Fear and Loathing on the Honey Trail '05 - Part 3

As I'm sure you understand by now, I really enjoy the Dublin nightlife. While it is very rare for me to drink, I still love to hit the pubs and clubs. The last few nocturnal excursions have proved very entertaining, and so, at the request of a few cohorts, I organised another trip into town.

Venue is an ongoing problem with these nights out. This is due to the conflicting nature of the qualities required from the chosen establishment. Firstly, people are a necessity. We are, after all, on the Honey Trail - and the whole purpose is to meet people and enjoy ourselves.

Unfortunately, we are not children any more and the days of tolerating the sardine treatment are long, long gone. We need our space, and, if possible, we need seats.

Ideally we wanted a venue full of people and spacious.

Why not require the drink be free as well?

A number of venues were proposed. My particular suggestion, Solas, of Hot Blonde/Hostile Brunette/Bean Garda infamy, was shot down. The Chameleon pointed out that, had the Terrible Trio not appeared, that night would have plummeted.

The Odeon was also touted, but imposed a time-limit due to the cover charge. No one ever arrives on time, and given the potential for hassle, it was rejected.

The Market Bar is a large venue just off Sth Great George's Street. It fit our requirements well. I do not know who suggested it, but the idea was excellent. A converted market, the place is very large, with lots of tables and chairs, and has a huge covered outdoor area for the cancer-inclined.

Our scheduled arrival was 2130, but it surprised no-one that we were late. The Big JL went to bed in the afternoon due to Lions-First-Test-induced, lack-of-sleep fatigue, and the Chameleon was at a barbeque across town. Leaving our residence at 2145 was quite the achievement.

Following a brief flurry of textual telecommunication, I discovered that the Author had arrived, awaiting the arrival of the Hobo. Despite having an earlier appointment there, the Pornstar had not arrived either. Feeling guilty for making the Author fly solo, your humble narrator hailed a taxi with his two associates, making fast progress towards our venue.

By a strange quirk of circumstance, we all converged on the bar at once. Even the Dark Knight appeared, making ourselves seven.

As only he can, the Big JL made an immediate impact on the ladies, banging into two drunken women outside the toilets. It was not really his fault, but fuelled by spirit courage, they immediately accosted him and accused him of assault, only half-jokingly. They then wandered off.

Grabbing a recently vacated table, orders were sent to the bar. There was not enough space for all of us though, and we started scouting for a larger table.

Shortly after our arrival at the table, the Crazy Ladies reappeared, and had a fascinating obsession with blaming him for assaulting them outside the toilets. Quickly dismissing these as drunken fools, he made himself scarce. I was not far behind.

Finding ourselves a bigger table nearby, we all moved over, leaving the Chameleon to talk to them. Both a blessing and a curse, the crazies love the Chameleon. They flock to him like a moth to a lightbulb. I can only assume it is something pheromonal, since he is quite sane. Still, he did not help himself by wholeheartedly embracing their attempts at conversation. I overheard some of it, but it has sadly slipped my mind. All I can remember is that it was crazy talk.

One of the Big JL's friends appeared. The Friend was quite the character, and as is customary when distinct groups known to a person mix, the abuse began to fly.

The Friend was not slow to inform us that the Big JL is known as Big Billy J amongst other circles, for Freudian reasons. We also learned that he does a special line in "birthday treats" for ladies. The rest of us were ignorant of this, but extremely grateful to be enlightened.

Needless to say, the Big JL was somewhat less than enthusiastic about this tragic decompartmentalisation. He had only himself to blame. He had asked the Friend to join us.

Decompartmentalisation? Interesting word! But what does it mean, oh humble narrator?

Well, it is an interesting story.

One of my friends, the Chameleon, once believed in keeping distinct groups of friends separate. I have never been entirely convinced of the logic behind this approach, but the Chameleon was quite rigid about it. While living abroad, he would return on holiday, set up a base camp in one of our residences, and knock about with us. For certain portions of his holiday, however, he would disappear. We would not see him for days.

When pressed about the females he was meeting, whom we called the Northbrook Brigade (they lived there), he became evasive. Introductions were out of the question. The only reason I have ever reasoned for this tactic was that he was on a long-term shmooze. He feared our behaviour in front of the girls. His concern were not without grounds. We would have slaughtered him.

Anyway, having moved back to this country, the mixing of groups became inevitable. At a big night out in his honour, we finally got to meet the Northbrook Brigade. A few funny stories were exchanged, and nothing untoward occurred. Emboldened by his early success, my friend slowly cast his net wider. He introduced us to the Script Writer.

Quite the bright young girl, the Script Writer was an old, old ex of his. He met her indirectly through the Northbrook Brigade many, many years ago, and they had a brief dalliance back when Adam was a lad.

Visiting Ireland for a short period, the Chameleon could only meet her on a night we were all out. Advertising her as his "really cool friend," I was looking forward to meeting her.

The Script Writer was cool, and spent a summer in Kosovo as a political adviser and script writer for the leader of the Kosovar nationalists. She had studied economics in university and the Chameleon, in a moment of malicious glee, sicced her on me for my troublesome free-market political leanings. He took immense delight from the narrow-eyed glare she threw at me. I defended my position, but we got distracted. The argument I was anticipating never really got started.

Things were going great, everyone was having a rare old time.

And then, disaster.

One of our group, the Invader, started to hit on her. The Chameleon was NOT impressed. At all. The Invader had a girlfriend, and the Chameleon used this as a justification for his explosive reaction. To this day, I remain unconvinced. However deeply buried, I still sense something between the two of them. I doubt anything will come of it, but it is still there.

The Chameleon was incensed. I was annoyed too, but only because I was not the one on the shmooze. I could claim all sorts of high moral ground here, but I will be honest. This girl was cool, and I wanted all her attention. I was talking to her initially, and I let my friend in ahead of me.

The rest of the night was spent alternating between appallingly self-centred moments of introspection, and attempts to placate the livid Chameleon. Things were not helped when another of our group, the Lawyer, began to describe in graphic detail what sexual possibilities lay ahead for the Invader and the Script Writer. Our uncontrollable laughter did not really mollify him, but it did calm him down.

It is very hard to remain furious when people are laughing at you.

The Chameleon is not a spontaneously funny person by nature. He has moments of comic genius, but they are usually inadvertent, or come about through much thought. On a rant, this all changes. The Chameleon can rant like no other person I know. He is priceless.

On that night, he came out with his all-time classic:

YHN: Hey, listen. Chameleon, we are all hungry here. I'm hungry and I want a kebab. You hungry?
C: No, Mick, I'm not hungry. I'm not hungry at all. I don't want a fucking kebab? Do you want to know why? Do you? I'll tell you why! I'm not hungry right now because MY STOMACH IS FULL OF BILE!

Only once before have I ever seen him so angry, and that involved a lot of drink.

From that day on, the Chameleon's experience became the benchmark incident for explosive decompartmentalisation.

So, I think we can all agree that the Big JL got off quite lightly.

But back to the Fear and Loathing.

For those of you who lost tract, I am considerate enough to save you the scrolling: your humble narrator was being enlightened about the Big JL's birthday treats, and the Chameleon was talking to crazy women.

The conversation moved back and forth. The Crazy Ladies went home. The Chameleon rejoined us.

"What? They were fun! They weren't crazy! They weren't! They were quite funny! Nah, they were just drunk. I had a good laugh. What do you mean?"

The Market Bar has a strange quality, and it took me a long time to identify it. It doesn't have any music. The ambient noise is that of three hundred separate conversations humming in the background.

Saturday was a strange night in the city. U2 were playing their second of three concerts in Croke Park. The Gay Pride March had finished a few hours previous. There was a lot of people in the city. And across town, lead by the Wee American, a plethora of foreign students on work exchange discovered the joys of swanky Dawson Street bars like Cafe en Seine and Ron Black's. Textual telecoms revealed she had already given her number to an Irish guy and she wished to know how many points she had just earned doing so! She was quite irate to learn that it counted for nothing.

Like death and taxes, the attraction between the Friend and the Pornstar was inescapable. Delighted that his nickname was starting to take off, he was in roaring form.

The Friend has a refreshing directness when it comes to females. Unlike most of us, he does not care when caught eyeing a girl. Being caught appraising can be embarrassing for most men. Instinctively we avert our gaze, allowing them the opening to be offended, flattered, get embarrassed, or whatever. In any case, we immediately hand the initiative over to them.

Not so with the Friend.

When gazing, he cares not a jot if she notices. He holds his gaze and dares her to challenge him. His attitude is fantastic. You can hear his eyes and face say "I'm a guy. You are a girl. I'm supposed to look at you. It's why you dress that way." If I can summon the gumption, that will be my new tactic. It certainly seems to work.

Midnight rolled by, allowing the Author and the Hobo to depart, shortly followed by the Dark Knight, busy with other obligations across the city.

But what was to become of us? We needed a new venue, one to see the night out. And we needed one fast. This problem proved as intractable as the first, and many, many options come under scrutiny. Even Isolde's Tower was proposed, despite 0200 being some distance off.

The Wee American was in touch, informing us that she was drunk, but should we all meet up? We told her to come along and meet us in the Turk's Head (a favoured, but recently neglected, haunt of mine), conveniently located across from both Isolde's Tower and Zaytoon.

The Turk's Head was free in, but has gone downhill since my last visit. Without any exaggeration, the first few songs I heard were "Calling Mr. Raider," "Rhythm is a Dancer," and "Get Ready for This."

Seized by panic, I checked my mobile phone and spoke out loud. Relived to find both my mobile in my pocket and my voice broken, I felt the bile rise in my gullet. These songs should not be played on a dancefloor in the year 2005. I held my breath and waited for "Sing Halleluia" to fully enact my deja-vu flashback to the summer of 1996 and the Powerhouse in Mohill back home. The axe never fell.

Those fucking songs were out of date nine years ago. Do not get me wrong. I have no problem with classics, but I do have a major problem with shite.

Disgusted, I looked around to find the men in our group disconcerted. Unaware of Gay Pride, they were concerned at the extremely high proportion of men in the nightclub, many of whom appeared to be gay.

A gay bar is not a suitable location for a night of solid Fear and Loathing. It was not until the next day that we learned the truth. Disheartened by our choice, but stuck in the venue since the Wee American and her cohort were en route.

Up until last Saturday, I have always like the Turk's Head. Good music, fine women, decent tap water and Ballygowan, it had everything I wanted from a venue. Now I am not so convinced. I started dancing with a young lady, but it was just dancing.

The music stopped and we all poured out onto the streets of Temple Bar. Things had gone a bit weird and we resolved to go home. In the confusion, my phone started beeping. Who on earth could be texting me at this time. Is the Pornstar okay? Who could it be?

I laughed and laughed at the message from my friend of Bad Kharma fame, in New York, and still looking for vengeance:

"Okay, it's half 3 in the morning over there. I have to have woken you this time!"

A fine ending to a strange evening.