An Irishman abroad

Canadian Road Trip - the complete version

Title: Canadian Road Trip - Part 1

CANADIAN ROAD TRIP – NOVEMBER 2002
PART ONE

"You're listening to Q101 the loudest radio station in the north east,” the DJ happily announced, before proceeding into some intellectual debate with the rest of the team in the studio about 'Sphincterene' - the latest in anal hygiene.

I woke up, groaning and rubbing my head - tender from the previous evening's activies, swearing to never do it again, when I realised that there hadn't been any 'activities' the night before. In fact, for three nights running I had been in bed before 10 am, with the total alcohol intake for those three days consisting of 3 Bud Lites (why oh why do them bloody Yanks insist on spelling words like that, in this way?) and the one Rolling Rock. OK - it's not exactly going to get me a lifetime achievement award at the Betty Ford clinic but comparatively speaking, I'm living the life of a Benedictine monk. That is, if these are the monks who don't consume any alcohol, compared with those Belgian monks that spend there lives worshipping God by brewing the strongest beer known to mankind and flogging it to touring English Rugby teams so that they can expose themselves publicly and set fire to their genitals.

So feeling refreshed from my life of sobriety, I bounce into the shower.

OK - this is perhaps a bit of an exaggeration. Night out or not, I never have been and never will be 'a morning person' the later and darker it is the better, as far as I'm concerned. After doing the "3 S's" (If this needs explaining then go ask somebody else - my Mum's going to read this!!), I return to the room where the chatter on the radio continues relentlessly. Seemingly one of the team had an embarrassing experience the previous week. One that he did not want shared with the doubtless millions of people that were listening to the radio on this particular Thanksgiving morning. After much pleading and begging that the story not be shared with the listeners, the head DJ, a guy with the catchy moniker of Greg Smith, decided to share with us the cause of this poor guy's embarrassment.
Let's call the guy Steve, err, because that's his name.
It seems that the previous week - Steve had been suffering from a bad case of 'the runs'. Unfortunately one of the 'attacks' took place whilst he was enjoying a refreshing shower. Yep, before poor Steve could do anything about it, he was doing the moonwalk in his one faeces in the shower.
Not one of the better starts to the morning I think you will agree.
Upon hearing this, the whole studio erupted in wild bouts of laughter. (I have to admit to the little snigger myself). But the guy sounded really pissed off and hurt that the story had been shared. Which of course encouraged his colleagues to laugh even more wildly and loudly. His comment "It's not funny - have you ever had to stuff your own crap down the plughole of your shower with your own feet?!" - practically gave the rest of the team a coronary. Myself included.

But I digress.

So as soon as I was dressed and packed for my road trip - I decided to nip into the office. (I know, I know - I'm too good for this job). So out I go to my rented car. My trusty steed for the journey. A Ford Sable for anyone that is interested - a beast of a vehicle. Certainly when compared to a Beetle at any rate. It took some time for me to find the car as it was covered in several inches of snow and ice. When I got to it, I unlocked the car with the remote on the key ring. I opened the door and threw my holdall across to the passengers seat cursing as I realised that I had just thrown it onto my CD Discman and my Garth Brooks CD collection.
Suddenly I realised - my Discman was back in Ireland and I have never owned, nor am likely to own a Garth Brooks CD - let alone the whole back catalogue!
I had actually opened the door of the car parked next to mine!! I felt so guilty! Covered in snow, I had heard the doors in my car unlock, but was unable to tell that I was actually stood beside the wrong car. Furtively glancing around the car park - I removed my bag and then went to my own car. Which was covered in snow and ice as well. 15 minutes of desperate scraping, wiper blades wiping, engine running, rear window heater, err, heating and eventually my car was more or less driveable.

Half an hour in the office and it was time to hit the road. 08:30 - by my calculations I would be in Cornwall, Ontario by 14:30.

For the first 200 miles the journey was spent around the 85 mph mark. The local authorities are obviously used to these sort of snowfalls, so when it came to the motorway - sorry highway driving - there was no snow on the road at all. There was, however, plenty of snow everywhere else to be seen, which offered some spectacular views of the Massachusetts, New Hampshire and Vermont countrysides - passing signposts bearing familiar town names such as Athens, Springfield, Dorchester, Derry, Londonderry, Manchester, Windsor and New London. (The first settlers weren't very original when it came to naming places, were they? - I suppose they were spending too much time fighting Mel Gibson)
After about 170 miles - I stopped at a service station in a place called Lebanon. (You'd think 'George W' would have passed a bill through the Senate to get this name changed). I stopped off and bought breakfast - 6 mini "dunkin' donuts" (glazed) and a bottle of Pepsi. Oh how quickly I was adapting to the US culture! I also bought a map. Which of course would have been a good thing to do BEFORE the trip started but, better late than never as they say. Much to my surprise I was still on track. Actually all I had to do up to this point was follow one highway for 45 miles and then another one for 160. And let's face it - as long as I kept following the signposts for north - I couldn't go wrong. I never really shone academically and geography wasn't my strong point but even I knew that Canada sits on top of the US.

So - suitably pleased with my purchases and thoroughly refreshed from my "good ol' fashioned traditional American breakfast" I went out to the car to read the map. Basically all I had to do, was follow the highway Interstate-89 northbound until just after a place called Burlington. Little did I know, but by leaving the Interstate, I was also leaving behind civilisation. If, Dear Reader, you are even remotely interested (and let's face it - why should you be?) you can check on the map. Leaving at exit 17 takes you across a bridge to an island (of sorts), called Grand Isle. Driving through this island for approximately 30 miles takes you through three towns: Grand Isle (and believe me it was anything but) and the wonderfully named South Hero and North Hero. Honest to God folks - there was nothing to see apart from a few campsites. I guess in the summer time they must get a lot of fishermen but at this time of the year - business is sloooooow. Granted - it was Thanksgiving, so I would expect things to be a little quiet. But this part of the world had a big sign in large pink neon letters reading "Jonny - this is no place for you". The night before I had watched the movie Misery and I have to admit, I was just doing all I could to make sure that the car stayed on the road....

Having negotiated my way along the island I came to Alburg, near Rouse's point, right at the top of Vermont State, on the border with Canada. At this point I came to a T-Junction. I could go left which read 'US-11 south' or to the right which said "To Canada". I can only surmise, what you dear reader would do if you found yourself in a similar situation, but what I did was make a break for the border and follow the road to the big flagpole with the proud maple leaf blowing in the wind. Canada here I come!!

After a mile or so, I arrived at the customs checkpoint, or "douane" as those bloody French insist on calling it (sorry - still trying to get over the whole Kodak experience). I was the only car at the checkpoint but was still made to wait five minutes whilst the lady finished her phone call. She pushed back the glass window and greeted me with a "Bonjour!". Fighting back the nervous twitch in my left eye as flash backs of cold warehouses and 36-hour shifts came flooding back I replied with a cheerfully strained "Bon Jewer - Sava?"
At this point I should point out to you, dear reader, ,that I am a dab hand when it comes to the old linguistics. I have been edumacated in the way of the foreign language, having received a 'C' in my GCSE French, after 5 years of study. It therefore came as no surprise to hear the ladies next question in English. I fear that she had finally met her match in this Irish cunning linguist.
"Where do you live?"
"Ammm, actually, it's a wee bit complicated - I'm from Ireland"
"So that's where you live?"
"Err, no - not exactly - I live in Belgium"
"So what brings you to Canada?"
"I am going to visit my aunt in Cornwall"
"When was your last visit to Canada?"
"This is my first time!" I proudly announced. I felt like some modern day Christopher Columbus exploring the four corners of the world - only to find that the Irish had got there already. I feel the need to mention this, because time and time again - I have heard this nonsensical theory that Columbus first discovered the Americas in 1492, whilst looking for a shortcut to India. Bah and indeed humbug!!. Everyone knows the Irish were already there drinking poteen, shagging sheep and fighting each other over their traditional route to Burger King long before old Columbo and his gang of reprobates set foot anywhere near the land of the free.

Anyway, back to the story....
"How long are you planning on staying?"
"Just until Sunday"
"Apart from clothing have you brought anything else, such as electronic devices?"
"No"
"What about presents?"
A sudden pang of guilt went through me. I hadn't thought to bring anything! But I quickly recovered and said "I'm the present!" and then gave her a heart-warming smile which felt about as heart-warming as receiving the news that you've just been given the contract to renovate Fred West’s patio. Still - she seemed to buy into it and stamped my passport.
"MERCY BOKE-UP!" I replied as I drove off into Canada - Cornwall, here I come!.

A few moments later - I came to a signpost that was in English and bloody French. I thought they only went for this sort of crap in bloody Quebec. Anyway, being the cunning linguist, I was able to translate what was said on the various signs (the fact that the English translation was there as well, was of course completely unnecessary).

After a few miles I saw a signpost for Montreal. Now this was a little bit worrying. I pulled off (not myself - the road) and parked to consult my map just outside a small place called 'St. Bernard de Lacolle'. (I mean - the clues were right there in front of me - but I am sure the more astute readers amongst you will already realise where this is going). Much to my horror I was in the province of the bloody French speaking Canucks - bloody Quebec, heading north away from Cornwall! I was supposed to go west! The only thing I could do was go back to the border crossing, into America and head west through northern New York State.

A quick U-turn and 15 minutes later, I was back at the crossing, only this time on the American side. This was a different kettle of fish all together. There stood a guy in the bomber jacket, shades, huge chest and obligatory military style buzz hair cut. His manner matched the image completely. Short, abrupt and devoid of personality. But after he had asked me what I was doing, who did I work for, where I was going, who did the car belong to, who rented it, how long I would be in the US for, looked in my 'trunk,' looked through my luggage, checked the back seats and checked out my passport - he was more than happy to send me on my way. Cornwall here I come - again!

Now - dear reader - remember what I told you about (not so) Grand Isle? Well - multiply that tenfold and you still wouldn't be close to the sites that I saw. I journeyed westwards along the north of New York State, going through (but never stopping) such places as Champlain, Mooers (snigger), Ellenburg, Chateaugay (naughty giggle), Constable, Westville, Bombay(?????!) and Burke (laugh out loud and contemplate getting my photograph taken stood outside the town's sign and emailing the picture to loaded magazine). There is a lot of poverty - and I was left to ponder just what these people do to make ends meet. Judging by some of the houses - the ends are far from meeting. So then I got thinking - what do they do to amuse themselves? I hadn't seen a pub in aaaaages. Come to think of it - since I left the highway more than 120 miles before I didn't recall seeing a pub of any sort. Now of course I realise there is many other rewarding and fulfilling ways to relax and socialise with fellow human beings (I realise this - but I just choose not to try any of them) but surely in a place like this - there would be even more cause for alcohol to serve up some sort of escape from the depressing environment? Perhaps they all dabbled in a little bit of "Ol' Grandpa’s cough medicine" as distilled by the locals.

It wasn't until I came across a reserve for native Americans very close to the border with Canada between Fort Covington and Hogansburg, , that I actually saw some of the finer sites in life. Casinos, bingo halls, liquor stores, duty free shops were all in abundance. It almost brought a tear to my eye!

A few miles up the road I arrived at the Industrial Plants Bridge, which was to be my second route into Canada over the Lawrence River. At the border patrol I went through some more of the same drill with a young customs officer. All the same questions were asked and answered in the same way as before.

Which was not a good idea.

When it came to the "When was the last time you were in Canada?" part, I replied "No - this is my first time". Of course, Dear Astute Reader, I am sure that you can already see the flaw in this response. As the guard studied my passport he came across the Canadian stamp on it, from my earlier 'visit' to Canada. Using the powers of all my verbal agility I had to then try and explain as to what happened. Obviously this worked an absolute treat because he then instructed me to park the car and to take a form to immigration control. So there I am walking into the office, confronted with three desks - 2 of them had miserable looking men and the third had a female who smiled a hello to me. I thought it best to go for her. When I walked to her, the guard shouted at me from his booth to "get to the far desk!". Welcome to Canada indeed!

So there I was answering all the same questions for the fourth time that day. At this point I made a mental note to write all the responses on a white card and pretend to be a deaf mute, should I ever find myself in a similar situation. Still, the guy turned out to be a lot friendlier than he looked, and because Cornwall is the first town that you come to once you cross the bridge it turned out that he was actually a Cornwallite himself. He even took the time to draw me a map showing how to find the library where my aunt Daphne worked. It was only when he admitted to being a couple of days overdue with a video that he had borrowed from the library, that I saw his hidden agenda. So with a thanks and a jolly "I'll see what I can do about that video" I bade him farewell and crossed the bridge into Cornwall, Ontario, CANADA!".

After driving for a few blocks (you see - I'm getting the lingo already) I arrived at the library at 14:25. Pretty good going - 5 minutes ahead of schedule, even with the detour into bloody Quebec. I approached a friendly looking lady behind the counter and enquired about the whereabouts of my aunt. It turned out that she was in a meeting and would be until four. What to do? So I asked her if she could give me directions to a nice bar where I could go and read my book.
Yes, yes Dear Astute Reader - the complete irony of asking in a library for directions to a bar where I could go and read a book was totally and completely lost on me.
For a few moments she wrestled for an idea for somewhere to send me, which I must admit, did get me more than a wee bit worried. She finally decided on a place called Mario's which was "nice, but a little bit out of town".
As I thanked her for her help, a customer (is this what you call somebody that uses a library?) came to the desk and suggested some other places including a rock bar with no windows that she described as a "little bit different". Sounded just the place for me! She offered to show me where the place was by following her in my car. So off I go following her car for a few blocks until we arrive at the scene of my afternoon tipple - "La Maison". Now as I explained before - I can 'parlley fronsez'. It was a bit grim despite the classy name but I thought, he who dares wins, and after thanking the lady I made my way for the entrance, my book firmly clasped in my hand.

It was at this point that I heard an annoying squeaking noise. I turned around and there was a homeless person walking with a shopping trolley loaded 6 feet high with all sorts of stuff. Now this on it's own, whilst being quite a sorry sight, is unfortunately not something which is a rare occurrence. Homelessness is all too prevalent back home as well. But the reason I tell this to you, Dear Reader is not to pull at your heartstrings but rather to explain my first proper dialogue with a real life Cornwallite (well two to be precise).
As I watched this guy pushing all of his life's belongings past in this trolley, two patrons of La Maison stumbled out of the bar, complete with lumberjack shirts, beards, body warmers and baseball caps. I felt like an unwanted extra in the de Niro movie, The Deerhunter.
One guy said to the other "Now that's one way of moving home!" and they both erupted into wheezy smokers laughs. I mumbled, more to myself than to anyone in particular, "yeah - the fucking hard way" and whilst it wasn't intended as a joke, it had such an effect it was as if I'd told the one about the three guys that go into the bar - one with a shovel, one with a gun and one with a parrot on his shoulder...but, ,once again, I digress. They cackled their creepy laughs, one saying "fucking right partner!" and off they staggered into their car. With a deep intake of breath I stepped into the breach......

...And was actually quite surprised. I suppose when you fear the worst, anything less than that comes as a pleasant bonus. It was quite a spacious bar. Dark and dingy, yes - but that applies to any Irish pub you ever go into - apart from Kitty O'Shea's in bloody Paris. There were several men sat around the bar and I bid them all a 'top of the morning' whilst I did an Irish jig bidding them to all "follow me to the end of the rainbow, foine sirs, for there's a pot of gold at the end waitin' fer yez all" OK - perhaps not. I gave them all a non-threatening nod of the head and sat at a stool away from them all and ordered a Labbat Blue Lite. Pretty tame stuff compared to Belgian brews but exactly what I was looking for. I opened my book and settled into it once more, occasionally surveying my surroundings. There were lots of TV's showing sport, pool tables, stage for the live bands and beards. It was like the annual convention of the Cornwall ZZ-Top fan club! I realised that I would have to make a real effort to grow some facial hair to blend in with this lot. It is only now as I write this on the Friday evening after having walked about Cornwall with the snow and the cold wet winds blowing in my face that I have learnt to appreciate the advantages of having a good healthy beard covering half your face (another helpful tip for you, Dear reader).

Still, they were friendly enough in a "Let's stare at but don't talk to the guy at the end of the bar reading a book with babies bum fluff on his chin as an excuse for a beard" kind of way. I finished my book and my beer and bid them all farewell. It took me some sweet-talking to convince them that I didn't know where any pot of gold was, and eventually they went back into the bar...

As I had left the library, following the lady in the car, I had happened to notice a bar tucked away in the corner of the library car park called Rosie McGoos. It seemed suitable enough for my requirements - dark and dingy, selling alcohol and right outside the library, so I made Rosie my next port of call.

CANADIAN ROAD TRIP, NOVEMBER 2002
PART TWO

As I walked into the bar, it took some time before my eyes adjusted to the darkness. First thing that I noticed was that it was yet again quite a big open space. The next thing I noticed was a cash machine. Yes folks - a cash machine INSIDE the bloody pub! How dangerous would that be?!! So after withdrawing a few Canadian dollars, just because I could, I made my way to the bar, which was just to the front and to the left of me. Sat at the bar, were three patrons. They regarded me with little interest. I nodded a hello and then sat at a free stool just two up from one of the guys.

I said hello to the barmaid, who seemed friendly enough and ordered a Labatts Blue Lite (I was getting a taste for this stuff). I took off my gloves, my hat, my jacket, and my jumper and brought out my second book - Murphy's Law - another one by Colin Bateman. Before I opened it - I surveyed my surroundings. The bar was U-shaped and occupied about a third of the room. A stage was located at the back of the room. 2 large screens showing nothing in particular were located at opposite corners of the room. It was sparsely decorated and to be honest was not much to look at.
Instead, I looked at my 3 new drinking buddies.
Immediately to my left, two stools from where I sat, was a guy who looked like he had never seen daylight, nor eaten a square meal in the last decade. I had seen healthier looking people in the old black and white footage of Auschwitz. He wore a typical American baseball cap. The kind that looks like they've been designed with oblong-headed alien life forms in mind. You know the type - large peak - even bigger front. Emblazoned on the cap was a maple leaf. On his sweatshirt in loud, proud letters was the message "100 % Canadian". Mr. Canada could have been anything between 50 and 65 - it was really difficult to tell. He studied his beer with such intensity I wondered if he could perhaps see the future in it.
My eyes moved along the bar (not physically of course - that would've been just antisocial) to the guy next to him about 6 stools around the U of the bar. He was in his late 60's and was grinning at me like a Cheshire cat, which, although friendly enough, also offered me a chance to see his impressive lack of dental work in recent years. He raised his glass in a toast at me and gave me a wink. I smiled back and quickly diverted my attention to the guy sat beside him.
This guy was in his late forties and quite well dressed but had a face on him like he had just swallowed a wasp or at the very least had recently taken part in some lemon sucking. He had a pile of pieces of cardboard on the bar in front of him. Some form of scratch card where you could win money. I watched him as he opened them one by one and then just as quickly discarded them on the bar. One by one he went through them, his facial expression never changing. Once he got through them he then ordered some more from the barmaid and repeated the process.

Already quite depressed, I opened the book. Within thirty seconds the barmaid asked me if I wanted to read the local paper. I thought that there was perhaps some law against reading books in bars in Canada, but I thought it would be interesting to see what was going on in the world, or at least this part of it anyway, so I thanked her and started reading it.

2 minutes later, Cheshire cat called on the bar maid in a thick accent, "Brenda - put on the hockey. Get the game on - we wanna see the hockey!". She sighed and grabbed the remote of the TV and started surfing through the channels.
After a couple of minutes of this she sighed again and said "I dunno what channel it's on Danny - here you have a go at it".
"Sure I dunno how those Goddamn things work, Brenda". He turned to The Gambler for assistance but he didn't want to or wasn't interested. Danny then staggered around the bar to Mr. Canada. "Here Doug - do you know how these things work?"
Doug mumbled something incoherent and shook his head.
So that left little old me as his last chance. "Hey there young feller - can you get the game on?"
Well - cometh the man, cometh the hour.
"Sorry - I just arrived in Cornwall and hour ago - I wouldn't know" (what this had to do with my ability to operate a television remote control I still have no idea, but it seemed relevant at the time). I could sense the rest of the bar regarding me intently. Danny blinked once then asked "Where you from, young feller?"
"From Ireland" I replied.
At this point Mr. Canada piped up - "I'm half Irish!".
"So why the hell are you fucking wearing a 100% Canadian sweatshirt, if you're so bloody Irish then???!"
I thought to myself.
What I actually said was "Oh really?".
Brenda then said, in a strong Canadian accent, "I'm Irish too - I'm a Murphy".
Humouring her, I replied "Yeah, I thought that because Brenda's an Irish name"
"Is it?!" At this point I gave up and went back to the paper.

"So whereaboots" (Canadian pronunciation here) "in Ireland are you from".
"I'm from just outside Belfast" ,I replied and prepared myself for the standard response to this question, which follows me wherever I go. It's never the same, word for word - but you can put your house on the general content of the response - although I wasn't quite prepared of the bluntness of Mr. half Irish 100% Canadian's question.
"So that would make you either green or orange?"
"Yes - that's right - that would make me either green or orange" thinking that would be enough for him, but he was not to be stopped.
"So what's it like over there now? - you guy's still killing each other?"
Nothing like tarring us all with the same stereotypical brush, is there?
Normally when this sort of thing happens I have a little fun with the person. I guess people are genuinely interested, but you do get bored when people ask the same question, no matter where you go. So in the past when I have been asked the "What's it really like?" question my response normally follows along the lines of.....
"What's it really like?! What's it really like???!! Wait till I tell ya what it's really like.... My alarm goes off in the morning, I grab my army helmet from the bedside cabinet, make a dash for the toilets, get showered and dressed as quickly as possible, not forgetting to put on the bullet-proof vest. After I've dragged the sand bags away from the front door, ,I make a dash for the car, checking under it for planted explosives, before driving through army checkpoints, dodging burnt out cars, negotiating my way through rioting youths petrol bombing the police, and if I'm lucky enough - I only get shot at twice."
It's cruel - it's stupid and I know I shouldn't do it but come on! if we have gained nothing from almost 35 years of bloodshed other than the opportunity to use it to our advantage to make fun of people then please don't begrudge us that, Dear Reader!
But for some reason - perhaps I was tired from the journey, or wanted to make sure that my stay in Cornwall was an argument free one, I bit my tongue.
"Despite what you may see on the TV - Belfast is actually pretty normal. Believe it or not, not everyone is killing each other”. I replied. The barmaid made a hasty retreat to the jukebox and I went back to the paper. Mr. Canada went back to his beer.

Danny said, "Shucks Brenda! Not that goddamn song again, eh?!" (Note the Canadian habit of ending all sentences like they were a question with their cunning use of the word 'eh?')
"Ach - come on Danny - you know more of the words than I do, eh"

And at this point the whole situation took a rather surreal twist. Steeling myself for some Garth Brooks or Dixie Chicks - it was that kind of bar, I was utterly amazed to hear "The Bloodhound Gang - The Roof is on Fire".
Fair play to Toothless Danny - when it came to the lines "We don’t need no water - let the motherfucker burn, ,burn motherfucker, burn", he sang with all the gusto of a man many years his junior.

A few minutes later Doug put on his jacket and said he would have 'the one for the road'. I ordered a second beer and after that it was time to go greet my aunt Daphne. I said my goodbyes and left.
On my way out I noticed a poster advertising karaoke for that evening. Upon reflection I kind of wish I hadn't.

CANADIAN ROAD TRIP, NOVEMBER 2002
PART THREE

Upon arrival at the library, a more than happy aunt Daphne greeted me and we went back to her apartment 2 minutes walk from the library. The irony of our two situations is not lost on me. I live in the tiny country of Belgium and have a commute of about 1 and a half hours and she lives in the huuuuuuuge country of Canada and has a two-minute commute, by foot.

During dinner, I casually mention that whilst Daphne is working on the Friday, I was thinking of driving up and taking a look at the Niagara Falls. Before making these sort of comments – I should really consult a map. Niagara Falls is a 6 hours drive away in good conditions. As it turned out the following day was nowhere near good conditions. A heavy snowfall (well heavy by my standards) hit the town.

After dinner, Daphne was going to a meeting over her local writer’s club, so I decided to go along to see what writer’s do in their spare time (just in case I ever become one). After taking care of general business – one of the ladies present informed us of a little exercise that we could all take part in. Apparently she had visited a web site that randomly generated objects and scenarios. The idea was then to write a story, based on what had been randomly generated.

She had a big box from which we had to draw out our story lines. We have until mid-January to create the story. Mine read:
“My main character / protagonist is a male. My main character is an undertaker. An archetype present in my story is Damsel. A key object or symbol is a teapot. My story will be set in the Arctic. My Story is about sibling rivalry”
Any suggestions folks?!

After the meeting, a few of us went to a bar on the same street as Daphne’s apartment in downtown Cornwall. I sampled a couple of the good local beers – bottles of Becks! After our drink, my aunt went back to her apartment and I headed on to Rosie Magoo’s for the aforementioned karaoke night.

When I walked in at 10:30 there were a few more customers inside than compared with earlier. But not by a helluva lot more. In fact, two of the customers sat at the bar, were Mr. Canada (still with his coat on as if he was about to leave) and Toothless Danny, who was grinning even more maniacally than before.

Mr. Karaoke man was in the process of setting up his equipment.

There was a stool free on the other side of the bar, so I went over and sat down. To my left were two scary women and to my right were two drunk, but less scary men. I started talking to them. They were in their early forties. One was incredibly drunk, the other was moderately drunk (this was to be explained later when I found out that he was the driver in the double act).

They introduced themselves as Marcel (‘but you can call me Marce’) and Bob. They invited me to go out on a pub-crawl with them as they were going to “go out and party!”.
Those of you that know me will know that whilst not being against the suggestion of a party, I have never been a big fan of the pub-crawl. Find a nice bar and stay in it, is normally my motto, as the owners of the Dubliner have found out to their great personal wealth. Imagine, therefore, how I am when I am faced with a choice between staying in one bar or walking a few blocks to another pub in sub-zero temperatures.
I politely declined their invitation and they decided to stay as well.
So we started having a few beers. Bob’s volume control had stopped working as well as his ability to keep all his saliva in his mouth. Which was unfortunate because he was sat immediately beside me. He then started animatedly talking about the two strip bars in town – “The Gentleman’s Club” and the imaginatively named “Body Shop”, he started to salivate even more.
I declined their invitations to these establishments as well and settled down to the karaoke night. Marce and Bob decided to do likewise.

For the first twenty minutes the karaoke compeer, blasted out a few songs on his own. Just as I was thinking business seemed to be going quite slow for him, a couple of customers walked into the bar. I couldn’t tell and still don’t know if they were a couple or not, but they made a strange one if they were. He was a potbellied, hair-dyed guy in his mid to late forties, sporting the latest in cowboy shirts opened a few buttons, which offered a good view of his ample chest hair. He could have shaved ‘Welcome’ on it. She was in her early to mid twenties and the best looking girl in the bar. (This is by no means a compliment). She had long dyed blonde hair with the roots showing and had a rather large hooknose, which was convenient because she had a very scary smile, which seemed to be permanently tattooed on her face.. Immediately she grabbed one of the books and began frantically filling out forms with songs that she wanted to sing. Meanwhile her friend smiled understandingly and ordered them a couple of drinks. She dashed up to Mr. Karaoke and handed over the pile of forms.

10 minutes later and her time had come. She was called up to the stage. Her name was Estelle and she was a bloody French Canadian. In fact, the song she proceeded to ‘sing’ was a bloody French song. Dear Reader, I don’t want you to start thinking that I have something against the French, I mean what would ever give you that idea?, but I mention this because the whole notion of singing a French song in this pub did not seem like the best of ideas. Granted, I had only just arrived in town, so it was wrong of me to jump to any conclusions, but this was a real border town. The town’s biggest employer is a paper mill. This pub was a real Country and Western bar. Most of the people in the pub did not look very happy. Even more of them looked really drunk. To have this environment shattered by a French Canadian banshee-woman was not really what was needed.
I stared in utter disbelief as she started to dance along with her ‘singing’. She even went as far as to place one hand over her ear in a “We are the World Stevie Wonder-esque” kind of way.
Tres Bizarre indeed.

Still, it seemed to waken the rest of the customers from their slumber and Marce decided he would sing a song. It was a country and western number but I really don’t remember which. This encouraged much whopping and a-hollering from Bob, who was still stood immediately beside me taking it in turns to bounce off the wall, his stool and me. The woman sat on the stool beside me looked despairingly at Bob, but he must have seen at as a sign of encouragement causing him to announce to me – “Isn’t she a beauty?!” Beauty is of course in the eye of the beholder, but suffice to say that old Bob’s beer goggles were well and truly fitted and in perfect working order.

Next up was my could mate and Bob who had convinced himself that he was Neil Diamond for the evening, giving us his interpretation of Forever in Blue Jeans. It was monumentally terrible, second only to Marce’s screeching of the song beside me.

After a while, the lady to my left (Dee-Anna, if you please) asked me if I was going to sing. I jokingly said I didn’t think the songs I know would be appreciated round these parts. Bob and Marce howled their derision at this comment and said “all you Irish boys can sing! – get up there young feller”. “Yes”, Dee-Anna said, get up there and sing”
Now, Dear Reader, you probably already know that I am a bit of a monster when it comes to the old karaoke – so suitably fuelled by alcohol and buoyed by my ever increasing ‘fan club’ and also by the fact that Bob was absolutely terrible – I put myself down to sing the best song ever sung about a serial killer, the Bobby Darin classic “Mack the Knife”.

When I got called up I made a remark to Mr. Karaoke. He then announced to the rest of the bar that we had somebody from “Outta Town”.
“Where you from?” says he to me.
“I’m not from round these parts, partner” I wittily retorted in an accent that I had heard in so many B westerns.
The silence from the crowd was deafening.
I cleared my throat. “I’m from Ireland” I added, in my normal accent.
This was greeted with more deafening silence (that is if you ignored Bob and Marce whooping and a-hollering in the corner).
I waited for what seemed an age for the song to start. Not being the best at ab libbing I filled up the silence with “Did you hear the one about the Irish man that walked into a bar in Canada?”
The crowd were looking at me, not quite sure what the hell they were witnessing.
Dear Reader, here follows another priceless tip.
Do not start a joke without having a punch line, no matter how awful it may be.
Having started the joke, I felt compelled to make up a punch line although, in the words of Dave Mustaine, the lead singer of popular thrash metal combo, Megadeth says – hindsight is always 20:20, and my hindsight tells me that I should just have left the joke hanging in the air. Leaving the crowd begging for more so to speak. But what I actually did say was:
“He asked for a bottle of Labbatts Blue”.
This was greeted by more silence (including the two whooping eejits stood at the bar). Obviously ironic humour had not reached this place. Granted – the joke was terrible but by any stretch of the imagination - this was not going well.

Thankfully the music started and I was able to take everyone’s mind off the worst joke ever by murdering the song. When I finished, I received a lot of whooping from my two newfound mates and polite applause from the two women, Dee-Anna and her mate (a boy named) Sue sat at the bar. Apart from that no one else did anything.

When I returned to my seat the barmaid (Trace) said “That was really good!! But I’ve never heard that song before”
I made a mental note to not sing again.
But these things are sent to test us, and with the goldfish memory inducing affects of alcohol, I took to the stage again another two times doing “House of the Rising Sun” and “Your Song”. Much the same response followed these two performances so I decided it would be better to sing something more appropriate, so I plumped for “Ruby, don’t take your love to town” by Kenny Rogers but at the last moment, I chickened out. I couldn’t risk insulting the whole bar by murdering a country and western classic!

So, for the rest of the night I had drunken conversations with Bob and Marce, the two ladies and two guys that arrived to chat up Dee-Anna and Sue, Ron and Steve.

As the bar closed at around 02:00, I made my excuses and headed into the cold night air. As I bid them all farewell I said that I would see them the following night if they were in Rosie’s, thinking that I wouldn’t go back for love nor money. But Dear Reader, when you are faced with a walk home in the snow in sub zero temperatures, you really do choose your bar for location rather than inspiration. The following night would be no different…..

to be continued....

CANADIAN ROAD TRIP, NOVEMBER 2002
PART FOUR

08:10
I wake up in a cold sweat from a nightmare involving Kenny Rogers whooping and a-hollering and spitting on me whilst a French speaking Canadian banshee-woman screeches "We are the World" in the background.
Thank God - It was all just a terrible dream!

I suddenly realised that the bed was a lot more comfortable than the hotel's. The room was also a lot more homely than the hotel's and rather strangely, even though the curtains were closed there was still a strange brightness in the room.

I soon realised that of course I was indeed in Cornwall, Ontario, Canada! I got up and opened the curtains to a veritable winter wonderland. A few inches of snow had fallen overnight and were still continuing to fall. Even if I had have been crazy enough to drive a 12 hour round trip to see the Niagara Falls, I wouldn't have been able to - so what to do now?

My aunt was getting ready for work and I decided that I should use this as an opportunity to start my Canadian travelogue. As she headed off for work, I sat down at the PC and began to work. She was working until 2 that afternoon so that gave me a few hours to put something down. After a healthy breakfast of Special K cereal (I put this bit in for mum) I settled down to start typing.

But to be honest, and please do not take this an offence, Dear Reader, I just couldn’t be arsed. I had a hard time remembering when I had seen such a heavy snowfall, so I just wanted to get out and in to it. Half an hour later, after a quick shower, I found myself wrapped up in all my winter woollies stood out on Pitt Street, Cornwall, Ontario, Canada throwing snow balls at passing traffic, building snowmen and rolling 8 year old kids in the snow.

OK, perhaps not.

What I did do was go to the bookstore next to my aunt's and enquired if they had any books by the great Irish humour writer, Jonny Black. To which the lady (Claudette) replied no I don’t believe we do.

OK, perhaps not.

I DID go into the shop. Claudette, a lovely woman and a friend of Daphne's, was working there. I introduced myself and we got talking a bit. Because my book reserves were getting low (I was onto the last book that I had with me) I told her that I wanted to get a book to read to pass away my lonely hotel evenings. (Poor attempt at going for the sympathy vote here)
When asked what type of books I liked I told her I was reading a lot of books by my favourite comedy writers and proudly showed her the book I was reading, the aforementioned "Murphy's Law". She took the book and opened it. A look of disgust came over her face. I wondered what was wrong. I mean, sure, Colin Bateman can be a wee bit rude from time to time, but what chance was there that she would have happened to open exactly at something that would shock her so much?
"You dog ear!!!" she exclaimed, referring to the fact that to keep my place, I fold the corner of the page over on itself. I quickly changed the subject and spying some Stephen King books, I looked through these. What I didn't realise at the time was that she had gone back to the counter and got a bookmarker and placed it in the book. I didn't notice this until much later, when I opened my book to read it after another drunken night in Rosie Magoo's but more about that later.
[Daphne - I forgot to thank Claudette for this. I hope you remember to do it for me?]

Anyway, I spied the new Dean Koontz book, so I purchased this and as I bid my farewell, Claudette said a sentence which, had I not been prepared, would have sent fear down my spine.
"So I'll see you across the road for breakfast tomorrow morning!"

Thankfully Daphne had warned me of this in advance. I'm sure most of you realise by now (some more than others) that I am definitely NOT a morning person - EVER! But, Dear Reader, on Saturday Mornings, the most revered part of the week for me, this is taken to religious extremes. The culmination of a week's hard slog at the office, the time to unwind, relax, de-stress, take it easy, chill out - Saturday mornings are a time for reflection.
(The fact that, more often than not, I dragged my sorry arse into bed by about 4 on the Friday morning, then gone to work and done it all again but with more gusto on the Friday evening has absolutely nothing to do with it).

Yes, Dear Reader, every Saturday morning, Daphne and Claudette go for breakfast at 09:00 IN THE MORNING!! Disgusting, isn't it?!

I said my goodbyes and headed out into the winter wonderland that was Cornwall. I started off on the epic journey that Daphne takes to work every day. The two-minute commute. Actually it is trickier than it sounds, because the walk to the library takes you through the tattoo district of Cornwall. (Two tattoo parlours).
Yes Dear Reader, since moving into this apartment my aunt has had to endure a 'walk of temptation' at least twice a day. How she is not covered head to toe in tattoos, I will never know and I do admit to checking her knuckles for scars from the laser treatment to remove LOVE and HATE from her knuckles. But seemingly auntie Daphne is strong when it comes to this sort of temptation and is still tattoo-less.

I got to the library and logged onto a PC and started working on my travelogue. I found the library to be a more 'creative' environment (i.e. the bullshit flowed a little bit better) and soon got into this diatribe.

After Daphne finished work we had some lunch and we went to do some shopping. For the first time ever I was in a Wal-Mart. Pretty impressive stuff. CD's work out at about half the price that they are back home, so I invested in three.

Whilst in Rosie Magoo's in the afternoon the day before they were playing Country and Western Music Television (I kid you not) and in the middle of it, a big traditional band playing a mixture of Irish music and rock came on. It turns out that they are Canadian and are called Great Big Sea. Seriously good music! (As no doubt you will all have the pleasure of hearing in the near future).

Shopping completed and the weekend was fast approaching. So what to do on a Friday night in Cornwall?. Well - it seemed that for that night and that night only there was an annual trivia quiz organised by the local Rotary to raise money for charity. It was 80 dollars per team to enter and each team could have up to eight people.

Just one problem - there was only Daphne and myself who wanted to go, so we thought we would head down to the quiz on the off chance that there might be a team in need of two extra people.
Before doing this we went for some real brain food. That fine bastion of fast food - Kentucky Fried Chicken!!. It had been some time since I had enjoyed one of these and I’m getting hungry as I write this.

After the Kentucky delight we went to the venue of the quiz – The Best Western – a nice hotel in the outskirts of Cornwall. After a few minutes of standing about looking sorry for ourselves we managed to get onto a team. They were called the “Young Guns” and for very good reason. All five of these guys can’t have been older than 22. I think it was with some trepidation that Daphne and I joined the team.
To coin a Billy Connolly expression we felt as welcome as a fart in a spacesuit.
As it turned out the guys were really dead on. Good fun and enjoyed a laugh. Shame they were soooooo crap at pub quizzes!

The format of the quiz was as follows:
10 rounds of 10 questions and a marathon round that had to be completed by the end of round 5.

Subjects included:
Canadian Politics (!!!)
International sports
December holidays
Nicknames
Artists
Pot Pourri

The marathon round was quite simple (to ask - a lot harder to answer):
Name ALL the American football teams in the NFL, including city and nickname (for example The Miami Dolphins)
Name ALL the basketball teams in the NBA, including city and nickname (for example The LA Lakers)
Name ALL the Canadian football teams in the CFL, including city and nickname (for example, err - I don't know any)
Name ALL the ice hockey teams in the NHL, including city and nickname (for example The Boston Bruins)
Name ALL the "soccer" teams in the Major League, including city and nickname (for example The New England Revolution)
Name ALL the Baseball teams in the Major League, including city and nickname (for example The Boston Red Sox)

I think you can imagine how useful my aunt and myself were at this. About as much use as an ashtray on a bicycle, I believe is the expression that best suits.....

During the quiz, the questions had a very strong North American theme. I wasn't much use at all at these and spent most of the evening going back and forth to the bar.

Then it came to the International Sports round. This is were I (and my team mates) where expecting me to excel as I dreamed of questions about REAL football, rugby, horse racing, even cricket for crying out loud! So as an expectant hush descended around the table, the quizmaster read out question 1:

"Which female Canadian ice skater was the last to be crowned world champion?"
I think my groan was audible in all four corners of the room.

Question 2"
"What is the only soccer team to win the world cup 5 times?"
OK - here we go!
"Brazil - the answer's Brazil"! I whispered excitedly.
The quizmaster then followed the question with "Same as the Marathon round - we're looking for the city and the nickname"
Err, what?! What the hell was he looking for? The 'Rio de Janeiro Rockets'?? We stuck with Brazil and were of course correct, but I think you get the picture...

Then came the question that was to put our name in lights.....
"What is the national sport of Ireland?" Which of course was followed by the stereotypical comment "And we don't mean drinking!".
I mean - who does he think he is? - the beaver shagging Canuck.....

But Dear Reader, I really should take this opportunity to explain something. Ireland, as I am sure you are all aware, is a complicated island. The sport played by the most people in Ireland is REAL football. Northern Ireland being divided as it is, suffers from calling anything national, because of it's political connotations - and to be honest finding anything that unites both sides, let alone a sport, is nigh impossible. Unless you count bad mouthing each other, refusing to agree on absolutely anything and throwing petrol bombs. (This is really only a joke)
The sport played by the most people in Northern Ireland is REAL football. But as for the Republic of Ireland? - well - that's another kettle of fish.
So there we were - my aunt and myself - being the only Irish, albeit northern Irish, representatives at the table and we started debating for about 10 minutes on the subject, whilst the rest of the 'Young Guns' looked on in absolute amazement.

The thing is - in the occupied 26 counties of Ireland the main sport is Gaelic football. In fact all Gaelic sports are very well represented amongst the Catholics of Ireland. The Association is nationalist in outlook and members were banned from playing non-Gaelic games. (In case they hurt themselves, no doubt). The Association also banned members of British Crown Forces from membership, and this is still a source of great controversy in modern-day Ireland. Foreign games are also banned from GAA stadiums. The GAA is the largest sporting organisation in Ireland, comprising of over 150,000 footballers and almost 100,000 hurlers.

The history of these sports is pretty simple. Not wanting to take part in any Anglified sports, the Irish created their own form of sports which were so much tougher to play and a lot more violent than anything the poofy English would take part in.

So on we debated and finally plumped for hurling, best described as an incredibly physical version of lacrosse. The logic being that it was the most removed from any of the English sports. It also dates as far back as pre-Christian times. As luck would have it we were correct but I fear that if we had got that question wrong we would have been kicked out of the team altogether....

A few rounds later and we were averaging a steady 2-3 correct answers per round. Although consistent, we certainly were not about to put the fear of God into the other competitors.

But we were still clinging to the hope of taking home a nice little plaque each. These were being given away at the end of each round for the team that scored the most points. All we needed was one (completely uncharacteristic) round of mostly correct answers.
Then came our chance - the 'December holidays' round.

I can't remember all the questions but I do remember that we thought we had scored 8 points. Then the quizmaster announced that there was a tie for the highest scoring round with seven points!!!

To explain - one of the questions was:
In the 17th century, who banned Christmas?
The answer that we gave was that b**tard Cromwell (without the 'that b**tard' bit).
The answer that they were looking for was the British Parliament.
I would contend that our answer was more correct than theirs but when he announced that they were going to give the team that spelled the answer correctly to the question "what is the Scottish word for New Year" the prizes, I let out a big cheer, taking heart in the fact that we had that one correct.
After all the frustration we would be able to leave with a plaque each and our heads held high after all!!
Except we hadn't spelled it correctly.
Due to an oversight we had put down Hogmany instead of Hogmanay.
Oh how cruel life could be. A bitter taste was left in our mouths for the rest of the evening and we never really recovered. Yes even to this day - over three centuries later that b**tard Cromwell was still giving the people of Ireland grief! Not to mention our spelling.....

We walked out of the quiz chanting 'Cromwell Out' but it did little to console the disappointment of an evening that started out with so much hope.
Indeed, as Shane McGowan has been known to sing....

"A curse upon you Oliver Cromwell
You who raped our Motherland
I hope you're rotting down in hell
For the horrors that you sent
To our misfortunate forefathers
Whom you robbed of their birthright
"To hell or Connaught" may you burn in hell tonight"

Wise words Shane, wise words indeed.

Still - at least charity was the winner. And it was with that consolation that I bid Daphne farewell as I headed off into the cold night, the one block walk to my adopted local for the weekend - Rosie Magoo’s.

By the time I had left the bar, about 4 hours later at around 02:30, I was left in no doubt that I was never, and never would be a local.

to be continued...
(Keep an eye out for the next and final part - imaginatively titled "Canadian Road Trip - part 5" coming soon to an Inbox near you!)

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...

CANADIAN ROAD TRIP, NOVEMBER 2002
PART FIVE (b)

...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.

He put his arm around me. His aroma was a heady mix of sweat, booze and fags. (Now I know how Elke feels when I drag my sorry ass home in the small hours of the morning!).
- So what brings you here? He enquired of me. I then proceeded to explain to him the series of events that had led to me sitting in Rosie Magoo’s bar in Cornwall, Ontario approaching 01:00 on a Saturday morning listening to some third rate C&W band droning on and on.
- So whaddya think of Cornwall?
- I think it’s bloody cold but the people are friendly enough
- That’s a helluva accent you have there – we don’t get many Irish accents around here. Which is a shame – I like the Irish! Hell – I’m even half Irish myself!
At this point I’m sure I visibly relaxed. This was going better than I had hoped.
- Whaddya think of this girl here? He asked putting his arm around Dee-Anne. Her face screwed up in disgust
- I think she’s very friendly. Sue and her have made me feel very welcome.
- Cut the crap! D’ya wanna f**k her?
Well – I don’t mind saying it, Dear Reader, but I was a little bit taken aback, but before I could manage a reply – Dee-Anne had already taken it upon herself to elbow Squinty in the ribs and told him where to go!

I apologised to Dee-Anne and decided that I was not going to hang around for much longer.

But time has a way of passing and before I knew it was closing time. In the meantime I talked to whoever spoke to me and when no one did I sipped at my drink. I had been pestered a few times by Squinty and I have to admit that I felt less comfortable as I had done when I cracked the joke on stage the night before. Oh how I longed for the safe haven of karaoke!!
Squinty did pester me a few more times but it’s easy enough to play these situations without resorting to or inciting violence. And anyway, I couldn’t help but think that if something was to kick off, the management and doorman would always take the local’s side, so I did what I do best – blend in and not antagonise anyone.
So, for a second night running, I left Rosie’s thinking that perhaps I shouldn’t go back there the following evening. But you know me, Dear Reader, never one to shirk the experience of life, I was to find myself back in dear old Rosie’s less than 24 hours later, for my final visit before returning to the relative serenity of my hotel, just north of Boston, MA.

For the second evening of my stay I found myself sneaking into my aunt’s apartment trying not to make too much noise, so that she would sleep uninterrupted. Something that my practice of sneaking back to my better half after ‘staying for the one’ in the Dubliner had left me in good position to do. After all – practice makes perfect!

I fell into bed at about 02:30 and started to read (the same page and a half as I had read the previous night) before I fell into a deep sleep

***

- Jonathan – are you going for breakfast?, aunt Daphne cheerfully enquired from outside the bedroom door
- What time is it, I less than cheerfully asked
- 08:50!

08:50???!!!
Dear Reader – I’m sure you are aware by now that I am not one of these people that can just bounce out of bed and greet the morning with a cheerful tip of the hat and a merry 'Top of the morning to ya, world – what de ye have in store for me today???’
Oh no – it is far more complicated ritual than that! I have to build myself up to the day with my daily interaction with the snooze button. A kind of foreplay were I tease myself out of bed with a series of events that occur repetitively in 9 minute intervals:

Alarm goes off
I ignore it
Alarm gets louder
I continue to ignore it
Alarm screams at top of it’s voice “GET YOUR FAT ARSE OUT OF BED – YOU LAZY %^*(%&(^%!!!
[I know that it is saying this because during my years of early morning interaction with my alarm clock, I have learnt to translate the electronic rants and raves of my alarm].

I calm the situation down again by hitting the snooze button.
9 minutes of restless dozing ensue until the process is repeated again.

This daily dance with the devil takes me through a good one hour of my life each day. Some things are just not supposed to be messed with. This Dear Reader is one of those things. What my dear aunt didn’t seem to appreciate is that to face breakfast with her and her friend at 09:00 on a Saturday morning, I should really have been woken up at 08:00, so that I could indulge myself in this little routine.

As it was, I was faced with a 10 minute ‘window of hope’ , where I hoped that I would be able to make myself presentable without the benefit of overworking on my personal hygiene. Indeed today, dear Reader, was the time to become bloody French.
I am referring to that what is known as ‘The (Bloody) French Shower’. Now, what I mean by this, dear reader, is no racist slur, no tarring a whole race of people with the same brush. It is merely just an admiring reference to the nation of bloody France as a whole and it’s ability to greet the world without so much as looking at a bar of soap, bottle of shampoo or container of shower gel but simply by dousing themselves with a bottle of cologne or eau de toilette in copious quantities in a manner befitting a fireman called out to douse out the candles on Zsa Zsa Gabor’s birthday cake (if she were to ever admit her age).
Fact: The people of Bloody France use less soap per person than any other country in Europe, but they use more perfumes and aftershaves than any other. I will leave you to draw your own conclusions.

So a quick visit to the bathroom, a splash of water round the face, a cleaning of my teeth, a brush of my tongue, a spray of deodorant and a squirt of after shave and I was back out in the world, less than seven hours after leaving it.

When we arrived at the cafe, Claudette was already sat there waiting for us. (I guess I wasn’t quick enough with my French Shower). I ordered a jumbo breakfast and gamely attempted to finish it as we regaled Claudette with tales from the previous night’s quiz. I decided not to mention too much about my time in Rosie’s other than to say that I had met a few ‘interesting’ characters.

After breakfast we went back to my aunt’s apartment. She was giving a small party at lunchtime for her friends and colleagues. As Daphne busied herself getting ready for the luncheon feast I continued on the travelogue. Great Big Sea was playing, I had a glass of red wine in my hand, I was in Canada, the snow was falling and I was trying my best to get something creative churned out on the PC.

When people started to arrive I left the PC and took part in that most enjoyable of past times - being a social butterfly.
During one of the conversations, I heard from one of the librarians that the woman who I had followed to ‘La Maison’ had been in the library the day before inquiring after me. I had already made an impression! Made a mental note to avoid library at all costs for rest of weekend.
Some of the people that I met that lunchtime, I would see later that evening at the Cornwall Library Christmas dinner where I was to be my aunt’s escort. A few glasses of red wine later as well as more than enough food to eat the last of the guests had left.

The rest of my time before leaving for the party was spent working on this (never ending) travelogue.

So for the second night running we found ourselves arriving at the Best Western Hotel around 18:00. Because my aunt, along with her colleague (whose name escapes me) were the meeters and greeters, we had to be there quite early. As they waited to meet and greet, I went to busy myself downstairs in the ‘Winners sports bar’, which was situated in the basement of the building.

Please allow me the indulgence of another true story:
Once I realised that I would be in Cornwall, Ontario, Canada whilst Liverpool were playing ManYoo I decided that I should check in advance for a suitable venue to go watch the match. So I searched the Internet for ‘SPORTS BAR CORNWALL ONTARIO’ and I got a ‘hit’ for the bar that I now found myself sitting in.
The website address is http://www.cornwallhotels.com/winners/. I recommend for the next part, you should visit the high-tech website.
On the website they bill themselves as “The Best Little Bar in Town” and somewhere “To meet your friends”. The website goes on to say “Ron invites you drop in (and) watch all your favourite sports on our Large Screen TV’s via satellite.
And when I went there, Dear Reader, who should greet me, none other than Big Ron himself (in a similar pose to the one you’ll see on the website).
It also advertises “Billiard table, shuffleboard, darts and just plain good company.” (I like that line – a stroke of PR genius if you ask me). But still, dear Reader – cheesy grin and even cheesier lines aside – this place sounded like a possible venue for the game. After all it had a satellite (and as if to highlight this point – there is a picture of a satellite on their website. Spirits suitably raised, I fired off an email to Big Ron. It read as follows:

Dear Ron,

I see that you have a sports bar called Winners. Do you know if the bar will be showing live English soccer this Sunday at 07:00am? In case you have never heard of them, Liverpool would really fit the theme of your bar, because they have won the English League more times than any other team.
I am visiting my aunt in Cornwall and would like to find somewhere that may be showing the game!

Thanks for your help and I look forward to our meeting.
Regards
Jonny Black
‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’


Not a bad email, I think you will agree, Dear Reader. Appreciating that ‘soccer’ is not a big sport in North America, I thought I would convince him to open the bar a little bit earlier in the morning by building up his enthusiasm.

This was the rather disappointing reply that I received:


Dear Sir,
I am sorry to inform you that Winner's Sports Bar does not open until Noon
on Sundays.

Sincerely,

Sandy Taylor
Sales Manager

Best Western Parkway Inn
1515 Vincent Massey Drive
Cornwall, ON
K6H 5R6
www.parkwayinncornwall.com
Ph: 613-932-0451
Ph: 800-874-2595
Fax: [phone]

I’m sure Sandy must have pissed her pants writing that one! Short and to the point! Ouch!
But not one to hold any grudges, I sat at the bar, giving Big Fat Lazy Ron one of my friendly grins. Come to think of it – I probably looked like some gormless loon – but I digress.

If you never, ever find yourself in Cornwall, Ontario, Canada, (hopefully not as a direct result of my travelogue), I will do you the favour of painting the scene:
It was a standard American sports bar them with plenty of TV’s and a pool table. It was quite quiet, so I had my pick of the stools at the bar. I chose one beside a couple of newspapers. The various TV’s were showing ice hockey, American football, basketball and, err, more ice hockey. I sat down and scanned through the newspapers. I was amazed by how many stories actually concerned the UK, or the Royal family.
Still a few glad to be part of the Commonwealth round these parts it would seem, unlike bloody Quebec.

I sat sucking on my Labbats Blue Lite contemplating how it must be to be a North American. Their love of sports is admirable in the extreme and a concept that I can whole-heartedly agree with. It’s just a shame that the sports are sooooooo tedious. Bear with me, Dear Reader as I endeavour to back this comment up:

Take their four main sports:

Baseball
A long drawn out affair that involves tobacco-chewing Neanderthals, playing rounders in their pyjamas.

This is a sport where something like the Seven Inning Stretch gets to be a major feature in the game. Let me explain:
Popular memory has been unkind to William Howard Taft, 27th President of the United States, who surely would have wished to be remembered for something nobler than his weight. At 300 pounds, he is the heaviest president on record. Rumours circulated about his lifestyle. For example – his bathtub, which was spacious enough to accommodate four average-sized men, was specially built for him in the White House.
Baseball history has accorded him somewhat more dignity. (Which I feel is already enough to have us worried about the state of baseball as a game).
Watching a game between the Washington Senators and the Philadelphia Athletics in 1910, the rotund, six-foot-two president reportedly grew more and more uncomfortable in his small wooden chair as the game wore on.
[Something I should tell you, Dear Reader. A baseball match can last for anything up to four hours!!!]
By the middle of the seventh inning he could bear it no longer and stood up to relieve his discomfort — whereupon everyone else in the stadium, thinking the president was about to leave, rose to show their respect. A few minutes later Taft nonchalantly returned to his seat, the rest of the crowd sat down, and the "seventh-inning stretch" was born. Riveting stuff indeed.

Another little anecdotal tale about the national sport of the US (not Canada I hasten to add!):

On a previous visit to Boston, I went for a Sunday afternoon drink in The Purple Shamrock, across from the city hall on The Freedom Trail, downtown Boston near to Faneuil Hall (to be precise). I took a stool at the bar next to a guy who had obviously had one or two too many Miller Lites too many. (I know Dear Reader, I should just walk away from these sorts of people but I cant help it!).
He was dressed head to toe in Boston Red Sox gear. (For the uninitiated or uninterested – and let’s face it – who can blame you? – the Red Sox are the baseball team in Boston) He was wearing the whole uniform - the cap, the T-Shirt even a bloody necklace!
So we got talking (as normally seems to happen to me in these occasions) and as soon as he found out I was from Ireland he gladly replied “Seriously?! I’m half Irish!”.
Changing the subject I said that I had hoped to go see a baseball game in the following week. [Purely for research purposes, you understand, Dear Reader]. I also asked him did he watch baseball (sniggering to my self as I did).
“Are you kidding me, he says – I love the sport!!”
“So who do you support?”, your rapier-witted travel correspondent asked him, barely able to contain my mirth.
“The only team there is – The Boston Red Sox – pointing at his chest (which was all puffed out by this stage).
“Do you think I could get to see a game this week?”
“Sure you can – they’re playing at Fenway Park this Tuesday.”
“What time’s kick off?” (I don’t know what the start of a baseball game is called, but my new friend didn’t seem to mind)
“To which game?” he asked
This threw me.
“Err, to the Boston Red Sox game on Tuesday”
“The afternoon game or the evening game?”
“They’re playing twice on the same day???!”
“Sure they are – they need to catch up on their schedule after having a recent game abandoned”
“And they’re doing this by playing TWO games in one day??! What kind of a sport is that?!. There can’t be much physical exercise involved if they can play two games on the same day!!”
“Do you mean compared with soccer? - that freakin’ game you Limeys call sport. Soccer’s a game for poof’s with no physical contact”
“Then you haven’t seen Roy Keane or Vinnie Jones in action” (I murmured under my breath).
I was left genuinely gob-smacked.
A short time later, I left to contemplate what kind of a professional sport can this game called baseball be where the competitors can actually feel like taking part in two games on the same day?? Needless to say – I did not make it to a game – either the afternoon or evening ‘game’.

American Football
OK – a few facts:
The game is divided into four quarters of 15 minutes, yet a match takes 3-4 hours to complete.
Each team is made up of three ‘units’: Offence / Defence and Special team so players hang around doing nothing for large periods of the game.
Each player is wrapped up to the eye balls in full body armour as if preparing for doing the annual Christmas post-run, up the Falls Rd, Belfast.
Although each play lasts 3 to 8 seconds, the team has a thirty second window in which to make it.
It is called ‘Football’ though very rarely does foot connect with ball
A score is called a touch down but the ball does not need to be touched down.
Need I go on???

Basketball
2 teams of 7 feet tall human freaks run up and down a court so small that they arrive from one end to the other in half a dozen strides. ???????
I rest my case....

Ice Hockey
The only game in my book that constitutes sport, but still only played seriously in this world of ours by the North Americans, and a few Eastern European nations - which should be warning enough.

Two things I love about the game of Ice Hockey:

1. Canada kicked self-styled ‘Team USA’s butt in the recent Winter Olympics IN THE UsofA!!! Both male AND FEMALE and both Gold medal-winning teams fielded players who were born in Northern Ireland!
2. When a fight ensues in the game of Ice Hockey, the referees don’t step in to stop it until one player hits the ground. Brilliant!! Ice Hockey – the national sport of Canada – I salute you!

So I watched a bit of the Ice Hockey. They were previewing the big game that night – the Montreal Canadians were playing.
As it turned out one of my aunt’s colleagues had a ticket to see the game, second row at a cost of 120 Canadian dollars!!! And she went to the Christmas dinner instead!! Still, it was a good excuse to nip away from the dinner table for a few minutes whilst we went down for a swift drink and an inhale of the smokey atmosphere. Apparently Dear Reader, this was the only place in the hotel were you could smoke. So lots of people from various other functions were nipping down to this bar to catch a fly smoke and also to see some of the game. Seemingly as of next year you will NOT be able to smoke in a bar in the province of Ontario!!! Something I think would never catch on in Ireland or Belgium!...

Incidentally, Dear Reader, the Canadians were beaten 2-1 in overtime with the last strike of the game.

to be continued...

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