Beer Goggles

There is a scene in the movie PS I Love You that defines the spirit of the couple in the story, one of whom has just been cremated.

It is the Fairytale of New York by the Pogues and it is a raucous irreverent song that even the priest joins in singing and turns the memorial scene into more of a rugby party.

That is the scene that Scott and I walked into that night - at a Pub called Murphy's and with an Irish vocalist who appeared to be the reason most of the patrons came calling.

We got a table near the stage with a great view of the crowd. It was the only one available at the time and we had no idea what good fortune it was until the singer took the stage.

The people watching was spectacular especially once the audience participation rugby songs began with all the drinking penalties and heckling.

There were exactly three brides-to-be celebrating last hurrahs with girl friends. Each one was fatter and sloppier than the bride preceding her. Each showed too much thigh, too much cleavage, and too much bra strap for my taste - and I have to say I have pretty liberal sensibilities about these things, especially when it comes to young people. I just think that bachelorette parties are more to go out and have a few laughs with your best girlfriends before your priorities shift forever more. Not to rock your inner ho-bag and parade around like a trollop with your forbidden fruit on display. And getting staggering drunk and potty-mouthed in the process. Just sayin'.

There was a fascinating Kardashian Wannabe (They must be selling Kardashian wigs now). This girl had the whole ensemble: Wig, fake eyelashes, over dressed for the venue with a black belted dress with her cleavage spilling out and sky-high heels when Levis, a Flogging Mollys T and a pair of Chucks would have been more the order of the day). And she had an overly assertive over-the-top personality to validate my general sense of wariness about her. She arrived alone and quickly glommed on to lots of little groups and infiltrated them, so long as there was a guy to flirt with and bat her eyes at. I secretly suspected that she was a pickpocket.

There was a pitiful drunk at the next table who could just not get the clapping thing down, couldn't figure out how to stay in sync with the other audience participants, but gamely played along when he wasn't busy picking his nose.

And speaking of picking -----

I am the first to admit that I have picked a bathing suit, a pair of panties or even a whole leg of my shorts out of my ass a time or two in my life. But I will follow that admission with a footnote that every time it was done in private, with discretion, and sometimes without the use of my hands (placing one's hand in one's back pocket and timing an artful stride will do the trick in some cases without having to duck into a phone booth) In any event, it is never going to be caught on tape and become a YouTube sensation.

The most flagrant Party Foul of the night came from an oaf who was so plastered, so completely unaware, that when faced with the fact that his high-waisted jeans had indeed become wedged a good way up between his considerable butt cheeks, stood in the middle of the bar, in a clearing by the stage, bent his leg and lifted it off the ground and did a full-fisted wrenching free of the shorts from his ass crack in full view of 100s of pairs of leering eyes.

Bar tender, I'll have another Guinness!