Conference tallis::celt

1497.0. "Dave Barry in Ireland" by XSTACY::JLUNDON (http://xagony.ilo.dec.com/~jlundon :-)) Wed Aug 23 1995 15:19

I'm surprised that it wasn't posted here before now :-).

                              James.

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                           Dave Barry - Noted humorist 
Created: 22-JAN-1986 15:39         941 topics         Updated:  4-AUG-1995 10:47
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Note 942.0                  PUB-CRAWL in tractorland                  No replies
MAL009::MAGUIRE                                     104 lines   7-AUG-1995 04:00
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    			   Pub-Crawl in Tractorland
    
    			         by Dave Barry
    
    The Boston Globe Magazine
    The Boston Sunday Globe, August 6, 1995
    reprinted without permission
    
    
    	I recently spent a week in Ireland, and I can honestly say that I
    have never been to any place in the world where it is so easy to partake 
    of the local culture, by which I mean beer.  Ireland also contains his-
    tory, nice people, enormous quantities of scenery, and a rich cultural 
    heritage, including (more on this later) Elvis.
    
    	Geographically, Ireland is a medium-sized rural island that is
    slowly but steadily being consumed by sheep.  It consists mostly of
    scenic pastures occasionally interrupted by quaint towns with names
    such as (these are actual Irish town names) Ardfert, Ballybunion, Coole, 
    Culleybackey, Dingle, Dripsey, Emmoo, Feakly, Fishguard, Gweedore, Inch, 
    Knockaderry, Lack, Leap, Lusk, Maam, Meentullynagarn, Muff, Newmarket-on-
    Fergus, Nutt's Corner, Oola, Pontoon, Rear Cross, Ringaskiddy, Screeb, 
    Sneem, Spiddle, Spink, Stradbally, Tang, and Tempo.
    
    	Towns are connected by a modern, state-of-the-art system of medieval 
    roads about the width of a standard bar of hotel soap; the result is
    that motorists drive as fast as possible in hopes of getting to their 
    destinations before they meet anybody coming the other way.  The only
    thing that prevents everybody from going 120 miles per hour is the
    nationwide system - probably operated by the Ministry of Traffic Safety
    - of tractors being driven slowly by old men wearing caps.  You encounter
    these roughly every two miles, rain or shine, day or night.  As an
    additional safety measure, the roads are frequented by herds of cows,
    strolling along and mooing appreciatively at the countryside, reminding
    you very much of tour groups.
    
    	A typical Irish town consists of several buildings, one of which is
    always a bar, called a pub.  Next to this, there will typically be
    another pub, which is adjacent to several more pubs.  Your larger towns
    may also have a place that sells food, but this is not critical.
    
    	Inside the pubs you will usually find Irish people, who are very
    friendly to strangers, especially compared to the British, who as a
    rule will not voluntarily speak to you until you have lived in Britain
    for a minimum of 850 years.  The Irish, on the other hand, will quickly
    start a conversation with you and cheerfully carry it on at great
    length, with or without your help.
    
    	One evening in a Dublin pub, I watch an elderly, well-dressed, cap-
    wearing gentleman as he sat in the corner and, for two hours, struck 
    up a lively conversation with everyone who sat within 10 yards of him,
    including a group of German tourists, only one of whom spoke even a
    little English.  The man spoke to them in a thick brogue on a variety
    of topics for several minutes, while they looked at him with the
    bright, polite smiles of people who do not have a clue about what is 
    being said to them.
    
    	You definitely feel welcome in Ireland.  But there's more to do
    there than just talk to Irish people in pubs.  You can also drive
    around the countryside, alternately remarking, "Look, sheep!" and
    "Here's another tractor!"  You can visit a bunch of castles built by
    the Normans, who at one point conquered Ireland despite being called
    the Normans, which is, let's face it, not an impressive-sounding name. 
    It's kind of like being conquered by the Freds.
    
    	Probably the best-known castle is the one in the town of Blarney
    the contains the famous Blarney Stone.  To get to it, you have to climb
    steep, narrow, tourist-infested steps to the top of the castle; there,
    a local man holds you as you lean out over the castle wall and kiss the
    Blarney Stone.  Legend has it that if you do this, you will give the man
    a tip.  At a castle in a town called Kilkenny, I saw a local radio
    station doing a live remote broadcast, featuring a "frozen-food challenge" 
    in which a local resident had to answer a multiple-choice question on
    the history of refrigeration.  She got it right and won a hamper of
    frozen foods.  
    
    	But the cultural highlight of the trip occurred in the town of
    Ennis, where a pub called Brandon's had a sign outside that heralded
    "traditional Irish music."  This turned out to be a traditional Irish
    Elvis impersonator.  I realize that there are literally thousands of
    quality Elvis impersonators, and I'm sure you've seen some excellent
    ones, but this one, in this unremarkable town in western Ireland, was
    beyond question the worst Elvis impersonator in history.
    
    	 He sang along to a tape of instrumental Elvis tunes which he
    played on a sound system that he never, not once in two hurs, got
    adjusted right.  Every time he'd start singing a song, the sound system
    would screech and honk with feedback.  Elvis would then whirl around
    and spend minutes at a time unsuccessfully adjusting various knobs
    while he mumbled the lyrics, so that for most of the evening, all you
    saw was Elvis' butt, accompanied by screeching and honking and vague
    off-key singing.  Often, by the time he'd finished twiddling the knobs,
    Elvis had lost track of what song he was singing; he'd frown into the
    distance, trying various tunes until he thought he was on the right
    track, at which point the screeching and honking would start up,
    forcing Elvis to whirl back around, like a man being attacked by bees,
    and treat the audience to another lengthy view of his butt.  
    
    	The crowd, which I will frankly admit was consuming alcoholic
    beverages, enjoyed this performance immensely, cheering wildly at the
    end of each song.  They like their fun, the Irish.  I'm definitely
    going back some day.  Maybe I'll rent a tractor.  
                 

    The mention of Nutts Corner reminded me of an incident that happened
    many years back.
    
    The main airport for Belfast is at Aldergrove, but it used to be at 
    Nutts Corner, which is only a few miles away.  It is now derelict
    but the concrete runways and some buildings remain (or did at the time).
    
    A British Midland pilot on a flight from London managed to land his 737 
    at the wrong aiport. He discovered the error of his ways when instead of 
    the usual baggage trucks etc, a herd of curious cows wandered over to 
    inspect the strange object disturbing their peace.
    
    In the same vein, a pilot once landed a 747 at Northolt instead of 
    Heathrow. There is now a very large "NO" painted on a hanger at Northolt.
    
    Dave  

Fishguard?  err....that's in Dyfed, S.W.Wales.