Fear and Loathing on the Honey Trail '05 - Part 1

Plans were made a few weeks ago. My old students were hitting the town. One of them was older, the other had finished exams. Delighted to hear from them, I immediately agreed to join them. My friend was also on a promise, and gave oath to lend company.

The plan was simple. I would return from my football, rest my legs, clean myself up, relax, get ready and hit the Odeon in town.

Alas, having taken a pounding at Mashed for the XBOX, I did not get to the shower first. Paying scant regard to the noises of the bathroom being vacated, my prevarication cost us the 2200 deadline for the Odeon. With little motivation to pay the €€10 cover charge to enter, we concentrated on the secondary objective: Solas on George's Street and the Chameleon's sex life.

The DJ was excellent. Surface to Air by the Chemical Brothers, Superstylin' by Groove Armada, Use Me by Bill Withers, he played one kicking tune after another. The second round was mine, returning triumphantly with the bottle of non-alcoholic Erdinger for the tender-stomached beer-connoisseur Big JL to find two attractive women in conversation with them.

The Big JL graciously accepted the bottle of beer and resumed his conversation with the blonde about Salsa dancing. Getting nary a prompt from the Chameleon, I was briefly introduced to Blonde and Brunette.

Flailing ineffectually, my mind seized on a conversation a few weeks back. The Big JL attended salsa classes and spoke in warm tones of nameless attractive amorphous females he met. Perhaps one such shape had assumed the form of Blonde.

I needed to be sure. Brunette was quiet, but Blonde was full of chat, not a single word of it the truth. Barely keeping the panic of ignorance from me, swift and decisive action was required.

"Sorry, Big JL, but at the risk of appearing extremely crass, perhaps even ignorant, but why are we talking to these girls?"

The Chameleon was aghast, the Big JL exploded with laughter, Blonde took the bait, but Brunette seemed unimpressed. She had a sinister stance, and smoldered with a look that promised either wanton passion or destruction. Possibly both. I could feel her Evil Eye.

Once the girls excused themselves in the general direction of the patron facilities, I learned that the Big JL started talking to them as they walked past, so my pointed question could have gone very badly indeed. Distracted by the lack of response from his mobile phone, the Chameleon's criticism was surprisingly muted.

Our new mission was now clear. The Chameleon and I would help the Big JL with his quest for 'twas a noble cause. Blonde was a little hottie.

Her friend was not bad either, and perhaps my saintly deeds would be rewarded in this life as well as the next.

The Chameleon and I began talking to Brunette and BeanGarda (arriving late to the battlefield). It became quickly apparent that my imagination was not overwhelming my sense. Brunette was incredibly hostile. Pleasantries were returned with scathing comments. My intellectuality was called into question. I was in a good mood so I let it slide.

It appears Brunette had been recently been dumped by a man who proceed to have sex with someone else. She was not happy. This whole night was an effort from Blonde and BeanGarda to cheer her up.

Things came to a head when the Chameleon and I grew tired of the hostility and tried to figure out her occupation:

YHN: What do you think Chameleon? You thinking what I'm thinking?
C: Accountant?
YHN: Oh yeah. Accountant.
HB: So I look like an accountant do I? So what do you two do?
C: I don't think you'd ever guess what I do.
YHN: Respect if you do though.
HB: I think you two look like accountants.
YHN: That's cos we are.
HB: Oh yeah, who do you work for then?
YHN: McDonagh and Doyle.
HB: Never heard of them.
YHN: I'm not surprised, they're a small little firm located just outside Rathfarnham Village.

The Chameleon gave me a quizzical look, to which I gave my standard "Don't ask me, I have no idea what I'm talking about" shrug, and he laughed and went silent.

She pretty much stopped talking to us after that. Later we discovered from Blonde that she IS an accountant.

Time moved on, with still no contact from Crazy Girl - our almost forgotten secondary objective.

Growing more wroth with the passing quarter-hours of silence, the Chameleon was unimpressed. This had happened before, and my friend is not as forgiving as I. While the Big JL laid the shmooze, the Chameleon laid plans for vengeance.

YHN: Listen Chameleon, I think this girl is fucking crazy. That's why I call her Crazy Girl.
C: That's not the point. She said she'd be here and she isn't. Again. I'm not happy.
YHN: It's probably for the best. Let's go on the pull.
C: It's now 0030 and just to prove my point, look at my phone... oh hang on, she's sent me a text.
YHN: When?
C: About half-an-hour ago.

I laughed myself sick as the Chameleon's carefully constructed bedrock of self-righteous indignation quickly crumbled, and tumbled rapidly into the abyss of sexual desire and physical need.

C: This changes nothing.
YHN: Give over.
C: Seriously Mick, I am well pissed off with her. But I have a plan...
YHN: This girl is fucked in the head, man. Seriously. She sees a completely different reality.
C: Yes, but I have a plan.

In the meantime, Blonde and the Big JL managed to fit some talking into their busy schedule. The girls were going to the Gaiety. Never ones to abandon a friend in need, we agreed to join him, despite the €14 entrance fee. Let's face it, the Gaiety, with four different areas including a cinema (which showed the Blues Brothers the last time) is cool. The last time there was a night to remember.

It was another friend's birthday. Finally yielding to ten year's of peer pressure, I decided to get wrecked. Bad idea. I spent most of the Gaiety watching the Blue Brothers (while either singing loudly along to the songs as I danced in the seat or monotonously uttering the words "cool" and laughing), dancing drunkenly in the Soul and Funk room, or abusing one of the girls because she fancied another of our friends. I am not pleasant when I am drunk.

The Big JL wisely stayed with us to finish his beer as Blonde, Hostile Brunette and BeanGarda left for the Gaiety. We were still waiting for the PornStar - our tertiary objective - to arrive.

The PornStar arrived as she always does, full of life and vivacity, and we quickly informed her of our plan. Always eager for mischief, she immediately agreed to accompany us. After all, Blonde was hot.

I was as surprised as anyone to hear the fear in the Big JL's voice as we entered the Gaiety.

BJL: Does this look bad Mick?
YHN: Eh? Bad? What do you mean?
BJL: Well, before, in Solas, we were both there together, but now, I don't know, it's like I'm following her up here. I'm here for her. Do you see what I'm saying?
YHN: Okay, I think you are forgetting the whole fingers-up-the-shirt-sleeves action that was going on earlier. Blonde is well into you.
BJL: You think so?
YHN: Yes.
BJL: Okay then. Thanks.

And so we ventured in.

To my delight, a good film was in its death throes. I cannot remember which it was, but it was from the early nineties. The future boded well. Attending to the present, the girls were located in the Soul and Funk room. Not acknowledging I'd spotted them, I hit the floor with barely concealed venom. The Big JL spotted me, nodded appreciatively, and went over.

Twenty minutes later saw your sweated and sated humble narrator passing through the cinema once more. To my delight, City of God had just started. To my further delight, the attractive and young-but-within-the-half-your-age-plus-seven-rule blonde spotted ten minutes previous was sitting right in front of me three seats in. I took a seat.

Two lecherous bastards sat in front talking to them. Mid-to-late 40s, haircuts straight from the set of Philadelphia, Here I Come, I could not decide whether I found their gold chains or saliva more offensive. Suddenly, in the background, the strains of Tears of a Clown appeared amongst the din.

Squealling with delight, the two girls leaped to their feet, rushing past me.

"Sorry, sorry. I'm sorry but it's Smokey Robinson!"

Taken aback by their good taste, I barely noticed the two sleazes sharing a knowing glance, taking to their sleazy feet and sleazing on down the hall after them.

Having spent thirty minutes watching Lil' Dice's murderous rise to power, the night was slowly passing, and the Spartak-afflicted 0800 alarm the following morning began to loom ominously in my thoughts.

Ambling north towards the Chameleon and the PornStar, I observed a young girl texting her friend with a message containing the words "...that's what he said. I really hate him." Laughing at the dogged persistance and continuity of teenage life, I decided to leave for home.

Our adventure home was far from straight forward, involving in part, circumcision, rugby, deception, innovation, criticism, junk food and technology, but such things are beyond the scope of this article.