Return of THE FEAR!

[Giggles]

   

[ragnarok]

I'm not sure what put it into my head, but I remembered the old thread on MI tonight and decided to come on here for a read.

Some cracking yarns here. I'm pleased, maybe even proud, to see the torch has been passed.

I'm teetotal these days so can't contribute anything new, and much like some of the others here the events from years gone by have been remembered and misremembered so many times they're starting to blur.

If anyone wants a recollection of one of my greatest hits from the MI days let me know and I'll do my best to remember it 

[StoutAndAle]

A Hairy Tale Of New York. 

Back in the early 2000s, when I was a young cad and bounder about town I started my ongoing love affair with travelling to the USA for holidays.These were glorious days when hotels/flights were reasonable, the dollar was weak and you could live like a millionaire for 2 weeks if you worked overtime for the preceding 6 months.

New York to me was the dream. It was where most of the best movies of the 1970s were made. US punk rock roared out of the Lower East Side. It was a record and book shopping Utopia too. Before everyone had Discogs and stuff in their pocket and you could get genuine bargains. 

By the time of this tale - I had been to New York a couple of times. My companion on this trip, JB, had never been outside of Ireland bar a few holidays to the Isle Of Man when he was a kid.

Things started off rather well for us - we got to our hotel which was next to the UN building - and immediately got kettled by the cops because (unbeknownst to us) a peace rally/sit-in/protest had kicked off just as we landed. They were protesting against GW Bush's newly-minted War On Terror.

One of the cops looks down at our bags and asked in a Noo Yoik drawl; "Da FUCK is in da bags right deyah, pally?"

"Me clothes, a phone card, em... a book and...." replied JB.

"WHAT?!" screamed the law man over the din.

"We're staying in the hotel there, lookit" says I unfolding a massive amount of printed paper from the trip I booked on Go-Hop dot com - ah the innocence.

The cop looks at it, then at us and says " Naht taday, yah naht! You guys are Irish huh?"

"Yep" we nod and next we know we're being shoved through the crowd and and into the lobby of the hotel - The UN Crowne Plaza.

We approach the desk and there's a fairly harried looking but still polite lady waiting.

"These two guys are stayin' hey-ah" said the cop to the lady "Have fun in they city, boys" he says to us and then heads back outside to clatter a few more hippies.

"Gentlemen..." the words are out of her mouth before she gets a chance to eye up the two gobshites in front of her dressed in a Clash shirt, baggy jeans and skate shoes (me) and a torn RFTC shirt and combats (JB). To be fair JB's shirt was torn in the scrum outside.

"Hi, how are you?" I start off whilst JB looks around at the splendour of a New York hotel rather than a 2-berth caravan in Douglas - "we have two rooms reserved for the next 10 nights".

"Mmmmmhmmm" she kinda looked a bit unsure.

Despite our dishevelled appearances - both JB and I have decent jobs and plenty of money to spend. The fact that we look like time travelling roadies is a mere footnote.

"It's all paid for already" I offered - as I flick through my Go-Hop dot com sheaf.

"Ah, yes. Here were are. Oh..."

"Oh?"

"Well. It's just that the hotel... in lieu of the disturbance outside decided to move our pre-paid long-stay guests to a different hotel."

"Ah here!" injects JB "we paid good money to stay..."

"I see that we've moved you to Le Parker Meridien" she smiled.

"... fucking hotel. And now you're telling us that..."

"Shuddehfugup" I rumbled through clenched teeth followed by "Yes, that'll be fine" - Le Parker Meridien was (and probably is) ultra swanky.

So they got us a cab to take us the 10 or so blocks to the new hotel. Where, for a second time that day, the person at reception got to look at two of the Rebel County's finest exports in their full regalia. But, sure enough, our names were in the system and we were shown to our appointed rooms.

Not sure what the bellman thought about 400 Marlboro falling out of my battered duffle bag with Rebel County Drunk Punx on it.

My room and JB's room are about 6 doors apart. From my room I can hear "Stout! STOUT!" so I open the door and there's JB walking up and down the hall.

"Shhh! What?"

"Sorry, boy - I didn't know how to find you."

"Ring my room, yeh fuckin' dope!"

"How'd you mean?"

"Pick up the phone. Dial my room number!"

He disappeared back into his own room and before I closed my door, the in-room phone rang. "Yes JB?"

"Maaaaaaaad, boy!" he giggled like a 6 year old after seeing a magic trick. "What will we do now?"

"Shower. Change. Pints"

"30 minutes. Downstairs. Over and out." The little fucker can be professional when he wants to be.

Half an hour later I exit the lift - JB is already standing outside on the footpath smoking whilst chatting to the doorman.

".... Nirvana, yeah yeah. Metal too though. So any places like that really." I overhear on my approach.

"I don't really know those kind of places, sir" the doorman, an African American chap, replies "but there's a lot of bars in New York. I'm certain you'll find what you want. Rock music isn't really my scene."

"The hip-hop and that like?" asks JB

"Sir?".

"He likes some of that stuff too" says JB jerking his thumb at me - one of the whitest people on the planet.

"Uh-huh".

"OK then, Dennis - it was nice talking to you. My mate Stout is taking me on a tour now."

"Do you gentlemen want a cab?" asks Dennis - I am assumng JB learned his name rather than just plucking one from the sky.

"No" says I "It's OK. We're going to walk. It's JB's first time in the city."

"OK then" said Dennis - who by now had a look of incredulity on his face as JB tries to high-five him goodbye.

I point us in the direction of the bar we're going to and we set out on the 20 or so blocks to reach our destination - Desmond's Tavern.

Desmond's Tavern was (it's closed now) a shit-hole but a shit-hole of the highest order. Good beer, good specials, wicked strong cocktails, huge pours on the spirits, some decent bar bands and a jukebox. One of the finest bars in New York City. Anthony Bourdain used to drink there after a shift at Les Halles - a fact I wasn't aware of until I saw him mention the place in one of his shows a few years later.

It was nice to wander along the streets and avenues with someone who'd never been there before so that I could see what my reaction was probably like on my first trip. We finally arrived at the door of Desmonds.







It was empty enough but it was barely early evening and midweek. We posted ourselves up on two bar stools. JB looked around like an owl. The barman approached and asked for ID but upon seeing the harp logo on the passports - he said in a Mayo accent;

"You're grand, lads. What'll you have?"

"I'll have a pint of Guinness if there's anyone else drinking it" says I to the nodding barman.

"Gimme a Jack and a beer back... please" says JB.

The barman wandered off.

"The fuck is that?!" I asked

"Dunno. I heard a fella say it on the telly years ago. Al Bundy it was!"

The barman arrived back with 2 Guinness.

"That's yours" he says to me "and that's yours" he says to JB "because I haven't a bull's notion what it is you asked me for."

"Sound." We both swig deep and heartily on the pints. Next round. The barman is back.

"Same again?"

"I'll have a 7&7 please" requested JB.

"Sure - and another Guinness?" he nods and goes to fill the order.

"Do you know what a 7&7 is?" I ask my pal.

"DeNiro drinks it in Goodfellas"

"Right but do you know what it is?" - it's clear that he doesn't have a fucking clue what he's after ordering so I explain "It's Seagram's and 7-Up".

"Oh right...."

.......... and then after a beat JB followed up with;

"What's Seagram's?"

"Whiskey"

"I don't drink whiskey"

"You shouldn't have ordered a 7&7 so!"

"How was I supposed to know what it was?!" 

Turns out that JB does like 7&7 - although the barman told me while JB was in the jacks "I put a fair amount of lumnade in that lad's drink. He's alright, is he? No trouble, I mean? He seems a bit... excitable."

"Him?! Ah Jesus, no. He's grand. First time in New York for him. We'll be no bother to you."

Famous last words.

We shovel a few more pints/7&7s respectively into ourselves and discuss settling in at Desmond's Tavern for the rest of the evening. Twas a long day - flight from Shannon, taxi, the thing with the hotel - sure we have the bones of two weeks to explore New York.

"There's a jukebox over there" observed JB.

"I know yeah. I've been here before"

"That's a new machine" interjected the barman, overhearing us - "best in the city."

Turns out to be one of those new fangled (for the time) hard-drive jobbies. There's thousands of tunes on it. Everything. Dolly Parton. The Jam. Little Walter. GNR. Pixies. Tool.

"Any requests?" JB asks me as he heads in the direction of the machine which is flashing the words EL D.J.!!! on it.

"If there's Sabbath - will you stick on Supernaut or something? Not Paranoid though"

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Let's pause here for a second. I assume that we are all familiar with this Black Sabbath track. If not - stick it on, it's deadly. In fact listen to it while you read the rest of this tale.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[StoutAndAle]

A Hairy Tale Of New York - II

Previously...

"Any requests?" JB asks me as he heads in the direction of the machine which is flashing the words EL D.J.!!! on it.

"If there's Sabbath - will you stick on Supernaut or something? Not Paranoid though"

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A few seconds later I hear the unmistakable hi-hat cymbal intro of Bill Ward followed by the razor fuzz of Our Lord Tony Iommi. 

"Yes boy!" I nod across the bar "now we're cooking!"

Just as I'm about to order another drink - the barman says that happy hour is starting. All Pints are $2. Ditto some cocktails like Cuba Libres and the like.

"Sure we'll have a few Cuba Libres so" says I.

JB is back on his stool - "You get a rake of songs for a fiver" says he.

"I ordered you a rum and cola"

"I don't think I've ever drank rum" shrugged JB happily.

Those sugary bastards arrived and they were going down like the Titanic - icy and dark. The tunes are deadly, he's chosen well. Desmond's Tavern is filling up behind us. We order two more and two more and two more and two more Cuba Libres.

After the fifth or sixth round of cocktails I realise that I haven't been to the jacks since we arrived and I am bursting for a piss. The floor feels a bit spongey and mobile but I make my way to the bogs and relieve myself. On the way back I go to the jukebox and stick on a few songs and then head to my stool where there's a lovely fresh Cuba Libre waiting.

As I plonk my hole down on the stool I hear the unmistakable hi-hat cymbal intro of Bill Ward - tsktaataatsktaataatsk - followed by the razor fuzz of Our Lord Tony Iommi - dennannennenneneh nah nah ninnle ninnle nah.

"D'ju push on Supirnawsh ag... hic again?" slurred JB, Christ, he's locked.

"I, fuggginn diiiiid!" slurred I in response. Christ, I'm locked too.

"Heh heh! TUUUUUUUNE! Sure we'll have another so." says JB

2 more Cubbsie Libraries. My head is swimming a bit when I hear the unmistakable hi-hat cymbal intro of Bill Ward - tsktaataatsktaataatsk - followed by the razor fuzz of Our Lord Tony Iommi - dennannennenneneh nah nah ninnle ninnle nah.

"Heh! Tuuuuuuuuuune!" JB says.

"I fugggggin love dis shong!" I must've put it on twice by mistake. "Two mo-are Cubrasgh Librez, please!"

A voice in the wilderness of the bar room pipes up "Dis fucken' sawng again? Jeeziz Christ! It's been on like 10 times!"

"Three times" I roar over at him - raising my glass. "The fuckin' Sab, boy! The FUCKIN' SAB!" I am SCUTTERED.

JB meanwhile has gotten up out of his seat and is flamenco dancing to the mid-section breakdown of "Supernaut". Clicking his fingers and trying to get ladies to join him. No takers.

"I dawnt give a good GAWD-DAMN who it is, motherfucker - it's been on all night!" comes the voice from the bar.

My tone turns into my mother when she's dealing with her grandson - "I think you'll find that it has been on 3 three times. Not all night as you say".

JB is back on his stool. "I'm fuggin' langersed on those things. Will we head off?"

Of course - the spirits have put the big, saucy head up on me and I'm not leaving this unseen Yankie cunt off with disrespecting Sabbath.

"In a few minutes" I say to JB and very deliberately march to the jukebox feeding in a note and making my selection. Then I head to the jacks which begins to spin uncontrollably as I enter. I get a hand over my mouth and run to the first stall.

I begin puking my guts up just as I hear the unmistakable hi-hat cymbal intro of Bill Ward - tsktaataatsktaataatsk - followed by the... "Huuuuuuuuaaaaaaaaghhhhh! Huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuagh!"

.... reach out and touch the sky....

"Huaaaaaaaaaagh!"

...... climb up every mountain of the moon.....

"Huuuuuuuagh!"

I finish puking just in time to get out of the jacks and see JB back out in the middle of the bar flamenco dancing to the breakdown again. There's more gawk bubbling to the surface. I have to run back and start puking.

"Huaaaaaaaaaaagh! Oh Christ!" Then I hear the unmistakable hi-hat cymbal intro of Bill Ward. "Huuuaaaaggh!"

I can hear angry voices from the bar, just outside the jacks door ".... Just turn it OFF for Chrissake, Daw-min-ic!!!"

And then a Mayo accent saying "I can't. I was warned not to touch it. It's brand new."

..... I've crossed the oceans, turned every bend....

I get out of the jacks and try to act as normal and nonchalant as I can - nodding along to The Sab. The barman calls me over and asks if I just vomited.

"Yeh.. yep... but I cleaned up after myself" - which I did. "I think that I drank too many rum... and {dry heave} coooooooookes"

"Ah Jesus, god almighty".

Through puke teary eyes I can see JB - still up dancing and trying to get someone to take the floor with him. He does a little bit of a spin and then with the utmost precision hares out the front door of Desmond's Tavern. I start thinking that's he's after grabbing the wrong woman. But then he arrives back in the front door.

"Woooooooooooooo!" - this would be cooler if he hadn't got a load of puke in his shoulder length hair and beard and then promptly fell to the floor. "Stout! Geh muh coah!" he shouts at me.

"Ged your own fuggin' coah! An' mine!" I roar back trying not to let the shout bring up anything else.

Then I hear the unmistakable intro to... Ricky Martin's latin-pop banger "Livin' La Vida Loca".

Coats aquired we get outside where the cold February air hits us like Mike Tyson after catching someone scratching his car in a parking lot. JB tries to steady himself by using me as a ballast. The two of us end up in a crumpled heap about 8 feet from the bar door.

"D'ju put on Ricky Martin?" JB asks.

"Yeah. But Supernaut is coming back around again".

[Carnage]

Brilliant. 

[Snare]

 

Thanks for typing all that up!!You have a right knack for painting a picture 

[OpenSores]

Ah class, you've certainly the knack for telling em'.

[ochoill]

Ah fuck that was the best thing I've read in ages, properly howled laughing

[The Butcher]

the unmistakable hi-hat cymbal intro of Bill Ward - tsktaataatsktaataatsk - followed by the razor fuzz of Our Lord Tony Iommi - dennannennenneneh nah nah ninnle ninnle nah.

     just pure gold!

[Ollkiller]

Top marks for the punchline. 

[Yung Led Zeppelin]

Philistines not appreciating the best Sabbath riff ever

[Barrytron]

Great to see this thread is back.

The original can be (at least partly) viewed here:

https://web.archive.org/web/20170615141805/http://www.metalireland.com/community/viewtopic.php?f=14&t=31696&sid=c0717edf92109b3f0f6b65531700da14

[ochoill]

Stuck at 10 pints out stout into me in about 3 hours last night and rapidly felt the damage this morning.  Listened to Orinoco Flow so much yesterday that it was loudly stuck in my (pounding) head this morning while vomiting my guts up.  Working from home with intermittent breaks to lie down and feel bad.  Not a particularly exciting fear but a common one, cured by almost crying all day and ateing ice pops.

[StoutAndAle]

A Hairy Tale Of New York: CODA

The rest of that evening belongs to the ether. I have vague recollections of JB asking me "Are you sure this is the way?!". One thing that NEVER falters is my sense of direction. I leave auto-pilot come on and it doesn't fail me.

Of course with auto-pilot engaged, the brain is allowed to go to beddie byes. Nevertheless - the next morning I awake in my room. The only thing out of place is the chair where I tried to hang my clothes. My parka is hung from the bathroom door. I note that it has lovely vomit tracks down both sides of the zip. I spend several minutes wondering how I managed this feat until it dawns on me that it was zipped up when I puked.

My brain is screaming. My body is broken. I feel terrible that I've missed out on a whole day cos of this hangover. Then I see that it's only 0830hrs. I flick on the TV to make sure that it's the next day - and not that I've slept through 2 days. I haven't.

I get into the shower, then have a bright idea - I put parka on me, zip it up and wash the gawk off it. It smells lovely now because of the swanky lemon verbena shampoo that I used but it's going to take an age to dry.

I call JB's room. He picks up on the second ring. "Alright?" he answers.

"I am fucking dying. But I need to go buy a new coat."

"I think that I need to buy you a new coat. I puked on yours."

"You puked on my coat?"

"Yeah, 'member when I said I needed something eat?"

"No"

"I said I needed something to eat so you found a McDonald's. Remember?"

"No"

"And we got to the door and I puked down your coat just as I was about to ask you if you wanted something. When you were holding the door open for me."

"Right... did I go into McDonald's covered in vomit?"

"Ah no! You stood outside smoking. One of the staff did get annoyed though cos you never let go of the door after you opened it."

I have a vague memory of holding a door handle cos I thought I'd fall if I didn't hang on for dear life.

"So hang on, JB" says I "do you remember the rest of getting back to the hotel? Cos I definitely don't."

"Some of it, yeah. You insisted on taking photos of the Muppet beanie baby yokes that came with my McDonald's"

"Muppet beanie.... You ordered a Happy Meal?!"

"I did in my hole. I gave the fella behind the counter $15 for the 3 of them - for me niece, a present like. You said it'd make a great photo with them all lined up in the snow."

"It snowed last night?"

"Started to, yeah."

"Fucking hell. OK I'm going to go get a coat."

"I'll come with you. I pissed my combats. I fell asleep with them on. Fuckin' soaked now. Jocks, the whole lot are in the bath, steeping."

Turns out that the snow which began to fall last night turned into the biggest blizzard New York had experienced in 14 years. And there's me with no coat, only a reed-thin Nike hoodie that I used to wear under the parka. JB appears in the lobby in pair of tracksuit pants and a Republic of Ireland jersey.

"There's a blizzard outside." says I. "You're gonna need a coat."

"Fuck that, sham" replied JB "I'm roasting. The drink is sweating out of me."

I feel that we are getting odd looks from the front of house staff. So I offer up a cheery "Alright?!"

There's a bit of a stiff smile and a clipped "Yes sir" from your one at the desk.

The FEAR starts kicking in. What did we do? What did we do? I can't handle it so I approach the desk.

"Em... sorry... hi, how are you? Eh... did we do something stupid last night?"

"Not that I'm aware of, sir. I wasn't working last night but I do know that Dennis, our doorman, said that there was an incident involving some Irish guests."

Shit.

"Oh...? What happened? We're from Ireland ourselves actually." says JB

Shit.

"Indeed, sir. Perhaps one of you is the gentleman that was attacked by a vagrant."

"A homeless person got sick on me!" I blurt out - the memory of my horseshit story flooding back and firing my synapses.

"I am so sorry that happened, sir - do you need to organise dry cleaning? We'll comp that - naturally."

"Eh. No. I...sorted it myself. Thanks." and I back away from the counter and head towards the revolving door. We are stopped in our tracks - literally - I had never seen this much snow in my life.

Look up New York Blizzard February 2003. This was before the Beast From The East obviously. I'll try to dig out photos that I took. Here is a photo I found online.





We started wandering - looking for a clothes shop that might be open. Everything seemed to be closed - desolate. We happened upon a open army/navy surplus store near Times Square where I promptly bought a warm Carhartt coat, combat boots, Levis, gloves and a hat. JB bought some gear too.

"Can I put on a pair of the jeans in here? I'm freezing my bollix off in these trackies!" he inquired of the surly gent at the till.

"Whadevva ya fuckin' want!" was the answer.

Warmth attained - next we required sustenance. And by sustenance I mean several pints to make the marching band in my head disappear.

We found a shitty dive spot open not far for the hotel. It was perfect. 2 pints and some hot dogs (I didn't give a fuck that they were probably cooked in toilet water).

"Feel better?" I asked JB after we'd gotten a beer into ourselves.

He nodded but with a faraway look in his eye.

"I feel better anyway" I continued. "I was ropey there earlier but I'll tell you something - we might have to go to Desmond's to apologise or whatever."

"The snow..." muttered JB

"Hah?"

"The FUCKIN' SNOW!" he repeated at full volume causing a load of heads to turn in our direction.

"What about it?" says I

"I didn't piss the bed! I sat down in the snow for a photo with those fuckin' MUPPETS!"

[Snare]

       

Oh man I've been crying laughing a few times during that excellent follow up! 

What a way to finish the working week 👏