The Drunk Des Diaries: Stolen Valour

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Now I’ve been drunk a good few times now, I’ve actually wrote an article about both the history of Alcohol and my relationship to the drug. However in this series I’m going to record some of my experiences that I’ve had while drunk.

So forewarning, because of the influence of alcohol these memories are somewhat blurry and I’m recording them as accurately as I see fit. So I’m not exactly a reliable narrator, I may be biased to certain viewpoints and I may be oblivious to extremely noticeable things. So take everything I say with a grain of salt.

The title of this series still irks me. I originally planned on calling it “Tales from Drunk Des” but that sounded too much like a shitty pirate story from an obscure writer from the 17th century. I thought about “The Drunk Diaries” but that name was already taken. So then I had to settle on “The Drunk Des Diaries” which is a little bulky, however I could abbreviate it as “The Triple-D series” which leads to the obvious misinterpretation of perverts looking for absurdly large breasts that would undoubtedly break the back of the beholder.

I have this theory about why so many Pornstars end up overdosing on pills. It’s because they get these breast implants to make their boobs bigger. At first they’re fine, maybe they feel more confident because they’re getting more attention and their career is picking up because their managers find them more popular now.

But over time they develop back problems which causes severe pain, which is less than ideal for all the bending over they have to do, alongside those weird positions that look super uncomfortable. So they take pain killers to numb their back pain and get addicted to opioids, which leads to them overdosing in a shady hotel room.

That, or they’re severely fucked up people who on one faithful night just couldn’t take it anymore and tried to escape their pain- forever. Both are equally plausible.

Anyway, you can tell me what title you prefer or suggest your very own title right here. Let’s get on with the show;

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So our story begins a few weeks back, I think mid May. I was up late at home for some reason when I got a message from my friend, seeing if I could go to the Warzone Saturday week. I have literally nothing to do almost every day of the week, so I accepted the offer.

Now at this point I’ve pretty much finished up at tech, the only thing keeping me in Derry city is some paperwork and the fact that I need to get out of the house. To avoid both cabin fever and to get away from my parents (who are very nice people, but often get on my nerves) so I make the trek to this pit of degeneracy every other day.

If you’ve read my previous articles, you’ll know that I have a passionate hatred for Derry City. It’s mere existence offends my sensibilities. I can actually trace back the day I lost my innocence to late June of 2014, where I went on a residential with this pack of Derry kids. All of them were just a little bit older than me- but half of them smoked.

Which startled the fuck out of me because from a very young age I had it hammered into my head that smoking filled your lungs with tar and was fucking awful for you. So to see these kids, who were just a little older than me, engage in an act which they knew would kill them was fucking bizarre.

Most of these Derry ones weren’t particularly bright, the ones that were accepted me into their group begrudgingly. Even though I was a dull and ignorant kid they still let me hang around. One of them was this complete fucking pig, the most perverted man I’ve met in my entire life.

He showed me a video of a man known as “The Black Salami” which is a modern porn video (though filmed as if it were a 70’s one) in which a group of scientists observe this black guy stroking his absurdly large cock, all the while going “Wow, I wish my dick was that big” to which one of the Scientists (who looked like Peter Dinklage from that X-Men movie) responded “That’s why they call him the Black Salami” in reference to the sausage that comes in large sizes.

The black man then said “Some guy once told me to go fuck myself. Well guess what? I can!” and he then proceeded to bend his cock between his legs to cross the taint and…he fucked himself in the ass.

It was…it was one of the worst things I’ve ever seen in my life.

This experience would be followed by a few more fucked up videos they showed me, followed by one of the Chavs removing an injured toenail with a pair of scissors, followed by the group tackling this fat guy to the ground and the pervert removing his trousers, spreading his ass cheeks and proceeding to sit down on the fat guys bare chest. Afterwards he ran around the room, waving his dick around.

These gentlemen tarred Derry’s reputation for me. However, for full closure, my ex girlfriend is from Derry so she may have had more influence than the chavs and intellectual perverts. For years after I was worried of going up to Derry, in case I ran into her. But I never did.

I often assume that she killed herself, as she was a very troubled girl. But that’s a fucked up thing to say and a tad bit narcissistic on my part, to assume that everyone who has ceased to be a part of my life has somehow died is problematic. It’s like assuming that the earth holds still when you close your eyes.

Recently I’ve grown to despise Derry for a multitude of reasons. Partly because of the Racism I see on a daily basis, the accents are atrocious, there’s drunks roaming the streets constantly, there’s chavs marching up and down shouting at each other across the street as if they were having an intimate conversation, the stench of shit and piss is ever present.

There’s a lot to hate about Derry. But the main thing I feel is that I’m only there because I couldn’t get into Queens, so I had to opt out for a year at the tech first. My life over the past year has felt as if I were in Limbo- like my very existence has been put on hold.

You see, the plan was to head to Belfast, make some new friends and thus reinvent myself. I didn’t seek to discover who I was, I already know who I am. Or rather, what I want to be. I want to be the greatest film maker in the world. An ultimately futile dream as it depends on public opinion and a medium that is interpretative, but a dream none the less.

To become the greatest film maker in the world I need to be charming, funny, nice to be around, friends with a lot of people, ideally not insane, talented- and an array of other things. I’ve got the talent, I’ve got the humour- but I sorely lack in all the other departments. Which is why I need to reinvent myself, smooth out the edges of what was once Des Lynch and turn it into Desmond Lynch.

But of course none of that happened. I failed an A-Level and was thus banished to Derry City. Which really isn’t helpful for my anger management issues as the very being of Derry infuriates me. I walk around Derry some days in a cold rage, feeling as if I could slaughter everything in sight.

I like to think of it as if I were carrying a lead ball in my chest full of battery acid. As I walk around, the acid churns and erodes away some of that lead. Ideally you hope that that the lead will somehow neutralise the acid, turn it into water. But there’s that fear that one day that lead ball will erode away completely, and the acid will burn away everything.

So I churn out my days in Derry, all the while I keep trying to contact my friend (Who I will refer to, in some shape or form, as “the Chinless Wonder“) however he has a knack for not responding to my messages. He thinks that I bother him too much with dumb shit and my shitty sense of humour somehow offends him- I often cross a line that I cannot see.

Our relationship is that of Jake and Amir. He’s Jake, I’m Amir.

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So after a few messages he eventually gets back to me, settles on a time to get the bus. Around six thirty in the evening, doors open at the venue around eight. I’m wearing my usual, yet a fashionable clothes. Denim jacket, t-shit and a flannel shirt- the Dean Winchester look is what I’m going for. Yet no one seems to recognise that.

I was wearing these bootleg denim jeans that were really fucking tight. I felt like shit putting them on because it made me think that I put on weight. Which really didn’t help my self esteem, which is practically non existent. Well, at least sober.

I’m not gonna lie, when I got on that bus I felt both excited and a little bit nervous. A strange feeling for me because I usually just feel contempt or suffer varying degrees of anger. So these new emotions were more than welcome. I don’t get out much, and thus I don’t drink much.

I get shit faced on a bi-monthly pattern.

So I leave Dungiven and eventually arrive at Maghera, a desolate wasteland where both the Culchies and Townies go to congregate- it’s a mid way point to civilisation. Or at least what Townies would call civilisation.

The Chinless Wonder gets on the bus. He dressed in a black shirt, tucked into these fucking army cargo trousers. When he sat down beside me, he immediately began to tuck the ends of his trousers into his recently polished black boots. It was the most bizzare thing I’ve ever seen.

It looks better,” he told me.

We got into a banterful argument about the whole thing. I reckoned that tucking your trousers into your boots was pure idiocy, he was wrong. I then commented about his black shirt and how he tucks it in, we got into an argument about that as well. He then tried to insult me by my own clothes but I immediately shut him down, all the while ignoring the fact that the jeans had cut off the blood flow to my legs.

A good portion of the dialogue we shared on the road to Belfast was either arguments or pure and utter shit talk.

At one point the Chinless Wonder talked about this Prophecy he has, in which he will kill Kendrick Lamar. The plan being that he will build a stage in Maghera and invite a variety of Artists to perform, eventually he’ll get Drake to perform at this shitty venue and then Kendrick Lamar will have to go (because of Drake I guess???) and when he reaches the stage, my friend will stab him in the heart.

Upon learning of this prophecy, I asked where it came from. “A dream” he said. I then queried if he saw the futility of building a stage in the middle of buck fuck nowhere and then expecting some of the most famous musicians in the world to magically appear. To which he responded “It’s like the Field of Dreams. If you build it, they will come“.

I pissed myself laughing when he said that.

But what this shit talk was largely about was my friend’s disdain for Kendrick Lamar. He views him as an unbearably average Rapper and his recent incident with calling out a White fan, who he had invited on stage to sing alongside him, who said the N-Word.

Now the song in question contained the N-Word and the woman herself isn’t Racist, she’s just singing along. But Kendrick assumed that she would skip over the word, since anyone with a lick of sense knows full well that only Black people have the privilege to say that word.

My friend is a proponent of believing that everyone should say that word, because then we rob it off it’s hurtful meaning. It’s the argument people like iDubbbz use when they say “Either everything is ok, or nothing is ok” in which he suggests that the word “Cunt” and the word “Nigger” are somehow on par, and that by continuously saying the prior they have removed whatever offensive or even misogynistic connotations that slur may have possessed. So if they could do it with the prior, why not the latter?

Well that’s a nice argument, but it’s weak one. Cunt is nowhere near as offensive as the N-word. The prior is an insult designed to hurt a persons feelings, the other is a racial slur used to literally dehumanise an entire community. They’re not on par with one another, the only reason that argument would make sense is if you were an American as you live in a society conceived from Puritanism, so you’re still prudish about the word Cunt.

Cunt.

The argument fails because you can rob the word Cunt of it’s offence, but not that of the N-Word. You see, being offended by the word “Cunt” is like having a peanut allergy. You have a bad reaction to it, but if you were to encounter the properties of the substance in small tolerance you would eventually build a tolerance to it and thus would be immune to it’s offensive reaction.

Drying to recreate this affect for the the word “Nigger” is like trying to build up a tolerance to Uranium. Sure, you can try…but it’s not going to end well.

We argued about this a little. But eventually my friend won out by talking about this other rapper who lets white fans use the term, saying “These guys are supporting my table, they’re buying my albums, they’re paying for my lifestyle. These guys are not racist- they are providing for me. So they have the right to say the word“.

I didn’t have a rebuttal for that, so he won the argument. I can’t remember the rapper who said that, but he has an interesting point on how his fans provide for him- and if he can use racial slurs, than they can too. Because they’ve earned the right as they support his lifestyle.

After reflecting upon it, the statement is a little problematic. Because although they support you, they aren’t entitled to use that word. Would you tolerate a white fan coming up to you and saying “What up nigga?” because you have the argument when it comes to the song- but what about in general conversation- is it ok then?

The idea that a fan is entitled to say whatever they like to you is problematic because  that will lead to them being very rude and disrespectful. It’s like if they support you, they essentially own you and can thus treat you as they please. Not many artists would put up with that. It’s a very problematic outlook.

So obviously there is an active debate on the use of the N-word, many argue white people shouldn’t say it while others argue that they should. My opinion is that the Artists and black people in general should stop using the term. Because you obviously haven’t successfully appropriated it or even defanged it if you’re still offended if a non-black person says it. Remember, you’re not dealing with Peanuts here- you’re handling Uranium.

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So we get to Belfast at around eight, first thing we do is head off to an ATM to get some money out. Along the way we give some money to this homeless drunk. He comments on the Chinless Wonder’s clothing.

You in the Army?” he asks. “Nope,” my friend replies “planning to though” the drunk congratulated him, and we were off to off licence.

So my friend here wants to join the Irish Army. Partly because he wants to serve his country, partly because he wants to impress some women, partly because he wants to kill and/or help people in Syria. But mostly? I think he just wants to die.

There are worse ways to go out than in a blaze of glory. But the tragedy here is that he may never see this blaze, nor glory. He’s been talking about joining the army for about a year now, even quit smoking to do it. Personally I hope that he goes through with it, but I doubt he will. I love the man but he lacks the work ethic to survive that kind of training.

I hope he proves me wrong. But whatever he’s looking for, whether it be an official statement of his manhood or even gaining a sense of purpose in an otherwise purposeless existence, there’s a good chance he’ll find neither.

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So we head to the off-license, I get two bottles of Buckfest (a cheap tonic wine, the elixir of Chavhood) while my friend bought a six pack of…harp? I think? No, tenants it was. Yes, it was tenants. It was a six pack of tenants that he carried in his back pack which had another six pack of tenants alongside his jumper.

We didn’t want to be early to the gig, so we walked about the town for half an hour. Struggling to talk to each other due to the roar of the traffic. We had to stop a few times so that my friend could rest, the big bag of cans is quite the burden on the back.

I think he got something to eat real quick, then we headed on to the venue. When we were climbing up the stairs to the room the first thing I noticed was this white graffiti at the top of the stairs that read “NAZIS OUT, FASCISTS OUT, RAPISTS OUT” which, to me at least, seemed like something that you never really had to say. But I guess that’s the society we live in.

It’s a tenner into the place, my friend knows the guy who runs the place because he did a video on him for a tech project (he no longer goes to tech) and he’s very friendly with him. The place is so far away from the mainstream they can’t even afford their own stamps, they just draw an X on your hand with a marker.

It’s his stuffy little venue that from the outside looks like an ordinary brick building. It had graffiti, posters and stickers everywhere. Anti-Fa stuff, Feminist stuff, Communist stuff, Anarchist stuff. There were some very harsh, yet just, remarks about the DUP all over the place.

They sell t-shirts and other stuff, but not beer. The beer you have to bring yourself- so long as it’s not in a glass bottle. That can cause a lot of issues once broken, as everyone is bouncing around like a maniac. Or at least they would, if the floor wasn’t so sticky.

Despite our best efforts, we were early. We sat down and I took a chug of my half bottle of buck fast. It tasted like shite and my face implied it. “Don’t buy drinks you don’t like!” my friend said. “But I don’t like any drinks” I replied. Which is true, as far as taste goes, alcohol is by far my least favourite. It’s hard to enjoy poison.

We talk for a while until the first band starts playing. We listen to their first song and then head outside, to the fire exit and then to the car park that leads to the main road. Every now and then a guy comes out to tell us the next band is playing. Throughout the night half the people go inside while the other half go out. Possibly to get a smoke, otherwise they’re out there to congregate with others and rest their ears from the sharp pierce of heavy metal.

At least I think it’s heavy metal. As I’ve said before, I’m musically illiterate.

But the music was deafening. My ears definitely needed a break from that. I wondered about the possible side effects of listening to this music all the time or even going to concerts. Like tinnitus or even possible deafness. I ask my friend, since he goes to many concerts, if he ever considered wearing earbuds.

He looked at me, insulted, and said that ear buds were for pussies. I pestered him about the ramifications of exposing yourself to loud music, to which he replied “Lad, I don’t expect this to effect me cause I’m not making it past thirty six” which is true. He drinks too much, smokes too much, doesn’t really exercise- I genuinely believe he’ll die young.

That statement made me sad. Mainly because it implied that my friend was not long for this world, but it also reminded me about this girl I used to talk to about two years ago. She told me once that she wanted to kill herself on her sixteenth birthday, saying that she always believed that she would die young. She was a sad girl, very beautiful, I can’t remember what she looks like.

So we end up talking out there for a while. It’s early summer time so the nights have gotten longer, it isn’t truly dark till half ten. We discuss and argue about a variety of things. The biggest regarding South Africa and the white population. Apparently white farmers are being killed every now and again and race relations aren’t so good.

I’m of the opinion that as the oppressors they’re getting what’s coming to them, my friend argues that they shouldn’t be killed just because they’re white and that not all white people in south Africa have hurt the natives and thus are innocent. It’s a counter argument to the Sins of the Father, in which the Father’s crimes are so abhorrent that the punishment passes onto the son. Even though the son didn’t commit the crime, he gets punished.

It’s a good argument. Or at least it would be, if the father were dead. Apartheid only ended twenty odd years ago- black people were held in cages while the Fresh Prince of Bell Air swooped America. That kind of pain doesn’t just fade away over night. It requires reparations.

Oh, and let’s all recognise that no one in the west actually gives a shit about White South Africans. The only reason cunts like Katie Hopkins go out of their way to make a fuss about it is so that they can agitate their Racist fanbase, thinking that if the black people far away rise up then the black people near you will also rise up. It’s the oppressor projecting their own crimes upon the disenfranchised.

But of course we eventually stop talking about that and move into something less controversial and more light hearted; Flat Earthers.

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So the Chinless Wonder here was once a part of this flat earth group on Facebook. Initially he was there to make fun of them. But then he started having serious debates and eventually he had to leave- because the amount of stupid he was encountering on a daily basis was so toxic he literally described it as Radiation Poisoning.

For the uninitiated, the flat earth society is full of a bunch of dumb fuck Christians (I say christian because they’re creationists, I’m sure other religions have their fair share of morons too) who genuinely believe that the earth is flat. They don’t believe in science, or rather science that doesn’t agree with the.

Now flat earth ideology differs on many levels. Some believe that Australia doesn’t exist, since it can’t fit on the flat earth, and thus all the photos of Australia are doctored and all three million Australians are crisis actors paid by the new world order (which is a code name for “Jews“) and they believe that the sun and moon revolve around the earth in this weird circle that you can see above- hence time zones.

My friend tells me that some of them genuinely believe that the moon is just a projection in the sky, alongside the starts which are also projections. I asked him how they would explain the existence of the moon and stars over the last few thousand years since the projector is a fairly recent invention (Only a hundred odd years old) he told me they have no answer for that- they’re morons.

The funniest thing I found was the fact that they believe Antarctica doesn’t exist, but rather that it’s just a giant Ice wall along the edge of the flat earth. An Ice wall protecting us from what you’d say? Well, my best guess is that they believe the Ice wall keeps the water in.

They also believe that the wall is guarded by war boats and if anyone comes too close to the wall they’ll be shot down. Somebody actually did the math to that and found that to guard every square mile of that wall you’d need at least 200,000 war ships. Which, even if all the armies in all the world joined forces, they wouldn’t have enough.

I talked to my friend about this on a number of occasions. On the first occasion he was still a member of the group, so I told him to ask the flat earth society if they believed in a multiverse- an infinite number of flat earths.

He was sub-sequentially removed from that group.

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We talked about issues at home. Namely the legacy of the Troubles, a fire that has yet to die out completely.

Now my friend is what many would call a Radical as far as Irish Republican’s go. He’s so Fenian he makes the Acne Rideen Manlet look like Ian Paisley Jnr. He expressed his dissatisfaction with the current political situation in Northern Ireland, declaring himself  a sympathiser to the American idea of Libertarianism. In which the Government is so small that it barely effects anyone’s lives.

You know what the rest of the world refers to any Government that is so small it barely affects anyone’s lives? A Failed State.

Libertarinsim itself is an inconsistent ideology largely occupied by morons, crazy people and other useful idiots. My friend argues that the government doesn’t even bother to fox the pot holes on his way to work so why should he pay taxes? Well, answer of course is that he doesn’t, his parents pay taxes.

The whole debate is remarkably idiotic- even by our standards.

We eventually drift towards the topic of Saoradh (Pronounced “Seeroo” it’s Irish for Liberation) , this new Political Party full of dissident republicans, like the ones you can see above wearing the stupid jumpers and sunglasses on a cloudy day.

They were on newsnight a few weeks back, for no other reason than to scare old protestant people and English people into believing “Oh no, the IRA is back!” while in actuality the IRA never left, but rather it went from an organisation that could go toe-to-toe with MI5 to a bunch of impotent fuck-nuggets who go to the pub in the middle of the day and have “secret meetings” in their fucking shed.

Apparently they’re gonna use Brexit to exploit civil unrest and rally up the Fenians for, like, political support or something like that. They claim not to be the political wing of the New IRA but suggest that Sinn Fein and the SDLP are traitors for some fucking reason. The police recognise them as the voice of the RA, which used to belong to Sinn Fein.

Gerry Addams is on record for telling them to “Go Away” which is a major red flag. It’s a rule of thumb that any Republican too radical for Gerry “I was Never in the IRA” Addams is too radical for me.

I was making fun of them for wearing the stupid sun glasses, my friend on the other hand was very supportive of the sunglasses. He found it very fashionable and not at all idiotic.

He stated that he was considering joining the movement, which baffled me because they’re are staunch Euroskeptics and he was literally just complaining about possibly losing his job if the UK left the Customs Union (I’m not gonna lie, I was very surprised to hear he knew what the CU is) you see, the Chinless Wonder here cuts glass for a living. His company relies on traders from Europe for their business and once Brexit happens- in less than a years time- the company will be forced to issue mass layoffs.

All this can be avoided of course of we issue for a soft Brexit. Which means the UK will be a part of the Customs Union and the Single Market- meaning no hard border in Ireland. But that also means that the UK loses it’s seats at the EU Parliament, meaning that we will be forced to follow laws we have no power in changing. We will have zero representation, which is the exact same mantra the Brexiteers have been going on about for the past few years.

We talked a little more about the troubles, he educated me about this fella named “Billy the Rat” who was this member of the UVF who killed a lot of innocent Catholics simply because they were related to IRA members. He killed some guys Grandmother simply because he was in the RA.

He further detailed his regiment known as “The Rat Pack” which explicitly targeted young catholic boys, tortured them and then cut their throats from ear to ear. Some down right horrible shit.

He told me that the UDA hadn’t been in a firefight since the 70’s. I don’t know if that’s true, but at that point I was prone to believe him.  He talked a lot about these kind of horror stories. Unlike me, he’s great at oral story telling. He has a passion for it, I wonder if he practices these stories or of it’s just off the cuff.

On a previous night out we got in an argument over what which was the bigger shit hole; Derry or Ballymena. Obviously I argued for the Prior, because reasons stated above. He however was a proponent of Ballymena- going so far as to refer to the destination as a “Black Hole

Now for context, Catholics and Protestants have been killing each other for hundreds of years in Ireland- particularly in the North of Ireland. It’s Irish vs British essentially, a lot of xenophobia. The Irish population are largely Catholic and refer to themselves as Nationalists (as they want to be independent from the UK) while the British population are Protestant and refer to themselves as Unionists (as they want to stay in the UK) so we currently live in a state of peace.

There are radicals on both sides, Nationalists would refer to their as Dissident Republicans while Unionists refer to theirs as Loyalists. That latter group are very sectarian and are a swarm of racist cunts. My friend and his father refer to these people as “Black Bastards” because their soul is black with rot. The term was captioned before the Irish learned the existence of actual black people, so to clarify, the term is not an endearment on a persons skin colour but rather their character.

Anyway, my friend refers to any place that has a high loyalist population as a “Black Hole” it’s an interesting slur. His argument upon why Ballymena was more of a shit hole was because it was a black hole. But not just a black hole, a super massive black hole- because there was a proportionate Catholic community in Ballymena as well so they were more “in-you-face” about their general cuntishness. It’s like a a Black Hole surrounded by a ring of light.

I believe we agreed to disagree.

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We talked a bit about Fighting. Now I’ve became a fan of MMA and Boxing in the last few weeks. I’m subscribed to this YouTube channel called “Street Beefs” which is basically this underground fight club in the Southern states of the US. The majority of their fighters are ex-cons or former gang members who are trying to go straight, the community provides that for them by having them fight.

One of the first fights I saw was between this White, slightly chubby guy, with all these tattoos on his body (like Crosses and shit) his name was Christopher Cross. Most fighters have this cool nickname because…reasons. A good portion of them can’t fight for shit, Chris is no exception but he thought he needed a nick name.

So he called himself “The Burning Cross” unaware of the racial connotations that name possessed. I believe he though “Ooh, I’m on fire- I’m the burning Cross!” he wasn’t a racist, but everyone assumed he was. His first fight, and I swear to fuck this is true, was against a Black Guy.

Chris won that fight, mainly because his opponent was an even worse fighter than he was. He kept charging at Chris with his back arched and his head down, swinging his fists randomly. It’s a great tactic if you don’t want to get hit in the face, but you forgo your vision and thus you can’t land any good punches. Also, if you’re afraid to get punched in the face- don’t get in the ring.

But of course Chris eventually changed his nickname to the more appropriate “Kriss-Cross” which makes him sound more rhythmic and energetic. I think he lost his second fight. I told my friend this story and he cringed and then laughed so hard.

He suggested that we get some MMA training together, something that we’ll probably never do. We talked about fighters like Conor McGregor. I’m a fan, he isn’t. Namely because he can’t stand McGregor’s arrogance and even suggesting that the reason Americans love him is due to this arrogance. They too are an arrogant people, just like the Brits. In my eyes to be Irish is to be humble, you live on a small island that really doesn’t matter and were once occupied by the most arrogant people for a good seven hundred years.

Humility is one of the greatest virtues a people can have.

We talked about bare knuckle boxing briefly and then my friend told me this mad tale about his Great Grandfather who was this Scottish immigrant who moved to Ulster back in the late 1800’s. He worked on a farm and had his own little cottage with a family. But it was a largely Protestant community and he being a Catholic, was mistreated alot.

His house was vandalised a lot so one day he was sick of it. He wanted respect and to stop being harassed. So he goes to this man named Wolfe, who is this major influencer in the Protestant community and this great bare knuckle boxer who’s never been beaten. So this guy wanders up to Wolfe one day with an offer;

If I beat you in a fight, you tell these cunts to leave me alone. But if I lose, I’ll leave this place forever

Wolfe accepted the offer, and in a few days they had a fight in a barn. This was how disputes were sorted back then, my friend tells me. After a while, his Grandfather left that barn with a face bloodied and fucked up…but he was the only one to walk out of that barn. Soon enough people stopped harassing him and his family.

It’s a great story, probably never happened. Stuff like this comes from word of mouth. The great grand father told his son this and the son reciprocated to his offspring, all the way down to ol’ Chinless here.

There’s a chance it could be true, a small chance. I reckon the Great Granda made it all up to impress his kids. There’s a term for making up stories of great courage and endearment, it’s known as Stolen Valour. It’s often reserved for people who claim they were War Heroes, when in actuality they weren’t. Or POW’s when in actuality they were just living in the woods for a year.

It’s a term for weak men looking for glory, but don’t want to put the hard work into it- so they just make some shot up or take credit for a thing that they had little or no part in. An example would be a man who, to save his family from harassment, fought a brutal bare knuckle boxing match with a professional fighter- and won.

I suggested that to my friend, he disagreed. We talked about the fights he claims to have been a part in. Apparently his fighting style relies on tackling a guy to a ground and relying solely on his strength to beat them down- but he doesn’t aim for their head, just the torso. The reasoning behind this was an advert he cited that said “One Punch can Kill” in which if you hit a guy in the head in the right spot, it could kill him.

Especially if he’s not expecting it or falls down and hits the ground. You can really fuck yourself up in a street fight. That’s why anyone with a lick of sense shouldn’t be starting fights.

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Despite having six beers each, my friend opted to go to the off license to get more. He got me a six pack of carlsberg, to which I drank around two. Waiting outside that off-license was strange. I was a little drunk and I was observing the night life. There was this random guy hovering up and down the street like a drunk sexual predator, people coming in and out of pubs, I fixated upon a police car for a while but soon realised it was a futile thing.

My boy came out and we made our way back to the venue. He boasted about his strength, claiming to have lifted his colleague who was seventeen stone (107 KG/238 Lbs) he claims he grew stronger after carrying such heavy glass every other day at work. I challenged him to lift me, he did. I then lifted him, which both of us were surprised to find I was strong enough. I guess those 400 push ups a day really are quite handy.

We make it back to venue. I get a little more drunk, we dance around to some music. All the while I’m looking for some potential curts. Now the thing about this venue is that it’s largely consisted of old guys, you’re lucky if there are five girls at a gig and you’re especially lucky if even one of them is fuckable.

I know that latter term can come off as misogynistic, which it kind of is. To clarify I don’t believe that women are sex objects, but rather that they (for the most part) are decent human beings who should be treated equally under the law. However on a night out, I’m just looking to curt. As are women- so when you enter a room you automatically rank the people from the least to most fuckable. Everyone does it.

On this occasion I saw three women who were fuckable. I didn’t talk to a single one of them as I am shy and am so indecisive I make Hamlet look like the fucking flash.

I like to think, for my self esteems sake, that in their minds I was one of the guys they referred to as fuckable. I don’t know, it’s just this weird thing I’ve noticed since I’ve left school where women look at me differently.

Like back at school we all knew eachother since we were eleven, I myself was a cuntish eleven year old so it’s hard to wash off that stigma. So women at school used to look at me like “Oh, it’s Des- that fat cunt” but at tech women look at me differently- especially strangers.

I have no stigma, they know nothing about me other than what I look like. And I think a lot of them like what they see. Or at least I like to think that, it’s great for my self esteem. You shouldn’t be thinking too in depth about the way people look at you, it can cause a lot of problems.

Like a policeman coming up to and saying “Sir, can you explain why you grabbed this woman by the pussy?” and the man responds “Oh, it’s ok- she’s was cool with it- she gave me this look” arrested on sight. Curtains.

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So I’m grooving a long to this music, keeping an eye on this girl I’m never going to talk to, when I turn around and find my friend gone. I check the toilets, he’s not there. I check the crowd, he’s not there. I check outside, he’s not there.

At this point I’m worried. I ask around for him and end up striking a conversation with this bearded guy, after a few sentences I discern that he’s French. He tells me he’s from this town fifty miles south east of Paris. I pretend to know where that is, purely out of politeness.

Now I don’t particularly give a shit about France. I think it’s just England’s Gay Cousin. But this French dude was pretty great, he said he was a communist. So from this point on I’ll refer to him as “Le Marx” we chat for a little while until my friend returns. Apparently he went on his own little journey to the ATM- whereupon he ventured a mile to find one that worked.

We get to talking with the communist and I prop up this question; Now from my understanding of Communism it states that all people are equal and that all people should be treated equal. So if all people are equal, why do Commies hold Che Gueverra in such regard? Or Lenin? What part of Communism justifies Hero Worship- how can a man be hero and equal to the rest of us at the same time?

It’s a thing that bothered me and I don’t believe Le Marx gave me a good answer. You can tell me your answer here. I’d be fascinated to hear what you think.

We talk a little bit more and Le Marx moans on about how we need to seize the means of production an all this Commie shite, my friend is excited but I’m hesitant. I tell him that he. a Frenchman, has the most radical opinions on Belfast. We all laugh. It’s easy to make people laugh, like pressing a fucking button.

We head on into the venue and dance around a little, when the song is over the lead singer tries to reach his drink on the edge of the stage but it falls over and spills. He curses and asks the audience if they have a can they could lend him. The boy wonder here tries to get one out of his bag, but I’m faster. I move forward and hand him over a carlsberg- the crowd roars and the singer says “Cheers lad” a guy pats me on the shoulder and says “You’re a legend” I smile. It’s a great moment in an otherwise dull little life.

Eventually it get’s to half one, all the fuckable girls are either gone or too drunk to talk to so me and my friend head on back to the bus. At this time of night the bus depot is locked, probably because they don’t want homeless people sleeping there. On nights like this there’s one final bus out of Belfast. Packs of us out on the sesh wait outside this metal wall, at a certain time a man comes to open it- we all run inside and make our way to the bus.

At least that’s how it usually goes. On this occasion we were one of the only people standing outside of the gate. The other was one of the pretty girls I saw at the Warzone. She had an argument with her friend (at least I assume it was her friend) and then they split ways, the friend telling her to go home and the girl walked away crying. It was a sad sight.

I expected her to eventually come over to us because she’d recognise us from the Warzone, but she never did. In fact she ran off in the direction that her friend left. Now for some dumbfuck reason I was concerned about her and I told my friend I wanted to go after her, tell her she’ll miss the bus, but I didn’t want to leave my friend who was on the verge of passing out and even if I did go after her she wouldn’t be interested in me.

My friend told me “Desmon- Desmond…go after her. You’re way more handsome than me…Go!” I took it as his blessing and I ran off. It felt like I was in a goddamn movie, but as we all know life is not a movie. And if it were, it’s a shit one at that.

I turned the corner to find the girl gone, all I saw was a street of drunkards. I ran back to my friend to tell him the news “Yeah…I suspected that” so it was all a lie. A very stupid lie. Because even if I did catch up with her, what the hell would I have done?

Tell her that the bus was coming? She already knew that. Do you have any idea how creepy it is to chase after a strange woman in the middle of the night? It’s borderline Cosby. And even if she came back, what would I have done? Seduced her in my drunk state? Get a curt in the fifteen minutes before the bus came? Because there was the very high possibility she would have gotten a different bus.

I don’t know, it was a very stupid thing I did. I mean that curt wouldn’t have benefited my life, nor would it have benefited hers. In fact, I think I was too drunk to appreciate it. Or at least that’s what I tell myself.

It took us a good ten minutes to figure out that we missed the bus by about thirty minutes. The reason the girl ran after her friend was because she had the sense to check the bus timetables, she realised she was too late and thus needed either a lift home or a place to stay. Despite any feud, a good friend will not let you roam the streets of Belfast at night by yourself. Especially with weirdos like me chasing after you.

Me and Chinless end up walking around for half an hour, looking for hotels and hostels. All of them are full, or at least they told us they were full. I reckon we were in such a drunk state that they lied to us, but there was a music festival on that day down by the titanic. So the lie had a sprinkle of truth for believability.

My friedn grew worried and kept pestering me with questions about the hostel. He was in a bad state- he’d drank near eight beers and two bottles of bucky- he was fucked. To top it all off he was now sporting a goddamn Provos jumper- like those cunts with sunglasses wear. A passerby told us “Good luck finding anywhere wearing that” honest to fuck I could have punched him in his micro dick.

My friend kept going on about a hostel but eventually I got him in a taxi, despite the jumper. It was a forty odd mile trek back to Maghera. An hour long, mostly peaceful. Chinless dozed off, I was tempted to sleep but I kept an eye on that meter. Every twenty seconds it increased by 50p- it took every fibre of my being to stay awake in that car. But eventually we got back home.

Or at least to Maghera main street, we were too drunk to give proper directions.Whole thing costed up about £50, I thanked the man for the lift as it was a long drive. We said farewell and he fucked off back to Belfast.

The town was dead- it was like half three in the morning, the pubs were closed. Only thing open was kebab shop that my friend insisted we go to. I wasn’t enthused, until we entered the shop and I saw my other friend- who I will call War-Cock.

I’m not gonna lie, seeing War-Cock at this hour in the night made my fucking day. We greeted eachother and chatted a little. There were a few drunk culchies fucking about in the store. I think I laughed with them about something but I can’t remember. Apparently  War-Cock over here was working overtime. I showed some solidarity for this hard job that I’d take in a heart beat as I’m so broke right now.

Chinless ordered something, what I can only describe as “food” we went back to his place. He ate along the way. We took a piss by a hedge, it was ok. Public urination is acceptable if it’s the early hours of the morning.

We get in the house to find his Da asleep in the living room. Every time I stay over we find him sleeping in the living room, I think he stays up every time my friend goes out. I don’t know what that’s like.

I sleep on the sofa, sleep till 9am where I have to get up for a piss- but I’m so hungover I have to go back to sleep afterwards. The dog comes in around twelve and I’m officially awake. It pains me to put my boots and jacket back on. I say good bye to my friends parents real quick and thank them for their hospitality. I don’t say goodbye to my friend, he knows the craic.

To my bane it is a hot fucking day. The sun tries to kill me like a worm on tarmac. I don’t want to eat but I have to, soak up the alcohol. I get some hot food real quick and then head down to the bus. I call my house eleven times, no answer. If it weren’t so hot I would be angry, but I felt helpless.

I arrived in Dungiven and made the long trek back home. I was halfway there when I got a call from the house, my parents were at mass in Park. In five minutes my mother picks me up on this shitty little county road with no footpath, that’s the end of my story.

Now a story exists for a multitude of reasons. Mostly for entertainment but also to serve as a lesson, a character in a story ultimately learns a lesson by the end. As does the viewer, stories allow a person to live thousands of lives instead of one. So what are the lessons in this one?

Well, the major one I see is to combat your indecisiveness. Believe in yourself enough so that you can effectively talk to people you’re interested in. But also forgo a false sense of pride, don’t brag about things you have not achieved and do not believe in yourself too much or else you’ll e running after people who have no interest in you.

But the main ones are; don’t buy drinks you don’t like, don’t wander off from your friends, try to be moderate in your opinions, be respectful to others, be kind and good things will happen, always check your bus time tables, always talk to your parents about hen you plan on getting back home and never, ever Steal anyone elses Valour- and leave that Provos jumper at home.

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