Shack Session

So this Tuesday I hoofed it out to the Shack. Halfway there I saw a bodhran-laden silloette approaching and as it passed under a streetlight it turned out to be EEEEEMMMOSSSS!

She was just coming from a local theatre production whose opening sequence utilizes a bit of the aul ceili. Well, it took a little arm twisting, but within a minute or two she was trudging along with me out Shackwase, on the condition that I txt her boyfriend. I did so gladly:

We have the woman stop she

is unharmed stop if you want to

see her again deliver 20,000

in unmarked digestive biscuits to

the shack pub stop this

is not a joke stop we will

not stop stop

The two of us arrived to find a goodly gathering already sitting around with their instruments. The Sheriff and des were sitting in the corner and some new folks were nearby with a few bags at the main table. It wasn’t long before we were set up and playin away. Emoss and I took turns on the goatskin, the fingerpicker and ze germanz were in attendance and our newcomer showed himself to be quite a talent – playing a couple of Dylan and Damien Dempsey tunes before treating us to one of his own, which left the group well impressed.

I had an odd encounter when excusing myself to the jax. I had no more stepped up to the urinal and began conducting my business when an obviously drunk patron stepped just a leeeetle bit too close to me at the urinal.

“Heya!” he blurted, fuzzily. “How about this,” he reached into his pants and . . . I was relieved to see his fumbling hand emerge with a DVD – a badly printed bootleg copy of Borat.

“Ten Euro!” He said, waving the box dangerously close to the spot where I was evacuating my bladder.

“Uh,” I replied, quickly correcting my aim, “no thanks.” I edged a little closer to the end where the urinal curved back on itself in hopes of discouraging his proximity.

He seemed seriously taken aback. He leaned and staggered a few half-steps backward. “Whuss wrong witcha? Isss ten euro an iss still in the cinema!” His eyes narrowed, affronted by my lack of interest. I began to fervently wish I hadn’t waited so long to relieve myself; my bladder was nowhere near empty.

“I’m not a big fan of Sasha Cohen,” I came up with, lamely. I willed my inards to hurry things up – c’mon, c’mon – how much fluid does the human body hold??!!

His anger melted into confusion. “S’okay.” He turned away and shuffled past me. I heaved a huge sigh of relief. Then he turned back just as he reached the door.

“Hey,” he half fell back across the distance right next to me with just the porcelin edge of the urinal corner separating us. I could smell a good day’s drinking on his breath. He stuck out his hand, “No hard feelings, eh?” I looked in desperate confusion from his proffered hand to at his heavy-lidded expression.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I nodded down at the urinal where my hands were otherwise occupied. “I’m a little busy here.”

He actually leaned closer, holding onto the top of the urinal corner for support and thrusting his still outstretched hand literally underneath my nose. I could smell an acrid combination of spilled alchohol and . . . I didn’t even want to guess at the other odour. “C’mon, no hard feelings.”

Amazed at myself, not taking my eyes from his face, I awkwardly managed to reach up and shake his hand.
“S’allright,” he patted my shoulder and stumbled out.

I remembered to wash my hands before leaving the toilet.

Twice.