Sunday 30 September 2012

My Arse and Parsley: An Anecdotal Eulogy

When I was 7 years old I accidentally set fire to my father's glasses case.

By accidentally what I mean is that I was testing the old adage that leather doesn't burn, but I assure you it was all in the name of science.

Gripped with panic, I impulsively threw the case in the river before spending the next three nights desperately constructing an elaborate excuse to defer the blame. When the inevitable, 'has anybody seen my glasses case?' was raised at dinner four days later, I informed the family that I'd seen dad set them down at the peat bog, but hadn't said anything as I had assumed he picked them up.

Little did I know, I was already fucked.

© Amadeus Finlay, 2012 

An extended pause followed, before my father, his eyes all-knowing, uttered the immortal words:

'My arse and parsley.'

I feigned innocence. What had I done? What did this mean? Did dad know something I didn't? Of course he did. Unbeknownst to me, dad had been down river that day, chasing some fine Antrim Glens rainbow trout along the banks of the Six Mile. When the devilish mistress that is fate had brought the charred remains into his path, there was only one explanation; that damn wee lad.

So here I was, caught, trapped, and telling tall tales. But wait a minute... how did he know it was me? I mean, of course I was guilty - who else would have done it -, but there was still reasonable doubt (I had learned this expression at a young age, the son of a law lecturer mother).

Simple. In my hurry I had failed to notice the charred cleaning cloth falling out of the glasses case as I fled my bedroom. And why hadn't I noticed it? It had fallen into the heap of unwashed laundry stuffed behind the door. So, what did I learn from all this?

Well, firstly, never lie to a cunning father, secondly, washing machines exist, and thirdly, 'my arse and parsley' is perhaps the finest expression ever uttered by a mortal man.

© Amadeus Finlay, 2012

Sunday 23 September 2012

Cow Bells and Crucifixes: Travels in the Swiss Alps

I have a terrible fear of Julie Andrews, and let me tell you why. 

As a child I attended a school that owned only three entertainment videos, and those were Jesus of Nazareth, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, and The Sound of Music. But none got as much viewing time as The Sound of Music. 

Oh, how it haunted me, that operatic foghorn of a soprano in a striped apron, spinning atop grassy Alpine knolls clutching a guitar. It wasn’t long until the mere threat of Andrews’ voice made me shudder, and the sight of the woman cause feelings of dread that permeated to my shoes. 

In my childlike confusion, I found comfort in fearing the Alps, reasoning that if I never went there I would be safe. But a few months back I had the pleasure of visiting Zurich for the first time, during which I concluded that the Alps don’t actually exist due to the fact that dense cloud had hidden all trace of their presence. This was rather convenient of course, as it allowed me to earmark this vibrant little city as one of the world’s finest without the threat of Rodgers and Hammerstein. No Alps, no fear. 

Yet over time I realised the absurdity of my conclusion, and that what I was doing was running from my fear rather than confronting it. No, I should go back to try again I decided. Cartographers are rarely wrong when it comes to mountain ranges. 

© Amadeus Finlay, 2011

The film may have been shot in Austria, but where better to sort things out than my new-found best friend, Switzerland? 

It was because of this that I found myself in the Alpine foothills somewhere in the vicinity of St. Gallen, gazing upon the crystal-clear slopes of the Alps rising but miles from where I stood. Being prone to getting lost, however, I had decided to hire guide. She was a local girl, born just across the lake in the German town of Lindau. I had begun the day there, sipping on espresso in a certain CafĂ© Amadeus. But now things were different, no time for leisure up here. No, we were to go hiking, the guide insisting on leading us on a route rising ever higher into the sky. 

Marina - for this was her name - was a girl of purpose and experience, and she set a blistering pace as stormed up the slopes in her size 5 hiking boots. It was a hot day, and needless to say I soon fell behind. Within half an hour I was alone, and, you’ve guessed it, lost. 

But I couldn’t have cared less. 

Just like Zurich, rural Switzerland drips character and exudes charm. Rolling, tightly-knit hills sweep into fairy-tale glades populated by roving cows with their necklace bells. Alpine flowers, exploding with colour, poke through hill-tops crowned with evergreens and gorse. But it is the dong-dong calls of cow bells that dominate, and from every side a bovine rhythm section provides a dogged pulse to the riffing chorus of bird song. 

When Marina eventually tracked me down an hour later I was to be found in a happy daze at the summit, gazing inanely at a wooden signpost of the crucified Christ. Carved on its top was the elevation of the hill –1,045 metres –, and at its base a metal box for comments and reflections. How wonderful, I thought, I bet Everest doesn’t have this. Verging on ecstatic, I ripped out a page from my notebook and scribbled a note for posterity: First man from Ballyclare to reach the summit (or so I would assume). 

© Amadeus Finlay, 2011

Stunning view, lovely people, and the Alps most do certainly exist. Oh, and thank you for having kept Julie Andrews in her box. Happy to have laid my childhood fears to rest, I rejoined Marina and headed down the hill for a drink. 

There was a cafe in Lindau with my name on it.

© Amadeus Finlay, 2011

Sunday 16 September 2012

Connolly’s Irish Bar: Time Square, New York. 1.55am.

“Do you know that song ‘Sex is on Fire’?” asks the girl at the bar, shouting to be heard over the reeling sounds of The Dubliners, “Yeah, Kings of Leon. It always sounded like a vaginal disease to me.”

I don’t even know her name.

 “Where are you from, anyway?” she continues, mouthing the words rather than saying them.

“Just outside Belfast,” I yell, my face inches from her eardrum.

“You’re actually Irish?” (big grin)   

“Sure am,” I tell her, for this is the truth, “I have been all my life.”

A big cheer erupts from the far corner. It transpires that Meath has taken the lead against Kerry in the GAA. There is a rush towards the bar, “Guinness!” “Guinness!” “Two Guinnesses and a bag of pretzels!”

I turn my attention back to the girl in the white vest for she has no interest in hurling.

© Amadeus Finlay, 2011

“Do you see that drawing on the wall?” I ask, pointing to a sketch of Lough Neagh, “that’s where my Da’ and I used to going fishing.” Pause… “Have you ever been to the Ireland yourself then?”

“No! I would love to go,” she responds, all misty eyed and dreamy.

“Ah,” says the rogue, “well maybe you should come over with me some day. We can climb Slemish and gaze upon the coast of Scotland from atop the rolling moss of Shill-na-vogy.”

 …Whack for my daddy-o there’s whiskey in the jar.

An untimely roar prevents my friend with the brown pigtails falling for the Blarney, her cue for an impulsive response drowned out by a cacophony of jigging and head-banging across the bar. The excited splurge rolls towards us, a burly six footer with a Meath shirt making a beeline for my pint of Harp. Which he summarily knocks into and spills all over the brilliant white perfection that is the girl’s vest.

“This is Gucci you fucking asshole!”

“And this is fucking polyester!” he roars back, tugging on his green and orange garb.

I’m in trouble now, caught between a drunkard and a female scorned. Needless to say the girl storms off, taking her coat and exiting my life forever. But much more pressing is that she has left me at the mercy of a Leinsterman with the rhythmic talents of a drunken giraffe.

“Come ahead now,” he barks, “she had a face that could haunt houses!”

He points at my half-drunken beer.

“Get that down yerself there and stop being a miserable schnack.” And with that off he goes into the evening, grabbing hugs from random strangers by the bar and raising toasts to heroes of Irish culture:

“Up yours Bono! Long live The Corrs!”

© Amadeus Finlay, 2011

Somebody crashes into a barstool, but quickly recovers and orders a round of Glenfiddich. The barman asks the man if he’s drunk. The drunk assures him he is not, and solemnly promises to order a further round so he can prove his loyalty to the establishment. Which he dutifully does, before spinning around and crashing into the six-foot giraffe from Leinster. Chaos, whiskey everywhere. A disagreement is met, during which the aggrieved parties practise the time-tested art of drunken cross-examination by taking it in turn to accuse the other and protest personal innocence.

But it transpires that neither man was in the wrong, and so they step outside to share stories and chain-smoke a pack of French cigarettes.

What a marvellous place. The wood is polished, the music’s loud, and the clientele madder than a sackful of bicycles. It has the energy of a hyperactive Labrador as well as more shamrocks than the wallpaper in Michael Flatley’s bedroom. It’s a bit like Ireland looked in the mirror, fell in love, had a child, and sent it to New York to become a tavern.

Which can only be a good thing if you ask me. 

© Amadeus Finlay, 2011

Sunday 9 September 2012

What Would Jason Bourne Do? One Man’s Workout in Amsterdam

I knew only one thing of Amsterdam before I arrived, and that was if my feet were wet then I was in the canal. 

Otherwise I was cast hopelessly and perilously adrift in the Dutch capital with little plan of what to do until I flew back to London in 36 hours. The whole thing was an accident, having taken the wrong train in Hamburg when on a work assignment. It was only upon some desperate enquiring in Bremen that I discovered the only way to get home would be by flying from Charleroi, Belgium two days later. 

So it came to pass that it was on a rainy afternoon in November that I first discovered the mystifying city that is Amsterdam. It was a clueless existence from the beginning, my confounded uselessness further compounded by getting lost, yet again. I wandered around in the damp unable to find my hotel, burdened throughout by a bag of considerable weight. I finally resorted to getting a taxi to a hotel that happened to be the next town across. 

Which transpired was actually a hostel… 

Filled with utter lunatics… 

© Copyright, Amadeus Finlay, 2010

A sleepless night spent wearing my suit – for I had nothing else – and clutching the bag followed. At sunrise I decided that the following night would be spent at the airport, being skint as I was, before I cut my losses and fled the mad hostel once and for all. 

By late morning I was back in the centre of Amsterdam, but this time in the sun and among the convivial crowds of Vondelpark. Wandering further into town I came across cobbled streets lined by neat rows of trees, zipping around organised blocks of cafes, shops, and patisseries. Saturdays are good days to be in the Venice of the North. So I strolled to the canal side, suited and buited (sp?) to allow myself a brief Jason Bourne moment, before setting off in search of something a little different. 

You don’t come to Amsterdam to sit in Starbucks all day. 

But what would Jason Bourne do? Well, for one he’d get some cheese. And so I did likewise, prowling Runstraat and Leidseplein on the hunt for a lump of Edam and a chunk of Gouda. The air of Amsterdam soon ponged with the aroma of an unwashed Irishman and his bagful of curds, pigeons fainting in my wake. It was marvellously decadent, gorging on creamy grease and indulging myself in the moody, clean-cut beauty of the tall, thin buildings that characterise the city. 

And before I forget, there are bicycles too.

Lots, and lots, and lots of bicycles. 

But back to the story... later I befriended the area known as Nieuwendijk, floating into The Blarney Stone Irish Bar to ingest some Guinness and later to be adopted by three stag-trippers from Cork. Many larks were had, including genuinely inquiring of a lady of the night if she’d be interested in playing a round of Texas hold-‘em poker. She said no. 

The night wore on… 

It was at 6.55am when a security guard poked me and told me that it was time to wake up. Just exactly where I was, was an utter mystery. I scratched my head and gazed around in search of a sign. Looking up all I could see was what seemed like a, well, a clog. Across the way was a man with a suitcase, and then behind him at least 400 other people with suitcases. 

It was then that I remembered the vital missing ingredient to this most perplexing issue: 

Rule of Travel Number 265a - if your pre-booked accommodation is utterly awful, then you can always sleep in the airport.


© Copyright, Amadeus Finlay, 2010

Saturday 1 September 2012

Humility in the Face of Over-Whelming Intelligence

The orgy was going well until the postman walked in. 

Now that I have your attention, let’s talk about algebra. Algebra is in fact not a mathematical art-form, but rather a type of North African lingerie... Which is a bit like saying that unisex is what students do at the end of a heavy night on the tiles, or that Cornwall is a type of barrier made from foot bacteria.

It has been a strange morning.

I awoke to a bedroom filled with spiders, and a request from the landlord to take down the gazebo at the front of the house.  Which I dutifully did, and was rewarded with discovering that the nest of the mother spider was quietly secreted within the frame of said gazebo. Such an ironic turn of events, it was only fitting that I was overcome by clemency and resolved to relocate mother and egg-babies to a new – and far superior – home in an oak tree on the other side of the river.  

Happy with my accomplishments, I decided to leave the house to go visit David ‘The Vagabond’ Lancaster, during which I planned to have coffee and discuss the finer points of bagpipe use in rock bands. It was in this odd frame of mind that I added further peculiarity to the situation by pulling on an over-sized Liverpool football shirt, ripped tracksuit bottoms, and a pair of muck-encrusted trainers, just to see if I could convince people that I was a professional athlete.

Sportified, I set off in search of a chilled-latte (now there’s a contradiction) and a social engagement with a man fascinated by heraldry, only for this aspirant athlete to attract jeers of superiority from the local Tottenham Hotspur fans. Ah yes, I had forgotten that Spurs had stolen Clint Dempsey from under our noses at the tail-end of last night’s transfer window. How I hadn’t predicted this turn of events is beyond me, as rural Hertfordshire is crawling with Lilywhites.

Damn them, I decided; at least Liverpool doesn't think it’s a top four team. Hurrah for humility!

Dave had requested I bring along the fabled flatcap, but not for me to wear. You see, Esteemed Gentleman Lancaster has a habit of commandeering it for his ‘country landowner’ look, and when we go a-strolling in the great outdoors he will invariably bring along a manservant to shoot just to ensure that everyone knows where they stand. How far I can go with this somewhat fictionalised cartoon of young Dave is probably something I shouldn't discover when writing for a public forum.

So we got our coffee, found a suitable hollow in which to drink it – the coffee that is, not the hollow  – and thoroughly deliberated the merits of bagrock. We also discussed a lot of other maddog shite and gibberish, but recreating it here would only serve to further confuse an already cracked posting.

Here endeth the lesson.