An Irishman abroad

Canadian Road Trip - Part 5(c)

CANADIAN ROAD TRIP, NOVEMBER 2002
PART FIVE (c)

At about 10pm, once the meal had finished, the DJ started playing some tunes and most of the revellers that remained got up to dance.

Now, Dear Reader, you may already know after having experienced at first hand that I am not a very good dancer. I believe I am what is known in the trade as a ‘disco disaster’.

After politely declining my aunt’s offer – I joined some of the other guys at the strictly no-dancing table and I started talking to one of the husbands. Needless to say, such deep and meaningful topics were covered such as politics, world peace, and the ever-increasing hole in the ozone layer, with perhaps a healthy sprinkling of sport.

After a while – the DJ started playing a slow song and announced that he was giving a ‘spot dance’. In my naivety I assumed that this was referring to the fact that the spotlight was on the dance floor.
A few couples started to do a little waltz on the dance floor. Everyone else sat down. One of Daphne’s colleagues approached me to dance. (I should state for the record here that her husband was there and was already dancing with someone else). I politely declined cracking some joke about the fact that Irish men can’t dance – apart from that eejit Michael Flatley and if I ever get my hands on the wee bollox for ruining the reputation of Irishmen the world over…
But the lady insisted that I join her on the dance floor.
“Waltzing is easy – you only need to know two steps”
Not wanting to do anything else that might further ruin diplomatic relations between Northern Ireland and Canada, I accepted the offer to dance. Beads of sweat were beginning to form on my forehead. I was in a bad enough state at the prospect of dancing, let alone attempting to perform a specific dance routine!

However, I was most impressed (and relieved) to see that what is known as a waltz seems to be pretty close to the slow ‘dances’ that we used to perform at such fine establishments as the Kilwaughter House Hotel just outside Larne or The Tullyglass Hotel in Ballymena, during the formative stages of my socialising career.

A brief interlude, Dear Reader, whilst I explain the extremely complicated mating ritual of your average young Irish male (when I used to be one) although I’m sure it is not much different nowadays. This is a shame, because it is one of the most excruciatingly nervous experiences that I can remember from growing up.

Picture the scene:
It is a few days before my 17th birthday and I had never before set foot in a pub let alone go dancing in a nightclub – I had absolutely no idea what to expect. Newtownabbey Tech, the local college, was holding a disco in the Kilwaughter House Hotel – a place that is normally used for wedding receptions and the like.
It was going to be held on a Wednesday night and it seemed that everyone from my school was going. All the cool kids at school had been there for the previous disco, but I had been too nervous to ask for permission to go.
Having had to endure my mates regale glorious tales of drunken debauchery at great length during our lunch breaks, I decided that I would have to go and see for myself what all the fuss was about.

Having reached this decision did not mean that I was actually going to get anywhere near Kilwaughter House. There were several hurdles that stood in my way. Several tests of my manhood before I would be stood at the bar with my mates taking in the orgy of life that I had been missing out on.
Hurdle number one was my Dad. An intimidating man who was not the easiest to approach about these sorts of things (but then I guess which dad would be?).
So, true to form, I left it to the absolutely latest I could before mentioning the subject. On the Tuesday evening, I sat with him in the living room making small chat, plucking up the courage to ask if I could go to the disco the following night.
“Will there be alcohol sold there?” He asked.
“I don’t know. I think there might be” was the best I could mumble in reply.
He sighed. “Do you have the money to go?”
“Yes I do” I lied. I had barely enough to pay for the ticket, but I thought that to ask for him to sponsor my night out as well would have been to take the piss completely; after all, I still had to approach the fact that I had absolutely no way of getting to the nightclub, which was really out in the back of beyond and I was still two years away from getting my driver’s license.

“OK” he said.
This was easier than I had hoped!
“When is it? What time are you going at? when are you coming back? who are you going with? how are you getting there?” were all asked in quick succession.
My spirits lowered.
“It’s tomorrow night and I am supposed to be meeting some of the guys from school at 08:30 in the place and err, I don’t know how I’m getting there.”
“Jesus – thanks for the advanced notice! I suppose you were hoping that I would give you a lift?”
“If you could that would be great” I replied.
“As it turns out - I can give you a lift but don’t leave it so late next time, Understand?!”
“Yes” was all I could manage. My head was spinning - I was actually going to get to see what all the fuss was about!!

Following morning, the day of the big event and I walked into school like two men and a wee lad (as they would say back home). I met up with my mates and as nonchalantly as I could, asked where we were to meet. Arrangements were made and on that day, school seemed to take forever. During free study, I received a note from a girl that I knew at school. She was called Michelle McClure. A nice looking girl about 3 feet taller than me (or so it felt anytime I talked to her).

It contained a joke and a question asking if I was going to the disco that night. I was able to laugh at the joke (too rude for this family tale) and reply that yes Cinderella was indeed going to the ball.
This surprising and unexpected interaction with a female had my head spinning even more. What was all that about? I was still very naïve when it came to all things female and still am if the truth be told (who’s that I hear laughing?!).

After school, I rushed home where I was faced with my next dilemma. What to wear? I have to admit to being a little bit lacking when it came to fashion and to be honest some things have still not changed. If it was comfortable, I wore it. I didn’t have an expansive wardrobe, so I ended up wearing clothes for several days in a row. My choices were indeed limited. I plumped for a pair of Spencer pleated trousers which ridiculously enough where all the rage in those days. The more pleats the trousers had, the cooler they were. Mine had 8, and when you consider that my mate Brian Watson (our Style Icon at the time) had 20 pleat Spencers – I really was not being that cool. However, my grandmother had organised them to be taken in a few weeks previously. To the uninitiated, this is the process of reducing the circumference of the trousers from the knee down, so that they were extra tight at the ankle, therefore accentuating the effect of ‘baggy trousers’.
The trousers were black with what could only be described as ‘aqua’ (turquoise) coloured flecks through them.
There was only one shirt that I could wear with these trousers - my ‘Old Faithful’. This was a short-sleeved number with aqua and white stripes. I wore it on any occasion that I thought required a little bit of effort (which seemed to be all the time in those days).
As you can imagine - I looked like a complete prat!

Some time later I was in my father’s car driving the country roads to the Kilwaughter House Hotel. On the way, my father gave me the speech that I suppose he felt that he should give (and I suppose that I will one day have to give as well).
“I suppose that there will be alcohol served there tonight?”
“I suppose so”
“You do realise that if you can enjoy yourself on a night out without drinking alcohol, you are a far better person for it.”
“Yes I do”
“You know – just because I go to the pub, doesn’t mean that you have to”
“I know”
“You have to remember that I only really started going out to the pub when I was 30, after all I was almost 20 when you were born”
“Yes.” Sometimes it’s best to say as little as possible – why was I able to appreciate this fact way back then, but seem to have a problem with that nowadays?

What my dad didn’t realise at the time was that I was absolutely terrified by the prospect of going to this place. There was going to be alcohol, dancing and girls. How the hell could I ever hope to cope with that lethal mixture?

As I left the car, Daddy called me back.
“If you’re going to get involved in rounds, I want to make sure you have enough to buy one back” and he handed me a crisp 20 pound note. Such wealth! I was gob smacked!
I walked away from the car with the words of wisdom from my dad ringing in my ears and walked nervously up the steps to the door were two fearsome doormen blocked my passage to the nightclub.
I must have looked 12 years old.
I felt that I looked even younger and tried to look 18 (whatever that meant) and walked past them murmuring a timid hello. The thing is I needn’t have feared anything. This disco was notorious for under age drinking, so the doormen hardly batted an eyelid as I walked past into the cavernous darkened space that was the function room of the Kilwaughter House Hotel.

My eyes took a while to adjust to the darkness; my ears took a while to adjust to the music whilst my nose took a while to adjust to the smell of smoke, alcohol and sweaty people dancing. I don’t mind saying it now, Dear Reader, but I was scared shitless. I tried to act cool as I searched frantically for any sign of my mates.
During my search I bumped into Michelle. I said an embarrassed hello and asked if she had seen any of my mates. Luckily she had seen them and after she pointed in their direction, I thanked her and said a hurried goodbye and just left her standing there. (Like I said I was naïve).

When I got to where my mates were sitting I was greeted with cheers and much slapping of backs. We had made it!
“What do you want to drink?” John McCleave, a tough (and therefore cool) boy from the outskirts of Belfast asked me.
Panic set in. I had never even thought about this problematic part of the evening! What did I want to drink? Here I was in a nightclub for the first time ever, with my mates, girls were dancing and I didn’t even know what I wanted to drink! Thinking fast, I recalled the beer that Daddy drank, called Harp (a fairly tame lager made by Guinness).
“I’ll have a glass of Harp please”
“Do you want a pint or a half?”
More decisions! This was harder than I thought! Thinking about a pint of milk and knowing that there was no way I could drink all of that, I said
“I’ll have a half please”
John looked at me in a strange way but thankfully said nothing. He went to the bar and I went to our table on the edge of the dance floor, to sit down with the rest of the group.
And there I remained.
For hours I just sat there nursing this half of Harp watching all that was going on. I spoke when spoken to but very rarely adding anything else to the conversation. I refused the offers of any more drink and simply entertained myself by listening to the music and watching the people dancing.

Some time later, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to see a tall evil eyed monster with long hair staring down at me. I jumped back as the head moved towards me. Holding back a scream, I watched as the eyes changed from the evil eyed monster that I had seen to reveal the lovely blue eyes of Michelle McClure. She was wearing contact lenses and with all the ultra violet light they had given the impression of illuminated eyes. I had never seen this before and although this intrigued me, it did nothing to ease my nerves.
“So what do you think of the place?”
“It’s not bad” I said staring up into her face.
“Did you like the joke I sent you?”
“Yes I did. It was very funny.” This was not going well. I could hear how lame I was sounding.
After a slight awkward silence she said the 4 words that would forever haunt me.
Not “Will you marry me?” but “Do you wanna dance?”.
I was totally unprepared for this development and wished that I was back at home playing Manic Miner on my computer.
Backed into a corner I said the only thing that I could think of.
“OK”
She smiled and walked towards the dance floor. My stomach was a mess. I glanced at my mates and was greeted with a wall of ultra-violet illuminated rows of teeth smiling knowingly at me. Peer pressure is a wonderful motivator and when I didn’t want to lose face in front of ‘the lads’ I simply followed her to the dance floor like a lamb to the slaughter.
To this day I have no idea what the music was or if we even spoke as we danced. All I can remember from my first dance in a nightclub was the pain in the neck I got from looking up into her face and watching in amazement how the lights illuminated her contact lenses depending on where our ‘dance’ took us.

Sometime later I went outside to meet my father. I said my goodbyes, aware of the fact that I was leaving earlier than my mates, which was uncool, but I certainly didn’t want to keep him waiting.

As we drove off my father asked “So how was it?”
“It was fun” I replied.
“Did you have much to drink?”
“No not much”
“What did you have to drink”
“I had a half of Harp”
“Jonny, if you’re going to start drinking, then I don’t want you start lying about it already!”
“I’m serious!”
“So then I can have that 20 pound note back?”
“Yeah, sure” I said as I reached in my pocket.
“It’s OK Jonny, keep it” my father said. “Perhaps you can get yourself a decent pair of trousers”

We drove the rest of the way home in silence.

As a footnote to this tale of adolescent anguish, I should say that after that night, Michelle and myself never danced or did anything else remotely intimate ever again. A few years later she did a bit of modelling and was voted the face of Northern Ireland. And according to her entry on our old school log book at http://www.friendsreunited.co.uk (a website that allows you to place an entry explaining what has happened in your life so other people can get in touch with you)
“I got my degree in Business and Languages at Preston, then moved to London and joined BA as a trolley dolly supposedly for 1-2yrs to see the world. Six and a half years on I’m still doing it! Must be mad! Recently got married and I’m living in Kingston, Surrey”

So it seems she got over me then….

Incidentally my entry on this website reads:
“I have been reading some of the other life stories. It's amazing how normal we all became (and also how many do not live at home any more). Glad to see so many of you are doing so well and doing your best to create the next generation of intellectuals.

OK - This is the bit where I disappear up my own arse and tell you all how windswept and interesting I am, how wonderful my life is and how I couldn't be happier than a nymphomaniac sheep tied to a lamp post outside the town hall in Ballyclare on Mayfair day....

I have to admit to not adding to the baby boom, but I suppose one day it will happen. In the meantime I am living in Antwerp (24 hour drinking every day), my working life is split between Holland (24 hour drugs every day) and Boston, USA (24 hours of strip searches and explaining the 'Irish Problem' to third generation 'Oirish' Yanks, clinging to some sort of heritage and looking through the world with green tinted glasses).
Other than that life is great. (see? I told you I would say that!)

Incidentally, on top of the wonderful job, the huge salary and the playboy lifestyle, my girlfriend has the most amazing pair of tits I have ever had the pleasure of fondling and she has an arse that you can set your pint on. Pity she's Belgian and wont let me anywhere near either....

Anyway - for anyone out there that thinks Belgium is boring, think again. Not only does it have its chocolates, mussels and chips with mayonnaise(?), it also happens to be the land of beer. Over 600 of the bloody things! (check out http://www.tiac.net/users/tjd/bier/belglist.html)

So, originally sent here for four weeks training 6 years ago, I now find myself - after a few jobs in other far flung places, such as Dublin, London, Manchester, Stockholm, Milan, Frankfurt and Paris (see? I told you I was windswept and interesting!) - back in Belgium and am loving every minute of it. If you ever find yourself in Antwerp, call into 'The Dubliner' a great wee Irish pub, in the centre of town and (ahem) apparently five minutes walk from the red light district. Be warned, bring your strap on liver and your dancing shoes!!

OK - I'd better go back to my incredibly windswept and interesting job that pays me ridiculous amounts of money to sit in front of a PC with a hangover on a Friday morning. I hope you are all suitably impressed. I mean, after all that's what this is all about, right?

Be well...
26/04/2002 10:13:40”


But I digress.

A few minutes of me ‘waltzing’ about on the dance floor in the function room of the Best Western Hotel in Cornwall, Ontario, Canada and the music finished. The awkward silence that finished our dance was quickly broken by the DJ making a rather strange remark:
“OK folks – now it’s time to give out the prize for the best dancer!”
So this is what they meant by a ‘Spot dance’!!!
The husband of my dancing partner called out “Give it to the Irish fella – he’s come the furthest to be here!”
As if getting up to dance wasn’t bad enough - my embarrassment was being further compounded by the fact that they were suggesting out of recognition of the fact that I wasn’t from round these parts, I should be rewarded with the prize for best dancer!

And so it came to pass that there I was in the function room of the Best Western hotel in Cornwall, Ontario in the very surreal position of trying to decline a prize that I certainly didn’t deserve.
My protests seemed to have been listened to because the DJ then suggested that this prize should go to the most intellectual of the dancers. To determine this, he asked the following question –
“What is the sum of 7 plus 9?”
The husband of my dancing partner shouted out “16!”
The DJ replied – “No that’s wrong!”
We all blinked and looked at the DJ, while it took a few minutes for him to register the fact that 16 was indeed the correct answer. Once he arrived to this conclusion he gave the prize to the mathematic genius who then in turn gave it to me. I felt like I had cheated but humbly accepted the prize.
It was after all a nice gesture because folks – I really can’t dance!

Shortly after that it was time to leave the party. But that of course does not necessarily mean the end of the party.
I had been told that there was a Scottish/Irish pub in town called The Glengarrion. Keen not to return to the wonderful world of Rosie Magoo’s too hastily, I asked if anyone was interested in going. Thankfully, about 6 people said that they would join me.
So off we headed out into the cold night.
The cars were already covered in ice and the car park was extremely treacherous just to walk across, let alone drive a car. Everyone got in their cars and started the engines. It seemed that round these parts the best thing to do is just get inside the car and allow the car’s engine to sort out the ice. After a few minutes we set out rather slowly to the pub.

The pub itself was pleasant enough although it was set in a rather strange location surrounded by several small shops. There was a two-piece band playing music in one corner on a small stage. As we walked in, they charged into a version of Whiskey in the Jar, which seemed fitting enough. There was a table free, so we sat there and had a couple of drinks taking us to about one in the morning. The clientele in the bar seemed to be quite young, studenty types so we blended in no problem, not. Still, the music was fine with a mixture of Christy Moore, The Eagles and The Beatles keeping the crowd entertained.

After the band finished playing, we made our goodbyes and I headed off into the night to go see what was happening down at good old Rosie Magoo’s. There was less than an hour of drinking to go, so I didn’t see the harm in it.

When I arrived at about 01:15, the place looked like a war had hit it. There were drunken bodies staggering all over the place, including my good mates, Dee-Anne and (a boy named) Sue and of course dear old Squinty. I stayed in their company for as long as I could manage, which was exactly two hurried drinks and made my way to my aunts apartment for my final nights sleep in Canada. I was heading back down to Boston first thing in the morning.

When I awoke that morning, the snow was falling again which made me worry about whether I would be able to drive back down to Boston. I felt that the sooner I got on the road, the better.

So rather hurriedly I bade my aunt farewell. I should perhaps have stayed a bit longer but with time being of the essence it was about 10 thirty Sunday morning that I rather carefully set off on the drive back down to Boston.

As I drove off looking in my rear view mirror at my aunt waving I contemplated what it must be like living there so far away from her family. I know what it is like to live away from home but door-to-door, I can be back home in about 5 hours. For Daphne it is a helluva lot longer.

I don’t want the readers of this travelogue to think that I was being negative towards Cornwall, or Canada as a whole.
Far from it.
Canada is a beautiful country with more open country than we could ever imagine, coming from the great big housing estate that is Central Europe. Granted the weather is extremely cold but then what do I expect when heading to northern America in the wintertime?
My aunt has a lovely apartment in a town which whilst it wouldn’t be my idea of home is made home for her by the circle of friends that she has. In much the same way that the friends that I have in Antwerp make the prospect of living away from home all the more bearable, Daphne has had the fortune of the same in Cornwall, Ontario, Canada and good luck to her.

Daphne, I thank you for your hospitality which afforded me the privileged opportunity to discover the world of Canada. All be it a very small section of it. A big hug to you and your friends for making me feel so welcome. I hope I haven’t offended you or your friends by any of the observations that I have made. It was certainly not meant to be offensive in any way (except perhaps to the French - but they can handle it).

When I started writing this, I was only going to spend a couple of hours on it. Now as I draw it to a close, it seems that I spent longer writing about the experience than I did experiencing it.
Whilst this was certainly not expected, I have really enjoyed doing it and judging by some of your kind comments it passed a few enjoyable minutes for some of you whilst you sipped on a coffee (or something stronger).

OK – Rosie Magoo’s is a shit pub. No doubt about it but in every town there are several just like it.
We don’t have to look too hard to find a Rosie Magoo’s in all our hometowns. Having said that, I enjoyed Rosie’s in a perverse sort of way. I met real people. Scary people, yes, but real people all the same.
Later that night as I sat on my own in ‘Characters’, the faceless bar of the Wyndham Hotel were I was staying, reading my book, whilst drinking my Rolling Rock which had been served to me by a grumpy waitress, I surveyed my surroundings which included three tired looking business men dotted along the bar, staring at their drinks. I was left thinking that really there wasn’t that much to separate the two places. Save for a bit of a face lift and hugely inflated beer prices, Characters on that Sunday night in December 2002 was no different from Rosie’s at Thanksgiving Thursday a few days previously.

With one exception.

At least Rosie’s would get interesting.

“Can I get you another drink?” the waitress asked.
“I don’t suppose you do Labatts Blue Lite by any chance?”

THE END