At the top of the world…

I am not sitting and drinking in Speedy's Bar.

Diego "Speedy" Gonzales – that little man with his black moustache and his big sombrero – is not my alcohol dealer tonight. He is not my – imaginary? – drinking partner anymore. Not the one who comes out after four or five shots of vodka.

Tonight I am sitting in the house on the top of the world.

Himalaya mountains. Tibet. Home of the Dalai Lama. Visiting holy men – monks perhaps – in yellow robes.

And holy llamas.

Drinking? No more than water or fermented goat's milk at most.

Watching ice and stone.

Singing "Harem Christa" all night long.

Or am I not?

I got off the 45a somewhere around the new estates
which were advertised as being in Killarney but were really in just a field.
And I was going to the house at the top of the world.

Brian Carroll lived around here somewhere. And after school
I'd sometimes go back to his place and sing with his brother Dermot.
He knew all the Motown songs.

Sometimes I think about him
and I heard that he's a civil servant in Cork
which is funny for a guy who used to sing Motown songs.

Soon I'd come to the Leopardstown dual carriageway.
It was the first dual carriageway in Ireland and it was a 100 yards long.
I liked the name. I don't remember a town being there and I certainly saw
no leopards. But I had to cross it anyway to get to the house at the top of the world.

Everyone thought the dual carriageway was the great and modern
and every Saturday the bowsies, yahoos, guttersnipes and corner boys
would empty out of the pubs and scream like wild Saturday night leopards
drunk and fast and delirious for that blessed 100 yards.
People were always getting killed.

Well I ducked and weaved and it was fun and I made it over
and up the small road, past the Silver Tassie, along the river bank,
past the Proddie church and off left up the lane
to the house at the top of the world where you lived.

Your mother in her sensible shoes and you father in his tea-cozy wooly hat,
bright eyes and roomful of old hoarded yellowing newspapers
and 1920's photos of the Burren and you busy in the kitchen
half-glad to see me, half nervous with your parents around.

You'd take me for a walk around the field and down the lane
and when the evening fell your father would light the peat fire
and show me pictures of the West taken in the 20's
and then he'd go to bed. And the night was full of you and the evening
and the peat fire in the house on the top of the world.

And then it was time to go and risk death again in the dark of
the Leopardstown dual carriageway.

And on the way back I felt I could just jump the whole bloody thing.

Cow tipping…

"I know what you did last Sunday."

Hesitating. Almost in shock. My eyes flickering. Secretly gazing over to the bartender but he didn't say anything. Not yet.

"Where have you been last full moon?"

It was on Sunday I learned. I am grabbing the cup of meaty soup wiping blood and hair from my mouth.

"I've been around."

Hardly understood, breaking bread and dipping it into the lumpy soup. Swallowing greedily without chewing.

"It's just because I've heard about your issue."

Full moon? Were-wolves crossing my mind. Although I prefer the expression 'were-person'.

"I've been in the fields and meadows cow tipping."

"Cow tipping?"

I am grunting and slurping and smacking. This bread and soup must be the best dish I've had in years or maybe a month. I am always so hungry the weeks and days before and after full moon.

"Cows fall asleep standing upright on their three legs. And when you sneak upon them without waking them up especially in full moon nights you are able to throw them over with only one tip of one of your fingers. That's what I did and do on full moon nights in full moon lights."

Doubts and skepticism on his face.

"Cows?"

Nodding.

"In the fields and meadows?"

Nodding again.

The cup is empty. Clanging it on the counter. Asking for more.

He's not moving. His face is all question marks.

"But, it's winter outside, dude. The ground was frozen. Fields and meadows were covered in snow last Sunday. Cows save and sound in their stables. No cows to tip in the outside, man!"

Time to go. Time to leave. Snow is melting like my cover. Not even trying to invent a cover story about a really very rare species of snow cows I was exploring. The ones all white you can hardly see or spot in snow and winter, you know.

"Urban legends, dude!"

Did I really like it better when he used to call me 'Sir'?

"The practice of cow tipping is generally considered an urban legend, as cows do not sleep standing up, and the implication that a cow can be pushed over and not stand up again is incorrect, as, unless injured, cows routinely lie down and can easily regain their footing. They are far too heavy to bring them down with only one finger tip. So where have you been last full moon?"

Maybe it's time to tip the bartender. Should watch out where and how he falls asleep.

Silence.

Banknotes on counter.

And off we go.

Growling deep inside.

And the hunger gnaws on.

PC…

I am still sitting in Speedy's Bar. And I am getting drunk and drunken.

Drowned in vodka – which is French for 'little water' for your information and just in case you didn't knew.

I am getting old and older. Fat and fatter. Dumb and dumber.

Russell Crowe is not Kurt Russell. And they are not Val Kilmer.

Robert de Niro is not Al Pacino. And they are not Jack Nicholson.

Morgan Freeman is not Samuel Leroy Jackson. And they are not Laurence Fishburne.

Is that PC? Is this ignorance? Lack of education? Or already racism?

We are definitely getting old when our heroes die…

69...

- They all died at 69.

# Back in the summer of '69, Sir?

- No. Bryan Adams is still alive. At least I hope he is.

And he is not 69 years old yet.

The others, they died at the age of 69.

# Who died, Sir?

- Lemmy Kilmister, Achim Mentzel,

David Bowie and Alan Rickman.

# Who is Achim Mentzel, Sir?

- The Mick Jagger of the East. But never mind.

# Sorry to correct you, Sir,
but Lemmy Kilmister wasn't 69 when he died.
He turned 70 only four days before he passed
away on December, 28th 2015.

- Shut up, bartender! You are ruining my

conspiracy theory. From now on everyone will

die at the age of 69. And no one will reach the

age of 70 from this year 2016 on. I saw that on

the bottom of my empty glass. And now stop

wiping those glasses with that dirty cloth.

Fix me a drink, make it a strong one.

# Glasses and lasses are brittle ware, Sir!

- Aye, as you say Mr. McGuffin*…

* Or as Alfred Hitchcock explained in an interview with François Truffaut in 1966

"It might be a Scottish name, taken from a story about two men in a train.
One man says 'What's that package up there in the baggage rack?',
and the other answers 'Oh, that's a McGuffin'.
The first one asks 'What's a McGuffin?'.
'Well', the other man says, 'It's an apparatus for trapping lions in the Scottish Highlands'.
The first man says 'But there are no lions in the Scottish Highlands',
and the other one answers 'Well, then that's no McGuffin!'.
So you see, a McGuffin is nothing at all."

Midnight and Vodka...

# Name your poison, Sir.

- I take vodka. Two fingers. On the rocks.
With a slice of lemon at the edge of the glass.
Andyou can call me Bromford.
Bromford Bibble.

Sir is my father or my brother.

# Is that your real name, Sir?

- Who knows? It's the one I'm going with

tonight. And now let the show begin. 

Midnight and vodka all over again..

Fix me a drink, make it a strong one,

Hey comrade, a drink, make it a long one,

My hands are shaking and my feet are numb,

My head is aching and the bar's going round,

And I'm so down, in this foreign town.

Tonight there's a band, it ain't such a bad one,

Play me a song, don't make it a sad one,

I can't even talk to these Russian girls,

The beer is lousy and the food is worse,

And it's so damn cold, yes it's so damn cold,

I know it's hard to believe,

But I haven't been warm for a week.

Moonlight and vodka, takes me away,

Midnight in Moscow is lunchtime in L.A.,

Ooh play boys, play...

Espionage is a serious business,

Well I've had enough of this serious business,

That dancing girl is making eyes at me,

I'm sure she's working for the K.G.B.

In this paradise, ah cold as ice.

Moonlight and vodka, takes me away,

Midnight in Moscow is sunshine in L.A.,

Yes, in the good old U.S.A.

Chris de Burgh – Moonlight and Vodka

- Did you know that January is also called

"The Wolf Month"?

# No, didn't know that, Sir.

Where is Bromford Bibble?

***