72 HOURS RAW IN DUBLIN
PART TWO
"IN SEARCH OF A FILTH"
"IN SEARCH OF A FILTH"
Half four on Sunday morning, the hotel bar empty save
for a fella sat at reception reading the paper, sippin
some fruit juice, chillin to some Dean Martin.
In my pocket, on one of many pieces of folded file-
paper, a note; “Ask reception for bog roll. P.S – Sir
Fleming needs a piss.”
He got his piss, far as I recall, certainly there don’t
seem to be no follow-up notes regarding the urge, but
the room, it’s still got a gaping rotten dot com wound
where the Bathroom Wipes should be.
So yeah, The Duke and Sir Fleming, the latter frazzled
by The Liquor, the former frazzled by The Lust, barking
about toilet roll, we need toilet roll, the room’s done
gone rid itself of the damn bog-wipes, on account of
yeah, I got a bit Coltrane with the process a while
back, felt like tackling it in a kinda freestyle manner,
ended up a sorry state all being told, my apologies.
“What? You want what?”
“Toilet roll. We need. Aye.”
"Cherry what?”
“Toilet roll!”
“I don’t know what you’re saying!”
“Fuck my eyes, toilet roll!”
I’m miming the act of taking a leaf or six a shit-screed
and wiping it cross an imaginary arsehole.
“Oh, toilet paper, ok, sure.”
Thank god we didn’t need tampons, I’m thinking.
Do we need tampons?
Sir Fleming looks unsure.
The fella comes back with the “cherry what?” and I ask
him where a man might find a decent tampon at this hour.
There’s an all-night grocery store round the corner, he
says, you’d get them there.
The news eases me somewhat, and truth be told, a fella
needs all the easing he can get. I’d give my last lung
for a moment of calm, is the gist of it all. The last
few hours, they been a beautiful, life-affirming
tapestry of regal decadence and black metal and heart-
breaking smiles. Of punk-kids with faces red and bulging
on account of the poppers, with gorgeous ladies getting
all Last Tango with each other just for the fuck of it,
with big fellas with tiny guitars taking to the streets
at 3am in tracksuit bottoms and wrinkled jumpers, just
cause why not, they got a couple songs to play and A
Touch Of Evil finished fifteen minutes ago.
With armies of fellas with Oberst fringes getting in
fights with each other, “No you bastard, I got the most
emo hair, I got bleach in through and everything, I
couldn’t feel more jaded if I tried!”
With groups of stunningly gorgeous ladies wandering past
in every direction, every one causing no end of trauma,
and so when Sir Fleming sighs and says about “If only
the myth bout going blind were true…” I can’t help but
weep in agreement. Ladies like Tetsuo Woman, for
example, who only passed for a second, but long enough
for to send me into a spectacular babble regarding her
gorgeosity, even though she had the look of a lady
surely done got surgically enhanced of the frame one
time or other, hence the moniker.
With Sinéad and Anna stood by the freshly-unveiled
statue of Phil Lynott on Grafton Street, and the night
melting someplace midst that staggeringly mischievous
Savage Purple grin.
With a fella by the name of Pip approaching me outside
of Eamon Doran’s, he’s saying “I got only one thing to
say. Whatever you’re thinking right now, do it. Do it!”
I had a loada things on my mind, most of which would’ve
got me a punch on the jaw and cost me a friendship far
too precious for to go abusing, but I also had thoughts
about how a fella on the other side of the street had a
fucking fantastic Bright Eyes t-shirt on, and so yeah,
you’re right, I ran over to him, took hold his hand and
said “Fucking Digital Ash is an amazing record! You’re
amazing!”
He looked shocked out his last tit, so I left it at
that, but for sure, I felt better for it.
Balls, it’s all far too much information for to process
at this hour, what with the coke-tempered hollering out
the window, with the shouting about “Fuck you, I didn’t
buy shit from you!” and something about “I don’t care
what you think you thought, you thought wrong, fucker”,
and then it’s Herman’s Hermits singing a song bout how
Mrs Brown’s got the prettiest daughter they ever did see.
You wanna be directing your eyes in the direction of the
Savage Purple, Herman, for sure, you’d be singing all
bout Fuck You, Mrs Brown, I’ve Forgotten All About Your
Skanky Ol’ Daughter Anyhow, On Account Of The Savage
Purple Glow Done Snared My Soul, And Also, Truth Be Told
I Was Only Hangin With Your Daughter For To Get Closer
To Your Son.
Check it out Herman, I got a couple pages here. Look.
“Thoughts Regarding Sinéad.” Also; “Further Thoughts
Regarding Sinéad.” That last one’s a bit jambled,
Herman, goes off on some riff bout how I’m gonna book me
a date with a nipper / tucker first thing in the
morning, get my nose and teeth and chin fixed up
rightly, curious thoughts for the dawn to be crossing.
But no, shut your moptop face, fuckers, on account of I
don’t got the strength for to summon the prose needed to
do Sinéad justice at this time. Best take a look at this
other shit.
All these notes, man, all these bastard fucking notes.
Reams and reams of triple-folded paper, alive with
gibberish asides that baffle me, and yet also terrify
me, on account of yeah, secretly, I know exactly what
every one of these nonsensical scrawls refers to.
I kept writing till sometime past seven, and here and
now, sat in Mondo Towers on a tremendous, gale-force-
wind-lashed Tuesday night, trying to grab hold a clarity
from it all. All the while, Conor teasing the thoughts
out the back-door a his trembling, bent-back brain.
“Yeah, my heart needs a polygraph,
Always so eager to pack my bags,
When I really want to stay,
When I really want to stay”
One day I’ll get round to drawing conclusions from the
pie-charts and graphs I been working on with regards the
dizzying array of emotions young Oberst coaxes out my
liver. “Lust x Envy – 3 / 4 Admiration, 20% Jealousy, or
vice versa” and so on and so forth.
Right now all I can think of is what a girl said to me a
couple days before myself and Sir Fleming headed off to
Dublin in pursuit of a Savage Purple smile and the ghost
of Brendan Behan (even though, as Kevin Rowland pointed
out back in the day, the ghost of Brendan Behan is most
likely located nowhere if not New York), and free-form
jazz and the sights and sounds of early-morning knife-
fights mongst the rent-boys on the Liffey Bridge.
Like most things worth hearing nowadays, what the girl
said was inspired in some way by The White Stripes. I
think she overheard me babbling bout a fella on a train
one time telling me bout how De Stijl was their best
record, and even though I secretly understood the
reasoning behind his declaration, I still shot him down
with slipstream tongues of sharpest retort on account of
the obvious game the fucker was playing, that old rant
bout how they were better when they were playing the bar-
rooms north a their mamma’s hoo-hah, all that elitist
shit.
He would’ve told me A Collection of Songs Written And
Recorded 1995-1997 was the best Bright Eyes record, too,
if he thought I’d be lobotomised enough for to listen
for a damn second.
So yeah, this girl, she takes no time at all for to say
something along the lines of “I think we should fuck.”
“I didn’t know you dug The White Stripes”, she says.
“Now that I know this, and also, shit, you got a wit
could fell a herd a buffalo, I think we should fuck.
Let's just fuck.”
Taken aback, aye, t’is true, The Duke hears this kinda
banter all too rarely.
Trouble is I got too excited by the idea, and sooner or
later she realised that she was gonna have all the fun
of a lass stood third row from the back whilst some
guitar virtuoso up yonder burst into the seventeenth
solo of the night, bending each note to squealing
infinity for the benefit of no-one but the naked
cheerleader hind his sunglasses.
So she made off for some VIP party or other, but not
before noting something along the lines of “Seriously,
you need to get laid. Go do it now. Not with me, for
sure, but you need to get out from behind those acoustic
guitars and paperbacks and notebooks and go unleash all
that fuck you got driving you demented right now.”
On the list marked “What Needs To Be Done In Dublin
City, In The Name Of Mondo”, I got her words right up
top, nestled around the spot a fella might find Fuck
Forever by Babyshambles in the UK Top 40 right now,
being number four.
“Go get laid.”
And so wandering round the alleyways either side of The
Olympia Theatre on the first night in the city, still
bleedin at the knees with the thundering pace of it all,
still racin through the night-time like rabid greyhounds
fresh offa white line cocktail, in pursuit of… what?
Oh, yeah. The songs says it for me.
“I want a lover I don’t have to love.”
I can’t get behind those sentiments for the most part, I
don’t want a lover I don’t have to love, but right now
I'd settle for it. Right now I’d settle for a padded
exhaust pipe painted red and dabbed with CK One.
The over-analytical basement-taping sixteen year old in
the grime of my psyche, he’s saying about how that’s not
the kinda talk he fancies hearing from a fella like The
Duke. He says that talk reeks of objectification and
misogyny and chauvinism and all sorts.
I’m sorry, is what I say, but no, I’m just pitiful and
desperate is all. That’s why I’m stood here on the very
street where just a few hours ago I spotted Victoria
Clarke, Shane MacGowan’s ex, and the one who left him in
“Opium euphoria”, apparently. Right now, however, I’m
not looking for anyone so distinguished, I’m only here
cause I remember I met a couple hookers by this lamp-
post one time, back when I was young and naive enough to
assume there was something wrong with a five-minute
fumble by the side of an off-licence, no guilt no
strings no change.
Tonight, though, ain’t a hooker to be seen, just an old
fella in a bright-yellow jacket, he’s got a tin of Super
T in one hand and a crumpled five-euro note in the
other, stumbling towards me, garbling incoherent.
“How’s it goin?” I say as I walk past, trying to diffuse
the drunken temper evident in the fella’s snarls.
He shouts after me. “You’re a fuckin’ asshole!”
Twelve hours later, having considered every possibility
relating to the incident, neither The Duke nor Sir
Fleming are one inch closer to understanding what
offended him so. Maybe he was angry at my lack of
progress with regards the filthing, maybe he could tell
that it was a half-hearted escapade anyhow, and whilst
my sex-limb would’ve been grateful for any kinda
debauched developments, my soul just weren’t getting
behind it at all.
If maybe we took a time for to check the geography of
the situation, one could easily tell that rather than
hanging around this alley with the Mondo Irlando
delegates, my soul was in fact hovering bove the words
arriving by text message to the phone in my pocket.
“I gotta sit on a baby tonight, but we’ll do something
tomorrow.”
I read it over a million times, and even though I knew
it was a plutonic “something”, since come the hell on,
she’s gorgeous, I still needed to breathe into a paper
bag for a time, because why, I’ll tell you why, cause
the lass what sent yonder message, I’ve barely slept
since she arrived, slicing the night-time round about,
aye, the eyes, man, the eyes greetin mine like a naked
flame in a gas-soaked ‘partment.
But I don’t feel equipped for to get into any a that
just yet.
So yeah, we gave up on the Hooker Trail, wandered Temple
Bar Square for a time, got some chow in a pasta joint
cross the road from a gay bar.
Stood outside for a smoke, half-dozen butch lads cross
the way started flinging looks all inquisitive in a
fella’s direction. All leather-jackets and muscles and
shaven heads, either ironic as fuck or shameful walking
clichés. Whatever the case, sorry lads, I don’t tend to
swing that far less it’s maybe for a fella got a song
about Drunk Kid Catholics or, better yet, one who
hollers bout how he killed a man for his giro.
Anyway, it would fuck the narrative senseless if I
really did get screwed in some fashion, it’d diminish
the pathos and the emotional kick in the stones beyond
all hope.
Best go grab a coffee, and as Sir Fleming heads off to
the bathroom a moment, I notice a girl to the left doing
exactly what I’m doing. Making notes. What’s she noting?
Does she know of Tetsuo Woman and the emo-fringes and
the Savage Purple?
Whatever it is, probably it makes more sense than the
scribbles I made a few hours ago, some story starting
with;
“A man is found fully clothed on the banks of the
Liffey, soaked in paraffin. ‘What in sweet fuck’s name
is this?’ asks a passing clergyman. ‘Come look, see,
it's only a madman on the banks of the river, stinkin of
ungodly schemes. Call the national service immediately,
I won’t stand for anything less.’”
It tails off into unreadable hieroglyphic pot-marks.
“By Buddha’s blessed fuck”, a fella’s saying behind me,
“I just found a ten-euro note stuck tween the arse-
cheeks of a Doberman.”
It’s a fine deranged eve, hints of further derangement
to come, Dublin pulsing in the black, the heart afire, a
carnival atmosphere outside, an Italian waiter asking a
French girl if she’d like him along with the coffee?
She smiles in the kinda way that says “If you say
anything so trite to me again I’ll poke your nuts out
with a brush-shaft.”
He doesn’t notice, he’s still got it, far as he can
tell, and fuck it, who am I to burst any sort of bubbles
round here, the place is soaked in delusion as it is?
Sometime later we passed Blooms Hotel, which I stayed in
last time I was in Dublin, back when I was still engaged
to be married, back when I ended up getting plastered
with a couple American tourists, telling them I had a
record out and then falling asleep naked on the floor of
the en-suite bathroom.
I don’t know that I got laid that time either.
Thanks folks
Back To The 72 Hours Raw In Dublin Index
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
for a fella sat at reception reading the paper, sippin
some fruit juice, chillin to some Dean Martin.
In my pocket, on one of many pieces of folded file-
paper, a note; “Ask reception for bog roll. P.S – Sir
Fleming needs a piss.”
He got his piss, far as I recall, certainly there don’t
seem to be no follow-up notes regarding the urge, but
the room, it’s still got a gaping rotten dot com wound
where the Bathroom Wipes should be.
So yeah, The Duke and Sir Fleming, the latter frazzled
by The Liquor, the former frazzled by The Lust, barking
about toilet roll, we need toilet roll, the room’s done
gone rid itself of the damn bog-wipes, on account of
yeah, I got a bit Coltrane with the process a while
back, felt like tackling it in a kinda freestyle manner,
ended up a sorry state all being told, my apologies.
“What? You want what?”
“Toilet roll. We need. Aye.”
"Cherry what?”
“Toilet roll!”
“I don’t know what you’re saying!”
“Fuck my eyes, toilet roll!”
I’m miming the act of taking a leaf or six a shit-screed
and wiping it cross an imaginary arsehole.
“Oh, toilet paper, ok, sure.”
Thank god we didn’t need tampons, I’m thinking.
Do we need tampons?
Sir Fleming looks unsure.
The fella comes back with the “cherry what?” and I ask
him where a man might find a decent tampon at this hour.
There’s an all-night grocery store round the corner, he
says, you’d get them there.
The news eases me somewhat, and truth be told, a fella
needs all the easing he can get. I’d give my last lung
for a moment of calm, is the gist of it all. The last
few hours, they been a beautiful, life-affirming
tapestry of regal decadence and black metal and heart-
breaking smiles. Of punk-kids with faces red and bulging
on account of the poppers, with gorgeous ladies getting
all Last Tango with each other just for the fuck of it,
with big fellas with tiny guitars taking to the streets
at 3am in tracksuit bottoms and wrinkled jumpers, just
cause why not, they got a couple songs to play and A
Touch Of Evil finished fifteen minutes ago.
With armies of fellas with Oberst fringes getting in
fights with each other, “No you bastard, I got the most
emo hair, I got bleach in through and everything, I
couldn’t feel more jaded if I tried!”
With groups of stunningly gorgeous ladies wandering past
in every direction, every one causing no end of trauma,
and so when Sir Fleming sighs and says about “If only
the myth bout going blind were true…” I can’t help but
weep in agreement. Ladies like Tetsuo Woman, for
example, who only passed for a second, but long enough
for to send me into a spectacular babble regarding her
gorgeosity, even though she had the look of a lady
surely done got surgically enhanced of the frame one
time or other, hence the moniker.
With Sinéad and Anna stood by the freshly-unveiled
statue of Phil Lynott on Grafton Street, and the night
melting someplace midst that staggeringly mischievous
Savage Purple grin.
With a fella by the name of Pip approaching me outside
of Eamon Doran’s, he’s saying “I got only one thing to
say. Whatever you’re thinking right now, do it. Do it!”
I had a loada things on my mind, most of which would’ve
got me a punch on the jaw and cost me a friendship far
too precious for to go abusing, but I also had thoughts
about how a fella on the other side of the street had a
fucking fantastic Bright Eyes t-shirt on, and so yeah,
you’re right, I ran over to him, took hold his hand and
said “Fucking Digital Ash is an amazing record! You’re
amazing!”
He looked shocked out his last tit, so I left it at
that, but for sure, I felt better for it.
Balls, it’s all far too much information for to process
at this hour, what with the coke-tempered hollering out
the window, with the shouting about “Fuck you, I didn’t
buy shit from you!” and something about “I don’t care
what you think you thought, you thought wrong, fucker”,
and then it’s Herman’s Hermits singing a song bout how
Mrs Brown’s got the prettiest daughter they ever did see.
You wanna be directing your eyes in the direction of the
Savage Purple, Herman, for sure, you’d be singing all
bout Fuck You, Mrs Brown, I’ve Forgotten All About Your
Skanky Ol’ Daughter Anyhow, On Account Of The Savage
Purple Glow Done Snared My Soul, And Also, Truth Be Told
I Was Only Hangin With Your Daughter For To Get Closer
To Your Son.
Check it out Herman, I got a couple pages here. Look.
“Thoughts Regarding Sinéad.” Also; “Further Thoughts
Regarding Sinéad.” That last one’s a bit jambled,
Herman, goes off on some riff bout how I’m gonna book me
a date with a nipper / tucker first thing in the
morning, get my nose and teeth and chin fixed up
rightly, curious thoughts for the dawn to be crossing.
But no, shut your moptop face, fuckers, on account of I
don’t got the strength for to summon the prose needed to
do Sinéad justice at this time. Best take a look at this
other shit.
All these notes, man, all these bastard fucking notes.
Reams and reams of triple-folded paper, alive with
gibberish asides that baffle me, and yet also terrify
me, on account of yeah, secretly, I know exactly what
every one of these nonsensical scrawls refers to.
I kept writing till sometime past seven, and here and
now, sat in Mondo Towers on a tremendous, gale-force-
wind-lashed Tuesday night, trying to grab hold a clarity
from it all. All the while, Conor teasing the thoughts
out the back-door a his trembling, bent-back brain.
“Yeah, my heart needs a polygraph,
Always so eager to pack my bags,
When I really want to stay,
When I really want to stay”
One day I’ll get round to drawing conclusions from the
pie-charts and graphs I been working on with regards the
dizzying array of emotions young Oberst coaxes out my
liver. “Lust x Envy – 3 / 4 Admiration, 20% Jealousy, or
vice versa” and so on and so forth.
Right now all I can think of is what a girl said to me a
couple days before myself and Sir Fleming headed off to
Dublin in pursuit of a Savage Purple smile and the ghost
of Brendan Behan (even though, as Kevin Rowland pointed
out back in the day, the ghost of Brendan Behan is most
likely located nowhere if not New York), and free-form
jazz and the sights and sounds of early-morning knife-
fights mongst the rent-boys on the Liffey Bridge.
Like most things worth hearing nowadays, what the girl
said was inspired in some way by The White Stripes. I
think she overheard me babbling bout a fella on a train
one time telling me bout how De Stijl was their best
record, and even though I secretly understood the
reasoning behind his declaration, I still shot him down
with slipstream tongues of sharpest retort on account of
the obvious game the fucker was playing, that old rant
bout how they were better when they were playing the bar-
rooms north a their mamma’s hoo-hah, all that elitist
shit.
He would’ve told me A Collection of Songs Written And
Recorded 1995-1997 was the best Bright Eyes record, too,
if he thought I’d be lobotomised enough for to listen
for a damn second.
So yeah, this girl, she takes no time at all for to say
something along the lines of “I think we should fuck.”
“I didn’t know you dug The White Stripes”, she says.
“Now that I know this, and also, shit, you got a wit
could fell a herd a buffalo, I think we should fuck.
Let's just fuck.”
Taken aback, aye, t’is true, The Duke hears this kinda
banter all too rarely.
Trouble is I got too excited by the idea, and sooner or
later she realised that she was gonna have all the fun
of a lass stood third row from the back whilst some
guitar virtuoso up yonder burst into the seventeenth
solo of the night, bending each note to squealing
infinity for the benefit of no-one but the naked
cheerleader hind his sunglasses.
So she made off for some VIP party or other, but not
before noting something along the lines of “Seriously,
you need to get laid. Go do it now. Not with me, for
sure, but you need to get out from behind those acoustic
guitars and paperbacks and notebooks and go unleash all
that fuck you got driving you demented right now.”
On the list marked “What Needs To Be Done In Dublin
City, In The Name Of Mondo”, I got her words right up
top, nestled around the spot a fella might find Fuck
Forever by Babyshambles in the UK Top 40 right now,
being number four.
“Go get laid.”
And so wandering round the alleyways either side of The
Olympia Theatre on the first night in the city, still
bleedin at the knees with the thundering pace of it all,
still racin through the night-time like rabid greyhounds
fresh offa white line cocktail, in pursuit of… what?
Oh, yeah. The songs says it for me.
“I want a lover I don’t have to love.”
I can’t get behind those sentiments for the most part, I
don’t want a lover I don’t have to love, but right now
I'd settle for it. Right now I’d settle for a padded
exhaust pipe painted red and dabbed with CK One.
The over-analytical basement-taping sixteen year old in
the grime of my psyche, he’s saying about how that’s not
the kinda talk he fancies hearing from a fella like The
Duke. He says that talk reeks of objectification and
misogyny and chauvinism and all sorts.
I’m sorry, is what I say, but no, I’m just pitiful and
desperate is all. That’s why I’m stood here on the very
street where just a few hours ago I spotted Victoria
Clarke, Shane MacGowan’s ex, and the one who left him in
“Opium euphoria”, apparently. Right now, however, I’m
not looking for anyone so distinguished, I’m only here
cause I remember I met a couple hookers by this lamp-
post one time, back when I was young and naive enough to
assume there was something wrong with a five-minute
fumble by the side of an off-licence, no guilt no
strings no change.
Tonight, though, ain’t a hooker to be seen, just an old
fella in a bright-yellow jacket, he’s got a tin of Super
T in one hand and a crumpled five-euro note in the
other, stumbling towards me, garbling incoherent.
“How’s it goin?” I say as I walk past, trying to diffuse
the drunken temper evident in the fella’s snarls.
He shouts after me. “You’re a fuckin’ asshole!”
Twelve hours later, having considered every possibility
relating to the incident, neither The Duke nor Sir
Fleming are one inch closer to understanding what
offended him so. Maybe he was angry at my lack of
progress with regards the filthing, maybe he could tell
that it was a half-hearted escapade anyhow, and whilst
my sex-limb would’ve been grateful for any kinda
debauched developments, my soul just weren’t getting
behind it at all.
If maybe we took a time for to check the geography of
the situation, one could easily tell that rather than
hanging around this alley with the Mondo Irlando
delegates, my soul was in fact hovering bove the words
arriving by text message to the phone in my pocket.
“I gotta sit on a baby tonight, but we’ll do something
tomorrow.”
I read it over a million times, and even though I knew
it was a plutonic “something”, since come the hell on,
she’s gorgeous, I still needed to breathe into a paper
bag for a time, because why, I’ll tell you why, cause
the lass what sent yonder message, I’ve barely slept
since she arrived, slicing the night-time round about,
aye, the eyes, man, the eyes greetin mine like a naked
flame in a gas-soaked ‘partment.
But I don’t feel equipped for to get into any a that
just yet.
So yeah, we gave up on the Hooker Trail, wandered Temple
Bar Square for a time, got some chow in a pasta joint
cross the road from a gay bar.
Stood outside for a smoke, half-dozen butch lads cross
the way started flinging looks all inquisitive in a
fella’s direction. All leather-jackets and muscles and
shaven heads, either ironic as fuck or shameful walking
clichés. Whatever the case, sorry lads, I don’t tend to
swing that far less it’s maybe for a fella got a song
about Drunk Kid Catholics or, better yet, one who
hollers bout how he killed a man for his giro.
Anyway, it would fuck the narrative senseless if I
really did get screwed in some fashion, it’d diminish
the pathos and the emotional kick in the stones beyond
all hope.
Best go grab a coffee, and as Sir Fleming heads off to
the bathroom a moment, I notice a girl to the left doing
exactly what I’m doing. Making notes. What’s she noting?
Does she know of Tetsuo Woman and the emo-fringes and
the Savage Purple?
Whatever it is, probably it makes more sense than the
scribbles I made a few hours ago, some story starting
with;
“A man is found fully clothed on the banks of the
Liffey, soaked in paraffin. ‘What in sweet fuck’s name
is this?’ asks a passing clergyman. ‘Come look, see,
it's only a madman on the banks of the river, stinkin of
ungodly schemes. Call the national service immediately,
I won’t stand for anything less.’”
It tails off into unreadable hieroglyphic pot-marks.
“By Buddha’s blessed fuck”, a fella’s saying behind me,
“I just found a ten-euro note stuck tween the arse-
cheeks of a Doberman.”
It’s a fine deranged eve, hints of further derangement
to come, Dublin pulsing in the black, the heart afire, a
carnival atmosphere outside, an Italian waiter asking a
French girl if she’d like him along with the coffee?
She smiles in the kinda way that says “If you say
anything so trite to me again I’ll poke your nuts out
with a brush-shaft.”
He doesn’t notice, he’s still got it, far as he can
tell, and fuck it, who am I to burst any sort of bubbles
round here, the place is soaked in delusion as it is?
Sometime later we passed Blooms Hotel, which I stayed in
last time I was in Dublin, back when I was still engaged
to be married, back when I ended up getting plastered
with a couple American tourists, telling them I had a
record out and then falling asleep naked on the floor of
the en-suite bathroom.
I don’t know that I got laid that time either.
Thanks folks
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