Confirmation

Around this time 23 years ago I was preparing for what, at the time was one of the biggest occasions of my life. Eleven year old Jayhaitch was studying hard in anticipation of what was ‘the greatest gift’ he would ever receive. I was getting ready for my Confirmation.

As a member of the Catholic Church it is a rite of passage for everyone around the age of 11 or 12 to receive the Sacrament of Confirmation in order to solidify their bond with God and the Catholic Church. It was a very serious thing and the pre adolescent me thought it was a huge responsibility and great honour at the same time. Mostly because I was told that it was.

Months and months of preparation were involved. My classmates and I had to go into school 30 minutes early everyday for extra religious education. We read various passages of the bible. We learned new hymns for the ceremony and made posters and decorations for the church. Each morning we were taught something different to prepare us for the upcoming event.

The promise of a stronger connection with our God was offered, as long as we were willing to accept him and live by his teachings. Excitement coursed through me as the day got closer. It was all we could talk about in class.

Everybody got a brand new outfit. I got a grey leather jacket, dark slacks, a white pinstripe shirt and, something I was really proud of at the time, a skinny leather grey tie. I got a fancy flat top haircut which involved me using hair mousse for the first time. I looked fantastic. I imagine how Kate Middleton felt before the wedding was something similar to what I was experiencing.

All this was of course for the showing me off to family and friends who, because they were so impressed at what a handsome little catholic I was, would give me a card with money inside it. Each of my friends had plans for what they were going to do with their ‘confo money.’ Some were getting BMX’s, others a Commodore 64. I think I bought a basketball.

One part of the ceremony was The Pledge. A promise made before God that you will not drink alcohol until you are 18. In years gone by it had to be made in public but by the time I made my confirmation it was a secret pledge so you could choose to make it or not. Planning to take it, I spent the day before drinking 6 cans of Club Shandy (all 0.05% volume of alcohol and legal to sell to minors) so I wouldn’t miss on booze. I believe I broke the pledge five times...which in fairness for an Irish teenager is not bad.

Then there was the actual confirmation. With my sponsor, my Godmother Ann, leading me up to the altar, the archbishop asked what name I was taking. I chose the confirmation name Peter, mostly because he lobbed off the soldier’s ear in the Garden of Gethsemane (which by the way has inspired way more works of art than an act of violence should.) Then he confirmed me, John Patrick Peter, as a member of the church and I went off to live my life as a good catholic.

Or rather, I didn’t. I write this piece as a way of confirming myself an atheist. Not one of those religion bashing, smug, condescending ones. If you believe in god I won’t judge you. In the same way, I expect to not be considered evil because I don’t share your way of thinking. And I promise I won’t try and covert you if you afford me the same respect. For me, it just doesn’t make any logical sense.

So, on the 30th of April 2011 I, John Holohan, taking the name Beer Belly Jarvis, wish to confirm my Atheism. I pledge that I will get drunk at least twice in the next seven days and my outfit for this special occasion is flip flops, green shorts, a Mr. Grumpy T-shirt and a grey hoodie.

If anyone wishes to send me cards with money in them send me a private email and I will forward you my address.

Bottle

I would think at this stage of my life as a bit of a drinker there would be very little to surprise me in the way of a hangover. Headaches. Had them. Nausea? Not a bother. Inability to talk? Some people think I’m at my best in this condition.

Then why is that one recent occasion I suffered more than I have ever suffered in my life? Its not because I drank more than usual. Or because I drank something exotic and out of the ordinary. It was a relatively normal late night where I had couple of beers followed perhaps with one or two whiskey chasers.

Frankly, it was a gentle night.

The next day however was Hell. I woke up fairly fine. A bit groggy…but these things have to be expected. I showered and dressed as usual without any ill effects. It was as I was on my way to lunch with a friend that it started to hit me.

First was the issue with the Sun. Did it really have to be so bright. I hate to sound ungrateful but given that its graces us with its presence on such rare occasions was it to much to ask that scoot off back behind the grey clouds were he usually resides.

Any other time I would happily bask in its solar glory. However today my eyes were offended by its very existence and my head did not appreciate it sending down all that heat into my cranium.

It was around then realised I was still very tired. Lifting my feet as I walked was a bit of a challenge. The shirt I was wearing decided that it wasn’t happy in the position that you would normally associate with shirts. No, not your normal, arms in sleeves, buttons at the front for this shirt.

This shirt decided it wanted to be a scarf. No matter how I adjusted it, tugged at the seams, opened and closed the buttons or flicked the collar, this shirt wanted to be wrapped tightly around my neck cutting off my air supply like a boa constrictor with a South American school boy that has wandered too far from his school trip.

The next question to addressed is why I had decided to wear dress shoes. The answer is probably because they would look good with the shirt. It certainly wasn’t for comfort as my painful 20 minute to the walk the coffee shop could attest to.

No I was not dressed appropriately to be this hung over. When I’m suffering the effects of alcohol I prefer to keep it sartorially simple. Naked or very loose at most. This was neither of those. I wasn’t going to be defeated by it however. I could go and change as soon I’d eaten.

The next issue was not far away unfortunately. The friend who I was dining with is a delightful person. She is good natured , funny and good company. This day however it was The Care Bears themselves had rode down from the heavens on rays of sunshine in order to dispense to her an over dose of happy pills.

Anyone who has ever shared a house with, worked with or generally seen me can verify that I am not a morning person. I have in the past been accused of being grumpy. Its been known of me to threaten physical harm to those who aren’t accustomed to my easing into the day. I have tried to alter this reputation and like to think I’m a much nicer person these days. But its like Chris Rock said when talking about Siegfried and Roy’s tiger who attacked one of them. “The tiger didn’t go crazy. The tiger went tiger.”

My natural grouchiness plus a hangover plus my companions sunny dispo-fucking-sition does not equal a good time for all. The grumpier I got the perkier she got in an effort to give me a boost. All I wanted to do was sit there and replenish my body with buckets of Pepsi. She wanted to ‘talk.’ What kind of sadist wants to talk at 1pm on a Sunday.

I played with my cutlery as she waffled on about lollipops and rainbows or whatever the hell she was talking about. I looked down at the knife. It would take too long to cut my wrists with that blunt blade. There was nothing else for it. I would have to stab her in the eye with fork.

Oh come on. Don’t tell me you’ve never fantasised about impaling your friends with eating utensils when hung over.

At least when the meal arrived I’d be able to concentrate on that. Food would be my saviour, right? So very wrong. I felt that I needed something greasy and stodgy to make me feel somewhat normal. Steak Sandwich and chips please. As I saw the waitress approach with my order its almost as if I could hear the Hosannas and Hallelujahs. That was until she put it in front of me.

The food itself was fine. I’m not here to besmirch the reputation of Rita’s Café. It was cooked well, the ingredients were fresh and it looked like a steak sandwich should. The smell, however, emanating from the meat and mushroom filled baguette was not something that my stomach was quite prepared for. First it danced a reel, then a jig and then I’m not sure but I think it may have finished off with the Macarena.

I won’t go into details but let us just assume that time has passed and I spent ten minutes or so in the bathroom doing what Nadine from Girls Aloud swears she doesn’t do.

So I returned to the table and my still bouncy buddy. Taking my seat, I looked down at my food congealing. It would be a real shame to waste it. I have to pay for it anyway. So for the next forty minutes or so painfully masticating a steak sandwich while trying to have a conversation with the ridiculously happy bastard child of Barney and Rachel Ray.

When the food was done and the bill was paid I said goodbye to my friend (Who is genuinely lovely…I may have exaggerated slightly for dramatic effect) and went home to change my clothes. I have to be honest, I wanted to just strip off and lie on my bed as natural as the day I was born. Sadly, on this particular day, I had another appointment.

It was fates cruel sense of humour that had done it. My life had been too easy up until now and it was time to make up for just breezing through life. I had promised I would attend a gathering and not amount of whining about being a little hung over would justify not going.

A quick change into jeans, trainers and my ‘Clearly I Have Made Some Bad Decisions’ tee shirt and I was off again. I would be attending a birthday party. Not just any birthday party you understand. A two year old’s birthday party. Surrounded by noisy children singing and screaming, balloons bursting and babies crying. Dante must have forgot about that level in his inferno.

Generally I would have called up, told some sort of audacious lie that no one actually believes but everyone is too nice to call me on. However , on this occasion I couldn’t. Besides the fact Cathals Mammy makes some pretty amazing cakes, the two year old in question was my good buddy Cathal. It was Cathal’s second birthday but it was actually his first birthday party. For his first birthday he had been in Our Lady’s Hospital having an operation on his heart.

He really is a brave little guy and you should definitely read his blog. Its much better than mine and he doesn’t whinge like a baby just because he over indulged on exorbitantly priced eastern European lagers. He might only be two but that kid can drink.

Before I go I think its important to say that I have learned something from this and a more recent mixing of hangovers and young children. I really need to avoid kids when i'm a little worse for wear.

Eric

Alcohol has played quite the part in my life. Since I turned 18 ( I was only drunk once before then…Honest) I have regularly enjoyed the glorious highs and the tragic lows that come part and parcel of a trip on the booze hound express. For most people, this is not something that will come as a surprise. For others… Really? Have you not met me?

I think everyone I know has seen me at some stage in various states of inebriation. The likelihood is if you met for the first time it was probably in a bar or at a party or over drinks somewhere. People who I have worked with will have had to wait a bit longer but I think in general, I make a drunken impression pretty quickly.

I like to think I am a charming, affable, drunk. Clever and witty, with a unique outlook on the world around. I tell people I love them, (although not you M.B. it never happened,) like to hug and generally don’t want the party to end. For the most part, this is the case.

Occasionally, very occasionally mind, I have gotten a bit cranky when tipsy. If I’m in a bad mood beforehand and things aren’t going my way, I might get annoyed. If I get caught up in a discussion, it could turn into a disagreement. I’m never violent but I have on maybe 3 incidents insulted someone aggressively. Once again I would like to apologise to the “pubic haired headed freak”(you know who you are.)

Other than that I think if more people were the same as me when they were drunk, An Garda Siochanna would have a lot less to do on a Saturday night, taxi drivers would probably be a little more pleasant to deal with and hospital emergency rooms wouldn’t have such a queue.

Although, now that I think about it I have actually been to A&E twice due to drunken escapades. Once from rollerblading at 4 in the morning which resulted in a badly sprained ankle and a bruised coccyx, but it was the next day when I went to St. James‘ Hospital.

The second time was another sprained ankle, but it wasn’t mine and it wasn’t my fault. Honest. She pulled me down and I landed on her ankle. Being the gentleman that I am I escorted her to the Hospital.

There was also the pretend time I went to the hospital. What happened was, a very good drinking ‘butty o mine’ was working a split shift. We had a few afternoon libations and he got what scientists refer to as ’the goo.’

So rather than suppressing this urge and going back to work to fulfil his commitment to his employer, we came up with a rather clever ruse to excuse him of his duties. I rang up his place of work and claimed to be a rather distressed motorist. The reason for my anxiety was that I had just hit their employee with my car whilst he was cycling back to work. I was distraught and the poor cyclist was in a deal of pain.

Off course he had to be taken away in ambulance. I was going to follow him to make sure he was ok. His employer, a publican, was saddened to hear this and hoped his employee would be ok and thanked me for ringing him and letting him know. Result. Back to the bar for a celebratory round or eleven.

The next day when my buddy returned to work with a suitable pain in the head for someone who had been in hospital after a run in with a car he was surprised to find that it wasn’t all rich tea and sympathy. Apparently his boss, knowing that he was living in a strange county, away from home and family, went to the hospital to see if he was ok or needed anything. With no record of any traffic accident or my friend, the boss put two and two together and proved he wasn’t wasting his time learning of his addition tables in school.

Other things on the not so clever but oh so fun when drunk list include:

• Singing Michael Bolton and Whitney Houston songs in public (Hi Lisa!!!)
• Stair Surfing (Sliding down the stairs on a part of your body)
• Losing my virginity to a Leprechaun
• Stair Surfing in front of (as a result of) an ex Girlfriends colleagues
• Wearing Zebra print tights under a black baby doll nightie
• Getting my ear pierced

I will admit to doing lots of stupid stuff whilst under the influence of alcohol. But no one has ever really got hurt and I’m very grateful for that. The latest drink aware advert has got me thinking about it though. That’s the advert where they show supposed cctv footage of people falling down and behaving anti socially whilst drunk. They put a laugh track over it so it is like an episode of You’ve Been Framed, but it is to highlight that what you might think is a great laugh when your drunk isn’t always.

I have to say I resent that a little. Falling down when your dancing because you’ve had a couple of margaritas and you’re dizzy because Kylie Minogue is ‘Spinning Around’ is funny. It being on You’ve Been Framed isn’t.

It seems like its just another example of nanny-ist ‘careful now’ attitude that the policy makers in this country have. The ones which say I can’t buy any alcohol after 10.30pm if I want to drink it in the comfort of my own home. Although I can buy 24 bottles of Stella Artois for 21euro before 10.30 thus ensuring that I drink en masse. Responsibly of course.

Who is the 10.30 law trying to protect. Do they think for the teenagers who are likely to be drinking , that it is past their bedtime? Do they think people who want to drink for the entire night won’t be able to organise themselves enough to get to a shop at 9pm and stock up?

The alcohol and licensing laws in this country are ridiculous. I’m not sure if it’s a throw back to the catholic church influence or just further proof that those ‘in charge’ are inept morons. As a grown up I am able to control and monitor my own drinking thank you very much. Just because ‘Anto Tracksuit-McDutchGold’ wants to get in a fight after a night in the Q bar should not effect me.

Maybe if we didn’t have every bar and night club closing at the same time we wouldn’t have a mass exodus of drunken clowns on to the street at the same time. If anyone has ever been to Waterford City to see the mayhem at the crossroads where the 3 nightclubs and all the fast food take-aways are will know what I’m talking about.

People will get disgustingly drunk and messy and might want to start a fight. I put a lot of this down to the attitude towards drink we have in Ireland. It’s almost a case of which came first the Chicken or the Egg. Do we pile as much booze into us as quickly as possible because we have archaic drinking laws or do we have archaic drinking laws because we pile as much booze into as quickly as possible.

It has been going on for years and the stereo type of the drunkard Irishman did not come out of nowhere. I think sometimes we see that as a charming stereo type as opposed to what it is. The disgusting depiction of abuse and violence caused by alcohol in this country for centuries.

It really is nothing to be proud of when you are in another country and a local turns around to and says “You Irish. You are crazy. Guinness. Whiskey”

When it comes down to it though, everyone is responsible for their own behaviour and I’m a big believer in as long as no one else gets hurt do what ever feels good. So if you want to get drunk and lairy and square up to someone for ‘looking at your bird,’ don’t be a dickhead.

If you want to go get shit-faced, dance like an eejit and spend the next day in bed because of a hang over, I say go for it. I’ll get the lucozade.