Ireland - the First Part

Following La Petite Dejeuner Anglais (the full English), we were delivered to Heathrow No. 1 Terminal by James in his Mercedes van. The departure lounge was an Alladin's cave of duty free that proved too irresistible for me. An hours' flight and our Aer Lingus plane taxied to a stop as a convoy of Ryan Air flights followed us down the flight path.

The bus took us past innumerable pubs, barbers and hearing aid providers. We entered the modern lobby of The Burlington, where the Russian receptionist Franciska, informed of our impending anniversary, immediately upgraded our room to "one with a view". Kim, your tea is ready, I called out just as she answered a knock at the door. Compliments of The Burlington burred the young steward as he deposited a bottle of wine and glasses on the table.

The literary pub crawl of Dublin was due as we were directed to a packed room where Richard and Frank were playing out a scene from Waiting for Godot - the only play where nothing happens - twice. Equipped with nothing but two battered bowler hats, they enthralled and entertained a crowd of mixed Caucasians. Right, we're off for Trinity College for the next part, and holding up his hand Frank directed us down Dawson Street. A raucous assembly of students crowded the steps as we made our way to a spot under the Elizabethan cupola. There we were given an account of Oscar Wilde's student days and his North American tour of 1876.

Frank filled us in on Oscar's visit to a Coloradan mining town where he presented lectures on Art and Aesthetics to burly red shirted miners - possibly the only well dressed men I had seen since arriving. The miners, sensing a victory over the effete Oscar, suggested he dine with them down a mine where for the four courses, the only ingredient was whiskey. He subsequently drank them under the table and upon leaving his prostrate dinner companions suggested that next time they serve five courses!

Next stop - O'Neills where we will put in a quality 20 minutes of drinking time. We'll see if we can fit into the snug. Snug! Snug alright. Ireland was playing Italy in a Word Cup qualifier and every Irishman, and most of the women, were shoe-horned into every one of Dublin's bars watching the game. O'Neills in Suffolk Street was chockers with the roomiest spot being behind the bar where a guestimate of 25 taps were dispensing good cheer. Twenty minutes later the half time score stood at 1 all and the smokers headed outside.

Across the road we congregated about the steps of the Dublin Tourism Centre that had previously been St Andrews Church. Tales of Michael Collins and the exploits of 1922 were mingled with a performance by Frank and Richard of a play that featured The Toucher. Passers by were unexpectantly drawn into the story unwittingly playing the parts of Catholic or Protestant Clergymen. At plays' end we strolled around the corner to The Brussels for another 20 minutes quality time.

Roar.....!!!! Ireland had converted a corner with a great header from Sean St Ledger and the Guinness flowed. Just down the laneway for a final quiz. A battle soon developed between inner and rural Boston with prizes awarded to both, despite protestations from the Germans out front. Final soccer score - Ireland 2, Italy 2. Into Davey Byrnes opposite The Duke for a final half pint.

"Home James, and don't spare the horses". Taxis were in plague proportions as we strolled hopefully in the direction of Leeson Street Lower. We have come to the conclusion that every second man in Dublin has a taxi and non-drivers have at least one beautiful daughter.

A collection of black clad bouncers challenged each other outside Buck Whaley's Nightclub. My feet are killing me Kim complained as we passed by another betting shop. Not far now, and rounding a corner we were home. A quick foot rub and off to the land of nod.