An Irishman abroad

Canadian Road Trip - Part 5(a)

CANADIAN ROAD TRIP, NOVEMBER 2002
PART FIVE (a)

Yes Dear Reader - you have probably no doubt noticed my little 'get out clause'.
I know I promised that this would be my last instalment of the Canadian Road Trip, but I really cannot tell the story in any less than what I am doing. Far more accomplished writers than me would be able to cut the wheat from the chaff, strip the shit form the bullshit, so to speak, but not I.

Within time, who knows? Perhaps I will be able to achieve this state of writing nirvana but in the meantime, I'm afraid it is you, Dear Reader, who has to suffer the torment of another meandering epilogue from yours truly.

Please bear with me, for as they say, practice does make perfect! (Or alternatively you could just delete the bloody thing!)

Regards
Your Humble Waffling Scribe...


It was just after 10:30 on the Friday night when I walked into Rosie’s and if I had had my doubts about this place before, they were only further compounded by the sight that I saw before me.

On the stage, a five-piece band was belting out some country and western song. In front of them on the dance floor there were about 30 people dancing to the band’s music. There were Stetson hats, cowboy shirts, people were waltzing and line dancing but the thing that struck me the most was the sheer amount of moustaches and mullet combinations on view. Wall to wall hair - facial or otherwise.

One guy in particular caught my eye – he was wearing a white cowboy shirt with several buttons open. His moustache looked like some huge tropical caterpillar. His hair was brushed straight back but not with gel causing it to rise about an inch off his head along his crown and was then brushed straight down the back until just below the collar but not quite shoulder length.
The classic mullet for all to see and boy did he know it! He was strutting about, shaking his skinny little ass for the world to see, in his tight black jeans and brown suede three quarter length boots (seriously). He looked like a modern day Robin Hood!

I scanned the bar looking for a quiet refuge from the madness around me when I spied Dee-Anna and (a boy named) Sue sat at the bar. They were there with a few other people and waved me over. To be honest I was glad of a friendly face or two, so over I went to join the group. I was introduced to a friendly enough guy in a cowboy hat, called Bryan, who was more than welcoming, especially when he discovered that there was an Irish man in the bar. We then went through the motions of who I was, where I was from, why I was in Cornwall and what did I think of the band, all of which were politely answered - even the last one – no need to make enemies on my holiday!

I started chatting to Dee-Anne and (a boy named) Sue. A few moments into our conversation, which was quite difficult over the music, Bryan approached me and said welcome to Canada as he offered me a drink. It was a small, plastic, opaque, shot glass filled with some form of liquid. Now Dear Reader, most of you know that I would not want to do anything that might damage international relations between Northern Ireland and Canada, so of course I decided what the heck and the two of us went bottoms up with our shots.

Whilst not really surprised by the disgusting taste of the drink, I was more surprised by the fact that I had already tasted it before. Disgusting, but vaguely familiar. I was expecting some sort of Canadian moonshine. Perhaps distilled up in the mountains, made from the hair sheared from mullets and moustaches from miles around. I dunno exactly but anything other than what I had just consumed. When I asked him what it was, he informed me that it was zambuca.
“Zambuca??!!! I thought I was getting something Canadian!”
“OK then – Canadian it is” and proceeds to order some Crown Royal, “A blend of the finest Canadian whiskies. The whiskies selected for Crown Royal are always the smoothest and mellowest. Fully matured in specially selected oak casks, it is a perfect balance of smoothness and strength.” (According to their advertising blurb).
So we drank a Canadian whiskey together, but Dear Reader I’m sure you’ve already seen where this is going.
“That’s not a whiskey! – We need to have some REAL whiskey. IRISH whiskey”

I asked the barmaid what Irish whiskey they had, not realising the complexity of such a question. After a lot of looking she came back with a bottle of Tullamore Dew. Not the greatest but not the worst and as they say - needs must.
So, there we were, Bryan from Canada and yours truly, representing the 6 unoccupied counties of Ireland swigging whiskeys. First Canadian and then Irish. We were getting along famously. I found out that he was married but more interestingly enough he had a satellite system that could pick up 800 channels.

[NB: For the female readers out there (and I would hope that I still have some by this stage) – I do not feel compelled to explain the inner complexities of the male species that would result in two complete strangers born 4000 miles apart, meeting each other for the first time ever, sitting drinking at a bar discussing satellite systems. Don’t try to work it out dear ladies, just accept that we, the male race, are indeed a complicated species and that most ancient of rituals – the male bonding experience is something that is in our genetic make up – in that special different chromosome.]

- Really?
- Oh sure! I can pick up all kind of shit on that system!!
- What about sport?
- Jeez I got all kinds of sport on that freakin’ thing!
- Can you pick up English football?
- Whaddya mean – soccer?! (His eyebrows visibly twitching) What the hell would you wanna watch that shit for? That games for ladies!
- It’s just that there is a game that I would love to see on Sunday between my team, The Mighty Liverpool against The Scum – sorry - Manchester United
- Sure! No problem! You can come and watch it at my place.
- There is just one problem at 07:15 on Sunday morning.
- OK – well just don’t expect me to watch it with ya!
- But what about your wife?
- Fuck that bitch! She’s off to work at 07:00, Sunday morning anyway, so you’re more than welcome buddy!

Now, Dear Reader, I am more than experienced in the “I’ve had a few drinks, so everything is fine and any arrangement made seems like the best idea in the world (at the time)” syndrome, so I decided to play this one cool. After all the trouble I had been going to, to see this game, I was finally going to get the chance to see it. I didn’t want to be disappointed.

- Are you sure you’re not going to waken up tomorrow and think to yourself. What the hell have I done?
- No way Jonny. Come over to my place, bring a 6-pack and watch your game!
- Will you be in here tomorrow evening?
- Normally I wont, but if it makes you feel any better, I’ll pop in around 11:00, OK?!

And off he went to the toilet, taking time out on the way to dance a strange little routine on the dance floor.

This is it! Game on! I thought to myself. Dee-Ann asked me what I was looking so happy about. And I recalled the conversation I had just had with Bryan to her. As I was talking to her I was about to witness the other side of not being a local.

- It’s all your fault!!

I turned as a guy of about 25 grabbed my arm.

- What?!
- It’s all your fault!
- What are you talking about? I said and got off my stool.
- Dee-Ann tried to placate me (as if I was going to start swinging – another thing I’m sure you will know about me, Dear Reader is that I am no fighter!)
- You’re from Ireland, right?
- Yes I am
- Do I have an accent?
- What??! (This was getting ridiculous)
- Do I have an accent?!

Not knowing what was required here, I deftly replied with
- We all have accents!
- But do I have an English accent?

Still not knowing what was required here, I deftly replied with
- I can’t hear you because of the music!

He started shouting in my ear. I surveyed the scene in my vicinity. Dee-Ann and (a boy named) Sue were looking rather worried. Bryan was talking to some of the other group of people at the bar. I guy was watching through eyes that barely open, like he was on the receiving end of a mouthful of cigar smoke. The 2 barmaids were busy, but the manager of the bar was looking over at what was happening. He was stood at the door with the bouncer, a tall guy with a moustache and a mullet (of course). Both of them were surveying the scene.
I shrugged my shoulders in what I hoped was a “What’s this guys problem?” kind of way, but this did not have the desired affect.
If this kicked off I don’t think I could rely on their support. Meanwhile Squinty was still looking at me in the same strange way.
- people say I have an English accent! Do I have an English accent?
- I can’t tell with the music!
- I can do accents – does this sound English to you?
- Let’s go outside
I said, not in an act of bravado, but just so I could make out what the guy was talking about. The manager and the doorman held the door for us. I shrugged my shoulders.
- What do you mean?
- People say I speak with an accent?
- Yes of course you do. We all do!
- But is it English sounding?
So I took the plunge, dear Reader and said
- well actually, no I don’t think you do – it sounds Canadian to me.
- Really?
- Yeah sure! He visibly lightened up
- Thank fuck for that! I wouldn’t want anyone thinking I was English!
I breathed a sigh of relief and we both walked into the bar away from the freezing cold. I winked at the manager but his face remained expressionless.

I rejoined the rest.
Squinty was still looking at me and moved over to talk to Dee-Ann. I sat surveying the bar sipping my drink thinking that I would perhaps head home for an early-ish night. At this point Squinty came over to me.
- Hey it’s the fighting Irish!
- I wouldn’t know about that, I replied wondering what was going to happen next.

to be continued...