McCarthy's Bar: A Journey of Discovery in Ireland (31 page)

‘Swing low, sweet chariot…ugh!’

On the ‘ugh’ he raises both his arms above his head, jerks his huge bottom to one side, and holds the pose for a moment. The crowd go ape. Then he’s strutting and pouting and working the room like Chef from
South Park
, an Irish soul brother, bumping and grinding, spinning on the spot and finally dropping to his knees in ecstasy. I’m waiting for someone to run on with a towel and a gold lamé bathrobe. He clambers to his feet, his shirt soaking, his face red. It’s twenty to eight. The audience of Americans cheers and whoops like an audience of Americans. He takes the cup from the piano and drinks.

‘Say, I’ll take some of whatever he’s on,’ calls out a voice from the crowd.

‘Sure it’s just a cup of tea,’ says the big man, showing the dregs to the crowd, and it is. ‘Well, I’ll be going home. Me dinner ’ll be waiting. Enjoy your evening.’ And with that, he’s through the door. From the window, I watch him get into a blue BMW and drive off. I haven’t a clue who he could be. Possibly some kind of roving social secretary—a craic dealer, paid by government to drop in unannounced at tourist venues all over the country and do whatever it takes to give people a good time. He’ll be off to Killarney now, to walk up the high street on a tightrope, in a leotard, with his pole on fire.

Kirsty, Raymond and their moms are going to the second sitting of the medieval banquet at the castle. It’s their last night in Ireland, and they want me to come too. I find myself walking down the lane with them to the castle entrance, even though offhand I can’t think of anything in the world on which I’d less like to spend £32. Fortunately, it’s sold out, so I can shrug and feign disappointment and slope off back to Durty Nellie’s with dignity intact. I can save the money and spend it on another tourist attraction. A ticket for
Cats
, maybe: £32 should get me a seat. Restricted view, with any luck.

But Durty Nellie’s has lost its magic. It was all over when the Fat Man sang. The raucous, ebullient Americans, high on life and Diet Coke, have all decamped to the banquet, and the musicians have packed up and gone. The mood is downbeat. Four people eating dinner at the next table are sharing a half-bottle of red wine, diluted with water, which can only mean they’re French. It’ll be all downhill from here.

I sit at the bar with a pint and realise that I’d actually been enjoying tourist hell with the Americans. I miss them. While I’m sitting here counting the white lines on the side of my glass as the pint goes down, they are at the very epicentre of the Celtic tourism conspiracy, smiling good-naturedly as comely colleens in wimples and camp ex-altar boys in tights subject them to unspeakable indignities in the name of Heritage. I have to be there with them. There must be a way of bunking in.

The box-office is closed when I go back. I know the banquet’s happening in the baronial hall though, so if I can just get as far as the door, and size up the situation, perhaps I can talk my way in. There’s a service gate in the castle wall but it’s locked, so there’s nothing else for it.

I’ll have to break into the castle.

The drink-fresh air-drink-fresh air rotation system of the last two hours helps convince me it’s a sensible idea. The outer wall’s only about eight feet. That’d be a good place—just there, where that tree overhangs. Perhaps there’ll be a break in the barbed-wire. I grip the tree. It feels quite sturdy. All right then, go for it.

Suddenly the service door opens and the security man from this afternoon is standing there. We stare at each other for a moment.

‘I was watching you on the video. Were you wanting to get in?’

Quick. Come up with a good story.

‘Er, yes. I was just wanting to get to the banqueting room…’

Why? Tell him something. Come on, all you need is a convincing story and you’re in.

Sorry. No good. Can’t think of one.

‘…you know, for the banquet. I wanted to see if, er…’

‘No problem. Come on in. We can phone through to the manager.’

We go into a little control booth. There’s a black and white closed-circuit security screen on which he’s just been watching me case the joint. He dials an internal number on the phone.

‘Hello, Brendan. There’s a fella here needs to speak to you. Will I put him on?’

He hands me the phone.

‘It’s the banqueting manager.’

Christ. What shall I say? That I’ve lost my ticket? That I’m looking for some friends? Perhaps I should pretend to be American, but what if the lie fails? Perhaps I’ll be arrested. I can’t bear the humiliation.

‘Hello, Brendan O’Neill speaking. Can I help you?’

‘Oh, hello, Brendan. Look, you don’t know me. My name’s Peter. I’m over from England. I’m on my way to Lough Derg actually…’

‘How can I help, Peter?’

‘Well, I was wondering could I come up to the banquet…?’

But why? Give him a reason. Any reason.

No, still can’t think of one.

‘Of course you can.’

What’s he saying?

‘Just come along to the door at the top of the stairs and someone’ll meet you.’

‘Oh great. It’s just that I, er…’

‘Look, I have to go now. See you in a moment.’

My mind is in turmoil as the security man walks me across. I have no cover story for gatecrashing this event. In a moment I will meet Brendan and gape at him open-mouthed as he demands to know the nature of my business.

A teenage girl in a McCarry On medieval costume is waiting at the door.

‘Peter?’

‘Yes?’

‘Come this way. Brendan has a seat for you over here.’

The room is packed with 200 or more diners, at half a dozen long trestle tables. Miss McCarry On takes me to an end seat in a corner. A dapper little man in a suit comes across, smiling. ‘Peter. Brendan. Pleased to meet you.’

‘Brendan. Look, thanks a lot. The thing is I’m travelling round…’

‘Now you have a great time, d’you hear? Kathleen here will look after you.’

And that’s it. That’s how to gatecrash an expensive all-ticket event in one of Ireland’s most famous fortified buildings. You just turn up, slightly inebriated, try to climb the wall, and then they let you in. In retrospect, I can see that a convincing cover story would have looked too formal and organised, and might have got me thrown out.

‘There are jugs of wine,’ says Kathleen, indicating several large pitchers on the table. ‘Or there’s juice or Coke.’

Don’t be bloody ridiculous, Kathleen, I think, knocking her gently aside as I lunge for the wine with all the dignity I can muster. It’s one of those cloying blends whose colour you couldn’t identify in the dark, but perfectly drinkable in an emergency. A dozen young women in pointy hats are singing and playing harps and violins, while in front of them a narcissistic young man with a quavering tenor is smiling and preening, as if he were looking at himself in the mirror first thing in the morning. Kathleen plonks a plate of chicken down in front of me, but I’ve already eaten, and Clyde has the pictures to prove it. I turn my attention to the couple next to me.

‘So what part of the States are you from?’

The woman gives me a big smile. The bloke looks as if he doesn’t understand the question.

‘Oh, we’re not from America.’ She grins. ‘I’m from Limerick. I’m just showing him the sights. He’s from Australia.’

‘Oh really? What part?’

He perks up.

‘The only part.’

He grins inanely, like a game-show host who’s just taken a nasty bang on the head.

‘He means Sydney. We’ll be living there after we’re married.’

‘Fuckin’ A,’ smirks her fiancé, through a partially masticated drumstick.

I’m afraid there’s no nice way of saying this. She’s highly intelligent, but pug-ugly. He’s strikingly handsome, but thicker than most footballers. Sometimes that’s the way it has to be. I try to make a go of it. I tell him I wanted to go and live in Melbourne once.

‘Fuckin’ dump,’ he opines.

‘Why’s that?’ I wonder.

‘I dunno. Never been there. Don’t need to. Hey, darlin’, ask that waitress if she’s got any more Sprite.’

Christ almighty. A moron Aussie, who doesn’t even have the redeeming feature of an interest in alcohol. I don’t know how long I can bear this.

‘Hey, mate. How do you tell an Abo from an orang-utan?’

Till just about now, I reckon. I refill my goblet and trawl the room for my new friends. They’re in the far corner. I’m greeted like a long-lost member of the family. A place is made for me on the bench.

‘Do you want some wine? We’re the only ones drinking it.’ They’re right. All around us are the Americans who were in the pub earlier and they’re drinking juice and Coke
even though the wine is included in the price
. If this crowd were English, or Scottish, or, God forbid, Russian, rather than God-fearing Americans who know every glass is a killer, they’d have to triple the price just to break even. All the wine you can drink, all night. There’s a devastating idea for the British catering industry, and emergency services, to consider.

One of the women does a harp solo, then another plays the violin. The Michael Flatley of the medieval banquet world then steps forward one more time for ‘Danny Boy’. Then there’s some jiggin’ and some reelin’, and the crowd are a-hollerin’ and a-videoin’, and a-sneezin’, because snuff has been brought round. Kirsty goes at it like Al Pacino in
Scarface
and collapses in convulsions. And then Brendan turns the lights on, and everyone gets on coaches and goes back to their hotels for a nice sensible cup of decaff, except for the five of us, who bowl along the deserted main street of the Folk Park to Mac’s Pub.

And astonishingly, my landlord was right. The pub is the only fake building I’ve been in this evening, but it’s the only one that feels real. Little groups of Irish people are drinking here, having ingeniously escaped the all-embracing grasp of the Bunratty tourist industry by hiding in the last place anyone would think of looking for them.

‘Ah shit,’ you can see them thinking as we tumble through the door. ‘They’ve found us. I hope they don’t tell us their ancestors were Irish. That may be more than we can stand.’

Once I’ve managed to convince Kirsty it would be a bad idea to video the locals, she puts the camcorder away and we install ourselves in a corner for a few nightcaps while they tell me about their holiday. Sitting up at the bar I notice a big lad in a black leather jacket talking with a punky-looking woman, older than him, with bleached blonde hair. When she goes off to the loo, he comes and stands near our table, staring at Kirsty, waiting for a lull in conversation.

‘Do you have a tattoo on your butt-tocks?’

He pronounces ‘butt-tocks’ like it’s two words, possibly so that the Americans can understand where the word ‘butt’ comes from.

‘No, I sure don’t,’ says Kirsty.

‘Show us then.’

‘How can I show you, if I don’t have one?’

‘To prove it. Go on, show us your butt-tocks.’

‘Get oudda here.’

She’s laughing. There’s nothing threatening about him. He’s just a bit vague-looking, a bit slow-motion. Perhaps he’s been mixing his drinks. He takes off his jacket and rolls up the sleeves of his black T-shirt.

‘Look, I’ll show you my tattoos. Odin, see? And Thor, the God of War. You want to see Merlin the Magician?’

‘Sure.’

Suddenly, he’s unzipping his jeans.

‘Whoa, let’s leave it there.’

‘It’s okay. He’s on my butt-tocks.’

‘For God’s sake, Davey, are you bothering the customers again?’

He’s backed off, and is looking a bit scared as the barmaid comes over. He protests his innocence, and we all agree it was nothing, and let’s forget about it. But we are tourists, who, in the interests of the national economy, must be protected from this sort of carry-on, so it cuts no ice.

‘Davey, this is once too often. You’re barred.’

He tries to argue, but the words won’t come.

‘Let that be an end to it. Drink up and don’t let me see you in here again.’

She picks up the empties and turns on her heel. The whole room falls silent. A big tear forms in the corner of Davey’s eye and starts running down his cheek. The door from the loo opens and his punk friend, who’s missed all the action, reappears.

‘Ah, Mary,’ he wails, ‘I’m barred.’

‘Ah Jeezus.’ She puts an arm round his shoulder.

‘Where will I go now, Mary? I have nowhere to go.’

The mood’s gone very sour, but Kirsty’s mom does her best. ‘Look, it’s okay. No one here was offended. Maybe the waitress doesn’t mean it. He’s just a little bit drunk. I guess we all are.’

‘Davey’s not drunk,’ says Mary. ‘He had a motorcycle accident when he was eighteen, was in a coma for eight months. He’s getting better, but these things still happen. Sorry if he bothered you. Come on, Davey, let’s get you home.’

Next morning, there’s yoghurt and prunes for breakfast. I think the prunes have been soaked with stick cinnamon. Whatever it is, they’re very good. There are rollmop herrings on the buffet table too, but I think that’s taking the whole European thing a bit far.

Butt-tocks!

Coma!

God in heaven. I’m squirming so much at the thought of it I think I’ve curdled the yoghurt.