The Drunk Des Diaries: The Byron Effect

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This entry like the few previous ones focuses less on one story but rather a few, all tied together with some concurrent theme or message. Like what I wrote in the Rainbow Road, this is more or less scraps of night outs that aren’t worth a whole article by themselves. But by fuck can I make do with scraps. Enjoy.


I’ve been thinking a lot about what this woman said at a seminar I once attended. She’s a secondary school teacher and she talked about how all teachers, no matter their creed or background, all agree on one thing; 3rd years are insufferable cunts.

Particularly the boys. Once you hit third year, you’re diving straight into puberty. A while awkward time in your life and your squeezed into a tight, dank room with a bunch of other cunts being taught by a person who most likely doesn’t want to be there. You’re asked in this gooey, smelly state to pave the road for your future.

It’s a bad time for all involved, but the teachers are the most sympathetic. She goes on to say how moody they are and how you can’t really hold an actual conversation with them, let alone teach.

Her perspective made me think of myself and what I was like back then. I remember when I was young I used to be very close with my mother, talked to her all the time, there was virtually no part of my life she didn’t know about. I’d grown up with older sisters, one of whom was a real fucking cunt soon as she turned into a teenager and I swore to my mother I’d never be like that.

But you ought to not make promises you can’t keep. I don’t remember exactly what done it but one day in third year I felt like something broke inside of me and I just felt so…tired. When I got home, I couldn’t talk to her anymore. I just needed to be alone and quiet. At first I didn’t talk to her about anything of substance for about a day, then two, then a week- and then one day I’m sixteen years old and my Ma tells me “you do know I literally don’t know anything about your life, don’t you?

A part of me was sad to hear that. I don’t know what done me in. Maybe because I got made fun of for being fat or ginger or having a weird voice. Maybe it was the lack of friends, and those that tolerated me enough to be friends turned out to be vindictive cunts. Maybe the sheer exhaustion of being me just broke me down. I hadn’t the heart to tell her that the kid she knew, had raised, was dead. All that was left was this bitter old bastard with hate in his eye and and a perpetual rage in his heart.

I can talk to her now and again, but I’ve no interest in explaining who I am. I don’t need that judgement from her or God. I can do it all by myself. That being said, I’m quite glad there’s never going to be an instance where I tell my Ma about how I performed a tactical whitey in Boombox.

I don’t know what the craic is with Hospitality but I’ve somehow gotten even more fucked up. Which is truly baffling because I thought that was literally impossible, yet here we are. Back home all the friend groups I hovered around considered me to be extremely fucked up. But in this line of work, I’m considered appallingly normal.

But like just being around so many fucked up people on a regular basis does take a tole on you. A little like radiation poisoning, you get sicker the more you’re exposed. About a month ago I was out at a coffee shop with some friends telling them about all the shit I’ve been up to in the past year alone and passersby were just giving me the most concerned and disgusted looks as they left on mass.

So I was invited along with the work ones to this leaving party for one of our colleagues. It was a pretty solid night but there were a few things I wanted to touch upon. The first being that I am absolutely certain that the restaurant manager came over and stole a pint directly out of my hands.

Like, she just came up out of nowhere while I was sitting down in the back of Maverick, holding a pint of Guiness in one hand and a pint of water in the other. Straddles over to me and is like “is that the pint you bought me?” and then yanked it out of my hand- not even waiting for me to say anything. I didn’t put up a fight because I was trying to summon enough constitution so that I didn’t boke, and I knew that pint wasn’t going to help so I just gave up.

But I kept eyeing it while she laid it down to play pool. Was looking to steal it back for myself. It sure as fuck didn’t sound like me to just buy a person a pint. The only reason I’d ever do so is if I either owed them money or was looking to fuck them, and I’m certain neither were on the table to begin with.

She caught me lifting the pint and I played it off as if I were just picking it up to hand it to her. Gave her a pint I’d already drank out of, had already paid for, for literally no fucking reason other than I was too feared to start a row between this absolute Jack Russell of a lesbian.

Jesus, I’m getting nervous even just thinking about it.

I actually think I owed her a pint but I’m certain I never said I was going to buy her one. I’m cheap as sin. I eat multigrain hoops for christ sake.

What made things worse was every now and then other ones would come over and be like “ooh, water- give us some” and I was too drunk to argue naw. I watched these wee cunts come up, thinking “oh god I’m gonna catch something“.

Worst offender was a colleague of mine who looks a lot like this girl I thought was cute back in school. The girl despised me for…understandable reasons. I wasn’t very nice to her. Wasn’t very nice to a lot of people back then. But I thought she was cute so when I look at this greasy cunt gulping down my water with his manic eyes, his big ass nose and long dark hair I feel…confused, to say the least.

At some point everyone decided that Maverick oughta be ditched, most likely due to hilarious Drag Queens who couldn’t sing for shit, and headed up to Boombox, the nightclub upstairs.

A few of them checked on me, I told them I was feared of drinking anymore in case I’d boke. All of them looked at each other in unison, then back to me and were like “dude, you gotta do a tactical whitey.” Now, whitey’s typically refer to manic blackout states of drunk when you drink alcohol and smoke marijuana at the same time- often times you boke as a result. It’s a bad state to be in, like mixing Vodka with Gin.

They explain that a tactical whitey is when you’re drunk, and you’ve still enough wits about you, you know for certain that if you drink anymore you’ll boke. So to keep on drinking, and to ensure you get into clubs, you gotta make yourself boke so that you can sober up just a little and then keep on drinking.

Upon recollection, I’m thinking they meant that I ought to head to drink a big gulp to ensure I boke- but for some reason I interpreted it to mean I ought to finger my throat till my hand burnt with stomach bile. So I went up to the club, dashed to the toilet and pulled the ol’ bulimic manoeuvre. Took a little bit longer than I anticipated. As my fingers descended down my gullet it felt so…wrong. Nothing is worth that.

The familiar black bile of Guinness came spouting out of me. Eyes got all puffy from the strain of it, a few tears dropped down. I cleaned the toilet as best I could and then went back to the club. Drank a little bit more, enough to where I thought dancing was ok and not intolerable.

I sat out in the beer garden for a while. Won a small competition to see who had the hairiest chest, by a landslide. Spent a good chunk of it sitting down while the restaurant manager kept hugging and kissing me, telling me how much she loves me and all that shite. All the while I’m doing my best not to pass out.

Soon after that everyone started calling taxis, so I started walking home by myself. Had to summon some primal energy within me to keep on moving and not collapse to the ground. I got home safe and sound, all the while observing the same disgusting degeneration of pub crawlers marching home in their packs, yelling obscenities and acting like morons. A sight I’ve grown a tolerance for.

I’ve never blacked out while drinking. I remember it all, even if I say otherwise. I remember the restaurant manager affectionately calling me her “little serial killer” which is, y’know, offensive for obvious reasons. Then again she’s not the first woman to ever tell me I exude murder vibes and, sadly, she won’t be the last.

It’s little moments like that that made me start up the Green Rover. I like to fantasise that someday when the dust settles and there’s no trace of humanity or cockroaches, one alien explorer will find a chip of a server and all my writings will be there. They’ll translate the morally jaded ramblings of a moody Irishman and this will be the only record of how we lived.

But mostly I wanted to correct the record of who I am as a person. An honest account of who Desmond Lynch was and how he lived. But I say that knowing that it’s a lie. Because you and I both know that there’s some stuff I’m taking to the grave. I’m never gonna brag about my sexual exploits. I’m never gonna reveal the heartfelt conversation I had with a good friend about some manic grief ridden thoughts. I’m never gonna say a lot of things.

But unlike Lord Byron, my name won’t be turned into an adjective to describe how much of an alluring cunt I was.

George Gordon Byron of course was a British poet in the 19th century, part of the Romantics. His behaviour at the time was erratic, enthralling and salacious. Once bragged about fucking two hundred women within a year and went on a self imposed exile after having one too many sex scandals.

His general being of a fuck boy inspired many writers of the era. Creating what we now know as the Byronic Hero, a morally grey or ignoble protagonist. Essentially what we’d now refer to as an anti-hero. This archetype stretches from Mr. Darcy in Jane Austen’s own Pride and Prejudice to Frank Miller’s psychotic Batman in the Dark Knight Returns.

One anecdote I read, and I can’t really confirm if it’s true or not, talks about how fellow poet Percy Shelly went looking for Byron after he lost contact with him in Venice. He eventually found him in a brothel, dying of malnutrition after eating nothing of substance and having non stop sex for days on end.

Shelley wrote back to his friend John Keats, telling him of what he saw and how he rescued him from this toxic Harem. Keats simply wrote back that you should have left him there to die. Essentially hearing “hey, I found our friend in the gutter” and then saying “well, put him back.

Obviously I’ve never been in that bad of a state, but I have felt on a few occasions what Byron must have felt in that instance. This sheer exhaustion and disgust of who you are, where you are, what you’re doing and everyone around you.

Sometimes you’re getting the life force sucked out of you by the nape of your cock, sometimes you wake up with someone else’s vomit on your jeans and a strange man stroking your hair, sometimes you’re in a unisex toilet pulling a tactical whitey, sometimes you pass out and emerge finding some random woman wanking you off- a lot of things can trigger the Byron Effect.

The degradation of the soul takes its tole and you need to retreat, to recover and get your wits with you. Sometimes the incident is so bad that you try and block it out, but despite all your efforts it manages to crawl it’s way back into the forefront of your mind as you stir awake at night.

This kind of effect is partly why the vast majority of Byron’s close friends decided to burn his memoirs to protect his legacy and family. Most likely because it confirmed he was Bisexual and at the time Sodomy was illegal. You can fuck your half sister, you can steal your illegitimate daughter away from her mother but as soon as you take some dick then somehow you’re seen as morally reprehensible. Crock of shit you ask me, but that’s how they got to Oscar Wilde.

I’m hoping not to go down like a Byron or a Hemingway, personally I’d rather be remembered as a Sinclair Lewis or a John Steinbeck. But it’s a bit early to tell how this life is going to pan out.

That being said, my writings have been met with some praise. Surprised me that anyone actually read my stuff, let alone people I know. Though most of the praise has come from people who stumbled upon one of my articles drunk or high, a lot of people being like “dude, you like….know so many big words” which I guess is a compliment.

So if I can’t correct the record then I hope my words can comfort those like me. Those who feel like they’re too fucked up to keep on living, too nervous to join the crowd, who’ve seen the underbelly of their soul and have been perpetually horrified ever since. I want you to know that life has it’s share cunt moments, but there are good people and good people bring good things with them.

Unlike Byron or many of the insufferable posh cunts who sadly take up the vast majority of literature, you live in the best era of humanity. One where disease is treatable, fresh water is more easily available, food is everywhere and where life can be improved upon more easily.

Participation in life is not mandatory, but is recommended.

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