Home and away

BARRY GLENDENNING is unwell. However, his current malaise is entirely self-inflicted: a fiscal and physical lassitude that can be attributed to one sherry too many over the festive period. It is not the first time he has been unwell in recent weeks, though, as his triumphant return to the auld sod was, unfortunately, ruined by flu (or, if you want to get technical, the flu).
Some of the finest minds in Irish journalism had assembled in the International Bar on the evening of my return, which meant that there was very little room left for the official welcoming committee of Hot Press scurvies. Still, it was nice to see so many friendly faces crammed into the corner downstairs, although I remain under no illusions that the same crew of reprobates would probably have turned out in force to celebrate Gary Glitter s release from prison if they thought there d be a few pints to be had at the end of it. Up the Gary Glitter! they d shout raucously. Up the Gary Glitter! Now, to the pub and don t spare the horses!
While all and sundry passed on pints, as well as all the gossip, tittle tattle and scandal that s fit to print (the Hot Press Christmas party had been three days previously), yours truly sat shivering in the corner, sipping forlornly from a hot whiskey while fervently wishing he was in bed. Did I say my return was triumphant? Of course some good came of it. As I write, Britain is in the throes of its worst epidemic since the Black Death. It gives me no end of pleasure to think that I might have set the ball rolling.
My next stop was County Offaly, where my dear old mum recoiled with terror upon seeing her favourite/only son for the first time in over six months. What have they done to you!?! she shrieked, before quickly nursing me back to full health with her unique brand of maternal clucking and tender loving care. My recovery complete, the hostelries of Birr beckoned. In the time honoured tradition of children everywhere visiting their parents for Christmas, it was time to treat the homestead like a hotel.
Being reunited with one s childhood friends after a lengthy sojourn on sovereign soil is a strange experience, as they don t care for (largely exaggerated) tales of derring-do from the returned exile. Headlining at Wembley Arena in front of 20,000 people while being supported by Eddie Izzard, Jerry Seinfeld and Chris Rock is all very well, Barry, they say, but you should have seen the hound Duffy shifted in the rugby club last week. Great men.
We all sallied forth to Clifden at some point during the festivities, where I saw in the new millennium by giggling helplessly while attempting to light the wrong end of a cigar and watching Pat Kenny on the goggler. It wasn t the top of the Eiffel Tower, but at least it meant things would only improve in the next 1000 years. They soon did. Despite letting all the attractions this picturesque County Galway locale has to offer the discerning tourist bypass me completely, I can highly recommend it for a weekend of R&R (Roistering and Ribaldry).
Inevitably, all good things come to an end, and it was with a heavy heart that I boarded my Ryanair flight back to Stansted airport. Having promised myself that I would go into a lengthy period of self-imposed detox upon arrival in London, I bought one last (small) can of beer and a cheese and tomato sandwich from the stewardess manning the in-flight drinks trolley. They cost six quid. IR#6 for a (small) can of beer and a fucking sandwich. Of course my look of utter disbelief was knocked into a cocked hat by the expression on the face of the lady beside me who was charged #4.50 for a brandy and ginger. That s a measure of brandy, I hasten to add, not a bottle.
Once back in my bijou Clapham des res, I retired for the evening, only to be woken the next morning by several loud crashes, each accompanied by an earth-shaking tremor. Fearing that the millennium bug had finally kicked in, I cowered in terror under my duvet for several minutes before plucking up the courage to look out the window. The deserted service station opposite my house is now a building site. The hullabaloo was being caused by chunk after gigantic chunk of forecourt being deposited in a skip by a very large JCB. Thankfully, I m told that I ll only have to put up with this inconvenience for a week or two . . . before the men with jack-hammers, pneumatic drills and other implements of destruction/construction move in.
London s great, my London. But if there s any homesick new age travellers in Ireland who happen to be at a loose end and fancy returning to their roots, I have some progress that needs
halting.