I finally found an internet café where I can start writing this. But the thieves who lured me into this establishment failed to point out that this isn’t actually a café i.e. there’s no tae, only internet. And the internet is no place to be dipping your luxurious imported bikkies into. Unless you want to create some sort of cyber bikkies. Killer man dipping cyber bikkies! Anyway, I have to write this blog because Mam Toole said it would be good for me if everyone else could closely follow my inevitable rise to King of America. The following are a few notes I scribbled together while I was being slowly cooked by a hangover at the airport.
My adventures began in my hometown the night before I left for the States. I rounded up a few bandits to make sure I was given a good send off. Even though a few of my friends are thicker than a bowl of farmhouse vegetable, they pull no punches on a night out. The send off commenced when my good friend Dan produced a bottle of absinthe… Then we all woke up physically and mentally challenged.
The consumption of absinthe had transformed my sitting room into the beaches of Normandy circa 1944. Contorted, naked bodies of close friends lay strewn across the floor gasping for air through throats lined with sand, chalk and hay. Before any of these casualties had time to gather their limbs, Mam Toole burst in through the kitchen doors hoovering up wallets, t-shirts, pools of sick and about 10,000 euro worth of loose change.
After I had evicted a dried curry chip from one of my back molars, I tuned into the noise exiting out of Mam Toole’s mouth. Something about the veins pumping out and across her forehead told me that these messages were being directed at me. The screaming woman told me I was travelling to America today. It also told me all about what I had done in the hallway last night but I chose to delete that information.
Lifting my head, I looked for the clock and found it in its usual place with a pair of my friend’s finest underpants draped across it. He had obviously sweated too much in the club and decided that the naked option was the best sleeping option. The underpants clock read 9:00a.m. I had to check in at the airport at 10:00a.m. I sensed this was a bad thing. Fortunately for me, earlier that morning Mam Toole had packed a lot of my clothes from the 1990’s so I knew didn’t have much packing to do. Racing to my room I bulldozed my belongings into a suitcase, that I had never seen before, and headed to the airport. A gaggle of Tooles followed.
Skipping the overly emotional goodbyes of a 22-year-old, trapped in a world that is neither hungover nor drunk, the boarding call for my flight rang out across the airport. I had a profound moment as I staggered towards my flight’s departure gate – an epifo… an apiphon… a profound moment. The truth of the last night had slowly dripped down from the back of my brain and clearly presented itself to me.
I had drank a lot last night. I had drank more than a lot. I owed Mr. Hangover some payments. Payments that were rapidly being collected throughout my body at a speed only matched by antelopes when they find themselves covered in curry at a cheetah disco for cheetahs. Hangover in full control, I suddenly realised I had 2 more airports, 3 buses and 8 hours of flights to go… before I ever touched down in US soil…