A Umao'Gil production 0080012 "Here we go!"
Chapter 1
Days Of Thunder --------------------------------------------------------
Soundtrack: Spacemen 3 "Big City, Bright Lights"
"De la puta madre!"
Café-en-Seine on a Friday night and the tension is brutal. Myself and G. have just gained entrance to and are assessing the situation. Left... right... receding hairline, cut of their stitch, shoulders, bum... -we're on recon mission scoping the pre(o)mises. We're sussing, we're checking, but of course we're not looking -that'd be so fecking cheap! Sooo unrefined, and we are not, let it be known, not the uncouth type. Besides, can't make it too obvious eh. I'd say the main talent of a hunter resides in his -or her- cunning and stealth. Discretion is everything, discretion is the key, and I suppose I'm the one to ask: my recent record pretty much bears proof to how invisible I've become of late... Discretion's my middle name -unlike some other people whose name I won't spell out lest I should sound like I'm slagging me homegirl. Hence our foray into tonight, Georgie and me.
I like to think of myself as clued up. I like to think of Café-en-Seine as a cute choice: you get there, it's a suntan salon heaven! Washboard stomachs and realigned teeth. But Georgie begs to differ. Georgie reckons it's full of poseurs, thinks we should pass on that one ("I mean, it's not like Dublin's running short on pubs is it!"). Fast forward two hours of debate in my kitchen (and half a dozen Bacardis), and we are giving it another try. If only for my sake (thank you G., this is where I scored last! xxx). The way I lie to myself now, as I get all icequeen and not at all bovvered, it's just us two, some girlies passing through this joint. It's just us dropping in for a quick drink. ...A quiet drink at Dublin's Café-en-Seine on a Friday night.
We're like inside the place now. Scope, scope, scope.
To be fair, not much hunk stands out. Not much male sets the pulse alight. At first sight, all I can see is your run-of-the-mill polo and jeans. Even worse: jacket with jeans (!!). A lot of stubble too.
But we're in the place is the main thing, and can now advance in friendly territory. Glance to the left, glance to the right, proceed. We slide our way through the throng as efficiently as female elbows will allow -i.e. not an awful lot. It's like an assault course in here, this scene doesn't give in too easily. A bit like life I guess, you have to dive in and fight your way. A bit like life maybe -but with colognes coming at you from all corners. People's armpits, my nose level -makes for a fragrant equation as we soldier on regardless and hope for the best. Take the dive, suck it and see...
The Babel of voices that passes as the Celtic Tiger's soundtrack beckons: I can distinguish affected English-from-England, French, Spanish, German, Louditalian, Eastern European (that would be mainly from the staff) and, at long last, some good old Dub. Earnestly discussing the state of rugby. ...That would be blokes. Blokes are just weird. Like it's Sat'day night in Dublin, I'll tell yous what lads: Why don't we all go down the classy bars and just discuss rugby? In Dawson Street. The perfect place. Next thing you know, they go on holiday in Spain, and spend their time in a pub watching Sky Sports eating fish and chips. Men are just weird.
I take it these ones are Leinster fans. Leinster are (is?) the local team, the club de rigiour for any self-respecting D 4 type. Mainly -and that much I know- it is the club of Ireland's official number one sex-symbol: Brian "O'Driscoll" Drico. The B.O.D. himself. Your man is sometimes spotted about town, regularly sighted going on about his business -but not by myself yet. (Maybe I should get down to the stadium sometime, that'd help.) Right now, I'm only scouting Café-en-Seine, this super swanky "drinking emporium" that would give any French brothel a run for its money. Not that I would be familiar with French brothels either.
"To be perfectly honest wit you, another couple of deals like this one and I'll be good to go and retire in Dubai my good man! Strike it while it's hot! And then cheerio, that's me done -on my holiers forever! Just imagine: Dubai eh... Playing golf all day, chillaxing on the beach with them rich bitches in bikinis... -Bring it on!"
"For real?"
"For real. Right now, all the indicators are go, the feeling is on -All I need now, really, is close -what?- three or four more no more. Or five or six at the max and then... Happy days! Serious! Right now, we're currently working on a new securitisation package that will blow your socks off! Watch - this - space! It's proper mental rates we anticipate, can only rise even more with the derivatives involved! Win win situation, mate."
Georgina and I are shimmying our way through cool as you like. We're swinging it with as much nonchalance as another couple of Sunrises (Georgie's treat) and a Tropical Reef (mine) downed on our way allows us. Funny that, but feel quite sloshed already. In high spirits, oh high "spirits"'s the right word -see what I've done here!!!! The main thing is, maintain your dignity. Maintain at any cost. Right now, the world sways pleasantly enough, all around me -the problem is, I'm not even moving. Am kind of stuck. Try as we do, our valiant efforts to move forward have not exactly met with unqualified success. We haven't made much progress in the -oh- three/ten minutes that we got here and now me bladder's playing up. Blame it on the sudden heat, the human steam, the general din... but it's brutal. Undeniable -even in my present state. I don't feel well, all of a sudden. All this exaggerated laughter from all directions, these after-shave assaults, the place is heaving and so could I any time soon. Clearly, two packs of mature paprika crisps and a low-fat prawn sambo are nowhere near nourishment enough for a growing girl such as myself.
To take my mind off the ghost of a surge in my abdominal region (ewwww), I decide to apply my naturally legendary sagacity to our whereabouts: what's the story here then?
Well, pretty much as could be expected at this stage of the game...
Revellers come and revellers go, leaving only personal whiffs behind. Look here, I'm not saying that the smoking ban was wrong but... I'd have to say that, ever since it came into practice, odours that once were masked are no longer hidden. Some odours... or in plain English: B.O. -God some people stink! Like total gag, yeah! You'd be surprised, and I'm not just talking about morning -or even worse, evening- commute on the LUAS; even in this swankiest of places you come nose to chest with some mighty fly magnets! That weird mixture of sticky shirt sweat and expensive perfume liberally splashed on top... I know it's been a long day but... there is some serious yuck in here!
Cedarwood Sunrise by Jean-Hubert de D. somewhere on my right (-top drawer, that!), Cristal Fatal in that blonde's wake on my left. After a while, you get to recognise quite a few of them. There may be hundreds of flagrances about, but people can only afford / stick to a dozen. Past the first couple of years, that Jean-Paul Gaultier yoke totally lost its mystery, its novelty factor ...and got adopted by proper skangers -no way back then.
"I could spend hours listening to you... When I'm with you, I don't know why, I feel so relaxed... At long last I can be myself..."
"Oh you handsome swine, how could I resist you..."
"No creo que es una rubia, cabron"
"The index is up, the prospects hot -it's all good, knowwhatImean!"
The jungle's rumbling. What else have we got here...:
Someone's clearly been let loose with her other half's card at Brown Thomas this very afternoon: check out the top-to-bottom that's been freshly liberated from its packaging! I can deffo make out the creases of her outfit as she strikes a pose in a -like- totally casual way.
Next to the clotheshorse, a not even thirty-something (worth going on fifty in my book) is modelling the "golfer" look –and you know what they say about golf kits… (It’s white men’s excuse for dressing up as a black pimps.) Feel tempted to tell your man. Think I'll refrain.
A hot waiter waltzes by, holding aloft a tray that so must weigh at least a ton; does so as if it were the easiest thing in the world. Your man sniffily arrows his way through the circle jerk of rugger bugger fans and merges back into the fray with not a care in the world for their undoubtedly gripping tactical talk. The circle instantly reseals itself before the next attempt upon its safety zone cos’ that’s the thing though: ‘you ever noticed no matter where you stand in a crowd –there’s always someone ‘needs to walk right through your very spot!
As I negotiate my way past your basic dayglo rococo pillar (i.e. crowned by an understated kaleidoscopic ceramic statue of a Greek bodybuilder god holding up a deep red crystal vase overflowing with cascading vines that spread out under the suspended three-tier Art Deco crystal chandelier), I lose my footing for a second. Bending down to readjust the strap, what - do - I - spot?
A pair of Blahniks! A pair of actual Blahniks under a parade of legs that rise all the way to an an excuse of a miniskirt slash kitchen apron -dear me, she hasn’t left much to discover has she? Standing up, I sneak a look and almost gasp at the fakeness of the owner’s face: there’s been a load of work gone into these diagonal cheekbones and fulsome lips! Nose: drawn with a compass. Skin: flawless. In fact, some might even call it foldless ...like unnaturally super-tight, yeah? Like lifted almost as high as her panty line. Surely she mustn't be able to blink for fear of losing control of her bowels!
I'm thinking this, I'm thinking that, and then I realise I don't actually mean it. Standard kneejerk reaction, that. Basic jealousy. If anything I probably feel for her: she must be, what, post second divorce age range, but clearly's decided she won't give up just yet. She ain't going down without a fight and we ought to respect that. What she's saying here is she's still good to go, she’s still up for it, and so if money can buy her ten more years -well that's her choice to make. Fair play to her, says I -and then I realise, ten minutes later on reflection, that she was a he.
(Of The Varied Uses Of "fair play to you", A Little Vocabulary Lesson:
-"And a very good morning to you Philomena, you look radiant! Any news on the grand-child situation yet?"
-"Indeed I have: Clauda gave birth to a baby boy last night!"
-"Oh did she? Fair play to her!"
