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Saturday, 10 August 2013

Zombies a Gathering. Lambs on the march.

A tale of two parties, a song in two notes:

We go to Galway on Sunday to see our blissful boss in the Gaeltacht,  stay overnight.  "And at least we know the beautiful girl will mind the house, in the company one of her little friends as agreed......... which is reassuring darling.... no?" My husband snorts.

We return to tell tale  signs of partying. You know the kind of thing. All the windows open, the dustpan and brush on the landing,  the very air unsettled. My husband becomes increasingly disturbed as the evening wears on, finding many empty mineral bottles in the bin (he is carrying out a  full investigation by  now), stray shards of glass on the living room floor,  the TV aerial askew in a permanent way,  his stuff moved about in our bedroom. The beautiful one is taxed with this, the evidence presented.

"A Party? No. Well....Ok I mean  N brought a naggin of Vodka, yeah, and we had a a few like drinks,  yeah, and we..and we....went to bed.....You SAID  N could stay.  Shards of glass?? well I don't know about that,  TV aerial?  nope..... don't...... Well  yes, there was SOME dancing' but..... your bedroom?,....well... you know I put N in there because SHE's so...um... gentle and I put C in the boy's room,  and.... and well ok Ok C was here and also R L and D came, and yes yes they  each brought a naggin of vodka, but I mean we were not DRUNK, like  do you know how much vodka you get in a a naggin?.  And I mean I did clean up the boy's room after.....  the boss's room looked ok.  And,,,so .... NO there was nothing GOING ON  in the boy's room but C you know, she  smokes,  and.. um...  hasn't you know much stomach for alcohol.'....but...  No! no boys! I mean like R  and  C  wanted to have some but I said no, and now look at the thanks I get, I mean hello? it wasn't actually a party, it was a...it it was a,....mixers? well some of the girls wanted to make shots, and NO! N n D were not like  drunk when they fell on the tv aerial, AND ANYWAY WE DID NOT TRAUMATISE THE DOG".

"I could forgive all else  but what they did to the dog" my husband says sternly ." No! the dog's not all right!  He is withdrawn,. He is not himself. What do you mean what do I mean withdrawn? He is SHOOK. And.. how would I KNOW what they did to the dog, but they did it. And there WERE boys! How do I know? I'll tell you how I know, some one was moving my antique bullet collection around in our bedroom, the boy's fishing stuff has been gone through. You' re not going to tell me a girl would have been interested in that stuff. And besides I can smell it. Smell what? Disturbance! smoke! booze! What's wrong with your Nose!?"

Things got  heated, took a turn for the acrimonious here. BUT we have agreed, he and I, to differ on what actually happened and she, the beautiful gig, has agreed, even though she never did it in the first place, never ever to do it again. "The truth" I say sagely, "lies somewhere in the middle. Sweetest heart".  He snorts.

Burn now or burn later:

Later on, to take his mind off the war, I asked him  if he thinks that strategic defaulters, in the frame on  the airwaves in many and mind numbing discussions about mortgage arrears,  are in fact A GOOD THING..  "I mean, you know, if The Banks and The Regulators are calling us names,  it has to be  good. Strategic defaulters or lambs to the slaughter,  baby cakes,  pick your corner, choose your Moral Hazard, now Bankers are exercised about the state of your soul. Least you burn in the next world,  instead of roasting helpfully in this".  He, having reverted to tobacco after the Party  that Wasn't,  sniggers in a fine fug of smoke.

One last thing:

On the Radio I  listen to the Canadian woman, attacked on the street by  a randomer  drunk,  describe her ordeal,  haltingly allow when pressed that she might come back to Ireland one day, does not blame anyone over here.  She is too generous. She has been maimed, irreversibly.  It is  not an unlikely incident. Walk through any Irish population centre these evenings, and you will witness the march of the Zombies. Loose, sloppy, labile people drinking on the streets. It is spreading; encroaching, infectious behavior. Not very long ago, if you wanted to get degradingly drunk, you had to do it within the four walls of a pub, and the rest of the folk could walk unmolested in the streets. Not now. Our gardai turn a blind eye and we tolerate it. Until, that is,  some one whom we invited back here to shake down (Gabriel Byrne take a bow) is blinded. And then we lie to ourselves about who is to  blame and what exactly goes down in this place.