Sunday, July 26, 2009

U2 Night

Right around the corner, Croke Park resounded with the clamorous hooting of Bono lovers. I wasn't there, of course, but I imagine it was the kind of gig that resounded. I was in work, serving happy drunkards with piles of sushi.

Croke Park is a wonderful piece of heritage, and I love it with all my Irishness, but it tends to attract events that attract weirdoes who like sushi. Tonight there were the normal sorts who smile and joke and talk with abandon. But there were also the food shy ladies, the fancy types who smell of obsolete perfume, wearing sponge applied make-up. After a great preamble, one pair asked if I'd 'got anything, you know, Irish? We only like the Irish food.' Then why choose the Japane.... forget it. I went for the soft sell, struggled, and bottomed out with shame. There was no convincing them. I’d already broken the camel’s back with the mention of 'ginger', and then I suggested chopsticks. They left in a huff, leaving their aroma behind them. Later I got a sassy couple in the corner who humped like teenagers after dinner, moaning and quivering, soft porn style. That's a CCTV for the YouTube. There were also the little things, like the 22 Italian kids who burst in unannounced and arm wrestled over the tables, the drunk who kept hassling the head chef for a job during service, the bewildered and repetitious granddad asking if the wine was coming, you know, for his back (it's just a painkiller, he would confess with a guilty grin), the massively boobed slag quartets, the suit wearing hippies, the song-singers, the shouters, the snappers of fingers. These kinds of people don't come to my place, at least not in such numbers, unless Croke Park is ajar.

Despite all that, or maybe because of it, Dublin was electric tonight. I'm no great fan of the mega band, but I'm a fan of the result. Temple Bar was popping at the belt with dancing, embracing, hooting youngsters. The bars bounced, the streets cheered, the restaurants smiled with curious appreciation. Go on the Ireland, I thought to myself, show them how young you are. Show them we've still got the spirit they talk about abroad. It's a rare auld thought, for me at least.

So for that, U2, thanks a million. To show my appreciation, I've written a punless blog. Don't worry about it. My pleasure. I hope it's what you were looking for. If not, with or without you, you can find me on the street with no name. It'll be a sort of homecoming.

DIARIT: 8.5/10

2 comments:

  1. Yes, it's a place of freedom, as long as you know you want it.

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