Between weekends

The weekend before the one that ended yesterday started wonderfully. On that Friday we went to Finbar’s for dinner. Finbar’s is, yes, an Irish pub, more of a gastropub than a pub. They do Guinness and Kilkenny and Caffrey’s and all. Anyway, I usually avoid it because it gets dark and loud and pointless as evening progresses. Not on that Friday. We went in fancy dress, because it was a fancy dress party, and after dinner it transpired that

  1. the DJ was one hell of a DJ;
  2. the place was full of Brits and Europeans (are Brits Europeans? no, if you ask — most of — them): fun and non-stop dancing guaranteed
  3. we had just had excellent food for dinner

Then the dancing commenced. Then One of the Seven strategically joined. Then there was dancing and merriment. Then this guy won a prize for his fancy dress,

bob is alive

although to me it is evident he is Bob himself back from the dead. Then there was more merriment into the wee hours, with every free quasi-horizontal surface being used for the purpose of dancing, as dancing on the bar below illustrates:


We eventually decided to leave because our feet and legs and all were sore but the DJ would not let us.

The following day we went to Aerosol and we had a crappy time not so much because nobody wanted to do anything, but mainly because Jod spent a couple of hours trying to get all of us to go somewhere. Which was unpleasant both for her and me. We stayed in a low for the whole week, that of the ‘what are we doing here’ / ‘where are our friends’ / ‘why is it so bloody hard to have fun here’ sort.

Now, last Friday we went to a birthday dinner party. It was the sum of all the nightmarish dinners, pub crawls and parties in the Outpost: guests criticising the choice of place and food in front of the birthday boy, while ignoring him completely. Rude self-absorbed guests shouting at waiters, guests complaining about “that music” that gave them back their morning headache, the birthday boy in utter loneliness, sad 40-somethings staring ahead into the emptiness and rude 30-somethings making their presence manifest by being callous and X-somethings too absorbed into text messaging… but we left early.

We had booked a table for Old V’s indoor gig. Jod’s beautician (i.e. a normal person who can have fun) and boyfriend joined us. Now, a disclaimer: Old V is a Compatrido rocker who could be my father. He has identified himself with the Communist Party (from when they were the allegedly cool revolutionary guys) so closely, I have allergic reaction reflexes towards most of his songs and him as a, you know, presence. All that until last Friday. Because the gig was great. You know what they say, real rock ‘n’ roll is live rock ‘n’ roll. Well, it’s true: I would still be very frugal in buying any of his CDs, I can’t say he made me love his songs, but I would go back to a live of his: he is a great, self-sarcastic performer who really rocks.

blue v

jumping jack v


Yesterday we went for fish. We stopped on the seaside and we flew a kite. The kite met its end here.

turtle beach


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