We've always been mad for drink - it's a way of pretending to be who we really are, writes comedian Kevin Gildea
I read recently in The Irish Times that alcohol consumption in the Rebublic has risen by more that 41 per cent in the past decade - at least I think that's what it said - I was drunk at the time, trying to keep up with the national levels. 41 per cent! That's nearly 50 per cent - or a half. Barman! you'd better give us another half of Guinness to go with that pint - I don't want to let the national statistics down. GRRR - I'm a lion."
We're drinking more of everything: cider consumption is up 500 per cent, wine is up 300 per cent, beer is 26 per cent and sucking the carpet for spilt booze is up 13 per cent. It says that spirits are up too - no wonder spirits are up - sure everyone's pissed.
It's no wonder people drink too much - there's too much to drink. There's a new drink everyday. Red Bull and Vodka - what mad eejit thought of that drink? ; a drink that knocks you out and wakes you up at the same time. It's no wonder people are going around shouting their heads off (their upper bodies wildly alive) while they simultaneously fall down (their legs asleep).
People aren't happy with the one, plain drink - they want all sorts of combinations. We crave new tastes. I can't wait for alcoholic sausages.
We've always been mad for the drink - it's a way of pretending to be who we really are! In the past we didn't have the confidence and got beaten down, so we fell back on the old drink; our land was colonised, so didn't we go and colonise a land of our own - Drinkland (and as usual it was the men who were the pioneers and the women stayed behind - in reality!). Now we've got the confidence and the money, we're turning the whole country into a monument to drink - the country has finally been united: Drinkland and Ireland are truly one nation.
The sheebeens are gone - little cabins - gateways to Dreamland; in their stead they're building pubs the size of small countries. With insane interiors they're trying to build our own imaginations for us.
Walking through Dublin's city centre on a Saturday night is a mad experience - it's like taking your life (and the life of somebody who's already dead) in your hands. Half the people are walking home as though Dublin's tilting. It's as if the whole city is a ship going down, with people - shoals of them - swaying from side to side. It's a crazy show, a Dublin on Ice performed by people who can't skate. It reminds me of certain people I once knew. You know who I am.
Saturnight and everyone wants a taxi and the taxis know it. They dart around like arrogant transport vultures: "Which way are you goin'?" "I'm goin' home." "Sorry - I don't go home."
I pass a local pub. Closing time has well past. There's a man standing against the side wall of the pub. It looks like he's going to the toilet, but he just stands and shuffles every now and again, his forehead rested against the wall. It looks like he's trying to walk through the wall, through a door that isn't there. He's like a zombie from Night of The Living Dead. There's a woman trying to pull him away from the wall and when she manages this he stands with a perplexed look on his face, as if he can't see because someone has taken the wall from his eyes. She takes his hand and leads him like a slow-motion toddler. He stops slowly and sways. Then he crumples like a thought hit him too hard. He lies beneath the front wheels of a car. He makes a pretty picture. A still life: Man Run Over by Parked Car.
I drank poteen once - that's all I remember about it. That's how interesting stories about getting drunk are. Poteen is - or was - made out of potatoes, which surely explains the Famine.
When yer drunk and yer lookin' at yerself from the inside of your own head you see a caped hero in the middle of some fantastic escapade. When yer drunk and yer lookin' at yerself from the inside of somebody else's head you just see a someone with last week's underpants on his head and a road sign sticking out of his ear which reads: "Avoidville. Pop: 1-2-Many."
Getting drunk is a way of making up stories about yourself. I remember I got chucked in a cell once. It was 4 a.m. and the world was hushed by snow. I was singing (shouting): "Give me land lots of land and the starry skies above - don't fence me in!"
The night sky was starred and hued with a rich black-blue that brought home the depth and vastness of the universe. Rows of terraced houses brought home the smallness of me. "I don't want to be small - GRRRR - I'm a lion." Two guards appeared and asked me what I was on about. "Land!" I shouted. (GRRR!) One smiled, one didn't. "Didn't" grabbed me and hauled me to the station like a young pup. I had to empty my pockets ("don't eat that" - I said, to no laughs, when they took my Mars bar). I went into the cell determined to do . . . something. With drink there's often an energy of resolve applied to nothing specific - it's the energy of the lack of self-belief. The hot air of a land.
"They won't break me," I thought. "I'm a pride - GRRRR!"
I sobered up. I did my time: two hours. Freed, I collected my personal items sheepishly. BAAAA! I walked home in the still white night - my feet padding on the soft snow - quiet as a mouse. EEEEK!