So yesterday evening I arranged a soiree to celebrate my impending birthday. The location was The Beer House on Capel Street. It’s a funky, slightly grungy bar at the top of the street where a sizeable amount of money has been invested in making it appear scruffy.

I like this bar, despite the fact that it sells craft beer. Craft beer can be tasty. Craft beer can be refreshing. But craft beer seems to be beloved by hipsters. I have only love and best wishes for the hipster folk. People called Lorcan or Sorcha have feelings too you know. There’s no reason to believe that skinny jeans cut off the blood supply to the brain. I do however question the wisdom of a big bushy beard that has been lovingly manscaped into an acceptably trendy style. It makes a man look broody and masculine allegedly. I’m not buying it.

Said hipsters seem fond of their Indian Pales Ales. Pales ales thar have been lovingly brewed with angel tears. A craft beer is simply not a mass produced beer – it’s no guarantee of quality. But the skinny jeans wearing, funky trainer sporting, manicured beard bedecked Lorcan seems fond of them.

Anyway the Beerhouse was my venue of choice and a Galway Hooker Pale Ale my beverage of preference that evening.
And a very enjoyable evening it was too. I had invited a good number of people. But I was worried about attendance. Maybe it’s paranoia but I was concerned that as I am still newish in Dublin my gathering would face competition from shampoo bottles and that people might be washing their hair and therefore unable to attend.

But my fears were misguided and lovely group of reprobates (who I like to call my friends) turned up ring in my new year – even an old friend from Amsterdam who – coincidentally -happened to be in Dublin showed his face.

To top the evening off I won a tenner on one of the lottery tickets I received.

Ka-ching.

This afternoon after rehearsal I took the train to Howth for a fish and chip lunch with some family up in the smoke for Bruce. Many inappropriate comments were made about certain people. ‘That fucking mouth-breather’ is going to be my go-to insult in the coming weeks.

We made our way to town so they could get to the stadium for the Boss. We stopped into the garden of Fibbers for some refreshment.

I had 1 glass of cider. Just one. So drunkenness cannt be blamed for what happened next. As we were leaving I descended the 2 steps to exit. I can never logicall explain a fall. Let it just be said that for some reason I ended up face first on the floor. A crumpled heap – entirely uninjured but completely mortified.

We sai our goodbyes. I reached Marks and Spencer in time for the ‘Reduced to clear’ yellow stickers. I picked up a roast beef dinner for 60 cents. I felt victorious.

I crossed the road happy at the thought of a lazy Sunday evening.

And then.

A pigeon shat on me.
And he didn’t just shit on me – he aimed it at my mouth.

Passing traffic must have thought I was having a seizure the way I was jumping around liked an electrocuted heifer, spitting frenziedly.

These are the days of our lives.