to have eaten all the pies.
Take the next one right, why not go for a little detour... "You wanna take a deep breath is what..." All these units in my bloodstream, 'would be a shame they'd go to waste... "Whatever he said, it's not the end of the world -You'll bounce back, you'll see."

Am I condemned to shag taxi drivers every Friday night?