My PhD Thesis

It has finally come down to it.

My PhD thesis is due tomorrow, but I have applied for Dean's Grace, which gives me a month's extension.

Right now, my calendar consists of lecturing in DIT, working in the office, and maintaining human contact via text message.

I am taking time out of my busy schedule tomorrow night to go to the cinema (A History of Violence), but only because I would like to not go mental. Also, were I not present, the Flaming Redhead and the Chameleon would invent nasty stories about me behind my back (it is what they do), so I need to get the digs in early and knock everyone off-balance.

Giving up football has been particularly hard. I console myself with the fact that it will not be for long. It is surprising how much time it takes up, to be honest. I seem to have a lot more time to devote to this PhD dissertation now I am on hiatus.

Words cannot effectively articulate how much I want to finish.

The Sudden, but Inevitable, Betrayal

Technology is like a woman.

Seducing you with promise and its taste and its smell and its touch, your imagination runs riot, building expectations of happiness and satisfaction.

Alas, like a woman, it will betray you in the cruelest way possible.

Last week, having travelled with me to the Greek Wedding and back, my iPod died. A hard blow, for what shall I use now to listen to the sweet tones and harmonies while I travel the surface of this world?

Bereft of its love, the second, soul-crushing blow came yesterday. My brand new phone, the Sony Ericsson V600i, also a Greek Wedding pilgrim, needs a new battery, for the current one is defective and needs replacing. I followed all procedures, and still she betrayed me.

Vodafone have loan phones to use during the repair process, so now I sport a Sagem.

Does saying "it has a long battery life" count as damning with faint praise?

The Luddites had the truth of it.

[Addendum:

I feel the need to vent. I held back in the original post, but now I feel no such compunction. This Sagem phone I am using is brutal.

The keypad is poorly designed, and it has woeful ringtones. Make no mistake, I am not trying to be a twelve-year old boy again, but I do like a phone to have mobile-phone-y ring tones so I can receive texts and calls without getting embarrassed in public places.

It is annoying me so much that I am seriously considering using an old Nokia phone I was loaned by the Pornstar a few weeks back when the V600i was charging.

Never, ever, ever will I look at a Sagem phone unless it comes with a car and a free entry to the World Series of Poker in Las Vegas, travelling expenses included. Under those conditions, I might consider it.]

Fear and Loathing at the Big Apple Greek Wedding - Part 2

My body still unadjusted to Eastern Time, I awoke quite early on the morning of the wedding. The wedding was at 1630, and the car was collecting us around 1530, as it was the same car the girls were using, so we had an hour to kill.

Another wedding had been scheduled before ours, so we quietly slipped downstairs to the reception area, and chatted as best we could. The Groom brought us to some photos on the wall to show us samples of the quality of Greek women living in the area, and the conversation quickly moved to the Goombada’s brother, a successful running back in a college in Pennsylvania.

G: Oh man, you should hear some of the stories he’s told me about college.
YHN: Yeah, you mentioned last night that he was gonna miss out on all the groupies that hang around outside the locker rooms after the games.
G1: Did the Goombada play any football?
YHN: Yeah, he was telling me last night. He played nosetackle on the defense and fullback in front of the brother in school.
G: Oh man, High School would be class to go to over here. Can you imagine the time we’d’ve had?
YHN: It all depends on the person, lads. Let’s face it, I’d’ve got the shite hammered out of me in high school… there’s five tiers it seems, and I’d’ve been at the very, very bottom. Youse are all laughing cos you know it’s true.

The Groom was very nervous prior to the wedding. He was anxious and impatient. He had as bad a case of the jitters as anyone I’d ever seen. It started to spread amongst all of us. Our sole role on the day was to escort people to their seats, and try to keep the congregation balanced to the left and right. Usually, guests of the Bride go to the left, Groom to the right. Naturally, none of the other lads were eager to perform this task, so it was left to me to perform the few tasks a number of times.

About ten minutes before the start, the Priest arrived down to see how we were, and told some story about his son having soccer practise that morning. It again struck me how normal the man seemed. I generally find Priests at home to be quite forbidding people, with an air of superiority that I instantly dislike. I will admit not all Priests at home are like that, but many of them are, at least in my experience.

This Priest, on the other hand, went through all the same problems we do, and I could instantly see myself reaching out to him were I Greek Orthodox and in need of spiritual guidance.

If nothing else, this week in the US has convinced me even more that celibacy is a very bad restraint to force upon our Catholic Priests. It is not natural.

His soothing tone did little to relax our Groom, who was getting more and more restless as the time approached.

Compounding the issue, the entire train of Irish guests, ourselves notwithstanding, were late. The Bride was waiting outside the church patiently, but her mother started to get stressed. Suddenly, outside the window, we spotted the convoy arriving and could relax. I gallantly escorted the Mother of the Groom to her seat, and returned for the entrance procession.

Only to discover that one of the Groomsmen was missing. Making the snap judgement that an hour was too long to ignore nature’s call, he had dashed down the stairs to the toilets below. Now I got worried.

Suddenly, like that episode of Mr. Bean where his zipper gets caught as the Queen approaches but all is fixed just in time, it all came right, the Groomsman appeared just before the Bride came through the door, and we quickly lined up behind the church door.

Just in case you are wondering, no-one headbutted anyone either.

Without any further fanfare, the church was open, the entire congregation had turned to look at us, the first of the couples were on their way, and “Canon in D Major” was playing on the organ.

Like a jockey steering a horse, Partner I put some pressure on my arm, and I was walking very deliberately towards the altar, the largest smile I had ever had on my face. It was not a fake.

I remember very little about that short trip down the aisle, other than I did not forget to smile, I looked straight ahead, and I tried to look very serious about what I was doing.

The one thing I do remember is how honoured I felt.

The wedding ceremony comprised of two parts, the betrothal and the wedding. Sometimes the betrothal is performed in the Bride’s home a few weeks prior to the wedding, but usually the two are done together.

Greek Orthodox ceremonies are done in both Greek and English, and the entire wedding was sang and chanted. The Priest has a member of the congregation who responds in chant to everything he says.

Everything is done in threes, to symbolise the Holy Trinity. The Goombada was absolutely petrified. Normally confident and assertive, I was shocked to see him shaking like a leaf. His role in the ceremony is very active, placing the rings, and holding over the two halo-like bands, attached with a ribbon, that are placed on their heads as they are married.

The funniest part of the ceremony was when the priest takes the halos, switches them between the two and back again, and then plonked it down on the Groom’s head. The Groom is completely clean-shaved up top, and it is my shame to admit that the sight of the halo sitting on his head immediately provoked images of Spider Jerusalem from the comic series Transmetropolitan.

Fortunately, it was comical looking, and the Priest had not told us it would happen. I looked around in guilt, trying to swallow the laughter, to see almost everyone on the Groom’s side of the church laughing. I felt a little bit better, but not much.

Two more parts of the ceremony are worthy of mention.

Once the wedding is complete, the two couples walk anti-clockwise around the table three times. The Goombada’s job is to ensure that the halos do not fall off, as this is a fatally bad omen for the marriage. Again, we had not been told this, so the Groomsmen and I stood staring.

Once that had been done, the priest emerged from behind the screen to let us know what had just happened. He briefly explained the different rites and rituals just performed, and explained their significance. Again, I had never seen anything like that before, and all the Irish mentioned it after the wedding. It was such a novel concept for us, but welcome all the same.

Bubbles were blown, rice was thrown, and pictures were taken. A LOT of pictures were taken. Piling back into the limousine with the Bridesmaids, all the talk was of Cocktail Hour, what time it was, and whether or not they had missed it

Once again, we Groomsmen were staring at each other, all thinking the same thing:

“Fucking hell, these Greek girls are MAD for drink!”

Alas, it was a simple culture clash once again. Cocktail Hour, it seems, is a very common tradition with American weddings (and one that was almost as welcome to us as that other little chestnut of these events, the free bar). While the wedding photos and whatnot are being taken, loads and loads and loads of entries are laid out to keep the other guests occupied while they await the bride and groom and the dinner.

In Ireland, everyone just hugs the bar, tries to buy drink for everyone, almost assaults three people who try to buy the round ahead of him or her, and then either starts to talk shite or scan the crowd for the hot women or men.

While the Irish weddings are great, and would not change them, Cocktail Hour kicks ass.

Quite simply, the food was incredible. Being perfectly honest, I would not have cared a jot if the chef had accidentally used my medium-rare rib-eye steak as an improvised Frisbee, once I knew that during Cocktail Hour. Barbecued ribs, prime cuts of turkey, lamb and pork, sautéed mushrooms stuffed with melted cheese, salads, fruit salads, it was absolutely amazing. Partner II later informed me that the Zeris Inn was known for its good food and relaxed manner, and hosted most of the Greek weddings in the area.

So, what they were actually telling us was that they had not eaten in a long time, and were hoping they did not miss the quality entrees.

And so to the Reception. In Ireland, about twenty minutes after the dinner was due to begin, the hotel staff whip out the cattle prods and, through judicious use of these and pure, unsullied ignorance, herd all the people into the reception hall. Should these tactics seem brutal to you, the reason is immediately obvious. You have never been to a wedding in Ireland.

Once this is done, the bride and groom enter the hall to the sounds of Cliff Richard’s “Congratulations” or some other, similar, tune, and the dinner is served. One that has happened we have the speeches, along with the inevitable gambling pool where every at each table throws in a EUR2 coin or EUR5 note and guesses the total times for all the speeches.

What exactly is the starting and end point has been a source of controversy at tables. In truth, so long as everyone agrees, the two are arbitrary. The standard method, however, is from when the Best Man first picks up the microphone until the Priest first starts saying Grace After Meals.

It should surprise to no-one that it works a little differently across the Atlantic.

The Zeris Inn had a special room called the Bridal Room, set aside especially for the Bride and her Bridesmaids. The entire wedding party was summoned in, and the procedure was explained.

Once all the guests were sitting down, we lined up outside the door. At this point, Partner I morphed into Partner II, though I am not sure why. Disappointingly, a cat fight over the right to hold my arm never developed. Again, Partner II told me to smile, I just asked her to tell me what the hell I was supposed to do.

Lining up outside the reception hall, I could be utterly dishonest and win multiple brownie points with all my female readers by saying that I was once again overcome with that sense of honour at being asked, but my thought processes went something along the lines of this.

Mick, you are lining up here, and you are being individually introduced to the entire wedding. This is ridiculous; it is like being in a Super Bowl! Of course, I should say a Super Bowl before January 2002, since the New England Patriots changed that custom by insisting that they all run out and get introduced as a team. Hey, I wonder if we could do that?

So, to my increasing shame, as I started walking out to the dance floor with Partner II, it was NFL football that was on my mind.

My guilt drained away about three seconds later.

I, like the Best Man and the other Groomsman, walked out with a straight-back and a smile, striding out to our position with all the grace we could muster.

The girls came out pumping up the crowd like the cheerleaders of the New York Knicks right after an impossible three-pointer had been scored.

YHN: Fucking hell, BM, I feel like we’ve just walked out into the Super Bowl!
BM: Jaysus, Mick, I thought it was bad at home, but that was a horrid dose of shite altogether.

Laughing, the Bride and Groom had their first dance, followed by the rest of the Wedding Party, and finishing with us all taking our seats for dinner.

Unlike at home, the speeches are very short. The Goombada and the Best Man spent about two minutes each, sat down and the dinner began.

The music started up almost immediately, and people wander around as the food is being served. The soup was very strange, Chicken and Lemon, with the lemon very strong. It was unusual, but very refreshing. My rib-eye steak was excellent, and I had a good laugh giving grief to Partner II, who had practically incinerated hers.

Almost immediately, the Bride and Groom got up and wandered off to talk to family and friends. It seems the dinner is much less formal, with dancing and talking and wandering happening as the staff serve the food.

Once the dancing began, in accordance with tradition, the entire Wedding Party started first. We were hopeless, but I was slowly picking it up. Once I had, however, the line had grown overlong, and was split in two. Naturally, I ended up in a group of chancers similar to myself, and immediately lost it.

Of course, the music was not exclusively Greek. Interspersed was a Greek DJ playing chart and Irish music (the Irish music was terrible, such as “When Irish Eyes are Smiling” and other such hits, but as Partner II chided me, what would he know what the Irish like, he was Greek).

Approximately two seconds after spotting me, the Crazy Croat was pulling me out to dance. I was raging that the music was terrible, and hated to refuse, but I cannot dance to music I hate. I promised to hit the floor later.

I had more pressing concerns in the short term, like the fact that my glass was empty. I had promised to drink at the wedding, and it was time to hit the bar with a vengeance. Of course, I was naively hoping to have a laugh with the Groom, but I realised very early on that this was never likely to happen.

In later conversations, the Groom informed me that you spend much of your time talking to people you do not really know. You need to thank everyone and there are many chances to thank the people close to you at other times. Looking at the Groom that day, getting married seems to be hard work.

Of course, the music improved, and began to alternate between chart music and the traditional Greek band. I think the band spotted me early on. Every time I would take to the floor, their set would finish about thirty seconds later.

The first few times, I put it down to ill timing, but then it happened for a third and fourth, and I smelled conspiracy. Unsuccessfully, I tried to glower at the clarinet player as I stalked off the floor to my drink, but I have to be honest, he did not seem to notice.

As the night began to wind down, I was hammered. I pulled out all the stops. The stupid dances, the silly poses for the camera, you name it, I was on it. Filling up a large bus, all the Irish guests, plus a few of the Greeks, piled back into the hotel and immediately hit the bar, demanding drink. Unfortunately, the guy whose name was something like Albert was not there, but two other girls were, and they were more than willing to engage in mercantile exchange of alcoholic beverages.

Everyone quickly piled outside, as a lot of the group smoked.

After a short while, the Goombada, his brother, and a few other cousins arrived, and I quickly struck up a conversation. There were a few things about football I still did not understand, and these guys seemed like they knew their stuff.

Of course, there were other guests as well, and I was keeping a modest eye on the Crazy Croat, becoming ever more aware that I had a room all to myself.

YHN: So, there is one thing I do not understand about defense, and could you help me out?
G’s B: Sure. What do you want to know?
YHN: Well, I’d always heard that the 4-3 defense was the standard, but a lot of teams seem to be switching to 3-4, and that is what the Patriots use as standard. Why are teams switching?
C1: First off all, don’t try to learn anything about defense from Bill Belichick, cos that guy is a genius! He does stuff no-one else ever imagined.
THN: Okay, but a lot of other teams are using it as well!
G’s B: Well, it’s main because the passing game has become much more important due to rule changes. With a 3-4 D, you have more linebackers in the backfield, so it is more flexible.
YHN: Oh, I get it!

The terrifying thing is, I was on the wrong end of about ten JD and Cokes, but I did. I got it. I was finally starting to learn the game!

Swivelling in the chair, my attention returned to the Crazy Croat. Again, we were chatting, but the alcohol had bypassed almost all higher brain functions. I was quite strongly attracted to this girl, and almost all other considerations suddenly seemed very unimportant.

The problem was, there were a few other guys hitting on her too.

Bastards.

In the past, Mick would have let it go. Not anymore. My new motto when it comes to the other gender is “We are not at home to Mr. Beta”, a philosophy formed from the night of the original explosive decompartmentalisation.

Time to compete for attention, methinks.

Unfortunately, the guys behind me had started talking about football again, and this time it was their Fantasy Football league. I couldn’t resist.

YHN: Do you like Fantasy Football?
C1: Yeah, why? Don’t you?
YHN: Not really, I must admit.
C2: Why the hell not man, it’s cool!
YHN: While I admit there’s no other way to organise it, it emphasises the stats too much. Look at Peyton Manning. He’s always the best quarterback but there’s no way he’s better than Brady. Brady is 9-0 in the postseason.
C1: I accept that, but the Pats are amazing too, what a team.
C2: Who’s your backup?
C1: Michael Vick.
YHN: How the hell did you get Vick as your backup? Would he not be taken straight away. How many teams in your league?
C1: Just eight.
C2: Hey Mike, do you follow a team at all?
YHN: Not really, I don’t know enough to have one team. I love the Patriots approach, but that’s easy cos they are winning, and they were impressive against Oakland. Still, they have so many injuries, it’s gonna be tough for them.
C1: They’ve got good backups though.
YHN: Well, the old guy from the area is supposed to be good. I can’t remember his name.
C2: Flutie.
YHN: Flutie, yeah, that’s it, Doug Flutie. He’s meant to be very good. But they’ve got a new guy. A young fella they drafted in Round 4 or 5. He’s from the area and he’s also meant to be a legend. Cassel. Matt Cassel?
C1: Yeah, Matt Cassel. You know it.
C2: I like this guy, dude. The crazy Irish guy from Longford knows the third-string quarterback for the New England Patriots!

It was easily the coolest conversation of the entire holiday.

What About the Wedding?

Well, to be honest, I am still writing it.

I have a cracking excuse for being so late though...

On Monday, I had a bit of a stress attack. I realised I was due to hand in my thesis in about ten days. It was very sobering, especially since a lot of my work still was not working.

Fortunately, TCD has a thing called Dean's Grace which gives you a month extension, and I am applying for that.

Still as a result, I have dropped all non-essential activities. Like eating.

Seriously though, I probably will finish Part 2 over the weekend, during my downtime. I really want to get it posted though, purely as a vanity exercise. I am well aware it may not be entertaining, but I had such a good time, I really want to get the holiday recorded.

Personals

Because the Lawyer is an evil bastard, he decided he would trawl through the personal ads of the Evening Herald on Monday night, trying to find a suitable partner for me.

He then started to draft a sample personal for me, one that was guaranteed to get results. Apparently.

Ever the funnyman, his attempt was laden with adjectives such as "entertaining" and "good sense of humour". He had himself a time, as well you might imagine.

Two good things did appear as a result of this though.

First of all, how would you describe yourself in a personal ad? I toyed with this one for a while, trying to make it funny, but then had a brainwave, the second good thing to come of the whole sorry affair.

How ridiculous could you make the personal ad, and would you get any responses?

The ad we came up with was:

Deranged psychopath, with penchant for knives, seeks young female 16-30 with a taste for experimentation. Must have all original limbs and a pulse.

I would LOVE to post that, and am sorely tempted to do so. It would be even better if I could put the Author or the Chameleon's number at the end, but I imagine the newspapers have safeguards against it.

If I decide to do it, and make no mistake, it would be a risk, I will keep my loyal readers informed.

Fear and Loathing at the Big Apple Greek Wedding - Part 1

As I once read in the foreword of a book, I am surprised at how long it has taken me to get here. An old adage goes something like “good writers borrow, greats ones steal!” Thus, I feel entirely justified in opening like this, because it happens to be very, very true.

One piece of larceny still does not sit with me, the “Fear and Loathing…” used in the title. A tribute to the late and great Hunter S., my initial article featured the Hot Blonde, a Hostile Brunette, a bit of fear and a whole load of loathing. Thus did I justify it.

As these entries continue, however, the guilt has started to mount. If you have no idea what I am talking about as I write this, you know that whatever little phrase starts all these entries was a later addition. Currently I am toying with “Cruising and Shmoozing…” but my instincts are against it.

Anyway, none of this is particularly relevant right at this instant.

I am currently on a NJ Transit train heading for Point Pleasant Beach, a part of the Jersey Shore in the state of New Jersey, USA. My iPod is playing a random selection of individual songs stored on it.

“Ahh-ayehhhhm, waiting for my man…
Twenty six dollars in my hand,
Go the Lexington, 125,
Feel quick and dirty, more dead than alive.”

A few stops back the way was Red Bank, which I have been told is where Kevin Smith (of Clerks, Mallrats and Chasing Amy fame) is from. I had this desperate urge to leap off the train and immediately go hunting for the now-famous 7-11 store where Clerks was filmed, but I manfully and prudently quashed them as if it were a Soviet General with ability in Stalinist Russia.

Obviously, by the time you read this, all this is in the past, and therefore irrelevant.

One of my best, and oldest, friends, got married last Saturday. For some reason, he desired to have me in his wedding party. His wife, a perfectly matched Greek girl called Constantina, or Tina for short, hails from Dover, New Jersey.

Delighted and honoured to be asked, I agreed immediately, deciding to take a week’s holiday in New York City, one of my favourite places.

I love New York. I always have. Terrified I would be disappointed the first time I visited; the summer I spent there in 1998 is definitely one of my most memorable summers, even if it did kill my relationship with my girlfriend of the time.

I have a very unorthodox approach to New York City. One of the most vibrant and active cities on the planet, I love doing nothing there. I go into Manhattan to do some shopping, I chill out in my uncle’s apartment in Woodlawn, browse the internet, watch films on cable, and eat pizza.

This tends to be source of controversy with people, who feel I am squandering the opportunity to do other things, such as wandering around the Natural History Museum, or go to comedy clubs in the East Village.

I am now back in New York, having had an eventful 24-hour stay on the Jersey Shore, but more on that later. Monday Night Football is on the television, and the Philadelphia Eagles have started a pre-match 'fight' with the Atlanta Falcons. Needless to say, the show presenters are almost wetting themselves in the hype. Inexplicably, this has offended the drunken Flaming Redhead (with a nod to Paul Zimmerman of Sports Illustrated). It seems that sitting on a couch watching football is not 'manly' enough an activity for her and her friends.

Fortunately, since I am a gentleman and she is 'halfway in the bag' as they say over here, and it is 0400 in the morning, I did not have the heart to point out the logical fallacy in her criticism.

It seems very strange that it is just over a week ago that I arrived in New York for the wedding. It seems like so much longer. The Groom met us in JFK, superfluously informing us that Ireland had lost 1-0 to France. The pilot had announced the result as we landed, but it was gratifying to hear that Ireland had been unlucky.

It was obvious the Groom was mad for beer.

The week prior to the wedding was quite stressful for him, with the family spread across the city, and the assorted chores that weddings inevitably conjure had dragged him all across the city.

Unfortunately, we were all pretty wrecked and had all our bags with us. We went for some food in a bar near Grand Central, and he headed downtown as we went our separate directions.

Speaking to him the next day, he had hooked up with his family, and they all got absolutely hammered that night.

Thursday was 'wander around Manhattan and gloat at all my friends for not being in Manhattan' day. I love the City. Every single time I walk through Grand Central Station, I skip a breath. Every single time. I love that horrible diesel smell of the underground tracks, I love the warm and humid smell of midtown. I bought some comics and ate at KFC (I prefer the American one, I like the biscuits and the wings), and generally bummed about having myself quite the time.

We met up in Hoboken that evening to try on our wedding outfits.

Words cannot describe the view of Manhattan from Hoboken Pier, nor would photos do it justice. Having eaten (and kept a close eye on the NFL season opener between the Oakland Raiders at the New England Patriots), the Groom declared he was way too tired to have another night on the town, and so we all went our separate ways.

Now, as a write this entry, I am sitting on the floor in Terminal 4 of JFK Airport, valiantly trying to kill the time abundantly bestowed upon me by the five-hour-Hurricane-Ophelia induced flight delay.

It has been hard for me to sit down and write this for some reason, and already my friends have commented that I have not been in touch nearly as much as they have come to expect from me. The only reason I can give for this is that I have just had a fantastic week, and yet, there is little actual motivation for doing the writing, despite the fact that I desperately want to chronicle it all.

Our suits all fitted and organized, we travelled to Dover for the wedding. I had travelled by train once before in the US, going from Chicago to Milwaukee for GenCon 2000. I knew the rail system in the US was good, but I was quite unprepared for something this impressive.

Simply put, it is inexpensive and very efficient. Looking out the window on the Jersey side of the Hudson, I immediately switched my iPod over to “Woke Up this Morning” by Alabama 3, the theme tune to the Sopranos television show, and lost myself for four minutes or so as I watched the Manhattan skyline fade into the distance.

Having reached the hotel, I had a full double room to myself, noting with self-disgust the free broadband access available in the room. I had left my laptop behind me in New York, rationalizing that I would be too busy to use it. Raging with myself, I showered, changed, and joined up with the others for the wedding rehearsal.

I had no idea what to expect about the Greek Orthodox Church where the wedding ceremony was being performed. The Groom had told us the Bridesmaids were sound, attractive and taken, and his description was on the money.

From a purely ceremonial perspective, the Orthodox Church has a very different approach to weddings. Dogmatically speaking, the Orthodox and Catholic Churches are almost identical. Like most things, the differences are in the details.

Firstly, there is no Wedding Mass. The Wedding Ceremony is a ritual in its own right, and it lasts about an hour.

Secondly, the Orthodox Christians wear the wedding rings on their right hand. I am not sure why this is, but all their ceremonies and gear towards this. The Priest informed us that many switch it over to the more traditional left-hand after the ceremony, but it is supposed to be on the right.

Thirdly, their Priests can marry and have children.

Fourthly, their churches are amazing, especially in America.

Fifthly, the most important person in an Orthodox Wedding, after the Bride and Groom, is the Goombada, or Sponsor. This person (and spouse) will be the Godparent for the first child of the marriage. He also has a role to play during the ceremony, which I did not realize at the time.

One of the most surprising things about the entire wedding was how impressed I was by the Orthodox religion. In America anyway, the Churches function as both a place of worship, and as a community centre. Downstairs, underneath the church was a huge open area, which reminded me a lot like our Community Centre back in Drumlish, where I grew up. The Groom informed me that it is standard for the congregation to go downstairs after Mass (assuming that is what they call it, I never found out) and spend a while interacting with the rest of the Greek community.

The simple wisdom of allowing Priests to marry stunned me. The Priest was quite a young man, in his early forties I would imagine, and was very helpful and friendly. He lined us up, informed us of the routine for the following day, and told us how to walk down the aisle.

Inexplicably, as Partner I (more on that later) took my arm, I felt a huge surge of nerves well up inside me. My only guess at the reason is that this was the point it became real. The Groom, a man I’d known since before I started school, was getting married, and I was his Groomsman. We slowly walked down between the empty pews, separated at the altar, and waited for the rest.

The practice took around ten minutes, but the Bridesmaids very quickly informed us that it would take about an hour, and we stood the entire time. Stern instructions to not drink and eat a lot were given, lest some of us start to faint at the altar due to all the incense and warmth.

Once that was done, it was barbeque time at the Bride’s home. Naturally, all the other Irish guests were late, so the four of us were left to huddle in the corner, praying that people we knew would arrive soon, nervously and quietly talking to ourselves lest the Greeks notice the outsiders.

Finally, the Groom’s family arrived, and with them came the Crazy Croat. A friend of the Groom’s cousin, I had met her before, and had forgotten how attractive she was. Of course, her moniker was not for nothing, she is mad as a broom, but she was female, attractive, and fun.

Naturally enough, there was a problem. My friend had been with her. In the past, this would be a regrettable strikeout, but I have recently begun to adjust my philosophy in this regard. Besides, she was looking well fine, and is quite a lot of fun.

As I may have mentioned, I have never been to a Greek wedding before, so I was eager to learn the traditions. Also, I was expected to do the Greek wedding dance thing right at the start, so that had to be learned. There was to be no smashing of plates, however, which was disappointing. That I could do.

Almost immediately, the Greek music started and the Greek dancing began. The wedding dance is a very simple dance done in an infinite loop at weddings. The lead person holds a white towel in the left hand, and leads the way. The second person holds the other end of this towel and then people form a long chain, going in huge loop around whatever space is available. The steps are quite simple, yet look very complex, especially if you have no idea what you are at. Never one to shirk a challenge, and secretly proud of the Irish dancing I did with kilts in Scor when I was eighteen or so, I was determined to pick up the dance.

The steps are two steps forward, crossing the left leg behind the right, then back two steps, uncrossing them. Leading with the right, you then cross the left behind it again and then skip out the left and step forward left and right for eight steps, with the left leg again finishing behind the right. The dance then goes into an infinite loop.

All this time, the dancer’s hands are held straight out of the body. When done well by a bunch of Greek men and women who know what they are doing, it looks brilliant (more on that later).

I did not have the benefit of perspective on this, but of all the words that could be used to describe myself, the Groom (normally a good dancer, to be fair to him) and the three other wooden sticks colloquially known as the Groomsmen, I am pretty sure impressive is amongst them.

The night before the wedding, we invented the Greek Wedding Dance, Longford Edition.

This dance is even simpler.

You blunder along in a big circle with people who know what they are doing, step completely out of time with as little coordination as possible, trying desperately to avoid breaking the Greek girl’s toes. To break the monotony, change direction at completely random intervals in an honest attempt to simulate the swaying motion of the dance.

The lads gave up straight away, consoled by the fact that none of the other girl’s husbands had got it either. One of them, the husband of Partner I, had dubbed it the “Ten Hour Dance.” After about twenty minutes, I could understand why.

Your humble narrator, however, was made of sterner stuff.

Utterly determined to make my mark on the wedding, I resolve to learn the dance and be able to do it at the Wedding. Alas, this resolution came as the dancing ended, so I’d have to learn it AT the wedding.

Did I mention I had promised to drink at the wedding?

Still my tribulations were not yet behind me. Us being Irish, the singing began, and quite a few had remembered that I knew all the words to a “Boy Named Sue” by Johnny Cash. Naturally, the call came in mid-shmooze with the Crazy Croat. Never one to shy away from attention, but not particularly enthusiastic, especially with a guitar for backup, I wandered over to the group.

“Well my daddy left home when I was three,
And he didn’t leave much to Ma and me,
Just this old gee-tar and an empty bottle of booze.”

Everyone was singing a bit and laughing, and I was going great guns, when I realized the ENTIRE HOUSE, including the Greeks who had no English and had no idea what the fuck it was I was talking about, had gone silent to listen to me.

It freaked me out.

Around “Well it was Gattlingburg in mid-Jew-lie,” I began to get really self-conscious. Despite knowing the words, I began to second-guess myself, fluffed the words and stopped singing as my mind went blank. I completely fluffed it. I do not get embarrassed very often, so my face lit up the entire back garden. I desperately tried to finish it, but one of the Groomsmen started complaining, so I stopped before the end.

The cheering that ensued did little to salve my wounded pride.

Still, at least I did it, even if my less-than-impressive display had done little to improve my chances with the Crazy Croat.

Having availed of the Bride’s family’s hospitality for long enough, we Irish returned to the hotel, making a beeline for the bar, politely ignoring the fact that it had been closed for thirty minutes prior to our arrival. The barman, a pleasant balding man called something English name I cannot remember. Like Albert, but not.

I do remember it was about six or seven letters long and had an ‘l’ in it because he preferred the shortened version. Like Al, but not.

Lots of shorts ensued, much of it bought by Partner I’s husband, an Irish American guy whose family originally hailed from Armagh. The Crazy Croat and the Groom’s cousin had gone straight to bed, along with all the other Groomsmen, though not in the Biblical sense. Thus, I decided the only thing to do was get hammered with the Groom, on this, his last night of freedom:

G: What are you doing, Mick?
YHN: Well, I figured since you were getting married tomorrow, I’d like to have a drink with you.
G: Yeah, ya bollox!

Unfortunately, he wandered off outside at that point to talk to his mother, so I ended up drinking with a bunch of pissed, married men telling each other how great they all are.

At some point, the Groom decided enough was enough. He needed some sleep if he was going to get married. I took that as my cue and retired as well, seeking solace not in the arms of a warm-blooded lady with mischief on her mind, but several hard-backed volumes of “Ultimate Spiderman,” recently purchased in the city prior to the trip to Dover, New Jersey.

Back

I finally made it back to Ireland, and I had quite a holiday.

I imagined I would blog a series of articles while over there, but it was a strange holiday. Early on, I realised I had little motivation to blog small articles and decided to write one big one.

This has no mushroomed to massive proportions (I found I had a lot to say) and so will come in three parts.

The first part is almost done, the second is largely complete, but I have yet to start the third. Still, I would imagine I will have the three online before long.

Bear with me.

Another Wedding

My omniscience has been confirmed.

I had a feeling that my friend on the West Coast of America had gotten engaged, and verily, he had.

He plans to get married next year, in the spring of 2006.

That is gonna be one amazing wedding. As Morrissey almost said, the First of the Gang to Go!

Moving

I have finally decided to take the plunge. I am buying a place to live.

Goodbye rent, hello mortgage.

There are a number of observations I would like to make about this whole phenomenon of becoming a home owner.

Firstly, the amount of work involved is truly staggering. Stuff keeps cropping up which needs your attention. I spent a lot of my time over the past six weeks or so walking around Dublin from one place to another, doing all sorts of seemingly bizarre and innocuous stuff.

Secondly, there is a lot of stages involved. You need to find a broker, get some offers, obtain information about your income, organise life assurance, obtain certification of your income, organise house insurance, snag the property, certify the snagging, organise your furniture, organise your appliances, and so on.

I was relatively lucky. I'm buying a new apartment, which comes painted, with fitted wardrobes and kitchen, so that cut some of the problems out immediately. It also comes with a maintenance contract, so I did not have to worry about insurance.

Thirdly, life assurance is a total pain. They ask you loads of questions about your health. Me being me, I naively answered with complete and utter honesty. As a result, I delayed the policy issuance by several days as Eagle Star kept coming back to me with forms about my childhood asthma and the fact that I had toenails removed six years ago.

To say I feel stupid is something of an understatement. The only material effect of this honesty was to delay the closing.

Fourthly, not wanting to pay dead-rent for the month of September, I decided to move out of my residence at 37, Violet Hill Drive at the end of August.

Initially, I planned to crash there for a few days, then stay with a friend out in Ashbourne for the rest of the month. Of all the unexpected things to occur from buying an apartment, this surprised me the most. I felt out of place from the very first night. Coming home late from a night out last Thursday, I did not feel at home in Violet Hill Drive.

It was an incredibly strange and unpleasant feeling. It was nothing that the lads did, or even the new residents. It is all in my head, but no less powerful for that.

Suddenly, I was strongly conscious of the fact that I did not live there.

I cannot explain the feeling, but last Sunday night, driving out to Ashbourne with a car loaded with my computer gear, I was struck by a morose and nostalgic longing. Memories flooded through me.

Images flicked through me like channels on a digital television:

• a very drunken Magyar, a reactionary and homophobe, but very pleasant all the same, pissed out of his brain, jokingly demanding that a terrified Frenchman should come out because he was the only thing he wanted;
  
• a beautiful girl, drunk and upset, sitting on my bed in my room, reading my palm and bewilderingly asking why I was always so nice to her;


• standing over the cooker, preparing my creamy chicken pasta dish with a lasagne in the oven, nervously watching the Hobo arrive with her equally attractive friends, desperately trying to hide the fact that I was terrified the food would not be tasty;


• finally losing my temper with the Athlete, screaming in her face because I was tired of her never complaining to the other lads directly;


• the guilt I felt when she broke down crying as a result;


• playing Homeworld at 0430 in the morning in the run up to Christmas, the only light in the kitchen coming off the monitor as I struggled to complete the mission "Supernova Research Station";


• the exultation I felt of finally getting a girl to stay the night, sex or no sex;


• the disappointment I felt through admitting that my heart was not really in it, staring at myself in the bathroom mirror as I realised that hurting her was inevitable;


• the rage and fury I felt the first time when I finally started losing on a regular basis to The Big Guy at Pro Evolution 4, ranting at the Chameleon, belligerently unapologetic for my lack of graces in defeat;


• the pain in my sides from the laughter at my relating to the Magyar of the debauched and outrageous antics of my football team during a weekend trip to Swindon;


• looking at the new room created by the new occupant, and acknowledging that a chapter of my life, probably one of the most influential, was over.
  

My new apartment in Premier Square is ready, and the deal is set to close. The bank await my life assurance policy, the money is in the post.

By the time I return from the wedding in New York, I will have a new chat up line for the ladies:

Hi! My name is Mick Cooney, I'm landed and have prospects.

[Spartak] Premier Sat at Malahide

Our first win of the season was well deserved.

Malahide have been something of a bogey team in the last few years. We always seem to underperform against them and never get a decent result (a fantastic Cup victory from two seasons ago notwithstanding).

Our starting team was Massey, Greene, O'Connell, Mohan, Keane, Byrne, Cooney, R. Maher, Brehony, Dawson, McNamee. Subs: O'Hara for Greene, Reid for McNamee, T. Maher for Mohan.

We started pretty well playing against the breeze and up the hill. We still have a tendency to hoof the ball too much, but the wind tempered that in the first half and we built a number of decent moves, without creating a lot of clear-cut chances.

Their goal came about 20 mins in and against the run of play. Mohan was turned on the sideline, the forward reached to byline and crossed the ball onto the body of an onrushing attacker, who bundled the ball in. It was a bad goal to concede.

I have criticised ourselves a lot lately for lack of physicality in the challenge, and an all-round lack of competitiveness. On Saturday, there was much more battle in the team. Our equaliser was well deserved. I won the ball in a tackle around the middle, laying it off to Rob Maher. Maher put Dawson down the wing and he cut into the box, pulling it back for Brehony. Brehony first shot was blocked, but he scored the header.

Going in a half-time 1-1 was at least what we deserved.

The manager ripped shreds off us at halftime. He wanted the effort and bite upped dramatically in the second half. It simply was not good enough, and we needed more pride. While I felt I had done all that, from a team perspective, he was spot.

We pretty much dominated the second-half, and I had a chance when the ball dropped in the 6-yard box from a throw. I drew the boot, but it deflected off Byrne (who couldn't get out of the way) and the keeper and was cleared. That was frustrating.

The winner came from a free-kick taken by Rob Maher from about 25 yards out. His eyes placed the ball at the far post, but actually hit a zinger inside the near post. The keeper got a hand to it, but it had far too much pace.

After that, we controlled the game and finished out a comfortable enough victory. Our first 3-pointer of the season, it felt fantastic to finally get a victory. It had been a long time coming.

Our team is improving as we play more matches, and I am a little more optimistic than I was earlier in the season.