Soundtracksforthem

photo credit: Orford Piece

A rite of passage that’s said to have it’s roots in ancient Sparta in the fifth century BC was never going to be without it’s fair share of primitive nudity, decadent bachanalic frenzies and worship of the dead. It was obvious even before we descended into a sleepy seaside village to the strains of Corrosion of Conformity that alcohol and the imbibing of such was the central, if not only thing expected of us during this ritual more commonly known as the stag party.

As best man at R’s wedding (Names removed to protect personal integrity of those involved, and in keeping with the rule “What happens on Stag stays on Stag”) I was part of a 20 strong crew making their way to three cozy cottages in Doolin, Co. Clare for two nights. Couldn’t break tradition could we?

Doolin, a quiet village who’s claim to fame is that it’s the setting of the Playstation 3 game Folklore (In which Doolin, the tiny village of four pubs and not much else, including phone coverage or streetlights, is the only place on earth where the netherworld, that wonderful land of the undead, can be entered.) Apparently, they have no closing time either as hazy memories and some god awful pictures show that we were still enjoying the hospitality the locals had to offer at silly hours Friday night/ Saturday morning.

Not that the fun ended in the pub. Somewhere during the night J had managed to befriend a large group of crazy tourists from New Zealand with an unhealthy obsession with Sepultura and the fact that F looked (really only if you squint) like Igor Cavalera of said band.

So back they came to carry on drinking until the sun came up as we drank to the dead (there was to be more of this later) and had one girl, A, harp on about all kinds of batshit mental mallarky. She quickly shut up as she realised there were ten people rolling around on the floor in various states of hysteria at her feeling C’s head saying and she could feel his Shakra.

And despite the sun coming up by the time we got to bed, there was a hardcore crew up at eight thirty for an albeit swift visit to the Cliffs of Moher for the cure (I swear by it, the wind literally blows your hangover away) and we were into the pub for the footie, commencing at 12.45.

Also commencing was a marathon sixteen hours of drinking, in the middle of which L, a nurse by profession was called upon to perform the Heimlich manouver on a musty looking tourist by the name of Bob, who’s family thanked him for saving Bob’s life by shaking L’s hand and disappearing out the door. At which stage L’s stew had gone cold and pint had gone warm. The bar staff on the other hand rewarded us with a round of drinks on the house. No mean feat, there was thirteen of us there at the time.

And so it came to be that at dusk, the inebriated C, M and F went looking to find the entrance to the netherworld. We got as far as the graveyard up the road (Surely, if the entrance to the netherworld would be anywhere, it’d be in a graveyard,) where we found a dark and pretty wicked looking crypt. We didn’t get in (this time) but we did climb onto the roof and toast the Gods, the Sea, the Undead, and of course the groom to be.

And back to the pub. Being honest, this is where it gets very hazy and I piece the story together from vague recollections and pictures. I do remember a hen party joining us at some stage that night, a man wearing Ugg boots and a purple wig, more New Zealanders, a lot more Guinness, random strangers giving me hugs, spilt drinks, generally silliness and antics. I also vividly remember C (ahem…. ) climbing up on a picnic bench outside to make a somewhat slurred speech.

Not so bad you say. Until he fell off. And landed on an already dodgy arm. Not so good. C didn’t remember what had happened when they woke up the next morning until he realised he had a sizable cut on said arm and a deal of blood on his shirt.

And not to be outdone by not getting into the crypt earlier in the evening, a contingent of C, C, J, L, F and M was despatched with a crate of beer to open the gates of hell. It was pretty easy in the end, the door was open. But it was just an empty room, no undead, no zombies, no nothing. Just six lads and a crate of beer in the pitch dark. Dancing around like lunatics, just to make sure we weren’t already being sacrilegious enough. On the way back from the crypt, it was decided that C and J would strip naked and run home.

Oh woe, the things sixteen hours of drinking can do to a person. All very well and good until C woke up the next morning, unable to find most of his clothes, which were in various rooms of the house. Upon opening the curtains it became apparent that there was a short girl with dreadlocks sitting on the bench outside the house. Apparently someone had offered A, the crazy Shakra and Aura girl a lift to Birr, a considerable way out of the way. Ah well, a drunken promise is still a promise.

And so we made our way to the pub for some breakfast and sad farewells, before piling into various cars in various states of pain. A three hour car journey, an hour and a half on the train, followed by an eventful ten minutes on the LUAS (in which an intoxicated individual was kicked off for not having a ticket and chased the tram down the tracks, and another intoxicated individual offered us three packets of cheese for a fiver,) a slog up the stairs and I was finally home.

A cup of tea and I was fit for bed. A swift visit to the bathroom and a look in the mirror and I was happy in the knowledge that I had at least got one brief look at the undead in an otherwise hazy weekend.