chapter 4 - 6

chapter 4 An Evening At The National Library - I could spend hours listening to you..."

Pat pat my hair. I take my seat, put my bag down, and think of switching my mobile off.
Now then. I take a breather and scan the scene. Ah yes, the usual suspects are in attendance: the Irish are right divils for reading!
Literary types with carefully casual scarves are busy acquainting themselves with the NLI programme's details ("Look it, there's an invitation to the conference on the use of split infinitives to reply on the 23rd by!"); scholarly characters ignore the surrounding chit-chat and touch up their gold-rimmed spectacles every other second; dusty elbowed collectors reconfigure their pile of books inside their jute bags. Stephen Rea, true to character, creeps in unobtrusively and crouches down to a cheap seat, arms on his legs. He's so inconspicuous you can almost see through him.

There is a Spanish looking lady with a fabulous hat -she takes it off after everyone has presumably had time to notice it; an egg-head in a polka dot tie and striped shirt combination represses a yawn -and fails at that; technicians double-check the sound equipment ("One two two, one two GERONIMO!!"); they glance at their watch and exchange worried looks that spell "Could the big man be running late?"; what must be colleagues seated at opposite ends of the room indulge in J-Lo-style nose frowns of recognition; they exchange hand waves: "Oh here you are / How lovely to see you too / Can't speak right now, care for a glass later? / Sorry, don't understand -Care to meet for a quick drink after the talk? / Sure sure, I'll tell you what, let's have a drink afterwards!". A gentleman sporting the inevitable goatee associated with creeping hair loss attempts to cross his legs, and renounces after just about kicking an elderly lady off her seat; he profusely apologises and they agree that the place is -like- totally cramped yeah. "Ah but you see, McCabe's a popular writer he is, I'd say he must sell in the thousands, literally thousands! It's not like the time we had this Finnish poet who writes epigrams in ancient Irish -I don't know if you were here?- there was plenty of space then, plenty of space. And what a fascinating evening it was too!"
Meanwhile, a couple of students bring down the average age by a handful of decades and whip out minirecorders (is this allowed?); a tacky Sam Beckett tucks himself into his vintage jacket and opens "The Guardian" as wide as elbow room will allow him (i.e. not much). He folds it back with a dignified frown. The clock is ticking; the sound technician looks expectantly towards the door,

and then my eyes come to rest upon an absolute hunk.
If it isn't Johnny Depp himself!?!?

Or at least a Johnny Depp lookalike. That'll do me equally grand: raven black hair, cheekbones to cut yourself on, and a bohemian-yet-distinguished look about him that spells disaster for my dignity.
I gasp, I blanche. What is he doing here, has he taken the wrong turn for Lillie's Bordello? Mediterranean rather than weedy-looking, sitting up straight rather than slouching in a ratty cardigan, your man stands out in the august assembly like the proverbial sore thumb at a Bar-Mitzvah! By rights he doesn't belong here, he should be at a rock concert or –correction- he should be the rock concert! He's the cherry that doesn't even need the cake! I have to catch myself and remember to breathe out. Phhhhew. The thing is, he does look slightly flummoxed does the poor thing, as if himself aware of the incongruity of the situation. It's like he fell from heaven and all he found to land was this collection of weirdoes who only live by proxy -how puzzling this must be! I do a quick double-check around and what I see confirms my diagnostic: your man is definitely a fish out of water and he knows it. Doesn't seem to be with anyone (could it be my lucky day...?), doesn't engage in any small chat, doesn't even scan around. Most hurtingly for the blue rinse brigade that constitutes his close neighbours, he pretty much ignores everyone in the audience. Definitely on his tod, maybe foreign? ...Or short-sighted. Whatever is, our own Johnny is presently staring ahead like he's deadly absorbed in the flower pot onstage. Clearly the patient type.
Hard as I try (and I try hard), I can’t get him to look this way. I bore my gaze into his aquiline nosed profile -"Come on come on, look up this way, ah come on, gizzus a look ya big girl's blouse, don't be afraid"- but he won't budge. No hint of awareness, no sign of acknowledgement, how can anyone resist such willpower? Is so unfair!

Before I'm able to fully debate the merits of life, movement occurs at the periphery and the room falls silent.

The National Library director strides in, preceding Paddy McCabe and his interviewer. He (the host) climbs onto the makeshift podium and invites him (the guest) to join him there. The third man consults his notes and joins the party. The other two makes themselves comfy under the spotlight, spread out their notes on a little table and, without so much as a "Do you mind, guys?", totally help themselves to a glass of water. One of them loosens his belt and lets out a fart ("Aaah, that's better…"). The soundman climbs up onstage to part your men’s chest hairs and stick the microphones on their medallions. Silence ripples through the rows like dominos falling, the start has never been so close...

The NLI Director has a quick moustache check and puts away his comb. Coughs. He begins by welcoming everyone to this edition of "Library Late" (“welcome, everyone”) then half-turns towards the two seated figures on the podium and confidently states that tonight's guest needs no introduction which he proceeds to deliver. "Paddy McCabe was born blah blah blah, first published in etc., came to fame with yadda yadda ...and here he is with us tonight". Big round of applause for Paddy McCabe. Exit the Director.

The next hour or so passes reasonably fast. The journalist feigns to enquire about the writer’s earlier work (which he's obviously re-read before tonight's assignment), gently probes into his writing discipline (morning or night? write or type? whisky or beer?), and generally leads him to recount amusing anecdotes, most of them relating to the recent adaptation of "Breakfast On Pluto" on the big screen (the filum came out last week).

"And I suppose, in a way, it could it be said, given your very pronounced style, would you agree that (...) what did you have in mind when you wrote (...) were you drunk or what? Obviously, you must have been very flattered by the success of "The Butcher Boy", that sick piece of  sh(...) where do you get your inspiration (...) does it come naturally to you (...) do you ever read your critics? How much do you pay them to (...) any chance of an autograph for me old Mah, she's like your biggest fan?"

Before you know it, the interview comes to an end and we face the moment dreaded by every pupil:
"I'll have to stop you here Paddy, even though that’s -like- totally fascinating yeah, but I'm afraid we're running out of time -Oh my goodness, how time flows in my company!- we've just about five minutes left to take questions from the floor. Now does anyone have any question for our guest tonight? ... Huh? … Anyone? .......... Now don't be shy... Huh? (Come on you bunch of mothers!)"

Finally someone raises her hand: "What advice would you give to an aspiring writer? Do you know any good agent?" As soon as the ice is broken, someone else jumps in and someone else and someone else -and here we go. A half-hour of hard questioning ensues:

"-Hey Pat, remember me? We met –what- five years ago... Bought you a pint in this pub, we shared a joke... Good times. Anyway, 'meant to ask you, what's with your obsession with sex, what's the subtext here? What are you like, man? a total perv'??”

“-Have you heard the one about the bishop and the rabbi?”

“-Why aren't you funny anymore?”

“-So who dunnit in the end? Didn't get it...”

“-I have a question. Do you get paid for writing this rubbish? How much?”

“-On page ten, you tell us your man is wearing a flat cap. Then, five pages later, you write -and here I quote- that "Quentin mournfully took off his frightfully antiquated panama" -What gives, pal?!”

“-Me ma says I've got lovely handwriting, do you reckon I should become a writer such like yourself?”

"-Dear Mr. McCabe, I get me best ideas sitting on the throne. How about you?"

“-Is it me Pat, or aren't Gardai getting younger every year?”

“-Me nan says that you're very bold and a gutter mouth to boot, but I've found copies of your bewks in her house.”

“-What's your problem with decent ordinary folks who can't abide flaming poofters?”

“-Sorry, is this the National Museum or the National Library?"

Thirty hundred minutes of questioning ensue when I for one can't wait to go investigate who the big hunk is. Expletives are dutifully deleted, yawns admirably repressed. A solid forty-five behind schedule, the shindig eventually comes to an end and the Library bigwig grabs the mike back to thank us all again (“Thank yous all again”). Why thank you too, Mister. As the National Library staff stands poised to unlock the doors and let us out wild in the street, he informs us of the next event and invites us to a glass of wine upstairs. His intervention serves as a twofold signal:
-Left side, a gaggle of fans swarms onto the visibly gasping author, pressing into his hand copies of his books for signing ("Here, here, I 'got 'em all pal -all of your bewks! Read all of them too, right till the end. Now wait a sec', they're in me bag, ah here they are, shit! the stupid bint's forgot to take the price tags off! / Ah here you are, the man himself! I'm like your biggest fan! Can you sign 'em "to me old buddy who taught me everything", that'd be massive!")
-Right side, a substantial crowd rush up to the café to claim their complimentary glass of plonk and low-fat cream cheese canapé. Better hurry, or there won't be any left for everyone.

I hesitate between the two groups, try to hover about and keep an eye on you-know-who: what's the story here? what's he up to? Finally, I have no choice: I let myself be dragged away by the receding flow ...which just happens to have engulfed the hunk. The café it is then (although I can't drink since I'm driving).

By the time I arrive there, no more than five minutes at the most since the end of the talk, half of the booze has gone. Guests in berets and goatees hold gripping conversations, pausing only to refill their glasses. Some men do too. Meanwhile, the in-house photographer snaps away at the various personalities in attendance (“snap snap snap”) -What about "Lovely Lily Monaghan off Radio 101, yesterday" eh? But the ruffian doesn’t want to know, I don't seem to register, is this is turning into a regular occurrence or what? As predictable as a child star gone bad, your man prefers to concentrate on some professor type, all wild hair and scuffed Hush Puppies, who is busy schmoozing with the Library Director and pummelling him in the chest with his index ("I say, I say, this shan't be permitted! Next thing you know, they'll have us for kippers old chap!"). Well suit yourself, I won’t insist. I royally turn my behind on the snapper and snake my way back into the throng. Ever the accomplished socialite, I work the room; I make sure to salute the faces I recognise; I nibble; I circle back anti-clockwise; I munch some more; I pause five feet in front of the photographer and don't even notice him turning away; I wonder; I worry; I ponder; I even engage in light banter with someone I don't recognise ...but still no sign of our Johnny. ?!!??!!! Well that's a bit of an anti-climax, where the flying feck can he have gone?? The bugger's nowhere to be seen! Entertaining evening to be sure, pleasant interview that is certain... but massive anti-climax at the end of the day. I am morto. Should never have spared that Baudrillard quoting bore five minutes of my time, this must have been when the hunk decided to take off! "The Gulf War never happened" me arse.
OK.
So be it, then.

At least I will have shown my nose around and pressed some flesh, "Lily woz here" like... I decide to give it one last try just to make sure -Let's work this room solid. Deep breath. Poise, posture, and glide, sashay, twist, turn, breathe, pause, repeat. Very good. One more time with feeling. Back straight, head high, elbows tight -Here we go. And one, and two, and three, no slouching, "how do you do?", "yes Ma'am", "no Ma'm", nothing doing. He's deffo gone, massive :-((  here. Maybe he got bored... maybe he had a bus to catch... maybe -could that be it?- there's a pig bladder kicking match on the telly! Oh whatever. Let's not forget our manners.

"How enchanting oh yes, truly delightful evening indeed, that's right, absolute gentleman -and so well spoken too, who would have thought! Oh yes, wild imagination, wild imagination's right! A true original to be sure in the grand tradition of -Pardon? The toilets are this way, yes... Maaarvellous yes, and so entertaining too -can you believe how time flew? Yes yes, I am aware he uses profane language, he's very bold. Takes the Lord's name in vain does he? Ah well, you know with these artistic types, they're very bold they are, I was just remarking, and in a sense -well I suppose- could we maybe suggest it's their prerogative or... Come again? Of course I can take your picture -you two stand right there and... Say "cheese"! No bother at all, you're very welcome. We were saying? Right you are, a colourful bunch they certainly make! Half of what they write is just to fill up the page anyway, it's all fillers; they may just have a vague idea to start with and then... they pad it out is what they do, 'pile on the lines -Excuse me? I left the cap on? Ah, dreadfully sorry about that, here, let me take another one... Oh. Oh as you wish. No no, I don't work here but yes, I know where the toilets are: on your left, then your right, all the way down the corridor, you take the stairs and then you'll see the sign -you're very welcome. Now then. Truly enchanting, yes. And very bold. Too much "language" though. Bohemian type. Bunch of chancers. Totally imaginative and. Unsettling stuff to be sure. Dead queer, oh aye. Maaarvellous. Afraid 'must dash though, lovely talking to you -Toodleoo now, cheerio! Until next time, absolutely!"

Not a moment too soon I take my leave and, gracious as a heart blown to pieces and then some more can be, proceed to repair to the Lilymobile. No cab tonight, thank you very much. Internally, I'm peeved as hell. !!!!! Should have made my move right there and then, what was I waiting for?! ("Excuse me lady, but would you awfully mind fecking off so I can take your seat? Thank you kindly. Now then. ... And what's a nice young man like you doing in a place like this, big boy? Do you wanna see some puppies?") Oh well, let's concentrate on getting home now, school night after all. Professional, remember? Totally professional. Hopefully they won't have clamped it again, them wardens they can be such a pain, what's their problem, ah let's not tempt fate now, would put the icing on the cake, keys keys, where are me keys now, never where you left them now that's for sure, sure need a better bag, one with pockets, pockets and flaps yeah, one more practical like -and I don't care if it'll look less glamorous! A Marc Jacobs tot, that's what, that's what I should have got, a tip top one, that'd be deadly, but when oh when oh when will they come up with a bag fitted with a little lamp inside, a little lamp, you open it and it lights up -Hurrah!- not too much to ask, is it? Not too difficult! Ah but no, that'd be too easy, much too easy for the
So here I am, lost in my thoughts, foraging through the damn thing moving mountains inside in search of them fecking keys that what do I do but crash into the man himself:
"Vvvvvlam"!

Flat out on me fanny.

"A Against All Odds / AA Walk Through The Fire"

I wasn't paying attention, didn't see him -and I crashed right into the hunk.
How could have I spotted him though? All clad in black against the night sky!? And what was he doing just standing there, in the first place? Must have been standing still on the porch (??) and the result is... yourself, head over heels and thrilly petticoats over strait-laced corset, flat out on the ground with her bag's precious contents strewn all over the place. Perfect! And the hair I had spent all of ten minutes assembling into a killer bun? The hair's gone now, it's gone wilder than a German girl's underarm. That's quite a sight I must offer, talk about making an entrance...
Fighting curls off my eyes, I raise myself cool as you like. (The truth is, I'm slightly stunned and my brain hasn't quite caught up with the rest of me. Felt like hitting a wall and yet our Adonis here's hardly flinched.)

-"Are you all right?" A heavy accent shakes me out of my commotion. My god he's foreign! I knew it!!
He takes my hand and steadies me up.
"I am sorry, I didn't seee you: I was searching for my enlighter, couldn't find it."
His enliwhat?
"Are you OK then? ..... Oh you can't talk? Maybe you can't..." He looks at me with concern and adds very slowly: "Do - you - speak - En-gliiish?"
What a most impertinent question to ask -oi, this is my patch here! My ancestors starved for the privilege of calling this place home and don't you forget it young man -but what am I saying here?! What has come over me?? Get a grip will you!
"-Er yes no, I'm grand thanks, didn't see you either, standing there in the dark -please excuse me"
Classier than the bleedin' queen of England, I bend down -no, crouch -no, bend down- to chase after my various possessions. "Johnny", to his credit, ultimately shows some concern ...albeit in his own way:
-"Do you want me to hand you?"
-"Come again??"
-"A hand, do you want me to give you a hand?"
Oh, that! Right...
-"Thanks a million, but 'think I can manage."
Do I want him to sift through the intimate contents of my bag? Like feck he will! Hands off, big brute! You've already done enough damage! I gather my things in a hurry and stuff them inside. There.
And of course here are my keys.
Right. Back to business.
As I finish shoving bits and pieces into my bag, I hear him remark
-"Ah, here it is!"
"Click!" / "Whoosh!" I look up to find him lighting up with his "enlighter" -So that's what it was about... Everything's sorted then. Everything's grand. I grab my hair up and try to stick it behind my ears, must look a mess. He for one doesn't.
Instead he strikes a pose and takes a long contended drag. "Pfffffff...."
"You alright then, you find your thiings?"
-"I have yes, thank you. 'Just hope I haven't lost any!" (like left my diary on a step, dropped my diaphragm in the begonias, only that sort of thing)
-"Good... good." approves he.
"Johnny" takes another drag and studies me.
"So you come to the Library yes? You come to the interview?"
-"That's right, I did" -Hang on, are we turning the tables here or what? Am I being questioned? I must look really stupid to him if he's wondering what I'm doing here, like someone out of her depths, a clumsy tart! This is definitely not happening ...is it? What a carry-on this whole evening has been... First the grand entrance, now the patronising. I'm so making an impression -not.
Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. Steady... ready... need to recover Lily old girl, need to save the situation and get back on track fast; this is your big chance, maybe your one and only, no matter how bad it's started.
And we - are - back. Action!
-"And what brings you here, to the Library?" sugars she, all graces and manners.
-"Well, you know. Ireland. Irish art... culture. I like it, it's er... very interesting!" gestures he expansively.
Why, you're too kind mister!
-"'You a fan of Paddy McCabe?"
-"Who?"
-"Patrick McCabe, you know... tonight's guest?"
-"Ah no, haven't read any of his stuff. Not yet. But I understand he, er, did something to do with "The Butcher Boy". I've seen the film. It's very good."
Ah yes, the modern "I haven't read the novel but I've seen the film" syndrome... It's everywhere you go though, a clear symptom of modern times, so let's not hold it against him. After all, I haven't read "Doctor Zhivago" either.
-"That's right, he wrote the original novel, Neil Jordan adapted it into a movie."
-"Right!" Magnificent. Your man agrees with me, as if I have merely confirmed what he's just explained, so. "That's the one."
-"Huh-uh indeed... Ahem, and what Irish author did you have in mind, what particular aspect of Irish culture are you interested in?"
-"What writer? Oh. You know. ... Oscar Wilde, James Joyce. The usual."
-"Ah yes, they're certainly worth celebrating in their own right but, ahem, they're a bit... That'd be a long time ago already, no? ...There's been plenty more writers since, I have to say"
-"Of course! Certainly! Lots of them I am sure and all very, er, interesting: the Irish are great, you know"
(No shit Sherlock.)
"they always come up with new artists. A bit like the French at the football ha!"
And the astute commentator laughs at his own insightful observation, dead chuffed with himself. To be honest, I am starting to wonder if I'm making the right choice here, staying out freezing my tits off for the benefit of not even sharing a fag with a cultural tourist.
"But seriously" he catches himself "seriously, you guys are great; really you are. You are passionated... lyrical... inventive -I like that; I like a lot. You have lots of imagination! Imagination and talent. That's good, that, to be inventive. Imaginative."
(Huh. Certainly is.)
"Ah yes the Irish... A great nation I am thinking for such a small country. ...And of course we are both hated by the Engliiish ha ha ha!"
Right. That's it. I'm on the brink on jingling my car keys when your Gallic Vincent Browne startles me with a startling reference:
"Do you know Flanno Brien?"
-"Pardon me?"
-"Flanno Brien, do you know him? "The Third Policeman"?"
If I expected that!
-"Why... sure... Read it long time ago but... how do you know him? 'Read any of his works?"
-"Of course I have ! It's geeeenius! Brilliant! It's so weiiird, 'loved it!! Seriously interesting stuff no? The guy was an alcoholic."
I am not quite able to see the relevance of this last sentence to his previous ones, but maybe it's is a French thing: le art de non-sequiturs.
Still, I am intrigued.
-"And where did you get to hear about him? I mean, he's not a household name by any stretch of the imagination, didn't publish much on the book front. More of a hidden treasure, local celebrity..."
-"Lost."
-"??"
-"The TV series "Lost". You know it? They were alleged that "The Third Policeman" was like the key to the series. The key as in the explanation, you see. The answer to the mysteree." And he lifts his right eyebrow in a knowing way -By Asterix, have I landed myself an "X Files" nut?
-"Ah right, I see... Yes, yes I have certainly heard of "Lost" -always sounded more of a bloke thing though, to be honest. So never really watched it myself, am afraid. Sorry."
-"Ah." he looks almost bothered "So anyway, I gueut an exemplary of "The Third Policeman" ...and I loved it. Loved it! And then I moved to his other stuffs. Very original."
You could say that again. Maybe there is something going on between these ears after all, some activity behind this pretty face After all, Flann O'Brien's a bit of an acquired taste, he's not the easiest of reads one could think of. Better not ask if he read it in the original.
Meanwhile, Mr. Frenchman's finished his cigarette and lit up another. I don't even know his name.
-"Excuse me but... I don't even know your name. I am Lily, and you are...?"
-"Mathieu. Of course." he adds somewhat inexplicably and bows down to kiss me on the cheek. Correction: on both cheeks. Just like that! Past the initial shock, I have to smile: very French, I have to say.
-"Ahem... right..." Not the most unpleasant of feelings, truth be told...
-"And how're you doing ...Lily?" he enquires "How is life etc.?" arm in full flourish fashion, cigarette sparks everywhere.
-"Ah life's grand, thank you -How about you? What's the story?"
-"Oh you know... I'm just here for a while. Make money, discover Ireland, all these sorts of things. Life, quoi."
-"And have you discovered much of Ireland yet? Has it met up with your expectations?"
-"Well. As a matter of fact, not a lot yet. Very dirty. I think that Dublin is very dirty you know. In the streets, everywhere... It is a shame really, because I think that some buildings can be very pretty you know? Very... dramatiiique, a bit like "Dracula" -did you know that "Dracula" gueut written by a Deublineur?"
I knew that, and Bram Stocker even lived in this very street.
-"No I didn't -how fascinating!"
-"Yes it is, very dramatique then. Very romantic too." he adds with an exaggerated wink. Quick puff. "But anyway. As you would say -Lily?- it's all a long time ago, and the time is now!" flicks he his butt in the air.
I look, aghast. But then he catches the cigarette with his other hand and in one movement grinds it into the sand pit. The butt hisses its last stink, goes dead -ten points for seamless execution. I get the feeling he's done this before.
"I think we should go back now, there may be some of the wine left. Not that it is in fact good but..." more winking activity here "...life's to be enjoyed, and there is nothing wrong with more of the wine!"

Before I know it, he's hooked my arm into his and is tugging me along back inside.
"Ah the National Library, great architecture! Check out these, er... columns -aren't they great? Very interesting."

Of course by the time we get back in the caff', more of the booze has gone. Half of the hangers-on have departed and the staff is discreetly starting to clean up. Genial giant McCabe is still here though, conferring in a corner with Neil Jordan and Stephen Rea. A group of groupies compare their signed copies suspiciously ("I'd say mine is more readable, and he signed it to me own name too." -"Fair play to you, but he promised me to come to me nipper's holy communion next week!").
Mathieu helps himself to two glasses of wine, one white, one red, and turns towards me:
"What's your weapon of cheuice? Or red, or white?"
Before I have time to reply, he reveals exclusively: "Me I don't care, everything's good!"
And so I'm allowed to choose: white it is, very original. (Can only allow myself a half-glass though, mustn't forget.)
I point Neil Jordan out to Mathieu and once again before I have time to draw breath, he charges forward. Butts in and shakes the director by the hand. "Vlllam" again. "I loved "The Company Of Woolf"!" bellows he to the startled dramatist ("-Well... thank you...")  "-Very original." And, just as suddenly, he comes back to me.
"That Niles Jordan... he looks like a good guy. I approve."

By now, the chamber music trio is starting to flag down a bit. They kinda slow down and share a look ...and that's when the violinist launches into a bit of a jazz impro. In a heartbeat the two others follow suit. The temperature instantly jumps five degrees.

-"Do you dance?" asks a suddenly mischievous Mathieu. Must be the wine -a cheap date he would make!
-"Er sure but... not here eh, I don't think it's, er, the right place"
-"Keum on, it will be fun! You need some fun in life!"
And he embraces my waist in a swift move that screams "lots of practice" -hold it there Mister, surely this is now going too fast, what's going on here? One minute I land right on my arse, the next he's offering me a spin!
-"Er Mathieu, I'm really not sure this is the right place for"
-"Ah don't worry, don't make this head! I was only kidding! Ha ha ha!!"
What a relief... I say, keeping up with him is becoming something of a rollercoaster ride!
-"Oh. Er... yes of course, you were being facetious, ha! Knew it all along!"
-"Of course" Valentino concurs "I was only kidding...:
there's some wine left."
And he proceeds to help himself to what's left of a bottle. Suddenly it all makes sense. Oh silly me: There's some wine left, get your priorities correct!
"Aaahhhhh...." Big Gallic sigh of satisfaction. Or is it approval? Turns out it's the latter:
"You know what, this wine's really disgusting... Probably the temperature. Wine shouldn't be serviced atop a certain temperature you know? It's very bad for the... taste. The taste of the wine. And his body." Emphatic gesture at this point to mime some kind of shape.
By the look of it, wine should be shaped like a ball. Or maybe a brick.
"This is a big mistake you see ...or in the other direction as well."
-"The other direction?"
-"The other direction yes. You know: if it's too cold. Alcohol should be cool, right? But wine mustn't. It mustn’t be like ice. ...Actually is not so simple, huh."
Our oenologiiique expert lays down his glass to make his point more graphically. Points at my untouched glass.
"Yes sure it can, with the case of the white wine. You drink white wine, yes? Well, that can be serviced cool. Cool, you know...: cold. OK then, with that case, sure -but just with the white wine you see?"
The expert grabs his glass back and drains it. Helps himself to more "disgusting wine" and pretty much empties the last bottle.
"...but certainly not with the red wine, no."
I still haven't touched my glass and I don't think I will have some. My head is all over the place.
I look around to make a quick assessment of the situation. By now, the disposable plates and bottles have been taken away. Coincidentally, most of the dedicated literature lovers have also departed. The former chamber music trio are looking at each other increasingly frequently

and the dreaded The End Of The Party feeling is making itself impossible to ignore.

Oh the horror. The indignity. How can I have possibly got caught? It's, it's... like finding yourself at a party with the same frock as someone else! It's just not survivable! Me of all people, when I know etiquette like Keanu Reeve's profile, when I like to lecture others on Society's great unwritten edict: Never stick till the end of any function, don't outstay your welcome. Make sure instead to be noticed taking your leave in a regretful and dignified manner, especially when the party is in full swing. Don't be hanging about like a wino desperate to lick the dregs off the stray glasses! That's understood, and yet here I find myself, literally staring at TEOTP right in the face. Any second now and the security will "ask us to leave", they'll dump us out of the building with the bins! Are they about to ring a bell?
"Ding ding ding ding! Time lady and gentlemen, time! Haven't yous bums got a home to go to? So off yous go then, out out out -Now!! Come on gentlemen -that goes for you too, young lady (and when I say "lady" eh... "lady" me backside)! Congregating with scruffy foreigners are we? 'Thinks she's a cream puff and everyone wants a bite! Disgraceful behaviour if you ask me, simply disgraceful -You wouldn't of seen this in the old days! Oh no, not on my watch, we'll have none of that. Shameful. Shameful behaviour and downright wanton bring back National Service is what I says the National Service but does anyone listen to me eh does anyone ever listen grumble grumble grumble airs and graces I'll give you airs and graces rock of ages the proof of the pudding all mouth and no trousers in this day-n-age sexual liberation turn of the century gedda out the garden grumble grumble mumble help ma boab it's political correctness gone mad gone mad I tells yous two peas in a pod the herd instinct one law for us one law for them damned if you do damned if you don't but talk to me sack that's right yout of today eh just who do they think they are it's like talking to a wall sweet mother of God mumble mumble a piece of string maybe an orange if you were lucky and you were happy for days mumble you could always leave your front door open blah blah feel like rashers tonight, me hmmm... rashers..."
Inside, I'm in bits, I'm like morto: TEOTP!! Not that it seems to bother our own Johnny. As far as I can tell, he remains blissfully unaware of my predicament. Finally, the man comes to.

-"Right! Now let's we go?"
-"I think we should, yes..."
-"Is getting late yes -Keum on let's go!"

I keum on and off we go. Then it hits me ...where to, by the way?
And who exactly? Myself and him or... myself-and-him?
What does he mean, what does he have in mind? Is Mr. funky hair taking me for granted? Surely he doesn't mean... I'm not that kind of girl, me! (well maybe but...) I'm not at his beck and call!
Or maybe I should...
Should I?
Of course I shouldn't!
But then again...
On another day, would have been up for it but... But a strange feeling grips me. A nascent sense of misgivings, a hint of determination coming out of nowhere unsettles me mid-stride and gives me pause. It's like I'm not so sure, don't want to fall back on the old ways,  don't want to roll over. No way I'm letting him take charge. Like hell I won't, it's about time I got a grip! These careless days are over and this charade's got to stop -I need to grow a backbone, and need to do it quick, before my resolve falters should I look once more into his eyes and -say- stumble by accident and grasp his manly arm for support (squeal) -we'll have no more of that! This ain't gonna happen, and I'm not going to cling to him for safety reasons ("these damn heels, they'll be the death of me"), letting him escort me to my car "just in case", after which I am most definitely not going to suggest we could maybe go somewhere for one last drink, what does he think? then remember I just happen to have a bottle of something at my flat. I know the scenario too well and it doesn't appeal anymore.
Mustn't do that.
Mustn't do that, and must instead keep my resolve, gorgeous as he may be! With him, to be honest, it is a case of gasp / faint / swoon / gasp again / feast your eyes on that! A right sight for sore eyes, the bastard is, 'total Blahnik in a mud of Doc Martens. It is that bad: I hardly dare grab an eyeful lest I should stare. Better not stare then, no no no no, better not lose your concentration; keep your eyes ahead Lily and keep your head about. Eyes ahead, head about, eyes ahead, head about -shouldn't be too difficult to remember? Especially if I don't want to compound my track record by walking into a doorframe or something. Like I say, I can't allow myself to slip again; mustn't continue giving myself away so easily. Not anymore, this is my vow.

It's such a shame though, such bad timing.
I find myself thinking the actual words "This can't be happening, not now!" oh but happening it is, and most definitely at this moment. Now that I've made a decision and desperately need to abide by it. I need to abide by it if I want to keep my self-respect. Right now I may feel all antsy, I may feel hot, bothered, giddy, dizzy, flustered (much more at  www.thesaurusforbeginners.com) but I also know this: this is the hour of reckoning, this is the big test. If I get carried away and give in to the beefcake as every throbbing inch of my body is urging me to then... then I won't have learnt a single thing about life, I won't have wised up and I'll be back to square one, Easyrideville, the usual cycle of elation-then-depression. I will be as utterly clueless as I was right up to that second when the bear shooter asked me for G.'s number. Do I want that? 

The answer's "no". No, I Won’t Get Swayed Again. Time for a new mantra: By The Holy Gob Of The Bono, I Won’t Get Jerked About Like A Doll Again!

Life can be a cruel joke at times, it's queer alright: what’s happening now is nothing less than a complete fantasy come true ...except I’ve vowed to move on and leave it all behind. Temptation is a test, and a certain someone up there is definitely playing a prank on me -well I'll show Him. I’ll show Him good. Your man Job's got nothing on Lily Monaghan, let it be known! I shall resist the hottness by my side and chase all impure thoughts from where they (rightfully) belong, this is it: Lily Mature version 2.O, and this new model is studiously keeping its eyes fixed on the stairs. No tumbling allowed, not in the hay nor on the pavement -end of. I'm like so determined, so right-on, I hardly notice your buffness's athletic jump (zwiiiiing!). I most definitely not cop a glimpse of his perfectly shaped butt, oh no.
We pass the threshold, exit the building, and cross the gate. We now find ourselves in the street. The weather is overcast, unsettled, nippy, but with the prospect of sudden improvement. ...Either that or a possible wash-out.

My car is parked by the Green (is on our left) and I don't know which way Mathieu's going (please make it left); I still don't know what's on his mind. I come to a complete stop and turn towards the maletastic one. I now face him. All measured tone and perfect manners, I go
-"Right I'll... I shall be off so. ... You off as well I presume?"
-"Yeah sure, I must go too" (scanning the street around)
-"OK then so... it was a pleasure meeting you Mathieu; I take it you can find your way back home? ....... Will you manage?"
-"Oh yeah I can. No problem I know my way."
And on these words, the bastard makes good on his promise: He turns away! He checks his whereabouts, zips up his jacket, and makes for the right... the right that leads towards Nassau fecking Street and not the Green.

I call after him
-"Oh. Oh well then... you have a good evening, and safe trip home!” (wherever your bleedin' abode is, secretive bastard!) “I, I suppose you’ll want to come back for another of these literary evenings, won't you? …….. being interested in Irish culture and all..."

He turns round briefly
-"Oh yeah, oh yes for sure, Irish culture it's so... interesting. Interesting culture. I'll see. Maybe. I go now -Good night!"

And the heartless sod turns his back on me and walks away. I find myself standing there with one hand poised in the air -he just walks off. What’s he playing at? Is this an act? Is he giving me the old "go on, come after me if you want me" signal? I just stand there, perplexed (and not getting warmer) as your man decisively stomps off with not a care in the world. Surely he's only putting on an act? Any second he’ll turn round and go “Only kidding! Gizzas a lift will ya, there’s a good girl!” Like hell he is. He's not pretending anything -he's simply off and no mistake. Up and away, free as a bird, and clearly not expecting me to run and catch up with him. I am confused, I am morto. I am flabbergasted and not a little vexed. Does the ruffian not know his classics? The traditional "hey, I was just thinking" carry-on? Is it me, did I watch too many movies? Well I’ll be damned! This is not how it’s supposed to end Mister, here is how it's is supposed to proceed:

Totally gratuitous interlude: "Fragments Of An Alternative Past":

-Lily -for it is she: "Come 'ere big boy!"
-Mathieu -a French youth: "Who? Me??"

-Lily, cackling: "Yes you, dreamboat that even Georgie could never dream of landing herself! Come closer -Right now!!"

-Mathieu: "Beut! Beut what is zis? I don't understand!"
-Lily, with an evil laugh: "Show us what you 'got, loverman!"
-Mathieu: "You -get leust!!"
-Lily: "In a jiffy I will but first... you drop them kecks!"
-Mathieu: "Let me alone, you deurty woman! Off hands! I said: off hands!!"
-Lily: "Oh my! 'Ello 'ello, what have we got here? Is that another Eiffel tower I see rising before me? Let me help you with that, young man..."
-Mathieu: "Maman! Maman! This trooly-amazing-yet-for-seum-inexplicable-reason-neut-my-type saucy minx is afteur my beudy! I request repatriation, allo allo EuropAssistance? Can you please up pick me, this is urgent, this is getting very urgent, quick quick oh huh no no no no no noSNEEEEEZE! Too late! Aaaaahhhh... oooohhhhh... reugered and out! ...I, I think I want to sleep now. I sleep."

End of interlude.

But this is not the case here, the boy's simply off! He's gone already and I am left behind in the cold cold night to check on his fast fading silhouette. I feel the complete pillock. "Well, good feckin' night then..." Ever the charitable soul and imaginative kind, I try to think, I try to understand; I look for excuses on his behalf. Maybe the man’s got to get up early tomorrow, maybe he's gagging to go to the gents.
Maybe he doesn't care.
Maybe he doesn't care and that's just it, who knows? A terrible doubt starts to creep up round the back of my frail mind. Could it be I got the situation completely wrong? Oh this is not going to be very gratifying for my self-esteem... Maybe he genuinely didn't dig me and I was but a temporary distraction? For all I know, I may have been just a prop to his ego, an easy audience for his musings and rantings -wine temperature me backside!-, a mere excuse to help himself to more booze and a laughing stock to boot! To be honest, I made a right tit of myself back on the porch! Huh. Could it be I got so distracted by his heavenly looks that I told myself stories and grew them legs... Maybe he was just being friendly, cheeky or even worse... compassionate (no no, not "feeling sorry for me"!). Maybe your good Samaritan just wanted to humour me after my little misadventure.
Hmm... I'm more flummoxed than Pat Kenny at The Alternative Miss Ireland.
He could have at least made up an excuse… a bus to catch, his beauty sleep, some ratatouille left cooking on the back burner, Joanne Cantwell with the latest news, Gotham to save or his sock collection to reorganise -any old bollix to spare my embarrassment, frankly. Social exchange is codified by accepted white lies. But clearly that's not in M. Mathieu's nature; that was not to be. He'sgottago - he goes. That's men to you: straight to the point and no consideration.

In retrospect, I am at least proud of one damn thing.
I'm proud I stuck to my guns and resisted my natural instinct. Good thing I didn't actually offer him a lift, let alone make a move! Oh to imagine I’d made my hard sweaty sexy filthy intentions clear, that would have nailed my coffin! Yeah... good thing I retained the presence of mind not to make an ever bigger fool of myself that’s all thanks to my new found principles... Don't give 'em an inch. Don’t let yourself exposed. So I was right then! (I have to console myself somehow eh.)

All of a sudden, I feel like vindicated. Deciding to play it cool was sheer genius, I decide; it saved what was left of my dignity. Just imagine rushing in like the Lily of old, oh no I couldn't possibly! Imagine I’d gone ahead and pinned the hunk against the wall… -what a nightmare this would have been. Imagine ripping up his shirt, taking in his powerful musk, caressing his manly chest, feeling the throbbing heat of his rapidly swelling desire -Why, the oik would have probably told me to take a long walk off a short pier! The shame of it. Oh the shame, and the embarrassment. Kudos for me then... for we can't be risking any more heartbreak now; I’ve had my share, and so refrain is what’ll do. I shall refrain.
....Pity he should be such a handsome bastard.



The weather is predictable to uncertain, thrilling to humdrum. It's one half drizzle, one half sunshine, one half smog. Possible gales of laughter and episodes of high pressure can be expected before the next NLI evening.

chapter 5 "Stone The Crows"

"Fackin' ell mate if I ain't already bladdered!"
-"Must be all the Guinness you ligged at the brewery ya muppet! I told ya to go easy, dinn' I!"
-"Yeah yeah, whatever... Was well worth though, innit?"
-"Too fackin' right it was! Now that, my son, is the kind of museum I can well tolerate! Some well classy joint it was... 'Tell you wot, if that's their definishun of culcha, I'll become a historian tomorrow! But we jus' getting started here -Game of two halves! Fill your boots mate, Dublin is ours! Back of the net!"

Brooding my way back to the car, I become aware of two voices behind me. Foreign, I would venture. The two characters are some distance but the clean cold clean air carries their exchange. …It’s somewhat hard to ignore.

"Now check this joint, mate... What do you think? Looks a bit of olright, does it?"
-"Sure looks decent... 'bit poncey though... Check out the wallpaper and the penguins serving: I ain't feel it!"
-"Whatcha on about, you ain't "feel it" ya big pikey? It's a fackin' boozer!! It'll do the job!! "Buswell's" eh... Well eat my goal Mr. Buswell, we're gain' in! Bunch of arse, we'll show 'em who's who! Bring a bit of class an' all, now stop moaning and get in there!"
-"Alright alright! Just gizzas a sec', will ya? Need ‘take a leak... Aaaaah that's better..."

They’re behind me but for some reason I don't fancy turning round to take a look.

Now the thing is, I sort of recognise their voice; I know this accent, have heard it often enough: Theirs is what you hear every weekend in the heart of Temple Bar, reverberating on the windows of Fitzsimons and echoing through kebab shops. It's usually multiplied by a dozen and invariably male. …It's also always liberally adorned with expletives. "I'll tell you wot", these visitors to our shore, you don't half-hear hear them from a distance! They usually ask A) “where's this Guinness factory then” and B) “where can we watch the football". When you inform them that it's best enjoyed at Croke Park in a passionate crowd of ninety thousand souls, they have a tendency to go all uncomprehending and quite annoyed: "Nah, nah mate, I mean football yeah? You know, the real thing? Not that er... folkloric game -no offense yeah- but praper football, right? Foot - Ball!" The volume usually increases at this juncture, as they ar-ti-cu-late for the benefit of the sport-confused native. It's always great craic winding them up.
Not that these guys ever realise we're just messing with them; theirs is the type who roam the streets, ten at a time, gloriously convinced of their invincibility and boasting of their unique attribute: their god-given license to paaarty. Well. They’ve come to the right place.
And so these two. Judging from their slurred speech, lots of supping has already taken place and they want more. A good deal more. The only thing not quite right here is the fact this ain't Thursday or Friday night when their lot usually turn up, it’s only the start of a working week. ??? Did they get lost behind? Did they pass out at some stage and just woke up? Do they want to make a full six days of it? Maybe they jumped on a “brilliant” Ryanair offer and arrived just as everyone’s left... Anything’s possible. Right now, I very much have someone else on my mind entirely and these two gentlemen don't exactly hold any special kind of interest for me. I mean… would Mathieu ever behave like them? Assuredly not. Would he treat the town as a mere convenience? Highly unlikely. After all he's a literature lover in his own right, he's a cultural adventurer and not a tourist, he's a... -oh I don't know, I don't know him well enough to tell.

"Blahdy 'ell mate, lost your marbles or wot? You're avin’ a larf! Not in the fackin' street! You fackin' chav, can't even hold it for five minutes"
-"Gizzas a break will ya... whass the big deal here? Who gives a fack?"
-"Who gives a fack? I do! I give a fack! ‘Can't take you nowhere, ya muppet! Ya fackin' chav... embarrassing me in public like that..."
-"You wot?? Who you callin' a chav??"
-"'Tell you wot sunshine, I ain't takin’ the fall if you get done by the rozzers! Blahdy disgrace if you ask me, taking liberties in the middle of the"
-"Oi! Who you callin' a chav?"
-"What? You my son! It’s you I am calling' a chav, you pikey cahnt! What’s wrong with ya? 'you deaf as well now??"
-"Eh, whass’ your problem? Whass’ this about? You wanna a slap? 'sthat it, you wanna a piece of me? huh?"
-"A piece a’ you? A piece a’ you? If I was you mate, I’d watch my marf -or I'll fackin' ave you you hear?"
-"Oh yeah?"
-"Oh yeah"
-"Well cahm' on then, cahm on, less' fackin' ave it ya fackin' ponce -you 'ave a go if you think you're tough"

I am now definitely sure I don't want to stick around. Don’t want to, even in this most respectable of respectable streets. Who would have thought the seat of our national political institutions would attract such unsavoury characters eh? Yikes! The temptation to turn and check how this will end is dead unbearable though. These two are probably clashing antlers by now, or else stripping to their waist, chasing each other round the lamppost.

-"Oh yeah?"
-"Hell yeah!"
-"Well make me then!"
-"You make me!"

In fact, the saddest thing about this type of behaviour is that it... it fails to surprise me entirely. Maybe I'm getting too clued up for my own good, but it doesn't surprise me anymore. It’s so predictable –not least with reference to the wacky Frenchman. It's the old tale, isn't it? Fellows get lashed, fellows lash out. Sooo predictable. These guys clearly operate under some set of rules usually found in football stadiums or soaps like "EastEnders".

"EastEnders"!!

This is it! This is the one! This is what I was reminded of all along, the attitude and all -Isn't there a pair of baldies on the programme, always giving out and slagging everyone? I'm pretty sure there is, and this is what our friends here sounded like. Still sound, in fact.

-"Blimey, you 'got some fackin' lip for a Spuds fan, ain'cha? Don't imagine I won't hesitate!"
-"Oh yeah? OK then OK... Let the dog see the rabbit, you 'ave a go pal! Cahm'on, I ain't got all day!"

"EastEnders" eh...
Now I like "EastEnders" as much as the next man -i.e. not much-.but it's surely not a patch on our aul' "Fair City"! No contest here! Where's the picturesque and quirky tone? The intricate storylines that span humanity’s complexities in its –like- totally rich tapestry? The assured deftness of touch from the screenwriters? The exhilarating one-liners and pregnant pauses at the end of every episode (”-and the name of the child’s father is… (To Be Continued)”? Answer that, Sherlock Holmes!
I wonder which one came first... (may need to look this up): "EastEnders" or "Fair City"? Grew up with aul' "Fairso", me; it's part of our cultural heritage, that, it holds it own with  Boyzone, the Sunday Mass or "The Late Late Show"! I guess if you were to pick anyone's brains, most folks would call "EastEnders" a pale copy of "Fair City" ...if there ever were anything pale about that lot –it’s all yap yap yap with them, fiddle that motor's dashboard here guv’ and hide that nipper in the laundry basket there luv’. Terminally urban, like. It's that simple, I can't remember a single shrub of greenery in "EastEnders", I don't recall any swan populated central park. Nope, and no romantic bridge glistening in the golden sunshine either... Do they have parks in that mysterious "EastEnd"? Nobody knows. Do they celebrate Assumption? No idea either. That mythical place seems to be immune to any geographical or historical consideration. One thing is sure though, it's always pub-time in "EastEnders".

Now, another thing that's always bugged me re. "EastEnders" is their lingo -They're worse than Cork! Worse than Limerick! Now call me thick as two planks but I can never understand more than half of what they’re saying, it's almost like they've developed a language of their own in some weird micro-culture...
I don't get it.
Try as I might, I don't recognise their slang, ‘leaves me proper banjaxed. It's like when they greet each other, I don't hear them go "How's she cooking?", "How 'you keeping?", "What's the craic?" or just “Looking for weed, bud?”. They don't say that. Not even a basic "Howsa. What's the story, cock?" to embellish the day over a pint. Manners eh... manners don't seem to rule this queer Albert Square of theirs. (And where's this Albert Square to start with? Is that the one in Drumcondra? Another mystery.) Truly I wonder.

Whenever I come across an episode -admittedly rarely-, all I hear is jabber, jabber, jabber, and not once -not once- do I hear them address any concern of mine, they never echo my mind ...it's almost like we're from two different worlds. Sigh. It’s at times like these I yearn to hear a simple "I'll tell you a story about Johnny McGory", "She'll be apples" or "I'd say you danced at your mother's wedding" and I'm thinking. I'm wondering. …Whatever happened to "Do you want to wake up with a crowd round ya?", “That's beyond the Pale", "The face of that and the price of fish" or just "My moongoose stole my penguin" (an everyday occurrence ‘round here)? Oh it's a mystery, a right noodle scratcher and no mistake. I mean, that lot don't even thank each other "a million"? What's wrong with a polite "Fair play to you (burn everything British but their coal!)”? …Different kettle of fish altogether.

Another question is: What are they on about in the first place? A riot they may well be -constantly giving out about badly inflated tyres, no salt or vinegar available for their chips or teenage pregnancy- but they sure don't make much sense to me! All they seem to be doing is request of each other to leave their “mavver” out of it or else. How truly perplexing. As true as I'm riding a bicycle, these people appear to have drifted off to a separate time/space, it's like they have sprouted their own conventions and stick by them with no consideration -no consideration whatsoever- for their fellow viewers. I'd say they inhabit a parallel universe, huh.
Every time I switch the box on, it goes something like this:


Baldie with tattoos all over the place: "Oi! Geezer! Whass gain' on? Cahm' ere!"
Other baldie: "You wot? Whazzthat you want? Want some? Huh? Huh? Whatcha sayin'?"
First baldie: "Oi! Ain't meant nuffink, bruv'"
Second: "Dunnit."
First baldie: "Aincha!"
Second baldie: "Watchit!"
First one: “Innit.”

Second baldie: "Tell you wot tho…, I’ll ‘av a butcher’s, see if I can find it –Nah less go dahrn the pub!"
First baldie: "Too fackin' right I will! Watch me!"
Builder: "Blahdy 'ell mate... Can't even have a bo''le of min'ral in peace these days! You ‘ave a blahdy cheek, queshioning me on me tea break! ‘hoo do you think you are? So what if I luv' me old Mum -godda problem with that??"
Lady coming out of launderette, smoking: "Oi! You, yes you! That's no praper way 'talk to your bruvver! Show some fackin' res-peck will ya! Fat cahnt. (I'll tell you wot, some people 'ere -they ain't half taking liberties dunn' they!)"
Red faced publican on a fag break: "Ah leave it aht now! Knock it on thee 'ead son! He ain't worf it!"
Passing Jamaican: "Gotcha! They juss' aving a larf, ain't they?"
Smoking lady in the caff', eating chips and jellied eels: "Kids messin' about, innit?"
Old lady selling DVDs out of a suitcase: "Wouldn’t ‘ave been allowed in them days, when Reggie 'n Ronnie woz around..."
Up pops young man in tracksuit and trainers: "Never 'urt but their ahrn!"
Car dealer round the corner: "Luved their muvver"
Old lady, lighting up: "and you could leave yer door open -Take the Queen Muvver, ya cahnt: deserves every penny she gets! Gawd bless 'er!"
Unemployed single mother: "And luvs 'er G’nT, dunnshe? Praper class, aintsha!"
Alcoholic bum: "Always 'as a smile for everyone, a little wave..."

Ray Winstone, passing by: "Sweet... Who's the Daddy then?"

Unemployed single mother: "Nan of yer fackin' business!"
Fat man slaps hand on Scotsman's shoulder: "You're nicked, sunshine!"
Wife beater: "Cripes! The rozzers! It's a fair cop."
Fat man takes hand off cautiously, surveys it and wipes it on his trousers.
Unidentified character: "Top of the morning, to be sure"
Paper boy in flatcap: "'Ammers for the Cup! Who are ya? Who are ya?"
Asian street trader: "Cor, blimey"
Jamaican: "Strike a light, guv"
Asian street trader: "...if that bird ain't a right piece of skirt"
Young woman in queshun, pushing a pram, smoking: "Oi! You watch yer mahrth! Show some manners wantcha -we 'got some fackin' kids liss'nin', avn' I!"
Jamaican, laughing: "Ha ha, you’s just been told my son!"
Credible gay character, on his way -sorry: on 'is way- to The Bucket Of Blood: "Praper naughty! Too fackin' right, me old china!"
Man in tinted shades, sheepskin: "Me old mo'or for sale, picture of 'ealth: twin engine, chrome plated plates, drives like a beauty -yars for a donkey! Cahm' on! I'm slashing me own throat 'ere!"
Unemployed barber: "Is all you 'got? Ain't got nuffin' else?"
Man in tinted shades: "Whazzat you ‘after? This is Lahrndahrn Tahrn son: I 'got it all! Luverly jubberly! Genuine Champers -bottled in Barking! Gold rings, gold medallions, gold knackledasters -three for a fiiiver!"
Fat man in suit: "Need to see a man abaht a dawg"
Kid with earrings: "Sorted!"
Grandmother, smoking: "Ssssafe."
Indian grocerer: "Stone the crows aincha dunnit innit Sid James me old mugger watchit Babs Windsor you slaaag blimey knahck me dahrn geezer bird you cahnt chim chimeney who are ya who are ya yer fired too fackin right hell's bells wonncha!"

Gentle narrator employed to give the moral of the story at the end of every episode: "And so I say... why don't we all less go dahrn the pub ‘hen?"

Ah yes, they inhabit a strange world in "EastEnders"... A world of totally arcane topics of conversation, dead incomprehensible to someone’s admittedly refined ears. It's true, though: When did these Albert Square residents ever discussed Bertie’s latest financial oddities, for example? The Old Vic has to be the only pub whose regulars never sounded much bothered by the new Civil War debate -namely did Roy Keane walk out on his country or did he not? It is the one place where the very existence of Glenda Gilson has gone unnoticed. ...Truly I don't get it.


Oh by the way... Lost in my thoughts, I almost lost track of the mini-drama being enacted twenty paces behind me. What’s the latest, then? Methinks their tone of voice has changed somewhat... Update needed, Lily! Feeling spontaneous, I turn around to check how the situation's evolved, what' the story then?

-"Ya fackin' wanker, how could ya ever doubt me? You're my bess’ friend!"
-"Nah YOU're my best friend!"
-"Nah YOU're my bess’ friend -hic!"
-"I lahrv you man, ya big wanker!"
-"Ah fack that shit -cahm 'ere gizzas a hug! Less’ go get smashed!"
-"Too right we will, ya big pikey!"
-"Less’ go get sm-You WOT? Who you callin' pikey??"