When Irish Guys Are Screaming

(One fateful night in Eyre Square, Galway, Ireland as the host of a low budget travel show.)

 For some unfortunate reason that nobody has ever been able to explain, we picked the busiest holiday weekend to profile Galway. Friday night, we ambled downtown to see if we could get a gander at some of the colorful locals. A little button at the end of the episode, as the viewers watch their fearless host disappear into a thriving throng of fun.

Now it’s known that the Irish like to drink. This fact has been documented, well… mostly by the Irish. What might be less highly-profiled, perhaps because of the sheer survival ratio, is what happens when they do. I used to think that there were two types of drunks: the Happy Drunk (of which I am one). And the Angry Drunk. But I was wrong. There is a third type of drunk. I guess you could call it the 28 Days Later Drunk.

Now when you’re TDL, it’s a whole different ball game. You move like a crafty, speedy Zombie. Your only form of communication is flailing your arms and yelling at the ground. You cluster with others in the same condition, searching rabidly for people like us. We had descended on Eyre Square towing around camera and sound equipment. Which is kind of like parachuting into the Everglades wearing a meat suit.

I’ve seen the raw footage of that night. Most of it is the inside of someone’s mouth, a close-up of middle fingers, or a jerky shot of the night sky as our cameraman is being dragged away. It’s hard to know how to answer a collection of random obscenities – even when phrased as a question. Sometimes they would pause to laugh maniacally at a joke they’d just heard in their head. Or sometimes they would declare war on an unseen enemy and start punching the air. And then sometimes… they would just get thoughtful. This was usually followed by vomiting.

Eventually, I got pushed into a cab. Campbell was in the front. In the back with me, still trying to cram his way inside even though the door was closed and the cab was already moving, was a man I’d never seen before. He had red cheeks and straight spiky hair. His shirt was glittering. His wide-eyed baby face was beaming with coke-fueled charisma.

The man shouted something incomprehensible at the driver. We sped off into the night. He turned to me and started talking right away. Like he was continuing a conversation I was apparently unaware of. Firing off words at an alarming velocity. I managed to interject and ask him his name. The man seemed baffled by my ignorance. “I’m Bobby Dunne!” he hurled. “Everybody knows me!”

Bobby told me he was a lawyer. “I own Galway!” he boasted. Which was a dubious feat, considering what I’d just been through. Bobby scooted up close, practically perched on my lap. Every sentence was accompanied by a small shower of saliva. “I own Galway! Right mate?!” he shouted to nobody in particular. “Sure Bobby,” the cab driver agreed. “You own Galway.” 

We were dropped off at a club. I checked the time. It was three in the morning. People were just arriving. What are they all doing here? I wondered. We should all be in bed. “I invited them!” Bobby pronounced, as if able to read my thoughts. There was a line at the door, but Bobby breezed past security. He turned to me: “What do you do?” I hesitated, not really sure how to explain my job or if I’d be able to get out the words fast enough. “What do you do? What do you do goddamit?!” This seemed urgent. “Well, I host this TV show…” Bobby interrupted me. “You’re a movie producer!” he decided.

Inside the club, Bobby lead me over to a group of men leaning against the bar.  They were nursing their drinks, surveying the room. It was hard to tell if they’d just arrived, or been standing there since the previous afternoon. “Hey fellas!” Bobby blared. They grunted acknowledgment. “This is Darren! He’s a movie producer!”

“Bobby, I – “ I was trying to get his attention. Not because he’d gotten my name wrong. I was sort of grateful for that, at this moment. But because I didn’t want to misrepresent myself. “This is Frank!” Bobby machine-gunned. He shoved me into the big man’s shoulder. “Nice to meet you,” I offered. Frank looked at the ceiling and offered me a limp, meaty hand. “This is Cal!” Bobby muscled me down the line. “Darren! He’s a movie producer!” Cal seemed even less impressed than Frank. Same vacant handshake, same listless eye movement. One by one, I was introduced, as Bobby steered me through the gauntlet. I couldn’t get a sense of who these people were. Or why I was meeting them.

 “And last but not least,” Bobby trumpeted, “Tommy Hatchet!” “How you doin’?” Tommy growled, going out of his way to not make eye contact. Again, he offered a flaccid, lifeless hand. “Good,” I said as brightly as I could. Tommy pushed past me, the conversation had already gone on too long. Bobby grabbed my arm and ushered me forward. Once out of earshot, Bobby said “What do you think he does?” I had no idea what Bobby was talking about. Again, Bobby asked “Tommy Hatchet. What do you think he does?” I shrugged. Bobby leaned forward, grinning. His eyes lit up. “Ohhhhh… I think you know.”

That’s when I decided it was time to part ways with Bobby Dunne. I’ll never know what his intention was. Maybe he was just being friendly. But I did learn something. I learned that movie producers, though often loathed in their native environment, are universally loved in the rest of the world. Offering hope and comfort to those in need. And if you’re reading this Bobby – please, no hard feelings. I insist. You see now? I’m really not a Hollywood producer. But, you know, maybe you and your boys could get some money together. Pool your resources. ‘Cos I have a couple of movie ideas, myself…

Yes, yes. We should talk.