Category: Drunken Stories


Downtown.

Filed Under: Drunken Stories, Las Vegas, Life, Poker
Aug.15, 2010

I barely had time to leave my steak digest before I was packing a small bag of essentials and catching the infamous Deuce downtown to the Golden Nugget which had its Grand Poker Series in full flow. I was booked into its newly opened Rush Tower for 3 nights with the plan to play 3 of it’s $225 tournaments which promised tonnes of play, much more than I would have got had I played in a similar tournament on the Strip.

When I stepped into my room, I was just as awe-struck as when I opened the door at the Wynn. There were sliding doors leading into the bathroom which was equipped with more towels than I could feasibly stuff into a bag, had I wanted to that is! The bed was massive and on first inspection seemed to be very comfortable. The view? Well, lets just say 2 out of 3 isn’t too bad.

I left down my stuff and headed down to the spacious ballroom in the Golden Nugget which was home to around 80 tables for the entire Summer. It may have been home to 80 tables but it was, a mere 10 minutes before the tournament was due to start, home to just 30-odd poker players. I started to get the feeling that the organisers at the Golden Nugget may have been just a tad ambitious in their plans. It was around this time that I started to get this feeling in my stomach which told me that I might end up regretting paying in advance. On the other hand, it could have been the 30c Hotdog that I scoffed on the way over to the hotel beginning to work its magic on my digestive juices.

When I sat down to my table, it was just me and the dealer, a 50 something woman who had been dealing cards all her life but as it transpired over the next few hours, didn’t have a clue about the game! More players started to arrive eventually but it was all too long after the awkward conversation between me and the dealer had dried up. I had a taxi-driver from Boston to my left who kept telling me that he was Irish and a guy who provided private security in Afghanistan to my right. At least that’s what he told me, although his playing style did match that of someone who’d be crazy enough to go out there!

I did nothing but throw away chips for the first 2 levels and soon found myself down to half a starting stack before I’d even got my first drink! The cocktail waitress was hobbling around the room somewhere but had not yet ventured over our way. I decided to make a stand with the 3-4 suited and got myself into pretty ugly spot where I was effectively bluffing a fish with what was still the coveted 4 high on the turn. Thankfully he folded a flush draw to the second barrel which rather worryingly was enough to put me all-in. Patience Adam, Patience.

Just after the break, I found myself chopping a pot against crusty old player that had been moved to the table about an hour previously. He uncharacteristically bet out on the ace-nine-two flop with a flush draw which I quickly called and he then moved in on the turn which paired the nine. I thought for a while before calling with A-6, no heart. I figured the nine counter-feits a lot of his ace-rag limping range and I’m still ahead of flushdraws which I thought he has a lot. If he happened to have Ace-Ten or Ace-Jack then I could always call for the King or Queen for the chop or just quietly sit there and think about what how hungry I was, I hadn’t decided yet. He has A-4 so we end up chopping. I watch him sweat buckets over the next few minutes as he ponders how I read his soul after he probably made the most aggressive move of his 50 odd year poker career.

I’d like to post up more detailed hand histories about how I steam rolled the field but my participation in this tournament wasn’t to reward me with the measly $4k first prize but instead saw me leave in 18th or something stupid like that. I had dwindled to a pretty short stack before finding AK and shoving over a pensioners open. He makes the standard call with AQ and binks a Queen on the flop. I leave the room of the opinion that I should never play a tournament like that again lest I run the risk of turning into the crusty players that populate it. I figure I’m here to enjoy myself, not watch arthritic hands struggle to maneuver chips for hours and end.

I head straight to the cash table and buying for $200 on a table that’s just about to start. In my very first hand I get JJ and open to $10 on the button. We see a ten high rainbow flop. The big blind checks, I bet $20, he makes it $70 almost immediately. I get sick a little in the back of my throat because it’s not really a situation you want to find yourself in the very first hand against an unknown. He’s only playing $160 though so with half his stack in, he’s most likely calling with all his top pairs. I don’t want to flat call and then fold to an overcard on the turn and I sure as hell don’t want to fold an overpair in a live game. I shove, he calls and mucks what he says was King-Ten. He reloads and donates another $200 to me in the very next hand when he shoves 9-7 on a K-2-5 flop into my 22. He then reloads for $500 and the entire table starts to lick their lips. I didn’t see another dime of his money over the next hour, although the rest of the table benefited from his presence.

I later saw him walk down Fremont Street with a bottle of Miller Lite. Crying. I lol’d.

The next day I went down to the pool and lazed around there for the day. The swimming pool at the Golden Nugget is amazing. The only thing that lets it down is the droves of overweight middle Americans that infest the place. If they could transplant the place into the middle of the Strip, it would probably be one of the best pools in the world! Now I’m no David Hasselhoff but I felt like a Spartan warrior amongst these folk, which definitely had a few plus points, gently massaging my ego with every step I took to and from the poolside bar.

When I went back to my room, I thought I might need some ESPN to keep me entertained but I was wrong. I needed only turn down my TV and listen to the couple arguing in the adjoining room. “Stop giving that slut money!”, “Your daughter needs money!”, “I’m not giving her a dime so long as she’s stripping!”. I was having great fun listening to them but the entertainment value was wearing thin come 3am when they were still going at it. I woke up the next morning to hear them go at it once more, only this time by having horrible, horrible sex. Obviously they settled their differences. Or he was having his way with her. I didn’t pay it much thought however because I was hungry and going to hit the “Best Buffet Downtown” with a vengeance! It was pretty shit, unfortunately :( .

With it being my last day downtown, I wanted to do something worthwhile but invariably ended back down at the pool. I had figured out what way the sun moves over the pool the previous day so I went down early and reserved the recliner that gets the sun first. In continuing my run of good fortune since I arrived in Vegas, a ridiculously hot woman sat down in the chair beside me. With every other seat in the place unoccupied, I’d like to say she was attracted to the milk bottle figure that I cast on the chair but that would be me lying – she just wanted the only other seat with sun on it.

As the drinks flowed, we got talking. I had only planned on staying down there for about an hour because I wasn’t wearing any sun lotion. After all too short a period of time, I started burning up. But I didn’t want to interupt the conversation about the beauty of the Colorado River to run up to my room. Play through the pain, that’s always been my motto. Somebody must have heard my silent cries for help, as one of those overweight middle American couples that I was complaining about earlier walked past and offered me their Factor 75(!!!!!) spray. “This will last me until Christmas”, I joked, but on the inside I was so relieved. It wasn’t to be enough unfortunately and you know that you’re going to have bad sunburn when you start peeling while sitting out in it! Before my sunny friend to my right left, we had a ride. Of the waterslide.

I’m not that lucky!

I spent the rest of my time Downtown confined to my room applying litres of Aloe Vera gel onto my chest in a losing battle against the burn. I took a break from massaging the green gunk into myself to ring for some room service. They seemed completely unperturbed by my order of steak at 5am. That’s why I love Vegas. Once I packed up my things, I checked out and got the hell out of dodge and back to Barry and Simon who I had hoped were living it up back on the Strip. They did have a spare room all this time after all.

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Thank You Jesus

Filed Under: Drunken Stories, Las Vegas, Life
Jul.01, 2010

We were all up bright and early on Friday morning, despite none of us getting any sleep. We stepped into the trap door that was the lift and ended up at the breakfast buffet in the hotel. Never before had I seen so much food. There was everything you could possibly think of at this buffet – and it was all you can eat! I left the table a much less mobile man that I came to it as.

With my mobility hampered, I shuffled my way the short distance over to the poker room and sat in once more to the 1/3 game. It seems to be occupied with a lot of locals and I soon found out why – for every hour you play, you get $2 cashback AND $2 towards comps such as buffets. I cashed out up $120 or so about an hour later without having to show many of my hands. At this rate, Vegas was paying for itself!

I found myself moving pretty quickly to the cage to cashout, so I figured I had recovered from the gluttony of early morning. We wandered over to the massive Fashion Show Mall which is across the road from where we’re staying and found a Tix4Tonight outlet which is a place that sells half-price tickets to shows in Vegas. It was recommended that we go to the Playboy Club which, as it disappointingly transpired, is a Comedy Club. Fortunately for us, it was pretty funny and its headliner for the night Tommy Davidson had me in stitches for most of the show. Or maybe it was the vodka. Ahhh, the vodka.

If you had tickets to the comedy show, you were able to get into the actual Playboy nightclub in the Palms hotel for free. I was told this was good because they ordinarily have a mile long queue full of prostitutes and perverts and charge $40 for the privilege. Everybody gets to the club in an elevator, something that my local club Ruby’s should look into, which is very cool. The 54th floor is the Playboy Club but if the Playboy bunnies dealing blackjack on tables surrounding the dancefloor is too much, you can always take the escalator up to the roof where they have another nightclub. Drink was pretty steep with Heineken (something they consider a “premium beer”) coming in at $9 a bottle. I’d come this far though, so I wasn’t going to give in to those prices.

The more Heineken I guzzled, the more attractive the blackjack tables looked. They were $25 minimum tables so I took out $250 and tried my luck. Bear in mind that I’ve probably played blackjack twice in my life and you kind of get an idea of where this was destined to go. I was actually up a bit for the first 2 minutes but was chasing for the next 30. I was just amazed I was hanging on for so long. When I got down to my last $25, my drink that I had ordered an eternity a go was delivered to me. I hit blackjack for the first time since I sat down and leave the chips there. The dealer busts and I slug the drink and take the $150, happy, relieved and surprised to finish only a tonne down. Thank You Jesus.

With the lads gone home after calling it an early night, I continued to awkwardly stumble and slur my way around the place for an hour or so before realising I was only going around in circles. The only way out of the club was the lift, so I had to wait about 20 minutes before I reached the top of the queue – yes, a queue to LEAVE. The queue for taxis was about 4 times as long outside but I walked on a bit and managed to flag one down just as he was coming into the place. All seemed well and good until he pulled into what I now know to be the Gold Coast casino. He told me to wait in the car and that he’d be back in a minute. I started to get pretty suspicious, even in my state, so I waited until he’d gone out of sight before following him in.

As in get into the casino, I see him sprinting like a gazelle through the casino floor. I check all my pockets and still have my wallet, passport and camera. I’m really confused now. Is he the worst scammer ever? I wait about for a few minutes and there’s no sign of him. His car is still abandoned outside the casino with both his and my doors’ wide open. I walk up to the valet and say “My, you’ve got pretty eyes”. Wait, I hope I didn’t say that. She didn’t flinch. I proceeded with caution. “I’m new here, do drivers usually abandon their car mid-fare?”. She shook her head, looking as confused as I did. I explained the story as best as any rambling drunken idiot could and she just told me that I was lucky. She found me a new taxi, apologised to me and sent me on my way. My new driver suggested that maybe he saw someone that owed him money or someone that he owed money to. As we pulled into the Wynn, I didn’t really care why he ran off, just that I had my money and anal virginity intact. Thank you Jesus.

After such a weird experience, I couldn’t possibly head to bed. I didn’t even know what time it was. I found my way to the poker room and sat straight into a game. I only bought in for $200 because I only wanted to splash around. The Captain and gingers continued to flow so splash around I did. I struggle to remember any hands but must have played out of my skin to get up to $1k at one point. I remember a lot of aggression and plenty of overbet shoves that always seemed to get through. Then, after coming back from the toilet for the umpteenth time, I see Barry at one of the tables. “Have you not slept either?” I ask him. “No man, it’s noon”. I spend the next 5 minutes trying to find my table, thinking it had moved. It didn’t. I get involved in one more pot and lose $200 when my opponent makes a great call and manages to fade my 20 million outs on the turn and river. I decide to call it a night, or day rather, and rack up my chips. $750. Thank You Jesus.

I wake up in my bed and go to get dressed but save myself the trouble when I look at my phone and see that it’s midnight. I have about 7 texts from the lads which reads like a recap of the day; “Want to see a show tonight?”, “Bought you tickets to the show”, “We have to be there for 7″, “Leaving for the show”, “Back from the show”. I’m absolutely famished so I order some room service. Barry comes into the room to have a chat and help me try remember the night without much success. Just as he’s leaving, room service arrives. They even bring a table with them! Before I sink my teeth into one of the nicest steaks I’ve ever had, my server points out his name in case I want to make a nice comment about him. His name? Jesus.

Thank you, Jesus.

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When Will I learn?

Filed Under: Drunken Stories, Life
Apr.23, 2010

Adam, Adam, Adam. You fool. If I keep repeating that to myself, maybe, just maybe, I’ll start to believe it. I’d better – it’s true!

One year a go, almost to this day, I realised that I was in a lot of trouble. I had been working too much, drinking too much and studying far too little. I was clutching onto and referring back to any positive comment made about me, no matter how unrealistic it was in a desperate attempt to make myself, to trick myself, into thinking that everything was okay. It really wasn’t.

I failed college last year, pretty spectacularly too. I’ve always tried to live by the phrase “if you’re going to do anything, do it well” and I suppose in some twisted and demented way I interpreted my failure as being “done well”. My line of thinking, after I had tricked myself that is, was that if I was going to be paying €150 to repeat an exam, I may as well get value for my money and repeat a whole rake of them. At my current rate, it looks like I’m going to be getting value for money this year too!

Despite knowing that I was in trouble, I was more than happy to just strap myself in and enjoy the roller coaster ride that was my impressive fall from grace. At least it gave me plenty of content for this blog. Speaking of which, isn’t it funny how your brain twists and distorts things to appease you, God forbid you’d bruise my ego in any way, shape or form.

Sitting here and typing this is a struggle. It’s also infuriating knowing that I’m spending time writing this when I know full well that there’s a somewhat daunting assignment due. I’ll get around to it though. Eventually.

My excuse this week is that I had to help plan my parent’s escape from Spain after some inconsiderate Icelandic volcano decided to throw their plans into chaos. Hours spent refreshing the AerLingus home page in desperate search of available seats on flights paid off when I managed to get them onto a Monday flight as opposed to a Friday flight. I happily accepted all the thanks and praise as I left that assignment beside me gather another layer of (possibly volcanic) dust.

Well done Adam, you fool.

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My Irish Open

Filed Under: Drunken Stories, Poker
Apr.07, 2010

I would have loved to get this trip report up sooner but my real life job (as opposed to this fantasy dream job) got in the way more than I would have liked it to. For anyone who doesn’t know what I do when I disappear with nothing more than a laptop in my hand (or to prospective employers who may be Googling me in the future), I’m charged with the responsibility of keeping the poker community up to date with the latest happenings at the largest poker tournaments in the country. This Bank Holiday weekend, I was in the Burlington Hotel in Dublin for the most prestigious Irish tournament – The Irish Open.

When I got to my room on the Friday, I soon realised that its layout was butchered in half so that it could make the room beside it into a wonderful executive suite. As it transpired over the weekend, that suite housed the lovely Kara Scott, although she spent most of the weekend getting the lift up and down to the 4th floor, perhaps where one Brian Townsend was camped out? There were two other problems with my room, one was that the toilet was placed right in front of the hotel room door which ordinarily wouldn’t be an issue but I have this awful habit of leaving the toilet doors open while I’m in locked hotel rooms. Strange, I know, but on two of the mornings accommodation staff timed their entry perfectly to the moment where I was about to announce bombs away! The other problem was that the wheels on my bed were a bit too free moving and whenever I’d sit on the bed it’d fly about 6ft across the room. It definitely led to some disturbing alcohol induced nightmares of rolling down a hill and off a pier to my death. Explains how I managed to wake up for the start of play every morning anyway! With all my complaints though, my room wasn’t even one tenth as bad as the room I was lumped with in the enchanted and long forgotten halls of the Gleneagle back in October, as Sam will testify.

This year saw me being part of the biggest blogging team yet. I’m glad to report that most of them could keep up with the drinks. Sam was renowned for saying he was going to the toilet only to duck off to bed or do the loots at the cash tables, Darragh kind of filled in this role this time around and ironically was the only person to be late on one of the days, despite not drinking! Both Ed and Brian couldn’t get enough pints into them (much respect) and those moments the barmen started to leave the bar in single file every night were some of the lowest of the entire event. Was great to put some more faces to names although I think at this point about 90% of the faces stored in my brain belong to random poker players and some of the stuff that happened was comical beyond belief. I had a great laugh at the expense of some poor guy who slipped off the counter and collapsed into a mess on the ground. He proved he wasn’t a quitter by eventually getting up and digging into all the idle drinks that were on a table nearby!

Having distinctively said that I was shit at poker only last week, it was only natural for me to gravitate towards the cash tables at every available opportunity. On the first night I only ventured over so I could order some food. I ended up doubling up on my second hand when someone shoved blind for 200 and I snapped with the King-Ten in the blinds and held against Q2. I left after I finished my platter of incinerated onion rings and what looked to be sausages. On the second night, I threw away €80 within the first few minutes and kind of tilted myself. I called a raise with the JcTs in the SB and 4 of us see a flop of 8c5c9s. I check and the original raiser bets €30, he’s called in two spots and with action back to me, I decide that I didn’t call a raise preflop to fold to that board and ship for €120. I’m snapped in one spot and then the button agonises for a while before saying he’s priced in to call. I’m up against 9cTc and 4c7c and bing the 7 on the river for the wonderful treble up. Felt sorry for the guy who thought he was priced in only to be drawing pretty dead with what he thought was a big draw! I won a little on the 3rd night but left because of the ever-present fear of having both my chips and myself swallowed up by the giant American beside me.

Having finished in the green on all three nights, I’m now once again convinced that I’m absolutely brilliant at this game and would ask everyone to ignore that nonsense I rattled off a while back. It’s a shame though, I was almost out, only to be sucked back in to what I know to be a vicious circle once again in the dying moments!

As I posted on my Facebook, I’m already looking forward to bruising my hips in search of horrible coolers at future events and the late night craic in the bar every night!

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While my wee scar gently weeps.

Filed Under: Drunken Stories
Nov.05, 2009

Mess. Definition please. A state of confusion and disorderliness. Welcome to my life.

Last Saturday confirmed all my suspicions. It’s 2:30am and the music has stopped, the lights are on and I’m as hungry as a size-zero model in a McDonalds for the first time in their life. I step outside the Forum and it’s raining cats and dogs. My fancy dress plan was initially going to be a crude attempt at my role model and idol, Captain Morgan. It didn’t work out that way though.

I had dug through the end of my wardrobe and eventually rustled up a Death costume from yesteryear. It was nothing to get excited about except for the hood that covered your entire face to create an air of mystery which admittedly granted me the freedom to dry hump (amongst other things to be fair) everyone in sight, all whilst remaining anonymous. Hoods are dangerous though.

Cats and Dogs are bouncing off my face and the only thing on my mind is a chicken burger freshly harvested by some Polish slave worker in Hill Billies. My friends are all creeping about outside the Forum, either catching up with old friends or going in for the kill on the haplessly unaware! I wanted no part of such debauchery though and instead opted to pull over my hood, put my head down and run into town where I could get all the breast I wanted. And then I could go get chicken.

I probably got a hundred meters before childhood memories suddenly came flooding back. See, when I was about 3 years old, and this is one of my earliest vivid memories, I was oddly environmentally aware. I had just finished a Loop The Loop ice-lolly and wanted to dispose of my lolly pop stick in the safest possible way so I broke away from the tight grip of my mother and ran down towards the nearest bin at the bottom of the street. Proud of completing my civic duty, I turned around to my mother to wave in delight. My mother got quite animated, obviously immensely proud of me. I woke up twenty minutes later.

As it turns out, the only thing between me and the bin was a lamp post.

In retrospect I think I got away quite lightly. I did kill a tooth though. How do you kill a tooth? Simple really. You run as fast as you can towards a bin, turn around and wave to your mother and then look back just in time to wrap yourself around an iron pole and knock yourself unconscious and sever the nerves in your gums.

Fast forward seventeen years and I’m once again hurtling towards a pole only this time I have a fucking black veil across my face which gives me the same eyesight as a 90 year old World War II veteran. I know the road though and manage to maneuver my way around a few obstacles. I think I’m in the clear and put the proverbial foot down. I notice three people eating chips outside the Ballybricken Chipper. It’s the last thing I notice.

“OOOOOOOOOOHH” is all I hear in chorus as I suddenly come to a stand still. Actually, a “stand still” is a very generous description of myself. A collapsed mess would be more apt. I pull the veil back over my head and see a pole standing over me. One of the avid chip eaters from across the road comes over to see if I’m okay while I can still hear the unmistakable ring that’s created when Pole meets Skull. Either that or they were going to rob me. I’m conscious though and they go back to their fish and chips.Bastards with their food. I send a text to my friend which simply read “fucking Pole. I’m in a bad way”. When he arrived, fists clenched, he demanded to know where the dirty foreigner had gone. I should have saved face and cut my losses by admitting that some greasy Pole started on me and attacked me for no reason. Instead I told him the truth. To summarise, it pretty much went like: “I’m a fucking retard who runs into iron poles for the craic”.

It’s then that I notice I’m bleeding. I’m so preoccupied with with wiping my face and trying to keep up with my friends (who I was ironically running away from in the first place) that I then walk into another pole. If I was trickling blood in the first place, I was pumping at industrial pace now! I was bungled into a taxi and sent home. It was probably for the best but I ended up not getting any food which was the reason why I turned into a unsighted Usain Bolt in the first place!

I took a photo of myself which kind of made me look like some kind of rape victim but thankfully I got a text the next morning that said I wasn’t raped but went into a Pole instead. Had I finished that double Morgan’s and Coke that was knocked out of my hand before I left, that text probably would have been appreciated much more.

It’s now Thursday and most of my face has healed. After about a day of washing, I managed to get rid of all the caked in blood to reveal the actual size of the cut. I probably could have done with a stitch or two but I think I can live with another scar. It’s not like I was going to become Nivea’s next big thing by brandishing the man tan on national TV! To compound the idea that a stitch would have come in handy is the fact that I now have blood trickling down my face again. Apparently random people love picking at random peoples scabs. They should just get their own to be fair.

I can’t get away from the fact that it’s another scar and another embarrassing story to go with it! The last scar I earned goes about halfway down my shin after I mistimed a jump between two walls while running and took a healthy chunk out of it. I swear that the next scar I get is going to be for something heroic like falling out of a tree after rescuing a blind cat. Knowing me I’ll probably just clock another pole – I’m an expert at this stage!

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Why Indian food is bad…

Filed Under: Drunken Stories
Aug.30, 2009

Okay, I know that part two of my Oxegen trip report is still “due”. The first half of it was far too long, so I’ve conveniently decided to wait a few months so that I’ll forget all the non-important stuff and only include a mind blowing account of the remainder of the weekend. If only.

For now I’ll skip forward a few weeks to the present time. I’ve just made it home after waiting half an hour in an Indian take away for my end of night food. Indian food is world renowned for it’s unique flavour and it’s interesting to note that Indians are far more popular than Chinese in England, in restaurant terms, which is perhaps the result of the Chinese getting to Ireland first and getting a firm grip of the place before the Indians eventually came to our shores.

“I’ll have a Vindalloo” would usually be my instinctive request if I ever found myself at an Indian takeaway as drunk as a wino on Dole Day. I had a brief look at the menu though, and was overwhelmed with the numbers. Options 1 through 60 all looked the same to me until I caught glimpse of the big notice underneath the conventional menu which offered a Doner Kebab roll and can of coke for €5. Yes please.

A half an hour passed and all my friends got their food – traditional Indian curries and the like. I was still sat there talking about cricket of all things to the sole member of staff. I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if Ali at the counter sent Mohammad in the kitchen over to the Istanbul across the road to get a few slices of Doner meat. During this time I wondered what the hell Doner meat was. I’m glad I was too drunk at the time (and probably still am) to even begin to comprehend just how little meat goes into this “meat”.

I eventually got my meal, and I use the term “meal” extremely lightly, perhaps to the point where I don’t even classify it as a meal and more so call it a challenge to the stomach. My stomach passed. Thusfar.

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Oxegen 09. Trip Report – Thurs/Friday

Filed Under: Drunken Stories, Film and Television
Jul.16, 2009

I’m back from the temporary bog that is currently Punchestown for almost 24 hours now and even though that should be ample time to recover and really appreciate the whole thing, I still can’t figure out and decide if it was the most breathtaking and electric weekend of my life, or if it was the most depressing and boring crock of shite that I’ll ever have the privilege of spending €250 to see. This blog will mostly be me trying desperately to recall the highs and the lows of the weekend and is more for my own benefit in helping me make heads and tails of the entire experience. Hopefully you might be able to muster up an awkward smile or chuckle at my expense at some point though.

The “fun” all started on Wednesday when I went into work and realised that I was rostered to be on until 5am which would be cutting it fairly tight to catch my 6am bus had I been ready to go but was borderline pisstake given that I hadn’t even found a bag to pack my stuff into! I managed to swap a shift with someone else which gave me a few hours packing time to play with but meant I was forced to pull an all-nighter on the eve of Oxegen. Probably not the best of starts I could have hoped for.

I just about managed to catch the 6am bus after spending my last moments at home desperately trying to transfer my chosen poisons for the weekend of Vodka and Buckfast into plastic bottles. Once on the bus I had to fight with myself to stay awake. An odd slap every so often to the face seemed to do the trick though. The journey did get that little bit easier to cope with once Gift Grub came on the radio with their Oxegen special and all the weather reports and commentary on the radio seemed to indicate that it would be a great weekend with little to no rain. I think I came off the bus with a smile as wide as my face, thinking my decision not to bring welly’s would be vindicated.

How little I knew.

While I was standing around in the freezing cold in Enniscorthy waiting for John to come chugging along in his overloaded Zafira, I thought back to a flyer that I saw in Waterford Bus Station which advertised a special offer of €10 return to Naas. “That could have been useful”, I thought to myself as I happily paid €10.80 for a single journey down the road. I really wished I opted to travel by bus the entire way when I saw John pull up in his people carrier that was practically bulging at the sides, like a fat child who gorged their way through 7 hamburgers, thanks to the tents, sleeping bags, clothes and beer that was packed inside it. I struggled to get into it and there was still 4 people left to clamber in!

If ever there was a moment where I honestly thought “fuck my life”, it was when I sat in the back of that car with a can of Tubourg practically half up my arse and a bag of cans falling onto my head every five minutes which always woke me up from whatever little sleep I was getting and meant I saw the two people in front of me with their tongues down each others throats. I nearly got sick.

Once we found our way to the venue (and believe me, it was no mean feat after passing through the same village three times), we looked for a suitable spot to set up camp. Thankfully – but at the same time frustratingly – one of the guys who I traveled with was a camping expert. I was thankful because I’d never pitched a tent in my life but frustrated because every prospective site we went to was inspected with Ray Mears-esque precision. We eventually set up shop a stones throw away from the Thursday Night Stage and the Xbox Live Stage. Hmmm, the site may have ticked all of Ray Mears’ boxes but his checklist obviously didn’t have anything that asked whether you have the slightest fucking hope of getting some sleep throughout the whole weekend! We were there to stay though as none of us fancied lugging our gear around for another 2 hours while watching him roll about the grass checking for thistles and shit.

As it transpires, pitching a tent is embarassingly easy.

Anyway, once we had our “settlement” up and running there was nothing left to do other than open up the cans, sit back, relax and wait for the music to start. First up was a 80s covers band from Germany. Hearing some of Rock and Rolls greatest ever productions being sung in a distinct German accent was a bit disappointing though, but a few cans later the sound of “Highway Star” was enough to draw me out from our makeshift courtyard with my 2L bottle of vodka and coke and into the chaos that was unfolding in the mosh pits in the field opposite us. I came back with my arms lovingly wrapped around my bottle which had somehow survived the madness unscathed which was more that could be said of my body that emerged with a cocktail of bruises.

On my meandering path back to my tent I couldn’t help but notice that a 6 man tent was being pitched across the way from us in what was a “No Camping Zone”. For some reason, I took particular offense to the fact that I couldn’t now walk straight from our tent to the stage and instead had to take a light detour around this gigantic tent. I figured that I should send them a friendly message… by running through their tent. It wasn’t pegged down, so I thought that I could run straight through it. I’m pretty sure it will materialise as a video on YouTube in the near future, but basically I sprinted across the road and jumped into the front of the tent in the hopes that I’d carry on and come out the other side. Unfortunately for me, there was someone on the other side of the canvas and and I just bounced off them and sent them flying. I stumbled away without a clue of what to do because I didn’t for a second think my plan would fail. There was some awkward moments as I first claimed I couldn’t see the tent due to it blending in with the grass and then changed my story to simply wanting to come over and make an entrance and say hello. We shook hands and somehow I was off the hook. We were to receive poetic justice a few nights later though…

The rest of the tribute bands were pretty decent. There was an AC/DC band that did a great cover of “Let There Be Rock” that once again saw me in the middle of some madness with my bottle of drink being clung onto for dear life! Later on there was a strange band that was playing hip-hop and rap songs from the 90s. Rocking out to an all-white band who are pumping out the likes of MC Hammer with disturbing accuracy was pretty entertaining, not to mention surreal!

When that was all finished, we went off to the fun fair where I haggled with this girl who was selling tickets to a ride she didn’t want to go on. I kind of shot myself in the foot when it turned out that no-one I was with wanted to go on it either! My bottle had very obviously depleted at this stage as I not only went on it twice by myself, but then went and spent another €10 to go on it again. I’m such a weirdo. I can’t really remember how I got back to my tent but was somehow perplexed by how I managed to neatly fold my clothes and put them in the corner yet can’t remember how the fuck I got back to my tent!

I didn’t have time to worry about such anomalies though because it was Friday and it was an early start! The first band I wanted to see was God Is An Astronaut, who were playing in the Green Spheres tent. I wanted to get there early and ended up catching the last 20 minutes or so of the Dirty Epics set. They’re a fun little band who I’ve seen play in the Forum in Waterford a few times before. They play infectiously catchy indie pop songs and try their best to get the crowd going, which is more that can be said for some of the other bands who were playing over the course of the weekend! I managed to wriggle my way up to the front for God Is An Astronaut and they didn’t fail to impress. I’m pretty terrible at remembering the names of songs of sets so all I can say was that I was blown away. It served as the perfect gig to pump me up for the rest of the weekend and I came out of that tent thinking that not even the rain was going to get in the way of me enjoying it! Is it too far-fetched to suggest that this unstoppable feeling that God Is An Astronaut brainwashed into me was what kept me away from the Welly Exchange stall??

Our next stop was over to see James play on the Main Stage. All of their songs seemed pretty alien to me and because we were over to the very right of the stage, sound was quite patchy and the volume ultimately depended on what direction the wind decided to blow in. I was told that they were some big band in the 90s but it wasn’t until they played Come Sit Down that I started to get into it. It also happened to be one of their last songs so it was one of the less enthusiastic performances that I saw over the weekend but they’re a great band to kill time with… if that’s of any compliment at all. It probably isn’t though. I also thought they were a bit gay. Just an observation.

I then went exploring and happened across Therapy? who were playing on the O2 Stage. I only caught the last twenty minutes of their show but I immediately wish that I had told James to fuck off and left earlier to catch the entire show. I hadn’t listened to much of their stuff in quite some time and admittedly a lot of the stuff outside of Troublegum would be as familiar to me as a fist up my nose. I tried my best to fit in around the hardcore fans by humming riffs every now and again as I shimmied my way as close to the front as I could. I’m actually surprised at how well this worked throughout the entire weekend. I shimmied my way to the front of pretty much every act I saw and no-one seemed to mind. Of course when I did get up near the front I’d have nearly bitten the ear off anyone who even dared get past me!

I caught some of Lily Allen on my way back across the arena but told myself that I’d only stay and watch if she was either having some kind of wardrobe malfunction. She wasn’t. I managed to catch the last few minutes of Fight Like Apes who were playing to a pretty full tent. I know that the pissing rain probably had something to do with some smaller bands playing to massive crowds. Fight Like Apes are basically Ireland’s answer to the plethora of electro-indie bands that have been imported across the shores over the years. I really did enjoy what I saw of the gig and was surprised that even people near the back knew the words to the songs. I was creeping around back there in anticipation of Mogwai who were due to play right after.

To express how disappointed I was with Mogwai, I think I’ll talk a bit more about Fight Like Apes, the band I only saw because I wanted to be early for Mogwai. I think they have a very bright future ahead of them. Their music is catchy and upbeat but if I’m allowed one word of criticism it’s that they try a bit too hard to be “random”. I’m all for getting the crowd going but they all they achieve by climbing scaffolding and banging chairs off barriers is distract us from their music – which is quite good.

It was around this time that I had to use one of the toilets. I had managed to get over to the arena when it opened at the beginning of the day when I had to use the ATM. They were spotless then but fast forward 7 hours and take into account that the only food that could be bought comprised of nothing but fat and grease and you have a completely different story. I decided my best course of action was to just queue up behind a girl. Guys only use Portaloos for one reason, and it’s never pretty! My hypothesis was somewhat proven when I saw a guy come out with a big dirty grin on his face and have a girl go in after. Within seconds she ran out and got sick all over the ground! The girl in front of me was armed with bleach and baby wipes, so I was safe as houses. I did leave with a big grin on my face though. God only knows what happened to the poor soul who went in after…

All that was left to do for the night was try get in a good spot for the two headlining bands, Blur and Snow Patrol. Snow Patrol were up first and it was the third best gig I’ve ever seen (right after Tool in the Point in 2006 and God is an Astronaut in Electric Avenue last year). The atmosphere was electric with the entire arena packed with every single fan singing along to every song. I was so caught up in the experience that I even threw a girl up on my shoulders and somehow managed to not drop her even though she was trying her hardest to kill us both. As for Blur, I was torn between seeing them or 2 Many DJ’s. I’ll admit that I was more of an Oasis man during the 90s but the very fact that this could be my only opportunity to see Blur live meant that I chose to stick around. I wasn’t disappointed.

On our way back to our tent we were absolutely gutted to find that someone had set up a tent in the 4ft wide empty square in front of us. Just like that our courtyard was ruined. When we woke up the next morning though, the occupants were to give us all the biggest surprise of the weekend…

(Jesus this is a long post, I’ll try have Sat and Sun’s blog up soon)

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Cocktails – Bad Idea!

Filed Under: Drunken Stories
Oct.13, 2008

Yesterday morning was one of those days where I vowed never to touch a drop of alcohol again. With bloodshot eyes and with what felt like a hammer pounding against my head, I somehow stumbled into the chaos and madness of work for a torturous 8 hour stint. It wasn’t meant to be like that though! I wasn’t meant to meander back to my house at 4am and cling to my covers for dear life, for fear of falling! Oh no, I had it planned all differently; a few drinks back at the house, followed by maybe one or two when I went out. I don’t roll that way.

I had tonnes of drink left from a small house party earlier in the week and found a website called WebTender, where you simply select what “ingredients” you have and it lists all the possible drinks you can make! Some experimentation was in order and the ensuing hours consisted of me knocking back all manner of magical concoctions! I felt fine when we (thought it was imperative to point out I wasn’t drinking alone!) left the house, well, certainly better than I would have felt had I been drinking cans!

Cocktails have a way of making you forget though. They make you forget just how many you’ve had to drink and they make it all to easy to forget that they’re absolutely laced with alcohol!! One of the nicest ones I “sampled” had double shots of Vodka and Southern Comfort and was topped off with milk! It tasted like those old Mily Ice Lollies that were around years a go. So when I arrived at the forum, I was under the illusion that I didn’t have much to drink! So in what originally started as a way to save some money and try new drinks, quickly turned into a one-tonne night!

Pizza and Vomit. The only two things I remember after the forum closed. I remember the pizza because there was evidence of the meal deal I had bought beside my bed when I woke up… and stood in it! I remember the vomit because I tried to login and blog. Trying to focus your vision on something when all it wants to do is make everything blurry and distorted isn’t a smart thing to do. Even in my dunken stupor, it only took two visits to my good friend, the toilet bowl, to realise that blogging wasn’t happening.

Yesterday morning was one of those days where I vowed never to touch a drop of alcohol again. I’ll see you out next week!

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Race to the Ribena – A drinking game

Filed Under: Drunken Stories
Sep.03, 2008

Haven’t had the chance to update this in a long time because I’ve been working my cotton socks off! I have one day left to work in what’s become an 8 day working week! When I’m not working, I’m trying my hardest to enjoy what precious spare time I have which usually ends up with me in a pub of some shape or form. Last night I dedicated my time to the cause of Tequila… it made be happy but not before almost throwing up on everyone in a fun new drinking game that I call “Race to the Ribena”.

It all started when I saw Barry with 2 shots of tequila… all for himself, so I decided to make things interesting by buying four shots of tequila, three for me, one for him and see who could down them first! Two guys downing tequila for nothing more than pride is pretty much a text book case of degenerate alcoholism, so in order to make it all acceptable, there had to be a prize! A lonely looking pint glass of Ribena was in the middle of the table and so the drinking game “Race to the Ribena” was born. The only thing that stood in our way were hurdles… hurdles of tequila that is!

I personally think it’s an ideal drinking game – the winner is rewarded with the one thing that will stop them getting sick while the loser is left there gagging, much to the entertainment of the onlookers! Why not try it yourself? In fact, why stop at three shots of tequila? I’d almost pay to see footage of people attempting something like 5 shots!

Oh and for the record, I won the inaugural event! :)

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