Let me just say – rugby kicks ass. They have two different types – Union and League. When we silly Americans think of the bloody rugby with biting, kicking and hair pulling without pads, what we’re thinking of is Union. (Apparently though, biting, kicking and hair pulling are all illegal.) The closest sport to union rugby I can compare it to is ice hockey. The clock starts – everybody goes. You kick ass and fight hard to score. When you score, the clock stops until everyone can make it back to the center of the pitch and the process starts all over again. It is NOTHING like American Football, except for the fact that it is played on grass and the ball is of a similar shape. Those are the only two similarities. (Rugby League is what NFL football came from.)
Though I’m sure there are just as many intricacies to rugby as there are to baseball, it was still really entertaining to watch even without knowing the strategy and statistics. We had a blast watching, yelling and cheering. Wales won the championship… I don’t remember if Dom was pleased about this because depending on his mood he tells people he is either Irish, Welsh or English… so who knows, he could have been simultaneously excited and sad. Two parts sad, one part happy? Maybe!
After looking through some of the photography I’ve done, Dom asked if I could bring my camera along and shoot some good photos of the band playing – which I was happy to do. They had quite a crowd going by the end of the set. Near the end, with my camera still around my neck I went up to the bar for a pint and a really big guy comes over and says “Hey photographer! What are you drinking?”
“Oh – thanks! I’ll have a Carlsberg,” I tell him.
“No. You’ll have a Carlsberg and a double scotch!”
“…”
Man, English people are nice.
I don’t remember what his name was – only that he was a bond trader and he apparently made a lot of money that day.
One of this guys friends saw us talking and comes over to say hi.
“Are you buying drinks for an American again?” he asks, laughing. Apparently this guy is fond of us Americans.
So, after I finish my two drinks, another round of Carlsberg and scotch is handed to me. I can see that this is very shortly going to be a disaster, but also see an opportunity.
Midsong I go tap on Dom’s shoulder. He looks up at me with the bagpipe tube still in his mouth.
“These guys are buying me drinks just because I’m American and they want to get me drunk… any drink I put down on this table is for the you guys… k?”
Dom nods. James on the fiddle has heard this as well. He grins.
I put my scotch on the table and go back to the guys who have decided I’m entertaining because of my accent.
“So where in America are you from?”
“Arizona.”
Bond-traders eyes light up.
“Like… like that song? Like that song that goes ‘I’m standing on a corner in Tucson Arizona!’ there?”
“Winslow Arizona.”
“What?” he asks.
“Standing on a corner in WINSLOW Arizona.”
“Well, is that where you’re actually from?”
“No, I’m actually from Tucson but that’s not the lyric.”
“Well if you’re from Tucson then that’s the lyrics!” he proclaims and starts singing The Eagles at the top of his lungs.
“Five double scotches!” he yells, pointing at the girl behind the bar.
“So, if you’re from Arizona, was the grand canyon like your high school hangout?”
Clearly, the bond trader doesn’t want the answer to be no to any of his questions.
“Yeah, we go there sometimes… it’s not a bad hangout.”
“Have you seen the movie Superbad?” he asks. If you’re unfamiliar, Superbad, being true to it’s name, was one of the worst movies ever. It was like American Pie mixed with Napoleon Dynamite - except with none of American Pie’s nudity and none of Napoleon Dynamite’s humor.
“Yes… I have,” I tell him, absolutely knowing where this is headed.
“Dude, you’re our McLovin!” (an arbitrary reference to the movie.)
One of his friends hears him say this and comes over and agrees.
Bond trader starts singing again. “All the way from the USA – McLovin! McLovin!”
This was probably chanted about 600 times in the next few hours. Most of them usually ended with me being handed a drink that I dropped on the table.
As Bond-Trader drank more, his focus shifted from getting ME drunk for his amusement to getting himself drunk for mine.
I was talking to Dom for a moment, and just like my cat, Bread, this guy had to do something dramatic to get my attention back.
“McLovin, look!” he shouts. Both Dom and I turn and look. Bond-Trader ripped open his button-up shirt, sending buttons flying, poured a tequila shot down his chest and lit it on fire.
“MY CHEST HAIR IS A VOLCANO!” he shouts. My jaw drops, Dom starts laughing.
“Come on guys, you should try it! McLovin, you’ve got chest hair, don’t you?”
“No. None at all.” (Oh, the beautiful art of lying.)
“That’s a shame. It’s fun!” he says.
“Did you already finish your scotch, McLovin?” Dom smirks, as he and James are in possession of the last two drinks this guy has bought me.
“Yeah man! Can’t you keep up?”
This guy easily weighed 245 pounds. I said this and he looked like I’d just kicked his puppy.
“I can’t keep up with an American… you should feel proud of yourself.”
I wandered off to the bathroom at this point. When I came back out there was a tray of 30 shots sitting on the table.
“What the hell are those?” I ask Dom.
“Sambuca – he bought them for the band… seems you both got the same idea about sharing,” Dom tells me.
I’m going to pause here to address the morality of this situation. Yes, we were kind of taking advantage of this drunk guy. HOWEVER, someone smart enough to make a successful career as a bond trader should be smart enough to know their limit – and smart enough to keep their credit card in their wallet. If they’re going to choose to drink to the point that their financial-good-judgment disappears, I’m certainly not going to step in and act as the voice of reason on their behalf. That’s what friends are for, not strangers.
Bond-trader asks Dom at some point if scotch is my favorite drink – because he wants to get me my FAVORITE drink in the world. Dom tells him a sapphire and tonic with a lime will win me over.
“I got you your FAVORITE!” he says as he hands it to me. I nod approvingly.
One of bond trader’s friends asks me at some point if I’d like to come outside with him for a smoke. I turn down the cigarette but tell him I’ll come hang out with him.
“What’s your real name again?” he asks – sounding sober – which is refreshing after talking to someone who has drunk himself into the preoperational stage for the last hour. He asks the normal questions – where do I go to school – what am I studying. I ask what he does for a living.
“It’s really boring – I work in publishing,” he says. He picks up on my excitement as I immediately ask “with who?!”
I won’t go into the details because – to most people – this WOULD be a really boring conversation, but as I’m hot to get a job with the Random House Publishing Group, I grilled him with as many dorky questions as I could imagine.
Bond trader came running outside to find us some point later.
“McLovin, I jut bought your friends a presents and I want you to have my sweater,” he says as he loosely ties the sleeves around my neck.
“Wear it as your cape, McLovin! McLovin cape – forever!”
He runs back inside.
“Does he do this often?” I ask publishing guy.
“Yes. He likes bars with Americans in them like most kids like pet stores. It’s really kind of embarrassing.”
I head back inside to find out exactly what it is that he’s bought for my friends.
I kid you not. Three $160 bottles of champagne. Dom, Miriam and Shamus each took one home.
“Hi Dave,” an attractive woman says at one point.
“Hi…” I say.
“I’m Bond-Traders fiancé… would it be too much to have his sweater back? He’ll want that for the walk home.”
I laugh and take it off and hand it to her. She goes back to her table with her friends and I sit back down with Dom. Without fail, five minutes later Bond-Trader is back with the sweater.
“I’m sorry Cindy took your cape – she’s not usually this much of a bitch – I told her it’s yours now and she shouldn’t steal. I’m sorry. Would you like another drink?” he asks, patting my head. I tell him “No thanks, I’m good” which he heard as “Yes please, I’d like another sapphire and tonic with a lime.”
I try and tell him to keep the sweater, I don’t need it but he INSISTENTLY demands that it is mine now, and he “wants nothing more to do with it.”
It’s about 3 a.m. at this point and time for us to head home.
“McLovin, next time I’m standing on a corner in Tucson Arizona – we’ll go to a bar again – and you’ll wear your cape. Okay?”
Deal.
Dom playing the pipes.
Dom clapping along to a Shamus solo.
Dom singing "Dirty Old Town"
Shamus on the guitar.
Shamus playing the drum that I mentioned in my previous post.
James on the fiddle.
Miriam on the flute.
Shamus and Miriam.
From left to right: Bond Trader (probably chanting "All the way form the USA"), Me, Friend of Bond Trader, and guy trying to get free drinks from Bond Trader
From Left to Right: Bond Trader, Publishing Guy, Friend of Bond Trader
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