Gator's Aid

Tuesday, February 24, 2004

It seems that I start each one of these missives with an effusive apology for the absence of timely updates. Knowing myself, as I do, I cannot either pretend or promise that this will not recur. Therefore, in the interests of temporal economy (time saving, stupid!) I shall offer an all purpose apology, to which long-suffering readers shall be referred to in future overdue editions of this blathering journal. (If Vitus shows me how, I might even be able to create a link to the apology and back, because technology does things like that, or so I'm told!) Furthermore, in the interests of even more temporal economy, I shall incude generic apologies for my behaviour while under the influence and other stressful occasions such as those caused by the excess of blood in my alcohol stream. Thusly, those who feel in any way slighted by my person can log on and obtain an automatic, sincere and personal mea culpa from which they can select the relevant bits and print out with aview to framing and hanging behind their respective toilet bowls at home. By the way, for those of you in Norway, Love Story and countless others, an apology does not lift a ban from frequenting the bar. (My lawyer told me to stick in that last bit. So, that all said in a characteristically clean, crisp and concise manner, here goes:

"To whom it may concern:

I, Ali Visserman, modestly otherwise known as; 'gator, Papi, oom Ali, and God, to my knowledge, as well as a plethora of names bandied about behind my back (which I shall not list here for lack of space and censorial concerns), hereby duly, humbly, sincerely, unconditionally (see preamble), immediately and retroactively deeply regret, recant, repent, apologise and beg forgiveness upon bended knee (not to be confused with the other bended knee incident, somewhere in the archives, October 2002) to _______________________________ (insert name or names here, unless you are a John, Sergio or Ashley...in your cases I really meant it!) for any past, present or future insult, objection, offense, stress, PMS, mental anguish, psychological harm, anger, ire, nervousness, anxiety, religion, impotence, lack of appertite, loss of desire to drink (perish the thought), substance addiction, deviant sexual behaviour (does not include MFF), or a craving for Michael Jackson (a whole another category of deviant sexual behaviour) caused by any, and any possible combination of, real or imagined actions, words, thoughts and looks, (or the lack of any of the foregoing):

For getting drunk;
For getting drunk with intent;
For getting drunk negligently;
For getting drunk and drinking bad vodka;
For getting drunk and insulting your stupid football/rugby/baseball or any other sports team;
For getting drunkand reminding everybody that you are an American;
For getting drunk and loudly lecturing on the cons of being an American;
For getting drunk and ditto other nationalities;
For getting drunk and ridiculing your race, creed or politics;
For getting drunk and loudly pointing out that you have jug-handle ears;
For getting drunk and loudly pointing out that you have eyes like piss-holes in the snow;
For getting drunk and loudly pointing out any other grotesque (or miniscule) physical proclivity;
For getting drunk and jumping down your throat at every ignorant, assinine, puerile, idiotic, uninformed and unfunny comment, statement or joke;
For getting drunk and reminding everyone that it is your round;
For getting drunk and horny;
For getting drunk and telling lewd, sexist jokes;
For getting drunk and telling politically incorrect jokes;
For getting drunk and drooling upon perky mammary glands;
For getting drunk and fondling or trying to fondle said glands;
For getting drunk and fondling shapely glutei maximi (any Latin scholars out there?)
For getting drunk and suggesting that her clothes would look better crumpled up on the floor next to my bed;
For getting drunk and being parsimonious with foreplay;
For getting drunk and falling asleep on the job;
For getting drunk and, when I'm done, wishing she'd turn into an Absolut and a pack of Marlboros;
For not getting drunk;
For not getting drunk in conjunction with all of the above;
For not updating the blog.

Other conditions may apply. Please see overleaf."

Phew...I'm glad that's now out of the way!

So, I guess I managed to avoid telling you about the goings on (and off) for a while with the above diatribe. But nothing can be put off indefinitely.

First, let's tackle the story of Our Lady of Eternal Vigil, the erstwhile Child Bride. In a fit of uncharacteristic deference to my personal freedom, and egged on not just a little by Germana, the little one decided to inflict herself on the hapless Britons for a while. Ignoring minor details such as enrolling at the language school, obtaining the appropriate visas, or sorting out accomodation upon arrival, she tackled the one overbearingly serious issue; she retired to the beach for ten days to top up her tan, just before her travel date. It will stand her in good stead in the sub-zero temperatures of wintry London, swathed head-to-toe under the multiple layers of clothing. To my enormous relief, multiple farewell parties, dinners and barbecues, help and encouragement from likely and unlikely sources, declarations of undying frienship from all and sundry did not sway her resolve to leave.

On the day, the would be refugee alighted at the Varig check-in with numerous volumes of overweight luggage which she managed to get whisked through with an innocent flutter of her eye-lashes. The check-in was all done before I could even park the car. After a few classes of claret and a minor anxiety attack at the airport bar, reluctantly she headed to passport control.

Sensibly dressed for the benefit of immigration officers at Heathrow, a waiflike figure, far too small for her rucksack, she walked ahead, eyes aswim, stomach knotted, turning to wave goodbye at every other step as she disappeared down the lane reserved for flight crews. Same thing all over again, plus a reddish embarrased look, and down the passenger lane. Copious waves and blown kisses, and then she was gone. I'd thought I would go to the airport and get myself a pair of wings, but I must admit, I was more than a little sad as I drove back to a here-to-fore unimaginable unsupervised night at the bar. A word of warning to the hapless, unsuspecting inhabitants of London Town. There is a ninja amongst you, beautifully packaged but capable moving objects a thousand times her bodyweight with nary a glance. As for the ladies-in-waiting around these parts, I have only one thing to say: The corner stool is empty.

Our ninja is not the only one that is leaving these shores. Karl D'Mello, a.k.a. Caramello, a shameless London-red also has departed, having hung on to the bitter end, ending the seven year reign of the telecoms contractors, which he started, together with the likes of our favourite Makam, Andy Thorpe (tee hee!), Blind Ronnie (I Knew Jim Baxter)Woodcock and Gerry Talbot, amongst others. Now only his Bobness is still around and under the thumb!

Our very own gaycop, try scorer extraordinaire and the biggest exponent of his own achievements, Mark Draycott has also decided that the challenge of being the Chairman-of-the-Board at CSG Global is unequal to the Metropolitan Police, where he intends to go back on the beat after a five year career break. At least PC Plod will have Josy to come home to everynight. They are not getting married, of course not, perish the thought. Does anyone know of a "sort-of-serious-girlfriend-but-not-a-fiancee" visa? If so, please e-mail markdraycott@yahoo.com! She is going to live in Catford because, well, if they have a tiff, she can just pop over to her Mom's somewhere in the Amazon! Right. Mark, smell the coffee, son; you are history.

Talking of history, another erstwhile O'Malley's manager...or should I say manageur?...also a Marc, the little frog, young bull, Asterix, the raffish Gaul, whatever, is also tying the knot, date set for June 12th although it has been put back a few times already. Congratulations to Judy for her steadfastness and resolve in getting her mission accomplished deep in enemy territory. I will be there to see this event with mine own eyes!

The moral of the story is that if you don't want to get spliced, don't be a manager at O'Malley's. Is that not right, Billzinho?

Not everything is one way and away, mind. Tim Vaas, much loved big Dutchman from upstate New York will be heading this way for St. Patrick's Day to get his quota of greens, after a few years of forced absence. I'll put the one on ice for you, big guy. Jeff Gardner, to whom all may complain about their electricity bills, will also be coming down for St. Patrick's, but unlike Tim who is coming to get his fill, Jeff will be looking for a reverse action. How are condom futures trading nowadays? Obviously, Murphy's Law will also be here for the festivities.

Then there is a rumour that Tony "Basher" Davies might be coming to retire in Brazil, the old bastard.

I'll reserve a whole episode for the Johns soon, including police action, fire brigades, ambulances and other sorts of flashing lights all over the place. Little is in Oslo for a month and under the thumb; Magda decided to invigilate at close quarters so the poor sod can't even play away anymore. Big is in and out (of the country, of course) deciding where to take a few years of R&R.; Tough life. The next edition will have a full section on Graham too! By the way, a happy birthday to Graham, Andy Hague out there in the sticks, Rafael and his mulatas, and last and, well, probably least, to O'Malley's which completed 74 years on the first Tuesday of February. (That is seven years that I own it and four as O'Malley's.)

Thanks for the whiskies, Sem, fat bastard!

Later,

Gator

gator 11:04 PM

Friday, September 19, 2003

I am in debt with the rest of humanity for the tardiness of this little post. It has been two and a half months of radio silence which most of you do not deserve. (Some of you do, but that is entirely another problem.) In my defense, I can claim that in the whole two and a half month period, I have had only one Johnless week. For the rest of the period, Big and Little have co-ordinated their comings and goings (feel free to interpret) to ensure that I got man-to-man coverage, involving, as you know, copious consumption of Absolut on the one hand and ous consumption of whatever Big thinks will ease him along the way, from his car to his bed, without a four hour snooze on the garage floor. As the designated drinker that accompanies any disfunctional punter on a binge, I got co-opted into a nine week frenzy, what with Magda gone, 'From Russia With Love', start drinking early so I fall over early so I can make it to work tomorrow, why would you be drinking Cuba Lights when I can cram a few Absoluts down your face, and all the other reasons which seemed perfectly logical at the time.

At the moment, Little is gone but Big is back with a thirst on him and to make matters worse, Little was on the wagon for a few before his meeting with Betty Ford in California, so I daresay he will have a thirst on him to when he arrives sometime this weekend. If the yanks don't arrest him for his shoes or something and introduce him to his new girlfriend Leroy in the Folsom County Jail. That would be a disaster...even Johnny Case who could have sung Little's potential jailhouse woes has departed the quick and was last seen doing a duet with Elvis at St. Peter's Grand Opry.

On the other front, Number One Ex, the former CB, is being her usual relentless ninja vigilante self to ensure that I get absolutely none from anyone, resorting to guerilla tactics to discourage anything remotely female and under the age of Mother Teresa from coming to within a country mile of my starved personage. All that with a sweet, innocent little smile. So much for my affair with Patricia! Indeed. I would appreciate, nay, remunerate anyone out there could find her work starting early every morning or starting a fair distance from Brazil, so that I might get my breath back.

A few scraps of news if you will, from here and there;

Tina (Hacking, as in Doug & Tina) appears to have opened a shop, parlour, lounge, café, artsy-fartsy kitsch with dollops of karma thingie in Mexico City. There are no reports of Dougie having been caught smiling! Good luck, Teen!

We had a visit also from our other Mexican embedded family, this time from Guadalajara; Karla with a K (and a pair of other things), with Jürgen and Johan (I prefer the Dutch spelling, sorry K) in tow, graced our evenings with with her usual ebullient charm.

Congrats also to John-a-than on Mari's new pad. It is a beautiful apartment and it was a loverly housewarming with loverly snacks, copious beer and behaviour being marshalled by Mari herself.

We had a flying visit again, from that grand (word chosen carefully) purveyor of fine single malt whiskies, Sem Davies, and his little friend Chris (shaping up nicely as a purveyor of fine bourbons; cheers, Chris). This will have led to a binge, you may say, but you were on one anyway, so what's the problem? Well, you remember the bit about Little being on the wagon for a few days? So, now guess exactly when Sem and his little ward were here. Correct. Yet another step towards my retirement at Chirrosis-by-the-Sea.

The horizon holds more dark clouds as my 46th hurtles toward me at a rate of knots, bringing in its wake, the Stupid Mexican (Yes, it is Gabe) and Garfield 'the Scrooge' Ogilvie. Garf is that famous deep pockets man. Unfortunately the arms are wee bit short. Would have made a great Scot! Rumours indeed, that our very own and favourite consumer of cold beverages, Tim Vaas might also be here after a prolonged absence. I still miss those evening sat outside O'Malley's, gazing at the moon as sponsored by Heineken, while discussing Carthesian philosophy with the big Dutchman.

Now, since the last missive, the helm at the kitchen has changed hands a couple of times, moving from Gallic (FROG) to Skando (that was the shortlived Dane) to Eye-tie-American, the famous Felzi with his famous temper and his new and gorgeous wife Geovanna. Felzi will explore the limits of Irish-Italian cooking, so we are all looking out for noodles in the Irish stew. He will not repeat the experimental apple pie with oregano.

Joking aside, Felzi dreamt up a wonderful meal, for a wonderful occasion, the 50th birthday of Chris, (a.k.a. Thin Bastard) now also an Old Bastard. With the patio decked out like a posh restaurant, an incredible mish mash of wonderful people had a tremendous amount of fun. The Bastard family was largely present, including American Bastard, Bastard and Big Bastard. Little Bastard however is lost to the world, probably trying to trade in his sixteen year-old girlfriend for two of eight.

Talking of the Bastards, Big Bastard, our very own Peter Gordon won the pool tournament recently organised by Kieran Gartlan of Gringoes.com. He is still complaining that the cue that he won didn't have a tip. He must be odds on favourite for the O'Malley's triathlon. That would be, for those able-bodied endurance sportsmen who can take the punishment, a tournament where athletes need to compete in pool, darts and backgammon. Gentlemen (and gentlewomen), start limbering up!

Oh, and that most likely trio of Vitus the Viking, Alek the Croat and Hector the Horrible are now living under the same roof. Two great parties but the Lord have mercy upon us! Ash the Bash did well to stay out of that one! Needless to say, Hec will be playing sweet, melodious music, now that the V-man is in charge of the motley crew of a Sunday evening band, Toil'n'Trouble. If you don't like music, show up on a Sunday evening. If you DO like music, there's a great little blues band on, on Mondays! (gotta do a little advertising, right!?)

This was a bumperish issue. Even if it wasn't, I'm signing off because a terrible thirst has taken hold of me. Need to get a couple in before Big comes in and obliges me to drink! Tough life.

Later

Gator

gator 7:39 PM

Wednesday, July 02, 2003

Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose, as they say in the better parts of County Cork. The usual suspects have, like fireflies about a campfire, gadded about in a mad frenzy to end up in pretty much the same shape as they were in the last time I had the occasion to check in with you.

Congratulations, first of all to Billzinho and Elaine for the first birthday of their loverly daughter Isabella and thanks, Bill for the free beer and grub at the party. Carl?o managed to take three hundred pictures so those that did not attend can cure insomnia just flicking through the pics.

Congratulations also to our favourite Dane bar some, Vitus the Viking, (incidentally, the only man capable of challenging Carl?o in the number of photographs taken per minute...although the V-Man cheats; his are digital pics...) Alek J, our favourite Croat (we don't know any others) and Hector, nobodys favourite anything (we don't know any others, thank God), for their move into new residences somewhere near the Paraguayan border. The enterprising among you might provide them with a transfer service to O'Malley's and make a fortune. Congratulations, also to Carsten, the V-Man's raison d´être (father, stupid!) for birthday and retirement. Apparently the craic was ninety!

Seeing as this is turning somewhat into a village paper where everyone gets a mention, let's get a few more in...
Congrats, Cris & Joe Koch for the wedding anniversary...it is a surprise to us all too!
Congrats, our feisty friend Lee Morgan who managed another birthday without being shot,
Congrats, Mark Gaycop, birthday, and may the Force never be with you,
Congrats, Sara & Sarah, never knew which was which, but I believe that the drunkenness was attributed to someone's birthday...
Congrats to one of ther O'Malley's brats, Yasmin on the birthday and christening...well, let's see if we can dilly dally on the subject for a second or two...

For those not in the know, Yasmin is the fortunate offspring, tyhe fruit of the loins of one John Ryan, a would-be spinster of this parish. Very nice, too, the party, with caterers galore, excellent barbecue and a wonderful buffet. Needless to mention the booze, seeing as we were where we were. Red and white wine flowing off the taps, whiskeys and spirits of the best but someone pinched my vodka with the gold leaf! Grand, it would all have been except for the errant uncle, although as the bard would have said, all is well that ends well.

Meanwhile the eponymous Little Antihero went off for another stint in the cold, this time without the pre-requisite Absolut and tabs. Seems to have been an easy sojourn.

Not quite so for our would be film star and platwright, young and prematurely balding Steve Payne. Apart from bringing down a bunch of Boks...one goodish...yes, that's you Donald, he managed to heed the rules of the Ryan household and was duly rewarded with an additional night's stay, courtesy of Big John who hid the poor boy's passport, ticket and luggage. I hope that jobs as good as his are easy to find.

More from Steve's trip in a few. My thirst is building up!

Later
gator 7:33 PM

Wednesday, June 04, 2003

Well, I did sit down and write heaps last week or the week before, but the bleeding computer crashed with my wonderful output unsaved. You all know how annoying that is! I had to sulk for a good few days before getting down to brass tacks and writing again. The artistic spirit is fickle at the best of times, I am told. What that has to do with me, I haven't the slightest!

So, now I am left with a longer than usual length of time for which to forage what I laughingly call a brain for memorable moments of mirthful merriment that might be of interest to you useless bunch out there. After all, why can't you remember your own stuff?

Why can't you remember our anti-hero going off to Skandinavia for what he calls work for a few weeks. And the fact that he managed to get himself into trouble there too! Can't blame him for a lack of iniciative, of course. The boy decided that excise in Norway was far too stiff for his taste, as modified by Brazil and its miniscule prices. So, why not do like a boy scout and be prepared? The man we all love to hate took off with a few thousand fags (that is cigarettes to you Americans) and approximately a gallon (Imperial, not that I give a rat's arse) of Absolut, all for personal consumption within the confines of coldness in Oslo. Those of us here, familiar with his capacity for vodka and fags, not to mention his craving to fill that capacity, of course, know that he was under-stocked for a three week sojourn.The Norwegian authorities either didn't recognise this in our wee John, or they were shopping for their own party. So, hefty fine, confiscation and three weeks of expensive booze and smokes. The sad thing, though, is that it is cheaper to ship in the vodka from Sweden, import it into Brazil with all the ludicrous Brazilian import taxes, pay retail mark-ups, shove it into a suitcase and take it back to Norway (which, for those of you in coma, is right next to Sweden) than to take it from next door. This must be exactly what they were looking for when they invented the Common Market!

You should also remember that my junior house-mate our favourite cop from Bromley, he whose helmet adorns the upstairs bar, is responsible for some serious heroics. This should actually not be mentioned on any media, because our Mark is already prone to fill himself up with himself, if you get my gist. The only standing fine at O'Malley's rugby, in fact is for mentioning any of Mark's unmentionable exploits on the field. (I think I got away with it that time!) Anyway, our hero comes home one evening to take off his newly acquired whistle (because he has a day job now, quite respectable and all, if you see what I mean!) And, for the yanks amongst you, a whistle isn't something you blow. Anyway, there he is, up the stairs and on the landing and suddenly a voice from his bedroom telling him to stick'em up, so stick'em up he does, gets led into my room, on the old knees but facing away, to his chagrin, hands over cash, wallet, car keys "Oh, please don't take my car, take Ali's Escort, you can fit more TVs and VCRs in it!" Believe that, the cheeky bastard. So, then he gets his hands tied behind his back, and is thrown face down onto my bed (source for nightmares for weeks...then I changed the sheets and it was allright again!) Your man the burglar is not impressed with the loot out of our Mark's pockets and he's only found the five quid watch that I use for refereeing rugby because all the good stuff was knocked of during my visit to the Ryan wedding in Limerick. (See below or archives for ample detail.) Clever bugger that he is, our man on the spot (and, man, on that bed, there are some seriously memorable spots!) suggests that the bank card might not work because it is after ten pm, so why not take guess whose DVD! Cheers again, mate! So the feller is psyching himself up for the DVD and the car as well as the watch, all mine now, mind, and then decides that this could put him on par with the Thomas Crown affair if he got (my) 33 inch TV too. So, why not, and, hey, if you are Thomas Crown, why not use your nouse and get the gringo that is haplessly prone on (my) bed to do the donkey work and help carry (my) telly downstairs and to (my) car? Simple, ain't it? So, after a mutual declaration of trust and friendship (on my bed, still, for crying out loud!) Thomas Crown unties our man and they start unpluging wires from (my) telly and (my) DVD. Our man, Slipper of the Yard, is straining to look and see where Thomas is packs his gun. Thomas threatens to draw by putting his hand to his belt above the back pocket of his jeans, but tight T shirt and all indicate bugger-all tucked in to the aforementioned belt. So, when finally faced with the inevitable task of hard work carrying (my) telly to (my) car, our boy snaps. He challenges Thomas Crown into showing the piece of requisite equipment for the job in hand. Upon discovering the absence of such requisite equipment, the boy kicks Thomas Crown down the stairs and up the road, catching up every now and then and laying in the boot as befits an officer trained for the Met.A foot chase (low budget production) across two major avenues, a couple of cute girls in a Cherokee try to run Thomas over (They fail but Mark did get their numbers, sorry Josy!). All this time, our boy is applying all he learned in training plus all his years of experience by shouting "Stop thief" at the top of his lungs, but apparently Thomas Crown is underimpressed, deaf or doesn't understand English, but finally, some vigilante in a delivery truck pulls up in front of Thomas, points a gun at him and tells him to lie down. When our heavy breather arrives on the scene, the Charles Bronson feller gets back into his delivery truck and is off like a jewish foreskin...sharpish. More Met training comes in handy as our boy applies the Order of the Boot to Thomas Crown whilst awaiting his Brasilian brethren to arrive on the scene. These arrive within seconds, and collaboration between the forces of the Met and the Brasilian Civil Police are raised another notch. Apparently graduated from the same school of police training, the Brasilian brethren do a modicum of shopping at Boots for their own account. Thomas Crown, it turns out, was out on day release for Mother's Day...this happened the day after Mother's Day. Unarmed, alone and having been in jail 'til less than 24 hours before, without having cased the joint, he decided to do a bit of burglary. Should be a candidate for the Darwin awards. Now, the question is, where the hell was our hero when they actually stole quite a lot? Bloody pigs!

I have a lot more to report but am getting thirsty, so later.
Gator
PS: SRAB.

gator 8:20 PM

Friday, April 25, 2003

Apparently there is no lack of drinking opportunities around this town. I thought that things may quieten down somewhat, after Patrick's Day and with the famiglia Ryan in Moscow, and all the hooligan expats expatriated. I thought I would have some time to dedicate to squash, honing this love machine of a body into total fighting fitness, but no! It was not to be. Someone invented Formula 1, cigarette advertising and all, and then someone else transferred Barry and Emer Griffin to HK after 10 years in the Big Smoke.

So, in came Sem, the Hood and Marcelo, stopping enroute from Cambridge to Detroit (no wonder these airlines are losing money...who the hell made those flight schedules?), John Burke from the Big Apple, Rob and Sarah, heretofore unbeknown to us, wafted in from Sout Efrika, yer man returned from the cold and made himself available for selection and to top it all off, John Byers, a right-footer only amongst his own, organised MOAPC. The Mother Of All Pub Crawls. (Thank you, dear departed Saddam, for the steadfast terminology!) This MOAPC was organised, and I use the term very, but very loosely, by Byers in honour of departing dear friends from Cork, the Griffins. Starting off at Corcoran's, we were to visit all the pseudo-Irish bars, throwing in an English pub into the mixture (why on earth.....?) and culminating at, wild guess, big stab in the dark, yes, you got it, O'Malley's. Well, Byers from County Down couldn't get his make-up on in time, so by the time that he delivered the honourees to the bar, the honourors were well on the way to getting pissed. But, a good thing about the Irish is that they don't feel obliged to stop drinking just because they are drunk. You can always find room for an extra pint of Guinness. "So, have another pint now, why wouldn't you?" It's the question at the end that kills me every time. I cannot answer it. "So, why wouldn't I then? I will." And there go another slew of the weaker brain cells, keeping the remainder fresh and fit. Anyway, I digress. Back to the Mother Of All Pub Crawls. Finally Byers delivered the precious cargo to the bar and drinking started with the full team in attendance. When the lights were doused and some crooner started singing youthful songs of my grandfathers era, the group, en masse, solved the answer to the shortest route between two points, and hastened to O'Malley's with nary a thought to the other pubs in the initial, well intentioned itinerary. The Mother Of All Pub Crawls was, to say the least, very short in distance, although the lack of shortage in the consumption of liquids did compensate for this shortness. If you see what I mean.

When the group crash-landed at the bar, Sem and his Drugstore Globetrotters were already in attendance, murdering Absoluts like they were going out of fashion. Guess what? Absoluts are endangered, so joined them for a few, thusly ending up in two rounds made up of seasoned old soaks. Memory fails me further on this Friday eve, but, apparently I got home; must have, that's where I woke up!

Hoping for an early one on Saturday, knowing that everyone had to get up early to go to the track was, as you will have gleaned by now, pathetically off the mark. "Stay awake, now, why wouldn't you?" Ducked out of the race, watched it on telly with Big John, who sent the missus there. Gaycop looked after the race-goers, not too well, as it happens. Poor Phil Dodd spent most of the race in the track medical centre, on an IV drip. From the look of him afterwards, the drip contained 100 proof poteen. And to maintain the good name of British sports fans, Lee apparently offered a knuckle sandwich to a driver. Not a Formula 1 driver, though, so it's all right. They all want to go again next year, so it must have been OK...except that poor driver that got a bit o'Bentley...or was that Morgan?

All this was followed by an obligatory two or three days of drinking, induced by that fat bastard, Sem, who called us out and away from our Bible studies, for a few quiet drinks because he was leaving the next day. So enthusiastically we celebrated his upcoming departure that the bastard got pissed and missed his flight the next morning. So, of course, a few drinks, because Sem is leaving tomorrow. Ha ha ha! It's dejá vú all over again. The bastard missed his flight again. He came here to spend four days, stayed seven and we spent three nights getting obliterated at his leaving do. Something wrong there somewhere. If I didn't know myself and the usual suspects better, I'd say that we were looking for excuses to get blitzed. Perish the thought. Just to keep the record going, Germana also managed to leave after three going away parties. We don't mind that. Unlike Sem she is cute and unlike Sem her friends are cute too! Good luck in London, Ge, and come back soon.

Anyway, all are safely back. The Spillmans, Rob and Sarah tested their wows quite comprehensively, Burke is safely back in New York and Detroit can thank O'Malley's for the state of Sem. Felicity, I hope you don't read this.

Nobody comes to the Big Smoke for Easter, so we had four days off, all and sundry departed to various corners of our world. Ryan packed wife, child, baby-sitter, dog, parrot and turtle off to Santa Cruz to celebrate Carmelita's birthday. So, with a bit of piece and quiet, I got quitely pissed every night.

Later,

Gator

PS: I know why you have read this far. You are dying to know, right. OK. Talking terms. Bye.

gator 5:45 PM

Wednesday, April 02, 2003

Been a while again. Some serious changes in the personal front. It is off. Can't go into it in too much detail as there are feelings to be considered. However, I am told that I tell a good, long story when explaining all under the influence.

In the meanwhile, the St. Patrick's Day rigmorale is over and Murphy's Law is safely back home. In Cork. Steve is back to London, Rohan and Brad are probably back in Brisbane, Russell is back in Jo'burg, Phil and Kenny are back in Amsterdam with their windfall from the races and I can at last settle down for a quiet Absolut or two with our homegrown drunks, rather than the imported kind.

I hope this link works, because the scoop contained therein might change the history of Ireland, nay, the world as we know it! Click on or go to http://www.vitus.org/omh and enjoy!

Later,
Gator
gator 4:55 PM

Monday, February 03, 2003

Well. it has been a while. Apparently one acquires a few new extra duties after getting engaged. What is this "dinner at home" stuff anyhow? I survived a whole 45 plus years without eating at home, I think I can stretch that to the grave without serious consequences (except the consequences of the grave itself, of course!). And what is theis mall thing all about? Guys, do you really have to take Blossom to the mall on a regular basis as a peace offering? Not smart and causes credit card meltdown as stated elsewhere in this window! And she now wants tennis lessons, English lessons, squash lessons as well as her regular lessons at school! Back in a few, have to take the Child Bride to see Dr. Bones!

gator
gator 2:58 PM

Thursday, January 02, 2003

It is indeed good to know that there are some people out there with even more idle time than me, and that they gainfully use that time to read this stuff. Hello there, Mike Bryars, long time no see! Jeff, Matt, John, hi there fellas. Sad, sad lives you all lead!

But lets get back to the soap! Yes, it is still on, despite some hazardous moments. There was a certain amount of lubrication needed, of course but Messrs. Visa and Mastercard took care of that. The child bride, it turns out, is a voracious shopper. I am actually suffering from credit card meltdown. And still reeling from the effects. To give you an example, we went into one store, to buy a pair of shoes for the waif. Shoes duly tried by the bakers dozen and finally selected after a fair bit of strutting in front of a mirror. In the time it took me to pay for the painstakingly selected pair, and therefore whilst my back was turned on her momentarily, she managed to select another pair of shoes and a handbag. In thirty seconds flat. I didn't dare turn my back when paying for the second lot. I sort of flicked Mr. Visa over the shoulder and looked the child bride down and away from the shelves. We also went to replace her mobile phone which had given up the ghost a while ago. Now, most of the time, you or I go to buy a phone, we sort of know what we want...200 memory positions; wow! Sends e-mails; great 6 day battery; yippee, and so on. Not so with my bride. Couldn't care less about SMS capability, memory, price or size. Colour screen, colour of the phone, and yes she did want to try three phones. Not for signal strength or clarity of voice. To see which one looked better in the mirror as she feigned a conversation on each. And, surprise, surprise, the one that looks best in her hand whilst posing in front of the mirror is the most expensive model available.

Anyway, I needed some serious alcohol therapy after the murder in the mall. It just so happens that Basher Davis is in town from Gothenberg in Sweden, reliving some of his past glory as a Mayflower boy, which must be a compliment to a man of 60 summers. He brought an apprentice with him, Mike, nice guy, more later. Basher batted a hefty yang to my ying and we drowned the shopping centre blues in Absolut, mine neat, his limed and sugared. Forgot the rest of that day but quite certain didn't propose to anyone. Must be learning a lesson of sorts. The next day, I think, but might have been the previous day, or any day, for that matter, Vitus popped in with the pater and mater as well as the inseparable Alek and Ashley. Mater nice lady and cannot be blamed for Vitus's looks. The father on the other hand has to take the whole blame, as Junior is the spitting image of Daddy, all the way down to the well groomed beer belly. And thanks a million for the lovely dinner at Vento BBQ. I hope you managed to get through the 720 beers at the beach!

Christmas eve and a fair few bevvies as the season deserves, followed by the excellent Christmas dinner on Christmas Day prepared by Luc, assisted by David Gilman, who tried and tried and tried but couldn't set the kitchen afire. Andy Hunt's rendition of the "Twelve Days of Christmas" alternative version will remain the low point of the day, despite the amusement factor. A flying visit by the ubiquotous Gino who coffed the pudding, collared some wine and port and left without paying! That's a real Italian for you!

On the feast of St. Stephen, (Absolut John's birthdat, happy birthday John!) the child bride and I, escorted by Basher Davis and Mike, trekked all the way to Búzios, to make camp with the Ryan legions assembled there. Poor Big John, all that way and no-one to play with! Well. we solved that problem! A bit too well, I should imagine, for after four nights copious drinking (cognac, of all things, for one whole night! Thanks for picking up that bill, Mike.) La Ryan was, I'm sure, quite happy to see the back of us, especially with the arrival of Vidette, BJ's sister, alterego and coordinator, to keep her company. At last count, there were Vidette, Petí, Beth, Yasmin, Paula, yes, that would be 5 women, and John. Poor fella. I should have sent the child bride back and stayed. Not for the tens and TDFs on the beaches and in town at night, of course, but out of a sense of solidarity with an outnumbered mate.

Couldn't. Child bride's birthday was the 30th (as was Videttes; happy birthday, Vid!) and we had to come back to a child bride party with child bride friends, lots of bubbly (cheers, Basher) and just about anything to drink, as long as it has a strawberry in it! Which ramped things up nicely for the New Year bash, well attended, fun night with absolutely anything to drink, with or without strawberries. Elliot Harman, ex-spinster of this parish and a sometime frequenter of gay clubs arrived bearing beans and tea and plied me with enough Absolut to float the Titanic. Therefore, New Year's Day was a bit of a wipeout. We had a few for Basher and Mike, now departed, and a bit of bubbly with Vitus pater and mater who also left to the cooler airs of Skando-Condo somewhere.

And, can you believe it? Alek caught the disease and got engaged! Poor bugger, better learn to hide that credit card!

Later
gator 4:53 PM

Monday, December 16, 2002

Now we will really find out if anyone out there reads this stuff. The main story of the day goes something like this:

It is Wednesday night, it is late, it is after football. There have been beers and there have been vodkas. There have been very little solids. My eyeballs are floating in the stuff. The ex, quasi, on-and-off-forever-but-we-are-not-talking-at-the-moment Lucy is sitting demurely at the bar, making sure, as she alone knows how, that I don't look at any of the exceptionally large number of tens that happen to be in tonight. Somewhere along the way, as we intensely ignore one another, a snide comment departs her pouting lips and dialogue is in the offing. So far, you might say, there isn't a lot of news here, it has happened, oh, some fifty plus times in the last five and a half years, so why bore us with all the guff? And, might I add, you would be right, had it all stopped around there, possibly rounded off with the conciliatory snog and afters. But, no! It was not to have the usual denouement. Because I, the killy sunt that I am, drop on a knee and pop the question. To make matters worse, the cow accepts! In three seconds flat. Not so much as a meat loaf of baby, let me sleep on it. The cheek of her!

In other words, after 45 years, 77 days and I was too pissed to count the hours, I have commited sui...sorry, I have committed myself to matriwhatsit, you know, the thing that your parents need to do before you are born so that other kids don't call you a bastard in the playground. (And, no, by the way, she is not preggers! Don't even go there.) I think I am expected to wear a ring. It will be on my nose, no doubt. It is all John Ryan's fault. After being out carousing with me all week, he abandoned me on the Wednesday and I led myself astray. This will cost you John! You will be blamed to the last penny of "Ali money" and beyond. Out with him again on Thursday, and the wedding was off. Didn't see him on Saturday and it is back on. Do you notice a pattern here? I do. I need to go out drinking with John more often. It would keep me out of trouble. Be a lot cheaper too. Just imagine paying for that wedding reception.

Hitched. Knotted. With ball and chain.Gone. History. What do we do now? Well, we need to set a date. I am aiming for 2007. Lucy is thinking more like a quarter past five. All suggestions for the stag night are welcome, all may be used. Venues need not be restricted to planet Earth.

Congrats to:
Lucy, obviously;
The All Black for their first birthday,
Freddie Kirkup, the birthday, not first, by a long shot, and sorry I didn't make the bbq but free Guinness at above party, nudge nudge;
oh, all right, congrats to me too, she is a lovely woman. Beautiful. Intelligent. Headstrong. Put up with me for five and a half years. Stupid, really. With all my goings on. Really stupid, in fact. I don't know why I would want to marry her!

Later,...... if there is a later.
gator 1:26 PM

Monday, December 09, 2002

If only I could remember most of the sh*t that goes on around here, to tell you all about it...
Unfortunately, there is a fatal combination of Chablis and Absolut of a Friday arvo that seems to knock the shirt term memory (is there any other kind? I can't remember!) to hell and back and before you can say "An Absolut on the rocks with a twist, please" it is already Monday morning, the mouth tastes of the newspaper left on the bottom of a parrot's cage, the brain is playing Bohemian Rhapsody backwards with the volume set at eleven (for you Spinal Tap fans) and there is a definite dread of opening an eye lest its gaze should come to rest on a body other than mine in the cess pit I laughingly call a bed.

A few things are slowly surging through the haze, however. The rugby boys did amazingly well on Saturday at the SPAC 7s tourney, winning all three games, including one against SPAC. Well done for that bit, boys! Unfortunately, on Sunday, after losing one game and while drawing the second one, some of our guest players from a neighbouring South American country which I shan't mention, but which is famous for its beef and tango, decided to go on a punchfest, resulting in their sending off, which led to aggressions to the ref by these caballeros, which in turn ensued in the abandonment of the match and the disqualification of O'Malley's (which therefore ended up in 8th place out of 16!) Shameful. There are a brace of boys that will not pull on an O'Malley's jersey again. We don't mind playing hard and we do turn the semi-myopic eye to Mark L. and his pecadilloes but the sport is about respect and offending and spitting on the ref who was, by the way, playing for the O'Malley's veterans seven, is just not on. While on the subject of rugby, a quick hello and goodbye to Nathan and Louise, Lee's friends and best excuse for staying out most of Saturday, despite protests from the same Nathan and Louise. What a guy, that Lee!

Another piece of information that is surfacing: Mark H. has sent an e-mail, indicating life and cranial activity. He seems to be doing well and sounds spirited, but with two broken legs, he won't be kicking much arse for a while. Viv is back, so go say hello at the Not All That Black! (And then, drag a few of their punters back to O'Malley's!)

Oh, yes! The thirteen stitches incident was apparently a pure accident. Just as well. They'd still be sewing had any malice been involved.

Jérôme and Vanessa did get married, or so it seems, but, put off by potential nagging, I gave it a wide berth. Seems that some eejit spilled some beans about the stag night, wherefore a few boys were apprehensive and a few others shit-scared. Don't let the front row find out who the henpecked stoolie is!

Our comiserations to Johnny Nauman on the passing of his mother Mavis at the age of 77. I was lucky enough to have been at lunch with Mavis two weeks ago and she was in good form and humour and holding her spirits well.

Has anyone heard from Jeff E.? Disa-bloody-peared!

I am beginning to remember too much of the wek-end at the moment, which would drive me to drink, so I will call it a day for now. Instead, I shall go and get creamed at squash by Graham. That will be ample payment for my sins..................NOT!
Later

gator 4:17 PM

Saturday, November 23, 2002

It has been a while, I do apologise, folks, for being a wee bit lazy in updating this thing. Not the most eventful of times but a few tidbits all the same. Big bash last night for Jérôme's stag night, including the usual unmentionables in double attendance, followed by a pub crawl, and a generalised visit to somewhere where you wouldn't meet Ryan O'Neal or Ali MacGraw despite the name... There seems a lot more in store for the wedding on the beach next week.

Meanwhile, Jeff E. and his gassy cohorts went to the Jubilee Ball and apparently were bored senseless despite a fair bit of drinking involved.

On the rugby front, Jeff G. came in for what he said was a business trip, cunningly planned to not coincide with any games in which he may have been useful, but fair play to the man, he kept his end up at the bar and participated in the general merriment as is his wont. A small raffle was also held, for the Leon Fund, in order to put the pieces in Leon's head in place. We are yet to discover if this is repairs for injuries sustained or if it is a belated attempt to correct deficiencies from birth! A big round of applause for Marks L and D and Matt who all put in a tremendous effort to raise the necessary cash. Any of you out there wanting to donate, please get in touch with any of the O'Malley's rugby group and they will separate you from your cash swiftly!

Thanks to the BA staff who managed to bring out the Ireland-Oz, England-All Blacks, Jocks-Boks and England-Oz tapes so quickly! Sunday 24th at 8:30, we'll be showing the Jock v the Boks followed by England v Oz.

On a sad note, Mark Hindmarsh of the All Black and his girlfriend Vivian were injured in a car crash in New Zeland last week. They do seem to be recovering after a number of delicate operations. We hope that they get well quickly and return soon to their rightful places in the second best pub in town!

Anyone who wants to leave comments about the delicate thirteen stitches, please feel Absolutely free to do so.

Later
gator 7:31 PM

Monday, November 11, 2002

Just rescued and retrieved from eternal oblivion due to committee structure of collective memory reconstruction exercises:

The disappearing 2 litre bottle of sake;
Abso-Dipso John trying to pick a fight with John Ryan;
Abso-Dipso told to stop wasting everyone's time and to smack his own face if he insisted on getting beaten up.
Abso-Dipso agreeing to this and doing so forcefully until bleeding occurs. (Conclusion: Abso-Dipso is an idiot!)
Ryan falling over on the way home and refusing to get up. The wife leaving him there quite happily. How quickly she is learning, that woman!

The glee on Mark Ledson's face bacause of the scar on Billzinho's cheek, the phyrric victory O'Malley's obtained during a 57-3 drubbing by Bandeirantes on Saturday, to bring the season to an end with a perfect 0-7 record. I guess it cannot get worse next year (unless they increase the number of teams playing). While on the subject of rugby, here's a hat trick for the northern hemisphere: Ireland, France and England beat their southern hemisphere opponents Australia, South Africa and New Zeland, respectively and on the same day, which must be a first! Don't suppose those lads in Limerick would have had a Guinness, now, do you?

Later
gator 3:34 PM

Thursday, November 07, 2002

Not too much later, apparently. Here is a report just in that proves that O'Malley's rugby and its players are making news the whole world over. The Associated Press newsflash below and then the personal account of the passenger, one Nad Chaudhry, spinster of this parish, bon vivant extraordinaire, sometime flanker and...well, get to the end and I'll tell you.

(11/7/02 - Norfolk, Virginia) -- Passengers on a flight to Boston that was diverted to Virginia arrived at Logan Airport early this morning. An American Airlines plane landed in Norfolk, Virginia, at 3:35 p.m. yesterday after passengers complained of a suspicious smell and sound. The plane was intercepted by two air national guard jets and escorted to Norfolk. Officials said no one was injured. Police and FBI agents accompanied by a bomb-sniffing dog boarded the plane. One man was arrested and a package confiscated, but no details have been made public. Passengers said the man offered no resistance to authorities. The flight which had originated in the Dominican Republic with 51 people aboard was grounded in Virginia, and another American Airlines aircraft flew the passengers on to Boston.
Copyright 2002 by The Associated Press and FOX Television Stations. All Rights Reserved.

In his own words:

"Lucky me as that was me! so there I was coming back from runing our new caribbean event, minding my own business watching the film. When the stewardess asked me if I could smell sulphur. I said no and they asked me a couple of times more and said if I had any bags etc. They wanted to know what my mini-discman was and I showed them that. They kept trying to see if they could smell something and occasionally you could smell some sort of cleaning agent but only maybe once/twice, basically nothing. Then the American Airlines crew decided that it was in their best interest to divert the plane to Virginia where we landed, being tailed by F16 fighters that roared overhead, onto a runway with fire trucks and hundreds of police cars and ambulances. It was all getting pretty exciting and we connected to the gate and the captain said we had to remain in our seats and the police and undercover agents boarded and came down the aisle with their guns on their holsters and stopped at me! Asked me to get out of my seat with my hands where they could see them, put me in an armlock, marched me out of the plane, past all the other passengers and then cuffed me and took me to an interview room.They then interviewed me first US Customs and then the FBI for about 7 hours in total and I had to give them the details of everyone I knew, school, university, work, conferences where I had been travelling. They were especially interested in the fact I had been to Pakistan in 2000 and why I had been travelling so much this year and that everytime it was for a wedding! They then took my clothes to be analysed and left me in my underwear - luckily I was wearing my cool new long calvin kleins! They also went through my laptop and asked for the passwords of some of the restricted work financial documents. The best bit was later when there was a big fuss about a receipt they found and they came and asked me "so tell us about the diesel?" so I tried not to laugh as I showed them my jeans and explained to them it's a brand of italian jeans. Finally as I had no business cards because I had just run out of them and they wanted to speak to someone from my company. But by this time it ws about 10pm so we couldn't get through to anyone in the Boston office and although I had already asked to make a phone call which they had sort of fudged me off. The customs office didnt do international phone calls, the FBI's mobiles weren't authroised for mobile phone calls either so we had to go to a payphone in the hall and use MY prepaid calling card to call Brazil and wake up my boss and get him to verify to the FBI who I was. Finally got back to Boston on a new plane and a few of the other passengers were asking me why they took me off and if I had said anything stupid. Then there were a load of tv cameras and some relatives of the other passengers.
I did a couple of interviews said they were a bit over the top and went home."

Well, Nad me boy, I am sure that you are totally bereft of sense of taste or smell, proven in front of dozens when you skulled three pints of beer, puked it into the jar and then proceeded to drink the puke. Those septics smelt the puke and took it for a fertilizer bomb. Change your perfume!

Later

gator 4:37 PM

Shiver me timbers, Blind Ronnie is alive and well, and well within reach of Thorpy, which does not augur well for the establishments that they frequent. For those of you that cannae or willnae remember, Blind Ronnie Woodcock, European Champion and Olympic gold-medallist in sleeping for Scotland and GB in singles, doubles, mixed doubles, indoors and out, was the first of the only two ever regulars of what then was Finnegan's to have his own pillow behind the bar, should he suddenly become bored with the conversation around him, or feel the need to lower his much abused eyelids to shield his eyes and mind from the sad vision of cheap booze, hot and cold flowing women and his colleagues bantering on about anything but Jim Baxter! Andrew Thorpe, the Tyneside terror, father of two, donated the Makam shirt that we proudly hang on our upstairs wall and which we wistfully regard while fondly reminiscing over his white wine induced rampages in nearby gay bars and clubs in search of someone small enough to bitchslap. So, a quick visit to our message board will prove that the both are indeed more quick than dead, living out the remainder of their sad little lives somewhere on either side of Hadrian's Wall (and, I must say, who cares which side?!?!) waiting for an opportunity to crowd these shores with their presence. Way aye, boys, and hoist a pint of stout for the likes of us and we'll do the same for ye, maybe!

The rest of you that actually have lives, remember that we have a busy Saturday ahead, what with the rugby against Billzinho's lot (that turncoat!), the Frogs against the Boks, the CTM dinner for a tenner and the birthday celebrations of the lovely Mariana and the lovely Josy. I hope they come in their birthday suits! And I hope that Jonathan and Mark don't kill me after reading this. Having said that, can Mark actually read? Any and all clues appreciated.

Later.
gator 4:20 PM

Wednesday, November 06, 2002

Glad to be able to report that after about ten days, life in the middle lane seems just fine for now and that I no longer have Guinness related nightmares and the follow-through phobia is gradually receding. There was a hiccup last week with the Hallowe'en party, when the little old non-smoker me drank a wee bit too much and got into an Absolut induced coma. Never mind, survived that too! The only bit of bad news in the horizon is that Big John is supposed to arrive back today and aftyer ten days with wife and baby only in the glens and dales of Jock country, he might have built up a bit of a thirst. I suggest that the weaker livered ones amongst you out there might hide for a few days.

But then, you will be out for the last match of our first season in the top flight of Brazilian rugby! This will be at SPAC at 3:30 on Saturday against Bandeirantes, where Billzinho will be playing against O'Malley's, shame on him, followed by a SPAC match, followed by France v South Africa on the TV with a chicken tikka massala and we are all set to celebrate Josy and Mari's birthday! Don't make plans for early Sunday morning!

Later.

gator 3:26 PM

Tuesday, October 29, 2002

Well, folks, I thought I would have a quiet week in Holland to make up for the excesses of the "O'Malley's in Exile - Limerick Chapter" week. I was mistaken. Very mistaken. Hetty (anyone remember?) Phil Rook (who came for the last Formula 1 weekend) and a few other friends from my Amsterdam days insisted on keeping the tempo to near Limerick standards, with the main difference being the price of stout! In Amsterdam, it is 4.50 euros, rather than the 3.50 we paid in Limerick. So, I reiterate: I want absolutely no complaints about the price of drinks at O'Malley's!

After four days on the razz in Amsterdam, my folks' 130th birthday party in some fancy castle in the south of Holland, within pissing distance of the German border. This gave my sisters and me the opportunity to piss on a few Krauts, just to keep the hand in and the tradition satisfied. Anyway, Papa Gator is 70, and I thought, well, here is my chance to get a few quiet days in, before it all starts again, back at home. Wrong on all counts again. The seventyish Viss Sr. seems to have been building up a bit of a thirst since I last saw him 18 months ago, and was in fine form. Between him and the gossip hungry sisters, not too much sleep again.

When the time came to head back, there were more surprises. The storms that hit Holland and England meant that I had to extend my stay by an additional day! So, a wee bit more of the same in Amsterdam...anyway, back home, which was burgled in my absence, and in the saddle again. I remember finally what women actually look like (had lunch at the Bar des Arts today!) and ready for the odd dram once squash is done with tonight. And then there is the Hallowe'en Party later this week, as if we really needed an excuse to get drunk! Slaínte.
gator 5:33 PM

Thursday, October 24, 2002

Anyway, where were we, minus the alcoholic haze which is still affecting what I laughingly call a brain? Oh, yes. The reception at the wedding. As one would expect, slowly the guests departed the scene after a mere 14 hours of solid drinking, leaving behind the jetsam and flotsam of humanity to close out the proceedings by annoying the hotel staff for drinks until breakfast, while toying away the hours with sexual innuendos that would never be fulfilled, mainly because everyone was far too drunk. This didn't stop Steve from trying to hit on three girls at the same time, nor did it prevent Vidette (John's sister) from getting a thorough foot massage. Sem, Ricky, Gabe, yours truly, Steve, Bruno (who did go missing for a wee while, but more of that later) and a few others including some ladies were present. I shall not mention their names in order to preserve their honour, the chivalrous so-and-so that I am. Gave in at six thirty am, a few stayed on. Don't care what they did.

The next day was the day of reckoning for most as the hotel got their comeuppance on the rowdy party by presenting the bills to the various participants. At this point it was discovered that Bruno's bill was being charged as a double for the last night of the sojourn. Insistent denials by the Ryan camp were stonewalled by the hotel staff. When finally asked how they knew that the room had double occupancy, the reply came swiftly: "He called the reception, asking for condoms at 11:30, p.m., Sir." Thanks Bruno, it just wouldn't have been the same without you!

Anyway, the bills settled, a ("Guinness, anyone?") drink at the hotel bar, another ("Guinness, anyone?") at Lena's and a quick run down to the Railway Arms where Lucy is still fondly remembered by the more geriatric members of staff and regulars for a quickie ("Guinness, anyone?") and we were off to see the Munster lads see off the pretentious froggies from Perpignan for a Heineken Cup match at Thomond Park. As can be expected, the group could not take the stand without a quick ("Heineken, anyone?") the the Old Bohemians bar at the ground. The game was great in the first half, scrappy in the second and the Munster boys could have put it away quickly but they too must have been breating in the alcohol fumes the Ryan party were exhaling, and took the whole 80 minutes to win narrowly. None of this could have been watched in peace, of course had the Ryan brothers, well instructed by Justin Sr., not brought along warious hip-flasks, attendant paraphernalia, whiskies and brandies, for general delection. Now, for those of you not steeped in rugby tradition, let it be said that one does not leave an occasion such as this to retire to one's quarters, to peruse the New Testament. One goes to the Temple itself, and the chosen Temple for the day was Willie Sexton's or, Willie Six's, as it is known around here. Willie, oft capped flanker for Ireland was himself behind the bar, pouring copious amounts of ("Guinness, anyone?") you know what! Various other Irish rugby luminaries of yore were quietly supping away and the Ryan party, still strong in numbers, felt duty bound to do the same. After a few hours of this, someone remembered that we had not eaten for approximately 24 hours, so Aubars was the unfortunate locale selected to suffer the drunken lot of us! A very nice meal washed down with ("Guinness, anyone?") aplenty, followed by shorts and longs and more ("Guinness, anyone?") and, finally, after a whole week, we saw some dazzlingly good looking colleens! They do exist! They probably were hidden away by their fathers who knew that the Ryan circus was coming to town!

If you do not believe me, have a look at the pictures taken by Vitus, the Omnipresent at http://www.aficionado.dk/ryan .

Great do, John and Peti, congratulations and all the happiness in the world to you, a pair of fresh kidneys to me, and off we go to Moscow for some more ("Vodka, anyone?").

gator 1:15 PM

Monday, October 21, 2002

O'Malley's in Exile; The Limerick notes: We have survived. God only knows how! First, a morning of pre-ceremony drinking, ("Oh, it's awright, lads, the bride is Brazilian, she'll still be at the hairdressers at 2 pm, so hows 'bout another round of Guinness?") which ensured that all males in the grooms party entered the church in a single file coming from the (great)Lena's Bar next door, under the evil glare of the bride and her bridesmaids who were kept waiting at the church door. Then, a wonderful ceremony which included boys from Murphy's Law providing the music in the ceremony and an Irish piper to show the way out. Highlight of the ceremony: the appointed and handsomely paid babysitters couldn't keep the lovely Yasmin Ryan quiet during the service but Godfather Gabe sprung into action and looked after her, keeping her quiet even as the piper was strangling the cat! The lowlight must go to Bruno, Peti's brother. In his speech in church, welcoming the two families, he announced the death of his and Peti's father as well as John's mother, the lovely Rita, who were both present at the ceremony and very much alive. Apparently the boy lost his speech, asked the padre for another and got one from another wedding. Without reading to get the meaning of what he was saying, he just substituted the names of his father and John's mother in place of the dead relatives of the earlier wedding party. That does deserve a prize of some sort. Later, after an obligatory hour or two at Lena's Bar ("Guinness, anyone?")the reception ("Guinness, anyone?")with champagne for the ladies and Guinness ("anyone?") for the laddies. Wonderful speeches by Pat and David, the groomsmen, and Cormic, best man and brother that lives in Edmonton, but our lad is very lucky that no-one dropped him in the proverbial, especially as we did have a session in his absence to nail down some blackmail-worthy fact and fable for use in just such an occasion. Emotional speeches by Peti and Bruno and yours truly was called up to speak unexpectedly. Declined to drop the big feller in the shit also, seeing as he still has an outstanding bill at the bar an he was holding onto the tickets for the next days' rugby match at Thomond Park. Anyway, once the formalities of speeches and toasts ("Guinness, anyone?") were over, we got down to the business of serious drinking ("Guinness, anyone?"). And dancing. A jazz band as well as Val and the boys got them all going. Someone needs to look at Vitus's pictures, especially those he took of Graham in full flow. Vitus, by the way, subbed expertly for Carlao by being omnipresent with his camera everywhere! More tomorrow, 'cause I need to go to dinner!
gator 5:01 PM