One thing about Ireland, there is an entirely different connotation to the word “cunt” over here. In America, only Bukowski says cunt. It’s dirty, dirty territory. But here, the C-bomb is dropped freely. In Cork, I waited at the entrance of a closing pub in the wee hours while one of my tour mates did some kissing. To pass the time, I turned to some of the other night owls. “Teach me some Irish slang. How do I tell my friend to stop making out so we can walk home?” The phrase these two girls came up with was, “STOP MEETIN’ ON YA ONE, YA MOTHAFUCKIN’ CUNT!” (meeting = kissing. one = significant other) They belted it back and forth, as I failed dismally in impersonating their Irish vowels.
The next night in Dublin, we were beckoned to a Tuesday night party across town called C.U.N.T (an acronym for “C U Next Tuesday”). Bukowski would love Ireland.
A wonderful piano driven pop rock band called Ram’s Pocket Radio is playing 3 of our 4 Irish dates. The are an incredibly physically attractive bunch. The boy lead singer and the girl bass player are dating. Our band is plotting to get them to make out in front of us. Here is a clip of Darwin merging Irish rock and freestyle rap.
I’ve been playing sweat drenched show after sweat-bath show without ever washing my bass guitar strap. It smells like a really nasty locker room, or a very fine aged cheese.