Irish Neil (One for Mitch.)

Mitch is probably my best friend. Aw. Isn't that nice? It is. He's pretty great. We get drunk then stumble down the street, yelling "THEY TOOK OUR JEERRRRRRRRBS". We loudly play "Marry/Boff/Kill" in restaurants. We tell Tony Scott to quit it with the whole certain shutter speed with fast moving shots thing in Unstoppable.

Then I saw on Facebook that he had "checked in" to a hospital, and that he was "swallowing" his own "face". Apparently something's fucked up in his throat, and he was choking on himself. Or something. So I rang him the next day, and he said he's a bit better. But he can't drink for a while. OH WOES! And he can't swallow. He also demanded that I post on this thing more, so he can read it more, and then laugh more. Well Mitch, this one's for you. I'm pretty sure you'll find some lols within it.

Okay. The scene. It's a pubcrawl through Dublin. I'm there with Karin, and we end up hanging out with Emma and Emma from Liverpool, and two American girls. One was called Abbey. I can't remember the other one. Emma and Emma were a laugh, they were superb. They were like Liverpudlian versions of Karin and I. Smaller Emma was Karin. She was smaller, quieter, and wont to order spirits. Taller Emma was like me. More prone to yelling, more prone to ordering large quantities of beer.

Anyway. It was a fun-filled, stupidity-inducing, alcohol-consuming night. Hilarity ensued.

We danced the ... rocket clock? I think? I'm pretty sure we cleared the dance floor with that one, at any rate. An old drunk tried to pick a fight with our pub crawl leader. Karin accidentally called our Irish tour guide "English". I spoke metal with Garvhan, he of long flowing very ginger hair. Then we ran into a guy I hung out with and went out on the town with in Belfast. A night out in Belfast with an adorable Canadian girl, and a macho, loud South African. Marie? Brad? Those were their names I think, but the entire night we referred to each other as "Canada", "South Africa" and "Aussie".

Anyway, that's besides the point entirely. We ran into fellow Aussie, of all places, completely by chance, outside the last club on the pubcrawl. The alcohol consumption partaken by both of us meant the reunion was one of flailing arms and excessive yelling. Didn't really help that he was absolutely and gloriously camp. I snuck him into the club, funnily enough, by pretending we were together. Maybe fifteen minutes of loud catching up later though, he disappeared into the night. I think he found a boy that struck his fancy. Gone, forever. For the life of me I can't remember his name. Hilarious though.

So. We're at this club. The Emmas had left. Karin was tired, it had been a large day. Plus, it hadn't been that long since Luke, her boyfriend, had returned to Australia, so poor Karin was still prone to occasional glumness. So even though it had been a completely drunkenly enjoyable night, things seemed to be winding down. Then I spotted him. In a club full of what seemed to be dudds and a cohort of drunken Australian males under the age of 20, he was skinny, quiet-looking. Neil, that was his name.

After a little while talking (yelling over the music) to him, a few things became clear. Firstly, that he was adorable. Also a little bit young. But then, Irish. For those who don't know me very well, I've proven to have a propensity for "jumping" the Irish. Secondly, that his quietness, his attentiveness, yet his complete inability to Make A Move was remarkably similar to the guy that was waiting for me back at home. Which only served to make young Neil that much more endearing. We chatted. For a quite a long time, considering how loud our surrounds were. By that stage though, Karin and Abbey had decided they wanted to bail soon. Karin looked dead on her feet, Abbey's friend had long since gone home with some Australian.

Artist's impression.

"Come on, Reb!" said Karin, "Do it! So we can go!"

Well, fine! I thought. If this complete clone of That Particular Boy at Home is just as terrible at making a move as That Particular Boy at Home, then I'd just have to take matters into my own hands.


Reb Style.

Reb Style.

"So. Neil. What are your top five favourite films of all time?"
I can't remember what he said. I remember them being pretty good though.

"So. Neil. Gimme your top five favourite bands?"
"Oh, you like The Band? Gimme your top five favourite songs by The Band!"
"Top five frontmen!"
"Top five favourite 60s pop groups!"
"Top five directors!"
"Top five Coen Brothers films!"

I could see Karin sitting with Abbey, could feel them watching and being halfway between puzzled and highly amused. I turned back to them. "I KNOW!" I mouthed.

Neil also looked a little puzzled, but mostly pleased.
"What ... what is this?"

"Okay. Your top five favourite albums."
He told me, and I grinned.

"HEY NEIL! You have pretty good taste in things.

WE SHOULD MAKE OUT." 

And so we did.

And Karin and Abbey were pleased. There was much rejoicing!

Then "Killing in the Name Of" came on and I danced around a bit, then I said good-bye to skinny, adorable Irish Neil.

And that's the story of the most drawn-out, stupid pick-up line ever.