And we're baaaaaack! Warning, more gratuitous cussing...
So Matt and Paul and I head over to the parade grounds at noon to see the revelry before we had to be back at the stadium at 3. We got good seats and saw a decent parade. No Shriners damnit! Oh yeah, we were rained on, hailed on, snowed on, sleeted on, blown around and frozen all day. The temp hung right around 34 all day with 15-20 mile and hour wind. Big suck! Oh yeah, and you thought we were cold, the Brazilian delegation in the parade and about 5 women in g-strings and bikini tops. Gota respect the drive of those Brazilians. Cute little Irish kids running around like Christmas morning and everyone watching out for them and for their parents who were trying desperately to keep up.
So by the time the parade finished, we're popsicles, or as they say over here "ice-lollies". We headed over to a Chinese place for a quick bite, I DID NOT get the duck and we're off again in no time. We make it to the stadium a little late but get our seats and immediately see some guy get his head damn near taken clean off by a hurling stick. Oh yeah, I almost forgot, Hurling sticks. They're great. Imagine how you'd make a hockey stick into a weapon. First you'd shorten it. Then you'd make it heavier and easier to wield and gain speed in the air. Yeah, then you'd sharpen an edge. Yep, that's about it. You got yourself a Hurling stick! Congrats, now go show a cop!
People, I have no idea how we didn't see people get carted off the field or "pitch" every 2 minutes with concussions, missing fingers and broken shins and arms except that the Irish are, in general, a far superior race immune to pain or affliction. The team in the yellow ended up winning and it turns out the Irish don't really care who you route for, as long as you enjoy the game, slap a lot of people on the back and make grimacing faces when someone gets laid out. Oh yeah, and you've got to talk mad shit to the ref when he's made a bad call (or at least when you guess that he's made a bad call because you have no idea as to the rules of the game). After 40 minutes, the game was over (we only caught the 2ndhalf) and the fans rushed the pitch and the other team lied down, defeated in battle. The Gaelic Football was pretty much the same thing, massive hits, lots of backslapping and lots of grins to and from people we didn't know. Oh yeah, Matt found an unopened coke and we all shared. It was great.
At this point we're all boarding on hypothermia (it was an open field) so we got the hell out of dodge and headed straight back for our neighbourhood bar. We walk in the door and the bar was considerably more crowed that the last time. None the less, we found 3 seats at the bar next to the door. Matt ordered a Smithwicks, Paul a Guinness and me a Whiskey. We kept drinking (I switched back to Guinness after I had warmed up) until the band struck up and said a hearty "fuck you" to the crowds and tourists fighting for a pint down on Trinity Bar. Then the greatest and best moment of my young life occurred. There are few things that occur in life that you can actually plan for. All you can do is set the pieces in motion and see if fate let's you roll again. This day my friends, fate her big Irish, freckled face down on her favourite son. No, Kira Knightling didn't walk through the door and offer shag (although, that would have been AWESOME!), no this was something equally as kick ass. The band, which turns out to be lead by the salty lookin' mofo who was sitting beside us the entire time opens with a song that has to be titled "English Go Home" because that was the song. I shit you not, that was it. "English go home. English go home. English go home. Etc." for like 5 mins. The bar went ape shit. It was like gas on a fire. Everyone was dancing, buying pints, it was lunacy. We figured that was just a warm up until they played the next song – "We'll fight you for 800 more".
Here's a history lesson kids. The Irish have been revolting against English rule for 800 years in some form or fashion. This reached its peek in 1916 when the Irish wrote their version of the declaration of independence. Boy that really pissed off the red coats. They marched their limy asses into Dublin, arrested the signers and shot executed them all in about 72 hrs. Not good. That's like pushing Mickey down the stairs right before you have to fight Rocky. So the Irish go on this nasty guerrilla war for 3 years until the English are like "fuck this, we're out". So the treaty was struck where the UK was retaining the 6 counties in the north that were still predominantly protestant and the rest would be under Irish rule. That turned out to be unacceptable for the Irish (everybody saw Michael Collins right, well he brokered the deal for the Irish and was later shot in Ireland for it) and they entered into a bloody civil war that technically hasn't ended (see: IRA, EVA, Republicans, Unionists, Nationalists, etc). Now the people who want to stay with England (god help them) are called Republicans and those who don't are called Republicans or Unionists. Most of the current fighting only happens in Belfast (and even that's rare) or in Derry. We're in Dublin so everyone can breathe easy. Aaaanyway…
So this guy keeps singing anti British songs and pro IRA songs until he finally strums up his last song. Matt and Paul and I are just humming along and don't really notice anything out of the ordinary until we look around and see that EVERYBODY in the bar is lock up and at attention looking straightforward. THEY WERE PLAYING THE IRA WAR HYMN!!!!! HOLY SHIT!!!! Turns out we were in the middle of a heavily republican/IRA bar and basically witnessed how they piss all over the English and get shit face. Fucking awesome!!!!!
Oh, I've got to go now and see V for Vendetta! Natelie Portman….soooo fine….want to touch the hieny….
Mark "lovely tanks" Mitchell
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