15 September 2005

The Devil and Irish Bob

The troubles started when Irish Bob got a little boisterous and sloshed his Guinness on a passing group of dour business elites, whilst drawing a curvaceous outline in the air. Now, Irish Bob isn’t Irish; his people were Italian and Dutch, but he likes to pretend otherwise; “…because, you see, the Italians and Dutch didn’t have anything so lovely as Whiskey”.

Well, he does have a point.

“Fine!” He bellowed as we were being escorted out. “I’m proud to be declared Persona Non-Grandma from such an eshtablishment of Aunt Nancys”

He pulled himself up to his full height (about 5’8”) spun on his heel and strode directly into a parked NYPD squad car. While one of New York’s finest decided whether to run him in, Bob lay giggling on the pavement.

“Top of the morning, Officer O’Grady!” Brilliant, Bob. Just the thing to say to one Corporal Sanchez. I hauled Bob to his feet and pushed him towards the hotel.

“Sorry about that, Corporal. I’ll see that he gets to his room” Corporal Sanchez didn’t respond, but followed us with a cold stare as we staggered down 59th street. Every time Bob started to sing or talk to a passerby, I threatened him with bloody murder. It seemed to work.

We got back to the hotel, and I shoved him into his room.

“Kiss me, I’m Irish!” He laughed uproariously. Not while there are still goats on this world, Roberto.

I fell asleep shortly, but was awakened a scant hour later by a pounding on the door.

“Room service!” Declared a falsetto voice.

“Fuck off, Guido.” I snarled.

“That’s not a very nice thing to say to a fellow Irish American.” He chastised. “Get up, we’re going drinking!”

I put the pillow over my head.

“I’m not leaving until you get your arse up, me boyo.” He started singing “Thousands are sailing”. Murdering Pogue’s songs should be a flogging offense, but I suppose that Shane McGowan set the precedent. I got my clothes on.

“Fine.” I growled. “But I’m buying.” Bob cheerily agreed and switched to “Whiskey in the jar”. Pillock.

Somehow, we avoided the police and found a bar.

“What’ll you have?”

“Well,” I replied past a dung eating grin.” I’ll have a Jameson’s, and that singing ijit over there, he'll have a triple dry-vermouth, up and piss warm.”

I presented the vile slurry to Bob.

“What is it?” He asked dubiously.

“Why, ‘tis but the finest Langer liquor from county Cork!” I replied in my most atrocious “always after me luck charms” brogue. His eyes lit up, and he slugged it back.

A puzzled look came over his face. His eyes teared up and his cheeks puffed out. Irish Bob dashed, well, staggered quickly, outside.

Erin go braaaaaaaaaaach.

Someone pinched my camera, so I couldn’t take a picture of Irish Bob. Here is an artist’s rendition of the wanker in full spew.

Irish Bob isn't really a bad fellow, he's just enthusiastic and a lightweight.

He also thinks he looks good shirtless and fancies himself a tapdancer. In short, just another tick on the long list of Michael Flately's crimes against humanity.

And that's the way I likes it.