One day…in Dublin

6am.  Church across the street bangs its bells symbolizing something completely different than we thought.  Bodies rise.

8am. Underground tube to Euston, doing everything possible to avoid intermittent interruptions from well-intentioned homeless folks hoping to acquire pounds for pints, and adding a nice perfume of urine plus the breath of a long-digested steak. Final tally: Homeless folks 3 Stupid tourists 0.

11am. Aboveground train to Holyhead, England’s westernpoint launch to Ireland where the nearest pub serves something vaguely fish-like and of a firm tennis-shoe quality, along with the alcoholic equivalent of an unfermented cranberry (read: tastes tangy and solid and drives you to pee too much)

2pm. Ferry across Irish Sea. Snot icicles, tornadic winds, waves like cake frosting, rampant seasickness accompanying drunken tourists whose idea of a sea-crossing involves overzealous card-playing, vocal losses at the casino, and the boisterous cursing of a pissed sailor.  Lyrical intonations of “Ferry cross the Mersy” met with blank stares or downright disgust.

5pm. Distant coastline with identifiable lighthouse, para-surfers performing acrobatics in water cold enough to embarrass your average porn star.  Spires rising atop things religious.  First sounds from Dublin include a deeply-voiced “Fughh-off”, the high-pitched giggles of three California girls overwhelmed to see folks from back home, plus the aromatic blend of potatoes and sewage.

9pm. Should one wish, still bright enough to perform surgery on the black eyes of the several Irish women camping outside the pubs and apparently awaiting tonight’s brawl so they can complement their darkened look.

11pm. Temple Bar. Irish folk singer on-stage attempts to break Guiness world record of 100 straight hours playing guitar – sits amongst four other musicians who bang away on their drums and Banjos while the droopy-eyed chap, now in hour fifty-seven of what is proving to be a most painful effort, tries to avoid hand cramps and the desire to relieve himself from the bladder-affecting Guiness pints surrounding his stool, and making this whole scene a rather cannibalistic affair – riles up the crowd with a rousing rendition of something which sounds like Bon Jovi as sung by a Leprechaun.

3am. Naked tourists witnessed having a graffiti contest on brick wall outside pub – “artists used urine.” Tired stagger through Dublin into warm bed to await painful sunrise.

7am. Cranial pulsing.  Echoing tones of exhausted guitarist ring out beneath a cloudy morn.  Mocking cliche “They’re always after me lucky charms” running rampant across my tongue. Sub-window, drooping eyes bear black bags atop chapped lips and drunken stumbles.  Excessive underwear in street gutters.  The scent of pancakes drifts across the river. Coffee beckons.

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By ccxander

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