An Irishman abroad

New York, New York!

(Sometime Thursday Morning – Philips Office Andover, nr Boston)

“So do you fancy it, Dennis?” I asked.
“Yep we really should do it – it’s probably my last chance to visit New York before I leave Boston”.
“OK – so we’re on then? I’ll look on the Internet for a hotel.”

New York here I come! I thought to myself. In my very short list of places I would love to see, New York was right up there with Vancouver, Australia and Angelina Jolie’s crotch. I was actually going to get to see New York!

It conveyed so many images to me, mainly from movies and other stuff that I had seen on TV. Robert de Niro in movies like Taxi Driver, a Bronx Tale and Goodfellas. Al Pacino in Carlito’s way. Yellow cabs, Frank Sinatra, The Twin Towers, The Empire States Building. Even bloody Michael J Fox in Spin city, for Christ’s sake! And within 36 hours, I was going to be there! I got searching for a hotel that met our budget and geographic requirements.

Some time later after several searches for hotel accommodation, I had only found The Carnegie Suites at a ‘slightly out of our range’ 799 dollars per night. Although, to be fair, that was per room and not per person.
I gave up despairingly.
“No luck, Dennis! I cant find anywhere in New York that has vacancies!” I was devastated. After building my hopes up, I couldn’t believe that I wasn’t going to get to see the Big Apple after all.

But hang on a minute!

“It’s the city that never sleeps, so perhaps we could party all night and freshen up the following morning in McDonalds?” I rather hopefully suggested.

Dennis looked at me as if I’d just come from another planet. This was not going to be an option.

“I’ll have a look – I know a place where my brother stayed that he said was OK”. Determined not to let my hopes get carried away, I left Dennis to it. Let’s face it – if I, the computer genius and part-time internet surfer couldn’t find somewhere to stay, then this Dutch Dude wasn’t going to have much more success.

“I’ve got us a place – want me to book it?” Dennis said after approximately 30 seconds of searching. It worked out at about 110 dollars each for the weekend, which was cheap by New York standards.

“Go ahead and book it!” I exclaimed, just a little bit over excited.
And he did.

That evening, I went out with my colleague Greg, a huuuuuuuge hulk of a guy from California to a typical all-American diner and ordered a rack ribs, half a barbecued chicken and fries, washed down with two Rolling Rocks and a milkshake.
Greg on the other hand, had a main course to go with his starter….

I got back to my hotel around 20:00, and started to pack whilst watching one of the many American sitcoms that the channels had to offer. It was called ‘That 70’s Show’ and was quite funny, compared to some of the other stuff I had seen whilst zapping through channels during my lonely nights in ‘luxury captivity’. The show is set around 1977 and revolves around the small-town lives of Eric Foreman, his family and his friends.

Whilst packing and laughing at the exploits of Eric's gang, including Kelso (The dumb sex-obsessed one), Hyde (The Fonz style one), Fez (The exchange student), Donna (Eric's girlfriend) and Kelso's girlfriend [Well, in my defence, there were 2 episodes shown every weeknight!], I noticed that there was a red light flashing on my phone.

What the hell did that mean? Was this some secret hot line to the president? Was I needed to assist the American government in the fight against terrorism? I checked the message that had been left for me.

“Hey Jonny, this is Dennis. I just got a call from the hotel. It seems that there was a mistake on the Internet booking site. The hotel is actually booked up for the weekend. It looks like we’re not going to be able to go to New York after all. If you get this message, you can phone me between 7 and 7 thirty, otherwise I’ll see you tomorrow”

I couldn’t believe it! I stopped packing and fell onto the bed, utterly despondent at the prospect of being so close but yet so far.
I spent the rest of the night surfing the channels until I drifted off to sleep.

As I slept, I dreamt of tall skyscrapers, yellow taxis and The Twin Towers. But in the mosaic of images that went through my mind. One thing remained constant – the smiling face of Lady Liberty looking down at me….

Waking up the next morning, I found myself filled with a newfound resolve.

I didn’t care about the fact that there was nowhere to stay; I made up my mind that I would go to New York that evening anyway. I may never get another chance to go there, so I was damned if I was going to let this opportunity pass me by. I packed my bags and went to the office.

As it turned out, Dennis had packed his stuff as well. It seemed that we were both as determined as each other to get to see the Big Apple, in all it’s glory.

“I’ll check on the internet again” I offered. After a few unsuccessful searches, I decided I would try and phone some of the numbers on the websites.
The first one I phoned, was picked up by an Indian guy, who told me that it was very difficult to get any hotels in New York, because of the big snow storms and also with it being two weekends before Christmas. To make matters worse, the official lighting of the Christmas Tree at the Rockefeller Center had taken place that Wednesday. In fact this was traditionally one of the busiest weekends in the New York Calendar. This was not looking good.
“So is there anything that you can offer me?” I asked.
“We have a twin room in the Carnegie Suite available”
Hoping that there had been a price change from the previous day, and in total desperation, I asked how much that room would be. I was right - the price had changed
“899 Dollars per room” was the reply.
“Thank-you but that’s a bit out of our price league” I replied as I hung up the phone in despair.

Once again Dennis offered to look on the internet to see what he could find, and once again I didn’t hold out much hope that he would be successful, and once again he proved me wrong by finding a hotel.
This one was called Hotel 31 and was advertised as:

“Our hotel is located on Manhattan's east side just two blocks from the Empire State Building. This ideal location is just minutes from Times Square(Theatre District), Herald Square, and the world-famous nightclubs of Greenwich and the East Villages. All of our rooms are beautifully furnished, double occupancy with either one large or two individual beds. Each room comes complete with air conditioning/heat, satellite TV, telephone with voicemail, and daily maid service. Our friendly, multi-lingual staff is helpful and always there when you need them. Hotel 31 will become your 'Home away from home.'”

This hotel was only marginally more expensive than the one that we had booked and was also closer to the centre of Manhattan – and they had multi-lingual staff!! (OK – perhaps this part wasn’t quite so important). We booked immediately, relieved that we wouldn’t have to cuddle up to each other in the back seat of a car, in the freezing December New York Cold.

So now that we were certain that we were actually going to go to New York, I started to think about who I knew that lived in New York and could perhaps help us around the city.

There were two people I could think of and I really was clutching at straws - not because they’re bad people – but simply because I hardly knew them.
First there was Patricia, the youngest sister of an ex-girlfriend. I met her at a families wedding and whilst we enjoyed a drink or two together, it had been ages since I had spoken with her and I was her sister’s EX-boyfriend so I wasn’t sure how she would be. I needn’t have worried. Incidentally, as a little aside, she used to nanny for John McEnroe’s children.
Not very relevant but true nonetheless. (Something that could be said for a lot that spouts out of my mouth).
The other person was a Scottish guy called Martin Greig, a friend of a friend, who I only ever had (very limited) email contact with.

Still, when you’re in a strange city, it’s always good to find the lay of the land from someone who is ‘in the know’, so I phoned Patricia and I emailed Martin, to see if it would be possible to meet up with either or both of them over the weekend.

I wasn’t able to get through to Patricia, so I left a message.

In the email to Martin, I asked if he knew any bars that would be showing the ‘Old Firm’ game, which was being played Saturday Lunchtime (or 07:15 am, New York time).

For those of you that don’t know:

The Old Firm refers to the two largest football teams in Glasgow, and indeed Scottish football – Glasgow Rangers and Glasgow Celtic.
Not only is it a derby match but it is a game that has ‘added spice’ because of the histories of the two clubs.

Before I continue, a brief history lesson:

Glasgow Celtic was formed in 1888 by a Marist Brother and some Irish businessmen as a charitable trust to raise money to help the poor mainly Irish immigrant population of the East End of Glasgow. Their links with Ireland have been strong ever since.

Glasgow Rangers began life in 1873 when four young Scotsmen, Peter McNeil, Moses McNeil, Peter Campbell and William McBeath came together with the intention of forming their own football Club. The Ranger name was taken from an English Rugby Club and the ties with England and all things British have been strong ever since.

Because of their histories, Celtic attracts the Catholic support whilst Rangers attract the Protestant support.

Having been fortunate enough to experience one of these matches first hand, I can honestly say that there isn’t a football match that can touch this in terms of rivalry, passion and good old-fashioned hatred and bigotry. I am of course being flippant with that last remark, but the fact remains that both clubs thrive on the bigotry and hatred. It certainly adds to the atmosphere at a football match. Even my beloved Liverpool playing against the Scum does not compete. You can almost taste the hatred in the air.

The one and only time I ever saw an Old Firm derby, it was also the first time that I had ever travelled to the ‘mainland’ to see a football match.

It was on New Years Day and I was only 19 at the time. I went in a coach along with some friends and we travelled across on the ferry on the day of the game, returning back to Northern Ireland straight after the game. Seven hours travel each way for 90 minutes of football. It wasn’t to be the last time I would make this trip.

We congregated at the ferry terminal in Larne at 07:00 in the morning. It was cold, dark, wet and miserable. There were hundreds if not thousands of people all making the same trip.
The terminal was a sea of red, white and blue. There is something disturbing about seeing hundreds of grown men in such a confined space, sporting shaven heads, tattoos and the obligatory nylon Glasgow Rangers football shirts.
Everyone seemed to either be suffering from the New Year celebrations of the night before, or were still partying. Either way, most of the people that I saw were drunk.
Being of the Northern Irish persuasion, they obviously had heard from some dubious source that the ‘hair of the dog’ was indeed the best cure known to mankind for a hangover.
Everywhere I looked people were drinking from cans / bottles / pints of lager, hip flasks containing whiskey or plastic 1.5 litre Cola bottles, which contained coca-cola that was of a very light brown, no doubt diluted with vodka or Bacardi.
I had never seen anything like it (God I was soooo naïve, once upon a time)
The night before I had indulged in a few, but knowing I had the big journey ahead of me and that I wasn’t much of a sailor, I had a relatively early night. (My, my - how times have changed!).

I was also wearing the football shirt as were my mates, so it took a while before we found each other. When I met the three of them, they already had our tickets for the boat and for the match. I also noticed that they’d started drinking as well.

Brian, a tall fella with more than a passing resemblance to Freddy Mercury passed me a hip flask, containing some whiskey. I took a slug and choked as the fiery liquid made it’s way down to my belly (In those days I only had the one). I was not used to this! I gave back the hip-flask and looked at the watch – 07:20, the boat was due to leave at 08:00. Barry handed me my ticket. I looked at it in amazement. I was actually going to see a real football match! No offence Ballyclare Comrades – or even Northern Ireland – or even the Pat Jennings or George Best Testimonials – but this was going to be a real game of football. Celtic Park held 60,000 spectators. I had never been to anything like it in my life. I started getting a nervous feeling in my stomach (or maybe that was just the whiskey)

Suddenly it dawned on me.
“Where are the Celtic supporters?” I asked.

All three of them, especially Jonathan – a huge man mountain of a guy with unbelievable biceps started laughing. “Do you honestly think they’d let us all on the same boat? We’d sink the fucker!!”

“Stena Sealink take the Rangers supporters and P&O take the Fenians!”, Barry explained.

Shortly afterwards, it was announced that the ferry was ready for boarding. Once we got onboard, we immediately went to the bar, even though it hadn’t opened yet. It seemed that everyone else thought of the same idea as hordes of people made their way to the back of the boat. In spite of this, we still managed to get seats and a couple of tables. We were ready for the off!

Just then, somebody started singing one of the ‘party’ songs that I was to hear continuously all day long.

For the uninitiated amongst you:

Rangers songs commonly take the form of Unionist anthems. "God Save the Queen" or "Rule Britannia" are often heard at matches. However, other songs are more common and more controversial. Loyalist songs are also common at Ibrox such as "No Pope of Rome", "Build My Gallows" and "No Surrender."
Many modern day fans prefer "No Surrender", a version of "Derry's Walls." "No Surrender" is very battle oriented, specifically referring to the siege of Derry in 1689, where the Protestant inhabitants refused to surrender to the troops of King James. In recent years, it has referred to the Protestant people of Northern Ireland refusing to surrender to the IRA.
Hello Hello (The Billy Boys) is another of the more controversial Rangers songs. This song has particular reference to the Bridgeton Billy Boys gang an inter-war Glasgow gang of that name, founded by Billy Fullerton. Fullerton was one of Mosely's Blackshirts, a member of the British Union of Fascists and a founder member of the Ku Klux Klan in Scotland. Lyrics include “We’re up to our necks in Fenian blood, surrender or you’ll die”.

But of course offensive songs are not the sole ownership of Rangers. Celtic fans sing many political and republican songs as well. An Irish folk song, sung by Celtic supporters that causes controversy is "The Fields of Athenry", because of its talk of the famine and the rebellion and that it is a popular anthem among Republican groups in Ireland.
The same applies to "The Boys of the Old Brigade", which describes a father's going off to join the IRA.
Another favourite is Joe McDonnell, which tells the story of one of the IRA hunger strikers, coincidentally sharing his name with the name of the song.

All nasty stuff indeed and surely not needed to be sung at a football match (let alone anywhere else).

Shortly before the ferry left the harbour of Larne, the bar was opened to loud cheers. Almost immediately there was a queue of about 40 guys who looked like the last thing they needed was more alcohol. Thanks to some advanced planning, we already had some booze, but it was all hard stuff. Bottles of vodka, whiskey and Bacardi were all doing the rounds. I was gasping for a pint of lager, so I went up and joined the queue.
15 minutes later and still standing in the queue, the boat started moving. Another 10 minutes queuing and suddenly there was a large commotion and dozens of guys ran out onto the deck of the ferry. I wondered what was going on and abandoned the queue and went out to see what was going on.

I was amazed by what I saw…

The P&O ferry carrying the Celtic supporters was also leaving the port at the same time and we were both sailing parallel but about 500 metres apart. Out on the deck of the P&O ferry there were a group of about 100 Celtic supporters. They were singing all their party songs and then proceeded to set fire to a Union Jack flag.

The Rangers supporters’ response was to sing their own songs and offering the Celtic supporters advice as to where they should go in language that is not fit to be included in this family publication.

Suddenly several bottles were thrown in the direction of the Celtic ferry. I say in the direction of, because let’s face it throwing bottles 500 metres into a headwind in the Irish Sea is not really possible.

Then, as if by magic, an Irish Tricolor flag was produced by a guy about my age a few feet away from me. Several of the supporters gathered around to shield others who were trying to set fire to it. Eventually, as the ferries began to part (one goes to Stranraer, the other to Cairryan – a couple of miles apart on the Scottish coast) , the Irish flag went up in flames to great roars from the Rangers fans.

Not for the first or the last time that day, I wondered what the hell I had gotten myself into.

The reason, Dear Reader, why I have gone to the trouble of telling you all these gory details, is because I want to try and give you some idea of what the atmosphere at one of these games is like. It is worse than anything I have ever witnessed back home in Northern Ireland. There is something about these games that really get the passions going.

So, basically, if there was a chance at all of seeing the game, I was going to make sure that I saw it in New York.

In reply to my email, I received the following advice from Martin:

“Hi Jonny,
There will be a couple of places showing the game. Rocky Sullivan's on 2nd Ave and 29th St. (I think that's where it is), but for definite a pub called The Parlour which is on 86St. and Broadway. For that one you get the number 1 or number 9 subway (red line) and when you emerge up on the street it's just across the road.
It's a good pub if you're a Celtic fan, or a football fan for that matter. Rocky's is good if you're a Republican Irish- rebel-member-the-INLA-and-want-to-kill-every-Englishman-you-see. It's a little more radical.”

For a Ranger’s supporter, Rocky Sullivan’s sounded like hell on earth, whilst The Parlour sounded too far to travel. Still - I was pretty confident that I would find somewhere showing it. Surely an Irish bar somewhere would have it on.

A couple of hours later, I got a reply from Patricia. It turned out that she was going to a Mexican bar/restaurant for a friend’s birthday party. Seeing as Dennis and myself would want something to eat anyway, it seemed like a good idea to meet them at the restaurant. She wasn’t sure of the name and the address, but she said she would phone the hotel and leave a message for us.

So at least we were going to meet some people who would be able to recommend what we should or should not do, during the short time that we were in New York, and we had our dinner planned as well.

At about 15:00 that afternoon we set off on the 4-hour journey that would take us from Boston down to New York. Dennis offered to drive and I had no argument for that, so as I sat in the passenger seat watching the Massachusetts, followed by the Connecticut landscapes pass by, I was left to concentrate my thoughts on the weekend that lay ahead in “The City That Never Sleeps”…

After about 2 hours of driving Denis noticed that a dashboard warning light had come on. It signalled that one (or more) of the tyres was flat. We stopped at the next service station and worriedly looked around the car for signs of a flat or punctured tyre.

We couldn’t see anything wrong, so Dennis started pumping up tyres whilst I had the difficult task of sitting in the warm car watching to see if the light switched off.

It didn’t.

If this had been me, Dear Readers, I would have just left it and driven on (albeit a little more slowly). But Dennis was a bit more sensible. 40 minutes of pumping and driving the car to different sections of the service station so that he could read the pressure limit as specified on the wall of the tyres and we eventually drove on to New York.

The light remained on for the rest of the trip.

Thanks to some expert navigational skills by yours truly, the Manhattan skyline came into view, at around 19:00 as we drove across the Brooklyn Bridge onto the island of Manhattan itself. I was like a little kid in a toyshop!

The next part of the journey was to prove the trickiest, driving into downtown Manhattan on a Friday evening, is no easy thing to do. There were yellow cabs everywhere, cutting each other up, overtaking, and undertaking, making lanes where none existed, all the time accompanied by the constant blaze of horns. Over the course of the weekend, we were to notice that this was to be common ‘road courtesy’ in New York.

All the more reason to lock the car in a garage for the weekend.

We walked the block and a half to our residence for the weekend. When we arrived at the lobby, Patricia had indeed left a message for us – we were to meet her and her friends in a Mexican bar / restaurant about 10 blocks away from where we were staying – about 15 minutes walk.

We took a few minutes to inspect the room, a simple enough affair with two single beds, a small TV and a bathroom sink. There were two bathrooms on the floor for which 8 rooms had to share. It was more than enough for what we needed.

So, after a few minutes to throw our luggage into the room and grab a quick ‘French Shower’, we then braved the cold New York night and headed for the restaurant.

When we arrived it resembled a scene similar to any bar in a city centre on a Friday night. The restaurant was packed and the bar was even busier. Both were located within the same room, with the restaurant, raised a couple of steps above the bar area and separated by a mirrored wall. The music was pumping out of the sound system and there were the obligatory TV’s showing various basketball matches. We walked up into the restaurant area but there was no sign of Patricia. I looked at the watch. It was just after 8pm. I suggested to Dennis that we went back to the bar and ordered a beer while we waited on them arriving.

Suddenly the DJ announced that there was a girl celebrating her birthday party and asked her and her mates to get on the bar and start dancing. A few of them took up the invitation but I didn’t recognise any of them as Patricia. I walked down into the group looking to see if she was there.

And then it dawned on me. The girl that I was looking for, I had only met once in my life.

Granted it had been over the course of a weekend, but it was a wedding weekend, I met loads of new faces over that weekend, plenty of alcohol had been taken and it had been almost two years since we had met. What if I didn’t recognise her? More to the point, what if she didn’t recognise me – because let’s face it - it was a lot easier for her to spot Dennis and myself than us to spot her. For one thing – Dennis had never met her, and there were loads of girls in the bar, all of which seemed to be here for the birthday party.

I felt like some sort of pervert as I went through the crowd of girls, looking for someone that looked something like Patricia. When I started to get a few weird glances, I decided to return to Dennis. We stood there drinking our bottles of American beer – me looking for someone I hoped that I would recognise and Dennis looking around the bar, not knowing what to look for.

As I went to the bar to order a couple more bottles of beer, I spied a couple stood to the right of me. I looked at the female and convinced myself that she was Patricia.

Dear Reader, a word of advice for when you ever find yourself in a similar situation.

When arranging a meeting with someone you vaguely know in a city that you’ve never been before, the size of New York, make the arrangements a little less vague than ours that night.
I hope for as long as I live, I don’t have to approach a couple from Vancouver, who were just in the bar waiting for a table to become free in the restaurant next door, on their first night ever in New York, with the immortal lines:
“Excuse me, I know what this must sound like but I’m not hitting on you, but are you Patricia?”
Needless to say, she was not called Patricia. She looked at me somewhat strangely, whilst her male companion looked at me somewhat differently.
“No – why do you ask?”

And I proceeded to explain to them both.

Soon, they both visibly lightened up. Her, because I told her that she looked a little like the younger sister of an ex-girlfriend (as it turned out, she was older than me); and him because he soon realised that I really was just a ‘Thick Mick’ in New York for the first time.

Over the next half hour, we made polite conversation with them until they got called to their table.
When they had left us for their sanctuary of the restaurant, Dennis asked “Are you not hungry? I could really do with some food”.

It was then that I noticed that the beers were starting to have an affect on him. I looked at the watch – it was 10 past nine. If we didn’t get food soon, I was going to lose Dennis, with me close behind. I wondered what to do.

I suggested that we ordered another beer and if they didn’t arrive we would go ahead and grab some food.

Just as we were approaching the end of our drinks, at some time around nine-thirty, the door of the bar opened and I saw Patricia, recognising her immediately as she did me. I had been panicking for nothing!

All that had happened was typical of any arrangement made with someone from Ireland. Dear Reader – a tip. If you ever make arrangements with someone from the Emerald Isle always add a little bit of extra time. I’m sure some intelligent mathematician could be commissioned to work it out, but until such a day occurs, here’s my rough theory to assist you in your timing of arrangements:

The amount of time to add seems to be directly proportional to the further south (or west) the person comes from in Ireland. Patricia, who lived 10 minutes away by taxi originates from the ‘Wild Wesht’ of Castlebar, County Mayo, right out on the Atlantic and had arrived almost two hours later than me who had travelled from Boston but originates from the North East of Ireland, 8 miles from the Irish Sea – so draw your own conclusions.

She breezed in like nothing had happened and gave us both a hug. I was overpowered by the smell of garlic.
“Have you already had something to eat?!!” I asked – ignoring the look from Dennis.
“Yeah, sure we did! We grabbed something quick before we came down here!!” Before I had a chance to say anything, she then proceeded to introduce us to the other members of her gang. There were about a dozen in total and all staff from the restaurant that she worked in. The only name I was able to remember for any length of time was a guy called Paddy, who was one of the chefs from the restaurant.
Having dealt with the formalities, she then said, “Now what do youse eejits wanna drink?”
I looked at Dennis, gave what I thought was a reassuring shrug and then ordered a Rolling Rock. Dennis did likewise, but without the reassuring shrug, as I continued to ignore the looks that he was giving me. After all – it was the City that Never Sleeps.
As soon as we finished this drink we could go to the restaurant ourselves.

For now, the right thing was to be sociable. “Cheers!” I said as Patricia handed us our drinks.

“Welcome to New York guys!!,” she said, grinning like a loon.

I could tell this was going to be a good night after all…

A couple more drinks with Tishy’s gang and just after 10, it was time for us to eat. We excused ourselves and made for the restaurant next door, much to the relief of Dennis (and myself to be honest). We approached the waitress and asked to be seated at a table for two.

“Sorry guys – the kitchen’s closed”

Well if looks could kill – I certainly wouldn’t be in a position to bore you with this travelogue, Dear Reader!

“So, err, Whaddya wanna do now?”, I asked
“Whaddya mean? I want to get some food!”

So we said our goodbyes to the group and headed off to try and find somewhere that we could grab a quick bite to eat – promising to return. As fate would have it there were fast food joints all over the place (or maybe America is just like that?), and it wasn’t long before we were tucking into some gorgeous Kentucky Fried Chicken. (Oh how I miss that!).

Suitably recharged, Dennis visibly cheered up. The night could begin! We rejoined the group and it wasn’t long before we were getting restless.

The debate ensued:
“Ok then Tishy – are you gonna show us New York, or what?!”
“What do you guys wanna do?”
“Well, we just want to go to some lively bars, we’re not fussed, just show us some good bars!”

“What about the Coyote Ugly Bar?” suggested one of the guys.

For those f you that don’t know – Coyote Ugly is a movie, and according to www.hollywood.com:

“Synopsis: Graced with a velvet voice, 21-year-old Violet Sanforn heads to New York to pursue her dream of becoming a songwriter only to find her aspirations sidelined by the accolades and notoriety she receives at her "day" job as a barmaid at Coyote Ugly. A new nightclub with a twist, Coyote Ugly is the hottest spot in town, featuring a team of sexy, enterprising young women. Lil is the savvy and tough proprietor with an autocratic reign over her girls, including the ever-flitarious Cammie, headstrong and antagonistic Rachel and top tip earner Zoe. The "Coyotes" as they are affectionately called tantalize customers and the media alike with their outrageous antics, making Coyote Ugly the watering hole for guys on the prowl.”

Now, I have never seen the movie, because to be honest, any reviews I saw advised me not to, but apparently the inspiration for this movie was a bar in New York.

Dear Reader - I would like to think of myself as an open-minded person and also a bit of a culture vulture. And it was purely for these reasons alone, that I figured “what the heck – why not go and check out the bar in real life?” I would just like to state for the record, Dear Reader, that it had absolutely nothing to do with the prospect of seeing sexy barmaids serving beer whilst “tantalizing customers with outrageous acts”.

“What are we waiting for? Let’s go there!!!,” I casually suggested.
“Nah – it’s crap there – it’s better to go to Red Rock West”, suggested Paddy, who I was finding it very difficult to understand, despite the fact that he was speaking the same language as me, so thick was his accent.
“Why what’s it like?” I asked.
“It’s the same idea as the Coyote Ugly, but not so many tourists. This place is more fun.”

However, one of the girls had a different idea. She wanted to go to an Irish bar to see a barman that she fancied. This idea was of course collectively booed out of site but of course that’s where we ended up going.

Still, the trip had it’s plus points, because for the first time ever, I stood at the side of an avenue in Manhattan, raised my hand in the air and hailed a yellow cab, just like I had seen on so many occasions in the movies and on TV!! This was sooooo cool!

Of course the taxi sped past, completely ignoring me, as did the next 4.

“Ach you big eejit!,” Tishy said and promptly hailed a cab. This was harder than I thought.

So off we went to the Irish bar, which was practically empty. A few of the lads went to play pool and put some money in the jukebox. I am glad to report that they did have Fairytale of New York – the finest Christmas song ever written. The girls went and sat at the bar whilst one in particular tried her best to flirt with the poor barman.

After about an hour of this, with the time approaching 1am, the guys were getting restless. Paddy had convinced me that Red Rock West was the place to go, so I asked Tishy if she wanted to go. I think she had had enough of her mate so she was glad for the change of scenery.

We all made our way out to hail some more cabs. As we stood on the street, Paddy announced to everyone that he was going to go home, because he had work in the morning.

“But what about Red Rock West?” I asked.
“You’ll have to do that without me. Tell the girls I said hello!”
The other three fellas and two of the girls decided that they’d had enough as well and promptly said their goodbyes hailed a couple of cabs.

All that was left now were Tishy, two of her mates, Dennis and myself. I looked at Dennis, who was looking back in my general direction, but as far as I could tell, he was having a few problems focussing. This was not looking good.

“So does anyone fancy going to this place?” I asked hopefully. Thankfully, everyone else said that they did so it was time for us to hail a couple of taxis ourselves. This time I was not to be foiled. Once again, I raised my hand and shouted “Taxi!” as a whole fleet of them approached. Two of them stopped – one for me and one for Tishy. The other two girls got in one taxi, Dennis, Tishy and myself got in the other.

We got in the taxis and headed off to Red Rock West, I looked at my watch. The time was 01:15. Still plenty of time left to enjoy the city that never sleeps.

When we arrived at the bar there was a queue to get into the place. As we jumped out of the car, as the others joined the back of the queue, Tishy grabbed me by the arm and we jumped the queue all the way to the second row.

I apologised to a big black american lady as we stepped in front of them, smiled and said “Sorry, we’re from Ireland it’s our first time in New York, and we’re soooo excited to be here!”
To my amazement, she let us in, and even more to our amazement, the doormen didn’t do anything either. We immediately joined the heaving mass of people and pushed our way to the bar to get served.
As we got served the others joined us in the bar.

The décor in the bar was pretty basic, but the atmosphere in the pub was electric. Rock music was playing through the sound system, there were bikers playing pool, hells angels bouncers making sure everyone behaved, but most of all, there were the bar maids. Every one of them (and there were six behind the bar) was extremely sexy.

Dennis and myself stood in amazement watching the girls dancing behind the bar. It had a pool table, it had rock music, it had sexy barmaids and it had beer - OK, American beer, but still – this was the place for me.

As we stood watching a couple of the barmaids got up and started dancing on the bar itself. Suddenly Tishy and the other two girls got up to join them. At this point I should point out that there was actually a Hells Angel bouncer stood on the bar as well, preventing people from getting too close to the barmaids. When he saw them struggling to get up on the bar, he made a move towards them. I was sure that the two girls weren’t going to to be allowed up, but surprisingly he helped them up to join in the fun. Several other girls joined in as well. This was turning into a great pub!

Tishy tried to get us to join them on the bar but something told me that, whilst there was probably no problem with young girls joining the barmaids, chubby 30-year-old Irish men were probably frowned upon.
Naturally, I declined their offer.