| UCC Men's and Ladies' Hockey Ball Report for the year '03 |
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brought to you by Jeremy Sweetnam
with some minor ramblings
courtesy of Elmer Morrissey
Prologueby Elmer With the hockey ball approaching in about 2 weeks, I (Elmer) get a bit anxious about the onslaught of having to present the funny prizes and mindful of previous years disasters involving alcohol intake/abuse blended with incoherent rambling on the podium in front of almost 200 persons 'hanging' on your every word, I made out the following itinerary in the news page of the men's hockey club website to encourage punters to purchase a ticket. The following is the result. Click here!!! As you can see, I was very worried Thankfully the ball turned out nothing like that, however I didn't quite hold my respectible demenour for the entire ball. Nope, there was a whole Thursday (morning & mid-afternoon & late-afternoon & night) to take care of that for me. And I've left it to Jer to take up the tale from here as his parting gift the club. This is normally Jim's 'thing', but for one reason or another, he was unavailable for comment this year! So as I promised, here is Jeremy Sweetnam to take you through the
hockey ball as seen through the eagle eyed vision of a pioneer*
Wednesday 26th February"So what are you doing in college this afternoon, Jeremy?" And with that I wave good-bye to mother and make my way towards college, as if returning from lunch at Cissies (you know the way, under the house where the knackers usually hang out and bully us intelligent students) before doubling back towards Cissies as the car disappears out of sight. Cunning. Hockey Ball 2003 has begun. The traditional lunchtime pint, which was originally used to relieve Jim of his lunchtime boredom at S3 has been pushed back an hour or so to accommodate Jim's after work boredom at Siemens CALL CENTRE. The usual collection of HB veterans has assembled and much memorable banter ensues. So memorable in fact that I can't actually recall any of it… Anyway, after a couple of hours where pints are sipped rather than supped and savoured rather than savaged the various parties depart to begin the hour long (three or more for some of the girls. Louise) ordeal of getting ready. Dave, Phil and myself wisely give ourselves plenty of time by leaving a pint early. Jim on the other hand… Back at Jim's (and Phil's I suppose) we don the tuxes and congratulate ourselves on how fine and handsome we all look and how well we scrub up. Dave is particularly obsessed with the full-length mirror in the spare room. As we fumble with the intricacies of cuff links and bow ties Jim, now home, but a little tipsy, has still not fully changed and is nursing a shaving cut. Idiot. Anyway, cabs are ordered and as we make our way to the appointed rendez vous it is decided that we should tell the cabby that we are going to the Gaa Ball and not the Hockey Ball. This makes for a rather funny taxi trip until the lads, humorously, hang me out to dry, by saying that I play hockey whilst they all play gaa. Funny, very funny. The Star is rather quiet when we arrive first. I notice that I have forgotten my ticket as usual and as such cannot get any free pints until Noelle arrives. This fails to dampen the spirits and we all tuck in. Pints are supped rather than sipped and savaged rather than savoured as the task of getting locked before the speeches ensues. Most people adhere to conventions in the tuxedo department however as usual at this point the mavericks are the subjects of many a debate. Coogan, the fashion enigma, has gone with the no tie option but actually manages (I think) to pull it off because the shirt is kinda cool. No doubt Syb was taking note. On the other hand I contend that Barbs has dropped the ball with his reddish shirt and no tie approach. The debate continues but the proof of the pudding is, as they say, in the eating (and Barbs didn't get to eat any pudding at all, as it were). The other notable, er, performance is that of Richie McLaughlin, the hitherto largely inconspicuous seconds full back. Now rumours of Richie's post-Varsities antics are well documented (well actually they're not because there was no report this year) but nothing could have prepared the hockey fraternity for his epic contribution to this year's Ball. Clearly demented, having been drinking since, I suspect, the early afternoon Richie successfully blazes a trail of destruction. Approaching myself and a couple of the lads, bottle of spirit-flavoured juice in one hand and handbag (yes, handbag) in the other he attempts to strangle Ciaran (Julie was no where to be seen. Shocker) with the strap from the bag before dashing off to entertain some other unsuspecting unfortunates. On further inspection we realise that we are now in possession of what is essentially stolen property, the aforementioned handbag. Opening the wallet and concerned that we might stumble across some, er, ladies possessions, we discover that the bag is indeed Jess Kohler's and, as such, is quickly returned to its rightful owner. Now as is traditional at this point the buses arrive and the novices scramble aboard afraid that they might miss the sumptuous delicacy that is the Jury's soup whilst the veterans content themselves with a leisurely stroll down some time later. Noelle, more than a little naively, produces an abundance of free pint vouchers for all and sundry effectively reducing to nil the chances of anyone leaving on the buses. Indeed the first bus arrives and leaves with little commotion. Now at this point I make an unusual decision. I decide to take the second bus. At first I put this down to major and undefendable conscience attack. On reflection I do recall a significant number of females on this second bus so some other element of my anatomy was obviously, and not for the first time, in complete control. In any case as the bus departs we are treated to the enduring image of Richie McLaughlin puking into the bushes between Castlewhite and the Star. For Richie his Hockey Ball Report effectively ends here (though he does pick up an award at the prize giving later, not obviously for his hockey ability I might add), for the rest of us though there is as much as another 30 hours to go. As Jury's begins to fill up thoughts turn to the procurement of more alcohol so as to avoid a repeat of last year's fiasco (when the bar was closed for the speeches and drinkers had to ration their intake to such an extent that I for one actually remember the inane ramblings of Healy and co.). Also it is noted at this point that the men's first team tables are situated as far away from the bar as appears possible. This is disappointing. Nonetheless I mingle politely with the some of Munster Hockey's leading administrators (yawn). Notably Pat Dawson remarks that he is a little uneasy at the prospect of him having to make another speech this year. I reassure him. "Pat," I said, "just mention the auld president's rule thing again and you'll have everyone eating out of your bloody hand." The soup is duly served and as I recall it proves rather nice actually. Nevertheless the time-honoured plan of avoiding the soup by visiting the bar for cocktails is strictly adhered to. Back at the table the meal is quickly shoveled down and/or picked at. I arm myself with a pint of Carlsberg, a glass of wine and the remains of my cocktail and lie in wait for the dreaded speeches, which are, as usual, Churchillesque in their content and delivery. Pat Dawson follows my advice on the president's rule issue and sits down to a resounding (if ironic and slightly tinged with a "we heard all this last year" tone) round of applause. Simon loses the plot completely by giving a stern lecture about Munster hockey being comprised of "those who moan, those who play and those who do" (I guess he was talking about Ronan, Ken and himself!). Simon apparently claims that Munster hockey possesses plenty of Ronans and Kens but not enough Simons (God help us all). And so to the awards. Peter Kingston the Star supremo, who is sitting next to me, apologises in advance for annoying the s**t out of me by wondering who everyone getting an award is and asking why the funny prizes are funny etc. I accept his apology and he proceeds to annoy the s**t out of me by wondering who everyone getting an award is and asking why the funny prizes are funny etc. (etc. = "Does Jenny Coughlan still play hockey?" "No" "Hmmm…pity.") Ken picks up the lads firsts' Player of the Year award. This is obviously an attempt to keep him at the club next year as he was rubbish all season (and anyway this is always the only reason that anybody gets the senior Player of the Year award). Graham Catchpole takes the second team honours and launches into a memorable acceptance speech remenicent of John Nash's in A Beautiful Mind. The audience is for a moment sobered by both his candour and eloquence. To be honest I can't remember many of the other awards though Sinead Connery was the Ladies' Player of the Year I think. As usual the funny awards are absolutely hilarious and each is greeted with raucous laughter and widespread approval. Or not. To be honest the funny prizes are always greeted with a combination of apathy and questions ("What's that for?" "Who's she now?" "Why is he getting a sheep again?"), the responses to which are usually varied and exhaustive, typically involving an incident in one of the cars on the way back from a crucial ladies 9ths game in Fermoy back in October which the team in question finds outrageously funny while the rest of us stare on in bewilderment not giving a f**k. Jim and myself pick up one such award, a pair of pink handcuffs. Elmer's lead up is actually quite funny, as it only becomes apparent that he is talking about us towards the very end. Overly emotional scenes follow. Jim (who is under the impression that this is a serious award that deserves a Catchpole style acceptance) is prevented from making a speech by Elmer. A little later Kieran (or someone) assaults Jim and myself and handcuffs us together. Very funny. We grapple with the intricacies of opening the cuffs. Jim makes one lunge after another for the key until I point out that the cuffs in fact click open rather easily. The joke dies a death, we get to our feet, our dignity intact, and return to our seats. After this the night descends into the usual debauchery. The bar is
reopened and an appalling orgy of scoring takes place. Alas Auntie Rose
isn't here this year so there are no "Jer was chatting up his Aunt" jibes.
Thankfully mother Twinefick indulges me for a time before I get distracted
by other, er, issues. But enough about me. Here's the (known) List of
Shame* at time of going to press: (Deep breath) * Naturally husbands and wives have been excluded. Additionally, my alcohol soaked memory has obviously let some of the more sneaky scorers off the hook. Feel free to email me at sweetnamjeremy@hotmail.com. All info will be treated in the strictest of,er, confidence (!) Obviously other details of the night remain hazy to say the least. For example, I don't recall any renditions of Row Your Boat, Rock the Boat or I Am Sailing etc. with accompanying rowing, rocking or sailing manoeuvres though that's not to say they didn't happen. A naggin of vodka, which I had cunningly smuggled in put paid to all of that. Soon it is nigh on 2.30 and the DJ is winding up proceedings with New York or My Way (or some other Sinatra number which immediately turns all of the lads into the greatest dancers of all time) and it's time to go looking for the tux jacket, which has been carefully hidden away, er, on the back of a chair. Alas, mine has disappeared, complete with phone. Gone. F**k. After a half an hour of searching, investigated and pleading with the bouncers I admit defeat and cancel the phone (Simon is a rock of sense in this regard as I recall). It later transpires the some f**ker has my phone at this point and is making f**king phone calls on the f**king thing. Never mind. I decide that as long as there's drink there's hope. It's all part of growing up, as they say. In an unrelated incident Eadaoin realises she too has lost her phone… Normally the after Ball party is quite a highlight (think Elmer's gaff two years ago and Dee and Jenny Coughlan's last year), alas this year a combination of a suburban location (Louise's gaff) and perhaps a larger quantity of faders than usual means that the crowd at the party is diverse to say the least. Now, by this stage I am obviously very drunk, but even still I realise that I appear to know very few people there. I remember that I have thought ahead and stashed a few cans for just such a predicament. Naturally I only manage to get through approximately one of them before I too begin to fade… Agitated and disorientated I wake up on Louise's couch. Bodies are strewn all over the room and the 1000" cinema system is still blaring out tunes from Magic or Kerrang or some other such crap digital music channel. Those awake are pointing and laughing in my direction. I suspect that some evil is afoot and visit the bathroom. On inspection I discover that someone has drawn all over my face using their (or someone else's?) makeup. Ha-ha! I chuckle to myself, what a mischievous and humorous bunch they are. I decide that this is undoubtedly the funniest incident of the whole hockey ball if only for its originality. Returning to the front room I seek out the joker. But Eimear is asleep in Tom "WELLL" Quigley's arms so I decide not to wake her. Indeed the next thing I remember is waking up in one of Louise's brother's bedrooms (he wasn't in it, obviously). After a brief search I find Louise and Phil in one room (not hers I might add). Confused at the sleeping arrangements I arrive back in the TV room. It's nearly empty. Eimear and Tom are awake, as is Clodagh. There's no one else left. It's around nine thirtyish. I declare that it's Day 2 and time to start drinking again. A plan is hatched which involves me going back up stairs and trying to wake Lou (why do I always draw the short straw?). Naturally this fails. Phil mumbles that Niamh and Jenny are in Lou's room. Attempts to wake that pair fail too. Disenchanted at the apparent lack of enthusiasm for another 14 hours of drinking I return downstairs. Thankfully the mood is more upbeat. Myself, Eimear, Tom and Clodagh quietly depart. On the way I sympathise with Lou's mother who has begun the clean up. In all fairness if she had waited for Lou to do it she'd probably be still waiting. Anyway it is decided that Clodagh needs to change out of her glad rags so we embark on an epic trek ALL THE WAY from Silverdale to the Well Road. I moan incessantly at the length of this Livingstonesque journey and manage to piss everyone off. Clodagh is surprised to find her old man at home at 9.45 in the morning so she cancels her "change out of glad-rags" plan and we instead head for Galvin's where, after what seems like an eternity, we eventually get a cab to the Star. Notably Clodagh tells the driver to "put it on her account" and no money is handed over. I really must remember this the next time I get a taxi… On arrival at the Star we note that we are the first there. It is 10.35am. Bear hugs and backslappings are canceled when, disappointingly, we notice Kieran Healy ordering his first pint (in fact he buys two - one for Ronan with whom he is going rounds with all day but who just hasn't arrived yet!). We revise our opinions. In fact we are the first non-drinking machines there. Soon we are joined by other hardy souls. As usual free breakfast rolls provide the morning nourishment. A text message from Ronan revealing that he will not be joining us for Day 2 is collectively admonished (though in all fairness he does arrive in sometime later, perhaps stirred into action by the revelation that an old flame is present. In any case Kieran, his drinking buddy, has 10 pints of Bulmer's waiting for him as they are going rounds all day). As usual the karaoke machine is cranked up. Humorously a couple of us observe Elmer literally itching to get up and start singing (probably an ode to Becks as it happens - typical Elmer). Additionally we note the complete and utter boredom that has beset the unfortunate DJ who is trying desperately to drum up some enthusiasm for his chosen vocation. The poor guy probably once had dreams of working the crowd in Cream or MoS, or, er, Gorby's. Instead he finds himself "entertaining" a handful of hungover-soon-to-be-drunk-again hockey players at 11 o'clock on a Thursday morning in the back of the Star. Life sure does deal out some cruel blows. Anyway, the karaoke is notable for Gally's particularly useful rendition of Gangsta's Paradise but little else alas. Simon and a couple of others have miraculously managed to get some of last night's photographs developed already. There is a moment of controversy as nobody can quite make out whether Cathy is with Dave Hobbs or Nagle in one of the photos. Even the girl herself seems confused. Personally I am sure that it is Nagle. Then Hobbs. Then Nagle again. (It was Nagle.) (See photo coming soon) Phil Oakley (as against Smith) arrives on the scene. He has decreed that the ladies firsts most definitely do have training and as such neither himself nor any of the girls should indulge in any further alcohol abuse. This sets off a rather humorous chain of events. A "Let's Get Phil Drunk Fund" is initiated, probably by Kieran. Thus Phil's Lucozade orange-flavoured, high-protein, high-NRG, low-fat, high-carbohydrate drink is liberally spiked with vodka or some other such spirit whilst he is in the jacks. Perhaps unsurprisingly he notices that his drink apparently contains more protein than is advisable for a peak condition athlete and spots our cunning plan a mile off. Shamefully he shows ample restraint and does not finish the drink. (Indeed somewhere along the line that vodka-laced-with-orange cocktail seems to have disappeared…hmmm). Anyway more successful were our attempts to mark Ed Rice-Thomas' impending birthday with a similar "Let's Get ERT Drunk Fund". Kieran (again) produces an outrageous concoction that tastes surprisingly sweet despite its obviously powerful ingredients. The DJ (still maintaining an admirable state of enthusiasm for the whole charade) proceeds to goad ERT into downing the entire pint of alcohol. Incredulously, we stare at ERT, perhaps waiting for him to keel over in some epileptic-like fit of alcoholic poisoning, but remarkably he survives this attempt on his life and continues drinking. (Though I'm not so sure exactly how long he lasted…few tend to mess with Kieran's crazy drinks and get away with it). Phil, doing an admirable impression of Alex Ferguson, continues to stalk his players, concerned that they are defying his no strict alcohol ban. He (probably) enlists the help of moles such as the barman, the bouncers and a couple of taxi drivers to keep tabs on his errant stars. Nobody is safe. Sinead devilishly attempts to avoid Ferguson but apparently fails. Alma, on the other hand, doing an equally admirable impression of Roy Keane and clearly above such menial laws, chucks a couple of pints back in broad daylight. Man management eh? Anyway, rather disappointingly, none of the firsts really step out of line and DO all make training that evening. I ring home at this point to reassure the parents. I neglect to tell them about the lost phone and tux jacket. The old man mentions something about being worried about the falling value of my SSIA. I agree but insist that I must go to get another pint. He sighs the sort of sigh that I guess John Butler utters all the time but which I must confess was entirely new to me. Unconcerned at my parents apparent loss of faith in their son I engage in banter with a wide variety of Day 2 revelers. Soon talk of the plan for the imminent afternoon session is being discussed openly. The back of the Star is closed and we are ushered towards the front where students and lecturers are tucking into their lunches. This proves quite disconcerting for the by now very twisted hockey players and it is decided to move on. With this in mind everyone procures the traditional Smirnoff Ice for the long walk to the Thirsty. On the way we reminisce about Hockey Balls past and Eddie and his glorious pink jeans. Somehow Jim decides that he doesn't like my (very stylish) black coat. Dunno why, it's very stylish. Honest. Anyway the Thirsty is empty when we arrive. This is good because it means our advanced states of drunkenness cannot be witnessed or documented by anyone. Somewhere along the line a kissing competition ensues. Not proper kisses of the French variety mind, just pecks on the cheek. The idea was that the lads would smooch the girls on the cheek and await a response and subsequent rating. I do remember Ken being highly sought after in this particular discipline whilst the rest of us rather shamefully attempt to satisfy our egos by receiving even limited praise for our style and technique from our female counterparts. Elmer gets especially perturbed when Beck's response to one of his attempts is, "Hmmm…nice." "Nice…NICE?" he blurts incredulously. "Nice is worse than bad, nice is nothing" or words to that effect. In all fairness Elmer, like any real bloke, should really be unconcerned at his technique…as long as he's satisfied… By now funds are running rather low. Some disappear to bank links and the like in order to acquire the necessary financial backing to continue their drinking exploits. Others, myself included, decide that such a trek is too time consuming and instead harass Dave for unpaid debts. A bizarre situation ensues which somehow involves me on my knees begging Dave for the money. (Although I suspect the previous night's 'activities' have something to do with the groveling as well). Ultimately Dave refuses to give me the money (though he does cough up in the Morgue later on). I get to my feet and retire to the sanctuary of my pint, my dignity safely intact (!) Later a mock-fight occurs between Dave and myself, which continues all the way to the jacks. Elmer pleads for Lou's camera and follows the commotion into the men's in the Thirsty. Dave and myself trade headlocks and punches before we both collapse in exhaustion, pat each other on the back and return to the more fulfilling and frankly less tiring activity of boozing. Elmer returns to Lou with the camera and is duly admonished for wasting (wasting? It was surely one of the great fights and will no doubt produce some of the photographic images of the year. Or not.) the entire film. At some point I decide that it's time I made a token effort to look for my tux and phone. Elmer and Alison accompany me across the road to Jury's where I stumble up to the bemused receptionist and inquire as to the fate of my stuff. Alas no luck. Elmer too engages in conversation. I think he had misplaced his award from the night before. That was always going to turn up though…I mean who'd honestly want to knick a UCC MHC Club Man of the Year Award (apart from Elmer himself that is)? At this point Elmer decides in his 'wisdom' to bring home his award for safe keeping. Jim decides to accompany him on this epic 1 minute journey. Elmer apparently returns from depositing his award to find a hapless Jim (whom he had left to 'play' in the fresh air) sprawled over the barriers outside the Grenville Complex puking his ring. Lightweight. Elmer decides that contemptuous remarks are of little use and instead retains the incident for ammunition back in the Thirsty. Polo mints, being the best cure for such predicaments are sought. Conveniently the nearest shop is in the Mercy Hospital and it is decided en route that in the interests of community spirit the funniest thing to do would be to visit some patients with their witty banter and entertaining humour. Jim (mouth full of polos) and Elmer take the lift to the 3rd floor much to the bemusement of numerous concerned onlookers (the patients obviously think they are doctors, such is their air of authority, and the doctors obviously assume they are patients given their frothing and swaying, and inability to converse coherently). Arriving at St. Patrick's ward (Elmer's second home), the pair apparently either get a sudden conscience attack or are sobered by the altitude (on the, er, 3rd floor). In any case they realise that this is possibly the worst idea in the world. Ever. Pity really, could you imagine the court appearance? The Thirsty is by now getting quite busy. Like last year the pre-Finance Ball reception is on and as such the pub is infiltrated by scores of well-groomed males and (more) beautiful chicks. Again though it becomes apparent that it's time to move on. After much deliberation it is decided that the Morgue should be the next port of call. On arrival some are surprised to find that it is no longer called the Hanover but the Spinnaker…others still, myself included, are surprised to find that is no longer called the Morgue. In any case perhaps unsurprisingly everyone continues to refer to the place as the Morgue just as, I suspect, many older members of the club will always know Lebowski's simply as Fanny's. The Morgue is a surprising success. Initially only a handful of us occupy one of the back tables where as I recall conversation is actually quite coherent. An in depth discussion ensues regarding the merits or otherwise of the leaving-cert points system. Louise dismisses the whole thing as inadequate while I insist that it's the best way of separating the men from the boys as it were. We all agree that Louise is just jealous that I kicked her ass points wise and that this is a most tedious and boring conversation to be having at this stage of proceedings. Anyway regardless of the number of points you got in your leaving-cert, we all remember studying that nice little Robert Frost poem about life being all about a couple of bending roads in a yellow wood (Louise claims it about life altering decisions, the great and the small, and the unexplored possibilities of our lives and the seemingly trivial nature of our initial choices which lead out to other choices in a sort of chain reaction. She says it's an Allegra or something. What an idiot! Everyone knows an Allegra is an old Honda with pop up lights. No wonder I kicked her ass). Anyhow, Frost walks down the less worn road and that makes all the difference. Does anyone know where I'm going with this? Hmmm…me neither. But Jim does, don't you Jim? At least he should because at some point in the Morgue he decides that, shock, horror (those of a nervous disposition should look away now) it is time to go home. Digest this, take it in, read it again if you wish. The Self Proclaimed Best Drinker in the Club shamefully utters the immortal words "Lads, I'm off home…just for a couple of hours though…I'll be back in later. Honest." And with that a once great reputation is in tatters. Frost and his bendy roads, eh Jim? If you take the one less worn you're going to get cut by the brambles. Or something. Me? I think life's all about decisions and wistful regret and has nothing at all to do with bendy roads… Anyhow that's quite enough philosophy for one piss-up. Back in the land of good drinkers all is well. There seems to be a little more room in the Morgue these days, room enough even for a busker to come in off the street armed only with his mike and keyboard. The guy proves to be something of a legend churning out one sing-along tune after another. It proves the perfect antidote for the spiraling drunkenness. Indeed I do recall Elmer and myself getting particularly emotional at this point, that is until he ditches me for Becks when he requests some Coldplay tune, which he claims is "their song" (ugghhhh - typical Elmer). Notably Simon and Elmer later accuse me of nodding off for literally seconds while sitting in an upright position near the bar. I reject this but they continue to take the piss in such a manner that I begin to doubt myself. Reluctantly I put the whole incident down to a short black out before approaching the bar for another pint. Apparently there was also a hugging incident involving myself, Clodagh and Elmer outside the Morgue. Alas this year I wasn't treated to anything more. I dunno, in the old days when you took a girl outside the Morgue you were at least guaranteed a decent gawk at her tits. Perhaps annoyed at this rejection I return inside and begin quizzing Alison on her breasts. Surprisingly she seems comfortable with the line of questioning. Intense negotiations ensue, which result in me being granted unlimited fondling of the aforementioned breasts for a good five minutes or so. Soon though it's time to move on. Fast Eddies is the obvious choice of club…we know ALL the bouncers for a start, I mean Wong knows more about Jim's wardrobe than Jim does, Phil works there, Louise used to and Ronan used run the place so there really should be no hassle at all. And so it proves. Indeed remarkably Elmer and myself are ushered to the top of the queue and manage to get in for nothing at the invitation of Cormac Burke, which is nice. By this time, it seems, numbers have not dwindled but actually increased as more revelers return after power naps which shamefully have prevented them from enduring the mandatory 14 hour ordeal that should constitute Day 2 (though in all fairness it must be said that at least they did manage to stay up past their bed time, artificially or otherwise). The score-fest of the previous night was hardly likely to be repeated. Indeed at this point everyone appears content to see out the night so that they can live to tell the tale the following morning. Much backslapping ensues. To be honest most of FEs is a complete blur, which is hardly surprising. After a liaison with an old friend I decide to adjourn to the beautiful cushy seats by the jacks for a quick forty winks before leaving. Elmer, my trusted drinking buddy for the day (Jim was fired) observes and approaches. It is just gone two. We decide apparently that enough is enough. I get to my feet. My feet apparently refuse to follow even the simplest of instructions. A bouncer intervenes. I am ushered away in shame. I protest that I am leaving his f**king club anyway and insist on getting my coat. He pours scorn on my requests and before I know it I'm outside (this is by now an annual ritual - see Hockey Ball reports from 2002 and 2001). After an age I am allowed back in to get my coat. Wong makes some joke about Jim not having gone away at all (reference to the coat issue I guess). I laugh heartily at his quick wit and fine humour. Elmer and myself decide it is time to escort Becks home…she has had one too many and clearly needs some tough male protection from the evil streets of Cork. We note our chivalry and confidently make towards Elmer's gaff on the South Mall until Becks, in her wisdom, turns the pair of us around and faces us in the direction of Washington Street. The End. |