21 October 2009 (Profile)

 

Over the past few months, this young French guy called Olivier Timmh has being pestering us no end. Seems like he thinks he's a writer and, purely to get him off our case, we've decided to publish a few of his pompous Gallic scribblings. His story is a familiar one. Young Frenchman on the run from his family, on the dole here. He's desperate for the 'amour' and to this end he's written about his valiant efforts with the local talent. If he were as smart as he is cheap he'd have a job by now, or a girlfriend. However, he has a certain charm, it must be said. We'll publish an episode every week. Let us know what you think.
 

I didn't know what to do really, I didn't know where would be a good place to bring a girl for a first kind of date, I think. This city should come with a manual; Ryanair could sell them on one way flights over here, as well as passing a basket around halfway through the flights.
I should have been smarter because now that I think about it, there's way better places to meet than a pub, there's: Fallon and Byrne, the Templebar food market, the IFI, the National Gallery, Iveagh Gardens, the zoo. Why, oh why, did I pick Buskers on a Friday evening?
I wasn't too bothered, really, Oisin had told me that that girl loved French boys and had sort of picked me out already, at the last dinner party we were at. Easy pickings, and yes, I go to a lot of dinner parties; it is a very French thing to do, and it's relatively cheap. Like I said, very French.
I have no idea who this girl is or what she looks like. All I know is her name's Sinead, she's roughly my age, and is one of Oisin's friend from school (it seems the only way to make friends of the opposite sex here; through longevity and common purgatory.)
The barman's behind the counter’s bald as a baby:
"What can I get you mate?"
"A paint of Carlsberg please." His eyebrow points to me.
"French?"
"But of course." He smiles. Well, no, not really, he's sighing.
"Five quid mate."
You'd think that, in a recession, they'd prioritize. I can live without fuel; that's why I ride my bike, not for the folklore but because I can't afford the bus anymore. Oh well, at least I'm signing on. But let's get back to things at hand.
My plan is to be there at least half an hour early, so she can walk in and find me. In fact I believe that's where chivalry started; from a male longing for simplicity. And, if worst comes to worst, and she doesn't show up - I get to watch the premiership match in peace.
There's never a just B or C, there's always a Plan O, for Olivier, you animal.
I'm halfway down my pint when she texts me to say she'll be late. I've been with girls before, I know how it goes, punctuality is just an excuse to wear a watch. You'd think they were managing the bus system.
Chelsea's playing at their usual pace against a team I've never heard off, but they obviously have the upper hand when a fine one lands gently on my shoulder. I turn around and a tall, pale brunette in a Chelsea jersey is smiling at me.
" Oli?"
"Yes, Olivier, but Oli is fine. Sinhad, yes?"
"Ehm, well it's Sinead but you know, Sinnee's fine."
"Yes, Sinhad. Okay, how are you?" She's cute. she's wearing track running shoes but I don't mind.
"Really, call me Sinnee. I'm fine, thanks, hope I didn't keep you waiting too long. I'm sorry about that; you know what it's like on Fridays." I did, that's why I left early. Also, I don't have a job to come from. She looks at my near empty glass, that's my cue to say: "What are you drinking?" She smiles.
"Well, same as you." Excusez moi? I smile back. A pint of larger, really?
"I'm just going to the loo. Back in a minute." To text your friend about me? To tell her to call you in twenty minutes and make up a car crash story? Or maybe just to pee? In that case, wash your hands.
The barman puts the two pints in front of me and I hand him a tenner, and wait for change, like an idiot. This date better not go on for longer than I can afford. She comes back quickly.
"So, to state the obvious, you support Chelsea, yes?"
"Well, yeah, it was real convenient, it being casual Friday and all today."
Don't tell me she works at a call center, like absolutely every person I know. If I have another conversation about people not renewing contracts, and team leaders being absolute dickheads, and their extremely recent computers acting up; I’ll start swinging barstools around like tennis rackets.
Well, no. Turns out she works in a company selling advertising space which I think is the same, but she told me it wasn't; complexities my little French brain could never comprehend. We had to run outside at half time so she could try and smoke more cigarettes than me. Hahaha, desolé Chérie, but the last guy to out smoke me was Slovakian. Communism is good for the lungs.
We went back in, and I'm pretty sure she was trying to out drink me as well, anyway, she stalled eventually, and Chelsea lost, evidently. I tried to be funny and failed miserably, oh well, we were never known for our sense of humor. She offers to meet up later in a club around town.
I don't know where it is, but I've got time to find out. We leave each other with a kiss on the cheek, as friends do. Well, from where I’m from anyway.

It's half eleven when she texts me to tell me she'll be there soon, it's half twelve before she gets to the door. She comes in with two friends of hers, I think they're wearing the same dress, just different colors; she's bright blue, the other one's bright orange and the other one's a shocking shade of yellow. I'm guessing they also fight crime as an all female power rangers trio on weekdays. I don't really remember her being that tanned this afternoon. Maybe it's just the lights in here. I fear that if I keep my eye off her for too long I might get her confused with her two friends. I follow them to their table, and for some reason they just want diet 7up from the bar. I find out, soon enough, that they brought their own bottles; cheap vodka, it seems, can only be carried in a River island bag. The conversation turns around me for a brief instant, but then swerves to about how drunk they had been last weekend and the parties they went to.
The girl in the orange, Jessica (aaah), seemed to be just short of eating her pack of cigarettes and sniff exhaust fumes on a night out. The canary was telling me, in excruciating details, how much she had drunk, with how many shots and kept repeating:
“And I hadn't eaten, dontcha know?". If she had been that drunk, how could she have remembered so much? I'm starting to consider my table guests more like drinking buddies in dresses than arm candy, there seems to be lacking this certain mystére, this je ne sais quoi. I'm told it's time for shots, I don't mind as long as it's not sambuca, I hate that drink; I think it's cheap syrup, for ladies, and the stench makes my stomachs do cartwheels. Sambuca it is.
We're all aligned at the bar, our poison poured in little plastic cups (gives you a bit of insight about the establishment) with this adorable little barmaid giving me back my change. There's always a dilemma about tipping a good looking girl, you don't want to give her the satisfaction, but she deserves it, regardless. Oh, I'll be remembering your face Chérie belle, this city can't hold many like you.
We knock them back, heave ho, don't heave Olivier, not here, not when the barmaid's looking. We hit the dance floor and I get in a few moves every five seconds, when somebody isn't bumping into me, or jumping around with a full bottle of beer.
My dancing partner decides to bring her glass and her bottle with her; she's handcuffed.
After she's done drinking them, we dance, like in the videos.
By that I mean she's dancing with beaucoup d'expression, like in the videos, and I'm just standing there, erect, wondering if I'm allowed to put my hands on her derriére.
We both keep this up for two songs and I am amazed we weren’t thrown out for indecent exposure.
She moves in, slowly, very slowly; I think she might be asleep, and gets close.
She tastes like cider vodka. She's cuddling me, heavily; it feels more like a headlock.
It is half past one now and I don't know if that's my cue, or if God is trying to turn me to necrophilia. I've got my hand on her waist, or she'd be on the floor.
I bring her outside for a cigarette; she's still leaning on me like you would on a building, a building that would smell like Jean Paul Gautier's 'Le Male'. An attractive building, a building with values.
We head back down and I can't find her friends so I put her in a taxi, she stumbles in, I wave to her and get a good look at the driver; you never know nowadays.
I head back towards the city, towards my bus, none of the clubs have closed yet so the streets aren't too crowded an… what are these orange streaks on my shirt?
 

Back to Other Exclusives