In a Word . . . Mortified

The fumes alone were at least four times above the driving limit

 

Ah yes, Mr Charisma. Flirting with all the women, life and soul of the party, shirt out, pissed as a newt – not that I ever saw one, drunk or sober. So honest too.

Telling Mrs O’Connell her Paul didn’t have it to make the senior team. “He’s a lovely fella. Don’t get me wrong. But you need talent, even more so than being a nice guy, to get on the senior side,” you said.

You were lucky the husband didn’t come over and give you a thump. It was what you deserved. He had enough on board to do it too.

And the hackney man, Abdul. “Abdul, Abdul, you know around here they call you Abdul Abhaile?” you had to tell him. “You know what it means? But, how could you? They don’t teach Irish in the Middle East, now do they?”

When Abdul said he was from Pakistan you continued, blithely “. . . or in Pakistan. No Irish there either. Anyway ‘ag dul abhaile’ means going home in Irish. So Abdul Abhaile? Not bad, is it?”

And you hugged him and dribbled on his shoulder. I was mortified.

But it got worse. When you got sick and threw open the car door to get on your hands and knees as you threw up gallons of Guinness and whiskey on the street. The fumes alone were at least four times above the driving limit.

Your false teeth as well.

And there you were gingerly picking them out of the mess you had created on the sidewalk when you saw Tom Mulcahy and Mary. You just couldn’t resist, could you? Not even then, on your knees, poring through what had been your insides, for your teeth.

No, you just had to have a go. “You’re a shite referee,” you had to tell him, as I sank into the street. “That decision to put our Seamie off in the under-14s match against Mullenavat last August was the worst I’ve ever seen. It was shocking. A disgrace. You should never be allowed ref a game again.” And you even shook your dripping teeth at him, before Mary dragged him away.

Never again. Never, ever, ever again. You will be at next year’s annual club dinner on your own.

Mortified, from Old French mortefiier “to destroy, overwhelm”, from Latin mortificare “to make dead”.

inaword@irishtimes.com

The Irish Times Logo
Commenting on The Irish Times has changed. To comment you must now be an Irish Times subscriber.
SUBSCRIBE
GO BACK
Error Image
The account details entered are not currently associated with an Irish Times subscription. Please subscribe to sign in to comment.
Comment Sign In

Forgot password?
The Irish Times Logo
Thank you
You should receive instructions for resetting your password. When you have reset your password, you can Sign In.
The Irish Times Logo
Please choose a screen name. This name will appear beside any comments you post. Your screen name should follow the standards set out in our community standards.
Screen Name Selection

Hello

Please choose a screen name. This name will appear beside any comments you post. Your screen name should follow the standards set out in our community standards.

The Irish Times Logo
Commenting on The Irish Times has changed. To comment you must now be an Irish Times subscriber.
SUBSCRIBE
Forgot Password
Please enter your email address so we can send you a link to reset your password.

Sign In

Your Comments
We reserve the right to remove any content at any time from this Community, including without limitation if it violates the Community Standards. We ask that you report content that you in good faith believe violates the above rules by clicking the Flag link next to the offending comment or by filling out this form. New comments are only accepted for 3 days from the date of publication.