Monday 15^th August, 2011

Woke up in the middle of a sneeze and three more followed. Took that to mean I was getting a cold, which could lead to the flu, which could lead to pneumonia, which could lead to death! So I called in sick, can't be too careful. Bert answered the phone on the second ring with one of his more colourful salutations;

 -Hello, this is Greenpeas. We nuke it, you puke it!

-I can't come in.

-Why so?

-I'm sick.

-Drinks later?

-OK.

As the day progressed, I realised I was behaving more and more like a sick person. Four sneezes does not constitute an illness and yet somehow I found myself wrapped in a duvet, with a cup of tea in one hand, dry toast in the other, and a cold wet flannel by my side. Even if I were sick, I fail to see how any of these supposed remedies would in any way aid my recovery, as the wet tea cancels out the dry toast, and the warm duvet totally negates the cold flannel. And then it hit me, I had been taking part in this charade for years. The countless colds and bouts of tonsillitis I'd spent shoving dry toast down a completely raw throat, drinking fizz-less fizzy drinks, and being simultaneously hot and cold and not knowing why, and yet I never questioned it. I contemplated this most shocking revelation as I stirred the chicken soup I made earlier.

After a lengthy shower I began to feel like myself again, despite the fact that only a mere hour before, I was very nearly on the brink of almost getting the sniffles, probably. Getting ready to meet Bert, I realised half my wardrobe was in the dryer, and woe betide the girl who did not air her clothes. In Ireland, if your mother is to be believed, excess moisture is the quickest route to death. I settled on an old pair of jeans about two sizes too big, held up by a fashionable black leather belt, complete with over-sized Levis buckle, and left the apartment looking like I wandered out of the 90's.

Bert was sitting at the bar when I arrived. He didn't immediately see me as he was deep in conversation with three American tourists. I perched on a stool out of sight, but within earshot, and so still privy to the fresh slew of bullshit he dispenses in Irish pubs across the country. I noticed his accent was particularly strong, a gimmick he adopts from time to time. He is also prone to saying “bejaysus” and singing rebel songs when his stories aren't having the desired effect. The three women were enthralled as he recounted the events of that fateful and fictional day many years ago, when he and Arthur, toiling away in the heart of Dingle, produced the first pint of Guinness e'er to pass the lips of an Irish man, (his words).

I decided it was time to put an end to his little game, or “Prank the Yank” as he calls it. Having never cared for the label “racist”, he has created many different versions of “Prank the Yank”, and though the titles vary, they are no less colourful. “Outwit the Brit”, “Out-speak the Greek”, “Out-think the Chink”, and the slightly less clever “Fuck the French”, to name but a few.

I fell into bed five hours later, and spent a full twenty minutes wrestling with the Levis anvil at my waist, before getting it half off and quitting. I sent the cursory drunken texts, waited for the room to stop spinning, and wondered why my mouth tasted of hot-dog.