We were really looking forward to St. Patrick’s Day in London. I mean, in America everyone’s Irish on St. Pat’s Day, right?
In Chicago they dye the river green and have a big parade, and our little gang always used to get together and go over to Houlihan’s and get plastered, no matter what night of the week the holiday fell on. Well at least til’ that time there was the big ice storm and we all had to drive home in it. Hey, THAT was some fun!
Even back in Phoenix, we used to find some excuse to act stupid, ‘cept then it was usually about 90, no ice.
Then later, that one time, nine or ten years ago, when I went to visit my friends Bob and Rich up in San Jose, and St. Pat’s fell on Sunday, they took me to this chez trendy bar, in Los Gatos I think it was, and I’m thinking to myself “Boy this is going to be some fun with all these bunny-huggin’ sprout eaters”. But as it turned out, everyone in the bar was stumblin’ drunk by 3:00 in the afternoon, and I was muy muy impressed, and felt right at home.
Then of course, before that, there was St. Pat’s Day in Butte, Montana, the biggest holiday of that modest mining town’s year, bigger than Christmas, New Year’s, the 4th of July, and Flag Day combined. It is … impossible to describe. But it’s great, partying with open pit miners. They’re so … genteel.
So you can see why I, in particular, was looking forward to St. Pat’s in the British Isles, the origin of it all, and it is safe to say even my more reserved colleagues from St. Louis were looking forward to it, too.
The misery that goes by the name of “Miss Saigon” finally, mercifully, let out about 10:30 PM, and we immediately left the theater to start searching for an Irish-looking bar. Several blocks west(?) of the Royal Drury Lane Theatre, on a street I believe named St. Martin’s, we finally found a place that looked semi-Irish, and inviting, and in we went. By then it was nearly 11:00 PM. Surprise! Last call! Hurriedly, we ordered a round of ales, and started drinking, and relaxing, when suddenly the lights were on bright and the proprietors were hustling everyone out. Drain the beers; out we went. Closing time! Man, that sucked! What kind of country is this?
That was it. St. Pat’s Day in London. All the pubs were now closed.
Resignedly, we trudged to the Underground station to begin our trip back to the Waterloo Station, there to catch real trains back to Basingstoke. We got on the underground train car warily, watching closely to make sure no one’s pocket got picked, like had happened to the boss when we got off earlier that evening. We all found seats, in a pretty quiet car, and settled in for the trip.
There were several people with us on the train who had apparently made better use of their time earlier, and HAD managed to down a few beers. One young man, and his girlfriend, stood near the doors, holding each other up, tired, semi-drunk, and swaying with the movement of the car. Three young men in some seats near the door had obviously had much more to drink. Two were in that quiet catatonic state where you know it’s time to go home because if you wait another minute you know you won’t make it. The third was well past that. He wasn’t making it at all. He was slumped over in his seat, head between his knees, quietly, mindlessly, being sick, on the leg of his blue jeans, on his socks, on his shoes, and the floor.
Everyone in the car watched in that way that you don’t really watch on public transit, looking at something else, but watching just the same, out the corner of your eye. It was pretty disgusting.
The semi-drunk guy who was holding up his girlfriend was apparently disgusted, too. He watched the sick guy for awhile, and then kind of smiled, as more vomit trickled down the sick fellow’s sock.
“Wouldn’t you know it”, he announced loudly, to everyone in general, in his working class English accent. “It’s always some fooker wi’ white socks, iin’t it.”
Author/Copyright: Tiger, of tigerwhip.com fame Date written: 10/07/1994