Wednesday Night, The End

Continuing...

As we exited Sally Long's we I noticed the line for the club had gotten quite long. In fact, it stretched almost the entire block, across from where we stood to the front door. I though this was a stroke of good luck, since we could easily get in line without attracting the attention of the bouncers. Not so fast. [B] has a better idea. "What we'll do is walk towards the front and then act as though we've seen someone we know. Then we talk amongst ourselves like nothing happened."

I'm thinking that walking in the first place might be a challenge, but off we go. [B] loudly pretends to say hello to someone. This was not a good move, as the surrounding people look to see who the new drunk guy is. Then we all crowd onto the sidewalk nearby. Within thirty seconds a bouncer walks up to us. "The queue starts back there, lads."

"Sure, sure," [B] says for all of us. "We're just saying hello to our friends." Then he turns and faces the wall. The bouncer walks on but has clearly taken note of us. [B] and [C] give each other a look like they have done good work here. Of course, a minute later the bouncer is back.

"The queue starts down there, in case you didn’t hear the first time." We look and each other and head for the back of the line.

...

On our way in, what I'm really interested to see is if they will let [A] come in. He has run the typical path from ready-to-pass-out, to vomit, to able-to-keep-glassy-eyes-open-but-still-very-drunk. We get up to the doormen who are checking IDs. I have no idea if they remember us or are even the same guys, but we sail through without even having to show then anything. We head into the lobby-like area, check coats, then get in a short line to actually pay. Had I had my wits about me I wouldn't have let this happen, but [B] and [C] got a bit ahead, then [A] with me directly behind.

At the pay window, it's 6 euro. Says it right on the sign. [A] hands a 5 note over and starts to walk off. Think house of cards, and this was like removing just one of them. The lady calls him back. He gets confused, thinking he's being ripped off. Tries to explain that he already paid, and not without plenty of slurring. Had he given her 6, he never would have had to talk. I'm just about to hand over one euro on his behalf when she actually reaches her arm out of the window to point at the sign. In [A]'s defense, there is no set price at this club, so even though he'd been there many times, there was no way to know how much it would be. Although I suppose that cuts both ways, too: all the more reason to find out before you just drop a five and leave.

The worst part about it was, she takes the 6 euro, lets [A] walk away. I'm thinking what a strange country this is when I see her give a look to the guy who actually watches the door from the lobby into the club. Then she points at [A]. This is another point where if I had been on home turf, I would have felt compelled to say something. I would have asked her why she would be so low as to take his 6 euro first, then have him kicked out. Was that 6 gonna put the club in the black tonight or what? But what I actually did was quickly paid my 6 and got inside before anyone knew I was with him. Phew, that was close. Plus - let's be honest - there was no way he deserved to get in anyhow.

Once inside I found the guys and told them what had happened. [B] did go and talk to the last doorman but to no avail. Then [D] made an offhand remark about how much more drunk [A], [B] and [C] were than him and me, and that we ought to do some catching up. Good idea, I actually thought. I went up to the bar and ordered a double shot of vodka. Normally I would never order a double, but everywhere in Ireland uses those upside down bottle things to measure shots. So you don't get the typical "heavy pour" you get with a shot.

I returned to the group to find [B] and [D] downing shots of whiskey. "What've you got there? Water?" asked [B].

"No, vodka. A double." I said and promptly drained it.

"Fair play! Fair play!" They all shouted, patting me on the back. One thing I should point out, however, is it's not wise to play catch-up with Irish guys. Even if you are one. But again I got a bit lucky. [B] seemed to remember [D]'s comment, but not my agreement, and proceeded to buy three more rounds of whiskey shots for the two of them. When he bought the first I felt a bit left out. When he bought the second I thought I'm actually quite lucky here. And on the third I started to feel vicariously sick watching them.

...

Shortly after that, [B] and [C] disappeared into the crowd. [D] and I shot the breeze for a bit, watching the girls. Then suddenly someone had me in a headlock. Not the "oh crap I've got a fight on my hands" kind, but the "which drunk friend is this trying to say a hearty hello" kind. I turn to see a girl with straight brown hair, about six inches taller than me (which, granted, isn't saying much), whom I have never seen before in my life. And she's wearing some strange club outfit including either very long shorts or very short capri pants; they ended right at the knees. Maybe they were supposed to be capris and she was just too tall for them.

Running her hand through my hair, she hollers over to her friends, "I've found the softest hair in all of Galway!" Which of course causes the two sober ones to continue talking to each other and the two drunk ones to come over and try to touch my hair. Had I had my wits about me I would have insisted on some type of trade for the touching, but as it went I just sort of gave them an, "ok, ok, that's enough."

"What's your secret?" drunk girl 2 wanted to know.

"No gel." I said.

"Wow." she said, reaching for another feel.

"[D]!" I said, "let's check on [B], I think I saw him over here!" It wasn't easy to pull [D] away, as he was desperately trying to get the drunk girls to give him their real names. In drunk girl fashion, their short attention spans had shifted back to the other friends.

...

[D] and I set up on one of the balconies with a view of the dance floor and soon spotted [B]. Not that it was all that tough; he left a wake of stumbling patrons and cranky girls. His move with the ladies seemed to go like this. Apropos of nothing he would walk up, take a girl by the hand and then attempted to twirl her rapidly, regardless of how much room there was, or how willing she was. Incidentally, This is only slightly different from one of my brother's favorite moves, which is to dance energetically, and then feign accidentally backing into the girl of your choice. For [B], most girls seemed to offer little resistance to being taken by the hand, but the violent twirling was something else. Generally I think twirling girls is probably a pretty good move, they do seem to like it. But I would offer one caveat: it's probably best that the girls actually know who you are first.

At one point I turned to look for the bar, and [D] whacked my shoulder.

"Didya see that? That one just cuffed him!"

"No, dammit! Which one?"

"That one over there. Come on let's go ask him about it."

So we trotted down to the dance floor and found [B] on the sidelines, still grooving a bit, but apparently gun-shy from getting out in the middle of it.

"[B] what the hell happened with that girl? I saw her slap you one."

[B]'s eyes took a full second to focus on [D] and recognize him. Then he said, "oh that, my fault. I called her a wanker for no reason." Then he seemed to find his rhythm again. It was almost like he had been to confession and was now absolved from that sin, because he no sooner finished talking as went back on the floor trying to twirl more girls with newfound abandon.