Three festivals every week for a year. MARK GRAHAMtries to stay dry
DO I need alcohol to enjoy myself? I don’t think so, but for the past two weeks, I’ve been trying to stay on the dry and each week there’s been an epic fail. I have this theory about balance in life. I reckon it’s like when you were a kid, standing on the middle of a see-saw, with a leg either side of the centre of gravity. It was near impossible to achieve perfect equilibrium, but you could stop either end from touching the ground by constantly dipping to one side and then the other. Dynamic balance, visiting the extremities. Unfortunately, my see-saw has snapped, I’ve fallen off, scratched my knee and been clocked in the bulb by a swing as I’ve struggled back to my feet.
This has been a recurring theme since taking to the road. In April, I was set a challenge to get to 30 festivals in 30 days. I mapped out my month meticulously (first time that ever happened), assuring myself I would approach the thing professionally, remaining on the wagon throughout. The very first night I ended up flutered at a lock-in during a festival in Ballydehob, nearly killed by a nice but wild Kerry woman full of brandy. Have I a problem, or is this a necessary part of my journey? Zen Boozism.
A DROP OF DILUTED ORANGE
As if I didn’t feel alienated enough standing on a street corner in Eniskillen at the Orange Order parades last Thursday, the first crew to strut down the road towards me were the Temperance and Total Abstinence Lodge who advocate “maintaining sobriety and good conduct”. The atmosphere in Eniskillen was nowhere near as charged as that in Ardoyne, but I could swear these fir oráiste had burning cars in their eyes and they could sense my predilection for intoxicants as clearly as they could smell my southern Christian Brother education.
Maybe the two are related. As they passed by, I felt like Harry having a brush with the Dementors. The Fermanagh town held the flagship Orange Order event that is a drive to repackage The Twelfth. A watered-down, less intimidating, slightly more palatable form of exclusion. Diluted Orange. You can’t say these lads aren’t up for a buzz though, every banner and sash had LOL on it. They weren’t impressed when I asked if it stood for ‘laughing out loud’. I hoped if I asked enough of them, they might get the hump and change Loyal Orange Lodge to Royal Orange Fraternity and Lodge next year.
BACK TO BEER AT WILLY WEEK
Is it any wonder that by the time I arrived for Willy Week in Miltown Malby, a fellow Déise man only needed to ask once if I wanted a pint. It was Co Clare, it was Willy Clancy Week, I‘d spent many hours in the company of people who didn’t really like me, my history or my accent and someone else was buying.
See how difficult this shit is? I stood at the bar of Lynch’s (which is really called Friels, a tester for blow-ins) and let the tunes and beer bring me home. I could have sworn I heard someone whistling The Sash outside Wanderly Wagon that night though.
BACK ON THE ROAD
Whether habituality hungover or not, there are times when I feel blessed to have hit the road instead of kowtowing to banjaxed banks for a mortgage. Last week as I flitted from Loyalists to lilters, I swung by Earagail Arts, Clonmel Junction and 10 Days in Dublin. I caught three plays, a mentalist, listened to a singer from Tibet, a guitarist from Mali and danced to a French swing band into the wee small hours of the morning, all with little or no drink taken. Really! This weekend I’m heading for the Random Acts Of Kindness festival in Clonakilty. If they could stop me drinking, it would be a good start. Or not.
Safe travels, don’t die.
