Two for your Kindle.

On a rather odd kind of day when the fifteen kids next door are intent on murdering each other at a family gathering, I've been gainfully employed having a clear out of the nether regions of the nest.  Downstairs, in the scant remains of the library, you can't imagine my delight in finding two treasured books huddling together unread recently, but far from unloved.  Cast your mind back to the 1990s when travel shows on Channel 4 had real explorers to show us how to find the empty corners of the planet, rather than the mahogany hues of Judith Chalmers waffling on about the charms of a family package holiday in Ibiza.  There aren't any charms Judith, I've been there.  Twice.  And after a short spell on the nudist beach at Cala Jack, and being chased away from a restaurant near St Vincente by a savage dog who only wanted to make a dog-chew out of the Mini Moke's spare tyre, I got so drunk at the Es Cana market I bought a yellow sundress that turned out, on sobering up, to be a table cloth.

Still, back to the two books.  They are 'McCarthy's Bar' and 'The Road to McCarthy' by one of the funniest and most brilliant travel writers ever, Mr Pete McCarthy.  Before you ask, he hailed from Warrington not Ireland, and the premise of both books is "Never pass a bar with your name on it."  Difficult for us Raven's and despite extensive research, drinking holes dedicated to the corvid species are few and far between.  I have been to Ireland though.  Twice. And although my paternal grandfather hailed from Dun Laoghaire, I don't believe that slim connection makes me Oirish by default.  It would be akin to buying an Audi, shouting "Vorsprung Durch Technik" and immediately being qualified for a German stamp on your passport.  I only mention this because Raven Malone has a new Audi TT and came back from the teutonic awfulness of the dealership clutching the bill for a new wing mirror, plus the gizmo that makes it work and the artisan paint job; the total was an audacious £700.00 plus VAT. I'm still smirking because they threw in a bucket of dreadful customer service too.

Later the same day, I had an unsettling conversation with one of the medical secretaries who after two decades in the same job is packing up and heading back to her roots.  She also has a 'McC' in her name and was very forthcoming when I asked her reasons.
"Twenty three years in the Shires has sent me soft in the head.  At least when I'm home, I won't have to book an appointment with my friends to nip round for a cuppa."  She's right y'know; that's how it is around here.  It's one of the reasons I write, simply because the end result is better than beta-blockers or alcohol addiction.
"Is it that the grass is greener up there in Fazakerley?" I had to know and for decency, I've omitted the swear words.
"You bet it's greener."  Vivid emerald, tourmaline or gin bottle maybe?  "Too right. Not the morbid grey green snot we get around here."  Don't think she'll be back, do you?

When I first visited Ireland in 2002, it was mainly because I'd read McCarthy's Bar and decided to find out the truth behind the comedy.  Also, my chum Reggie and I had received glowing reports of the twenty shades of green around every corner; and the craic of course. The trouble with Dublin is that when you find the craic, you can't afford it.  I was charged the equivalent of a day's car hire for two soft drinks and a black velvet in Bono's hotel, The Connaught, with its octagonal bar crafted from rare Amazonian timbers. But don't let me put you off because it's a magical place once you get away from the tourist nonsense.  Like the mid-Summer's evening, dressed in Berghaus jackets to protect us from the cold, we decided to go for a walk in search of something a bit different from Irish stew. Crossing the Liffey on the newly constructed Millennium Bridge, our way was blocked by a young couple in tears and hugging as if it was their last day on Earth. They were obviously in need of someone to chat to.
"Been together since we was kids ... fell out over some stupid nonsense ... been apart for thirteen months and four days and we've just met up in a bar and I miss her so much ...bought the champagne because I had to know."  More sobbing followed before the bottle was thrust in my direction to open whilst Reggie held the glasses. "She loves me and we're getting married."  I hate to see a grown man cry like that but she looked happy enough.  Oddly enough, me and Reggie never talked about that couple ever again, mainly because we've rarely spoken since our return to the UK.

It's true what they say about choosing your travelling companions with care.  Like two old friends, I would gladly choose Pete McCarthy's books to travel with because his writing adds pure joy to a dull day. Download them for your e-reader of choice and laugh like a drain at his brilliant writing and natural good humour. Sadly though, as he is no longer with us, we've been robbed of a quality comedian who should have been a headline act on Live at the Apollo. Twice.

Tip of the Blog:  I'll keep quiet about my trip to Ballymena, mainly because I can't remember much about the place as I went on business, pre-Year 2000.  I do remember my lunch though; a Chinese stir fry, Ulster style. I also vividly recall the very accommodating waitress who came over and apologised because the chef felt he had under-seasoned the dish of salt chicken, salt pineapple and vegetables crafted mainly of salt. Twice. These days, I'm still on the total-exclusion regime and a sharp peck usually follows any offer of crisps or salt'n'vinegar on my chips.

Raven