Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Scene 2:
Same day, couple, car, Connemara etc. This time, it is several hours later, 9:30pm in fact, and we are trundling down to Clifden where signs of civilisation have been spotted on Saturday evenings. It's cold and wet, we are hungry, it's our anniversary (something we proudly share with the Devil's Birthday and Hitler's Deathday) and they apparently stop serving at 10pm - we've also been up and driving since 4am. As we leave the long road out of Cleggan, a fine funny fishing village straight out of the Big Book of Cliched Irish Tourist Locations, we see a man standing by the roadside in the pooing rain with his thumb out, no coat and a vacant look of desperation on his face. I stop, no longer with hesitation but entirely out of duty. After all, a few hours ago we had discovered that people round here help eachother out as standard - there's no pissing about - if you need help you simply ask and you'll probably get it. You'll also give it in return with just as much certainty.
As he gets in we can see he's a big guy with a happy face and his first comment "thanks for stopping. Are ye going down to Clifden?" in that lovely sharp, querelous Connemara accent delivered in sober tones puts us both at ease.
Unfortunately, that is the only sober thing he said. Having got in and made a good first impression, this is what happened next:
"tanks fer dis. tanks fer dis. tanks fer dis. no, sure, tanks fer dis. yer a god man, sure. tanks fer dis. tanks. tanks. tanks. are yer gown ter cliffen, are yer? oi gown ter cliffen. tanks tanks tanks fer dis. zat Van Mrrrrrsssssnnnn on der rayjo? torrrrn'tup! TORRRRN'TUP!"
It's dark, late and dangerous on the roads. They twist and turn round blind spot hairpin bends with no streetlighting and ugly ditches on either side. Nevertheless, I FLOOR the fucking car and for the first time ever, the missus doesn't seem to mind. In fact, she does something else entirely unexpected and remarkably unwise:
SHE: So... what have you been up to today then?
HE: OI BIN DRANNNNNNNKIN!
If i hadn't been juggling with our very lives in that moment i would have sunk my head in my hands at the 'you-thought-it-was-all-a-joke, nobody-really-gets-into-situations-like-this-in-Ireland-ness of it all'
"Oi bin drankin awl day oi 'av n now oim gown t' drank s'maw at d'pob, yer gunna comen av a drank w'me now. tanks fer dis. wassa name o'd'pob now? wassa name o'd'pob? d'ye kno'd name? wassat pob colled? tanks fer dis. yer gunna comen av a drank, oi gunna get yer a drank, now."
SCREECH! We have arrived in Clifden. Alive
And with that he asks us to let him out at this highly inappropriate place in the middle of the road, he knows where he's going and thanks for the lift, again and again as he slowly, s-l-o-w-l-y backs out of our car and he'll see us later.
Incredibly, and I'm sure you really won't believe this, but we never did find that pub.
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Same day, couple, car, Connemara etc. This time, it is several hours later, 9:30pm in fact, and we are trundling down to Clifden where signs of civilisation have been spotted on Saturday evenings. It's cold and wet, we are hungry, it's our anniversary (something we proudly share with the Devil's Birthday and Hitler's Deathday) and they apparently stop serving at 10pm - we've also been up and driving since 4am. As we leave the long road out of Cleggan, a fine funny fishing village straight out of the Big Book of Cliched Irish Tourist Locations, we see a man standing by the roadside in the pooing rain with his thumb out, no coat and a vacant look of desperation on his face. I stop, no longer with hesitation but entirely out of duty. After all, a few hours ago we had discovered that people round here help eachother out as standard - there's no pissing about - if you need help you simply ask and you'll probably get it. You'll also give it in return with just as much certainty.
As he gets in we can see he's a big guy with a happy face and his first comment "thanks for stopping. Are ye going down to Clifden?" in that lovely sharp, querelous Connemara accent delivered in sober tones puts us both at ease.
Unfortunately, that is the only sober thing he said. Having got in and made a good first impression, this is what happened next:
"tanks fer dis. tanks fer dis. tanks fer dis. no, sure, tanks fer dis. yer a god man, sure. tanks fer dis. tanks. tanks. tanks. are yer gown ter cliffen, are yer? oi gown ter cliffen. tanks tanks tanks fer dis. zat Van Mrrrrrsssssnnnn on der rayjo? torrrrn'tup! TORRRRN'TUP!"
It's dark, late and dangerous on the roads. They twist and turn round blind spot hairpin bends with no streetlighting and ugly ditches on either side. Nevertheless, I FLOOR the fucking car and for the first time ever, the missus doesn't seem to mind. In fact, she does something else entirely unexpected and remarkably unwise:
SHE: So... what have you been up to today then?
HE: OI BIN DRANNNNNNNKIN!
If i hadn't been juggling with our very lives in that moment i would have sunk my head in my hands at the 'you-thought-it-was-all-a-joke, nobody-really-gets-into-situations-like-this-in-Ireland-ness of it all'
"Oi bin drankin awl day oi 'av n now oim gown t' drank s'maw at d'pob, yer gunna comen av a drank w'me now. tanks fer dis. wassa name o'd'pob now? wassa name o'd'pob? d'ye kno'd name? wassat pob colled? tanks fer dis. yer gunna comen av a drank, oi gunna get yer a drank, now."
SCREECH! We have arrived in Clifden. Alive
And with that he asks us to let him out at this highly inappropriate place in the middle of the road, he knows where he's going and thanks for the lift, again and again as he slowly, s-l-o-w-l-y backs out of our car and he'll see us later.
Incredibly, and I'm sure you really won't believe this, but we never did find that pub.
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