Weddin's
I was driving down O’Connell Street the other day, when something caught my eye. Now, on any given fine day, many a thing on O’Connell Street might indeed catch my eye but let’s leave that for another time. Clapton once said he was fifty-one when he stopped thinking like that so there’s not all that far to go, in percentage terms anyway. Maybe. Clapton had a lot higher mileage. Wouldn’t it be great if your libido had a little blue bar like scanner software to tell you how much is left?
Anyway, there I was in O’Connell Street, stopped in traffic, when a dress hire shop caught my eye. In the window were four male mannekins, wearing what the well-dressed Limerick groom apparently must now be seen in on his wedding day. There were three preposterous suits, looking like what a cross between a cheap undertaker and James Onedin might wear on a ship. All brass buttons and frilly fronts and lurid colours like mauve, and cerise, and lilac. Sweet Jesus, imagine getting married in mauve.
Now I know what mauve is. Five-foot sailor recently lost a garment on d’yacht. All the men searched high up and low down. “ Is it this fucken’ purple ting?” we asked, wiping the gearbox oil from our toil-worn fingers. Not a flash of recognition. But when the women searched, they found the same fucken purple ting and announced they had it. “S’not fucken purple, it’s mauve ye blind packa bastards’ they uttered sotto voce, or words to the like effect. Women are great like that. Men have a relatively limited vocabulary when it comes to colour – basically we have the one-colour-fits-all selection, like the form you use to tax your car. Red, green, blue, brown – that sort of thing. Modified by the variables of metallic, flat, bright and shitty. “Your man arrived on to collect my daughter for the debs in a shitty green Hi-ace pick-up” sort of thing. But women know the difference between cerise shoes and pink ones, so they do. And apparently it is a hugely significant difference.
Back to the dress hire window. What really irked me was the fourth mannekin. Jesus, it had a purple tartan kilt. A purple tartan kilt. Bejesus!
What sort of Irishman wants to get married in a purple tartan kilt? What sort of narcissistic git sees himself looking his pathetic ‘best’ in a purple tartan kilt? And what sort of girl thinks her big day will be nicely enhanced by standing alongside a git in a purple, tartan, shaggin kilt? “ Mammy and Daddy, I have big news – I’m engaged to Abdullah from Lagos and we’re getting married next week – he’ll be wearing a purple tartan kilt” – it doesn’t hang together really, does it? Imagine showing your wedding album to your grandchildren “There’s granddad the day he married yer granny” “Why is he wearing a kilt, oul’ lad? Are we Scottish?” “Aye, wee bairn, yer granddad was the last one of the grrrreat McGits of Limerick.”
The only Irishmen who should get married in kilts are those fully paid-up members of a hairy-arse military pipe band who decide to get married all together, They might, just might, get away with it. At least the wife will have fair notice that her bethrothed has a predilection for faffing about in a kilt, so she won’t be too surprised to come home early from work one evening and find him doing his knitting in her leather miniskirt, will she?
Did you ever wonder why the piddlers in posh hotels are never all in line? Did you even notice? The one at the end is always lower. University Of Limerick is another great place for the low one at the end, and it’s cheaper to get into than a posh hotel. Now I was always erroneously led to believe that this was plumbers’ provision for young fellas. A bit like believing in Santa Claus, it seems. I rationally moved on to Scenario B, which was that it was designed to cope with our burgeoning immigrant population from the dark continent. A plausible enough hypothesis, but as yet unverified by any other researcher in the field and therefore unconfirmed. But shag it – what about Scenario C – plumbers install one low piddler at the end of the line for daft Irish gits who want to get married in kilts?
Answers on a postcard etc….
Goodnight – Nuts.
Anyway, there I was in O’Connell Street, stopped in traffic, when a dress hire shop caught my eye. In the window were four male mannekins, wearing what the well-dressed Limerick groom apparently must now be seen in on his wedding day. There were three preposterous suits, looking like what a cross between a cheap undertaker and James Onedin might wear on a ship. All brass buttons and frilly fronts and lurid colours like mauve, and cerise, and lilac. Sweet Jesus, imagine getting married in mauve.
Now I know what mauve is. Five-foot sailor recently lost a garment on d’yacht. All the men searched high up and low down. “ Is it this fucken’ purple ting?” we asked, wiping the gearbox oil from our toil-worn fingers. Not a flash of recognition. But when the women searched, they found the same fucken purple ting and announced they had it. “S’not fucken purple, it’s mauve ye blind packa bastards’ they uttered sotto voce, or words to the like effect. Women are great like that. Men have a relatively limited vocabulary when it comes to colour – basically we have the one-colour-fits-all selection, like the form you use to tax your car. Red, green, blue, brown – that sort of thing. Modified by the variables of metallic, flat, bright and shitty. “Your man arrived on to collect my daughter for the debs in a shitty green Hi-ace pick-up” sort of thing. But women know the difference between cerise shoes and pink ones, so they do. And apparently it is a hugely significant difference.
Back to the dress hire window. What really irked me was the fourth mannekin. Jesus, it had a purple tartan kilt. A purple tartan kilt. Bejesus!
What sort of Irishman wants to get married in a purple tartan kilt? What sort of narcissistic git sees himself looking his pathetic ‘best’ in a purple tartan kilt? And what sort of girl thinks her big day will be nicely enhanced by standing alongside a git in a purple, tartan, shaggin kilt? “ Mammy and Daddy, I have big news – I’m engaged to Abdullah from Lagos and we’re getting married next week – he’ll be wearing a purple tartan kilt” – it doesn’t hang together really, does it? Imagine showing your wedding album to your grandchildren “There’s granddad the day he married yer granny” “Why is he wearing a kilt, oul’ lad? Are we Scottish?” “Aye, wee bairn, yer granddad was the last one of the grrrreat McGits of Limerick.”
The only Irishmen who should get married in kilts are those fully paid-up members of a hairy-arse military pipe band who decide to get married all together, They might, just might, get away with it. At least the wife will have fair notice that her bethrothed has a predilection for faffing about in a kilt, so she won’t be too surprised to come home early from work one evening and find him doing his knitting in her leather miniskirt, will she?
Did you ever wonder why the piddlers in posh hotels are never all in line? Did you even notice? The one at the end is always lower. University Of Limerick is another great place for the low one at the end, and it’s cheaper to get into than a posh hotel. Now I was always erroneously led to believe that this was plumbers’ provision for young fellas. A bit like believing in Santa Claus, it seems. I rationally moved on to Scenario B, which was that it was designed to cope with our burgeoning immigrant population from the dark continent. A plausible enough hypothesis, but as yet unverified by any other researcher in the field and therefore unconfirmed. But shag it – what about Scenario C – plumbers install one low piddler at the end of the line for daft Irish gits who want to get married in kilts?
Answers on a postcard etc….
Goodnight – Nuts.
posted by The Bolted Nut | 10:32 PM
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