It had been months since the whole gang had been together. Sure, we had ripped the lid off of a couple of events and barely lived to tell the tale. But the public schoolers among us had been globetrotting since before the New Year and there were a handful of key members whose presence had been sorely missed. Mop Barker was one of these. The 7 weeks without him had forced us to acknowledge the fact that in those brief windows between his first beer and turning into a slug, he really is a bit of a laugh. Or at the very least, something to laugh at..
The Boryeong crowd, or B-Team, had been scarce in the last few weeks – which wasn’t all together a bad thing. Our last gathering in Daejeon had ended in violent debauchery and I think everyone was a little weary of another meeting. St Paddy’s day called for such a reunion and as usual, Damo had taken the lead as party liaison. This brought a trade-off that was all-too-familiar to us. The event would run smoothly enough, but we would be dressed as absolute assholes. Nobody seemed to protest, out of fear I presume, and the motion was passed. As the only authentic Irishmen, Joe was also talking a big game. Threats were made at anyone considering backing out of the costume agreement, and severe scolding was promised to anyone arriving late. This was a case of National pride.
Saturday morning, and it was only a solid few of us that made it to the rendezvous on time. This had become a trend and I’m not sure why it surprises anyone these days. The B-Team was late. Of course they were late. They had missed both their buses and were hoping to catch the third in order to arrive only 3 hours behind schedule. There were a couple of reasons for this. Predictably they had drunk themselves into comas the night before, and hadn’t risen until their bus was already halfway to Seoul. They also had a few handbrakes within their troops. Mop is an incredibly slow moving creature, very similar to a sloth. James on the other hand is just a hazard, with a history of logistical disasters. The last time the B-Team had come through to Seoul princess was seen chasing the bus down the road on his bicycle – to no avail. The final hurdle in the success of the stragglers was the absence of their leader Damo. He was in Seoul making event and costume preparations that seemed, at the time, more important than babysitting the village-idiots down South. We all regretted his decision.
As morning turned to noon, and noon to early afternoon, spirits were dwindling among the responsible few that had turned out on time. All dressed-up and nowhere to go. The debate was raised on whether we should have left without them, and the decision to wait was motivated less out of comradeship and more for the fact that they made up the majority of our crowd. We decided to sell them the “leave no soldier behind”, line when they finally showed up.
The guilty party arrived looking a little sheepish and very hung over. They filed into the hallway like nervous schoolboys awaiting punishment. But there was something awry in the picture, something none of us could put our finger on. It was Damo that uncovered the shameful truth that these men concealed. Joe was missing. On St Patrick’s day. Joe was missing. They told us of how he had been drinking bullishly just a few hours before, vowing to make the bus on grounds that the Irish would never let you down.
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| Some costumes were more Irish than others.. |
So we were forced to leave without Joe. Our uniforms were the most ridiculous yet. Evidently the bar keeps getting raised and I can only imagine what we will be wearing in July, (if anything). We arrived at the market which, on this occasion was doubling as an Irish beer garden. We were stopped after a few minutes by a nervous Korean who bravely approached us and asked for a picture. As we assembled in our most Irish-looking pose, the rest of South Korea joined in and we were swarmed with giggling teens and Ajumas alike, snapping away at the phenomenon. A respectable-looking elderly man inquired about the significance of Saint Patrick. Gareth, in his infinite wisdom stepped up and began the tale of how snake-wrangler Paddy was honored to this day for his defense of the Irish people over invading serpents.
So after bullshitting our way through inquisitive locals we finally found the beer garden. Or more accurately; the garden. The Irish association had put together rock bands and prizes, but had neglected to think about alcohol. It was a (literally) sobering notion. So we set off to clean out the 7-11, trying unsuccessfully to navigate through now-obsessed Koreans who all wanted their 15 minutes with this foreign spectacle. On our way back through hell we came across a street car selling a national delicacy – fried bugs. Every now and then I find myself trying to put my finger on just what Korea is trying to be in this world. The next super power nation, or an ancient cultural gem? I’m all for clutching onto one’s heritage and traditions, but I see absolutely no value in holding onto this one. The smell alone is enough to make one gag, and with Soju in one hand and Makeolli in the other I did well to hold down my Big Mac. In the crowded market we found ourselves in the only vacant space for miles, with veterans and tourists alike steering well clear of the vile smell that these wicked insects were producing as they popped and sizzled in a rusty pan of 3 day-old oil. Kevin and Mel (who in a few months will become the coolest married couple on Earth) encouraged me to risk certain death by trying out a couple of the creatures. They taunted me with cunning suggestions that I was not the sort of guy to back down from a challenge like this. It was the worst thing I have ever put into my mouth.
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| don't get bugged |
Walking back to the festival with a cup of steaming bugs and a nervous belly there weren’t many takers when I offered up the treat to friends. Kevin tossed one down his throat like it was a Wimpy chip and I decided that if Mel could kiss him after this, then their marriage would have seen off its toughest challenge before it had even started. By the time were back in the garden and surrounded by heathens funneling soju and beer, I had only convinced 3 regretful souls to try out my offering. In a fit of rage I targeted Chrissy who was smugly enjoying my predicament - and poured a couple of bugs down her top. With a shrill cry that made the U2 cover band miss a chord she vowed revenge and it wasn’t long before she had taken it. When she emptied the entire cup down my shirt I knew that my bug tasting earlier would immediately fall into second place on the rankings of most uncomfortable Korean moments. Beside the blisters which were welting up within seconds beneath my top, besides the prickly bugs finding their way into my underpants, and besides the steaming oil dripping from each of my limbs, was that damn smell. I felt like a grubby hobbit upon entering the heavenly land of the elves, although none of those delicious angels seemed to mind the fact that Sam-wise had not taken a shower in months – whereas I was being ridiculed by my closest friends. I stood defeated while cameras snapped away capturing what has become humbling evidence on Facebook. I also noticed that everyone around had taken a few (dozen) steps backwards, and immediately I knew why. I found myself in the same circle of shameful stench that the streetcar vender had been operating within earlier that day, and I felt for him.
Fortunately it was time to move on to the next venue and for the first time I hoped that it would be smoky, sweaty and dark enough for me to hide in. We walked back through the crowd a third time but were pleasantly surprised to be left alone this time, and noted that my new scent and the Diarrhea design down my shirt was parting the way for us to make a safe exit.
The Dubliner. $50 for all you can eat, drink and tolerate of Irish music. It was perfect. We took over a table upstairs and in seconds were diving into plates of ribs, sushi and Oreo’s for some reason. To our left was a beer tap and to our right, a Guiness keg. Surely St Paddy himself must be at a place like this up there in the heavens. If there was any more reason to celebrate other than the prospect of free booze and food, Joe had finally arrived! Without time to pick up his costume he had resorted to his backup attire which was probably more authentically Irish than anything we were donning. An assortment of native trinkets hung from each extremity and he looked a bit like an Irish Viking in battle uniform. It didn’t take him long to fulfill such characteristics and the more enlightened among us knew that his late arrival was more of a blessing than anything else, because he really was on a mission to turn heads and break records.
For reasons unknown to us even now, the call was made to move on to the next venue. I’m not sure any reasons were given to motivate such an ignorant decision, since surely there is no better setting for St Paddy’s day than a bar called the Dubliner offering free booze and food. As ludicrous as the prospect of leaving Irish heaven was, I offered up my rubber arm and jumped in a cab with the rest of the fools who had deemed a dingy dance floor the more attractive idea.
We arrived at FF’s, dingiest of all dance floors to a scene that no longer shocked any of us. Princess was out of control. Our hearts sank as we saw that he still wielded a giant green fist which he was testing out on everyone within reach. There wasn’t much discrimination when it came to his victims. He seemed to be targeting good looking girls initially, but enjoyed punching their boyfriends when they came along to inquire about their girlfriends’ black eyes. By the time we got there the only thing that surprised us was how he had not been kicked out, knocked out or himself blacked out. All three options seemed like just and worthy ends to his tomfoolery. I was immediately approached by concerned onlookers and ordered to look after my friend. I tried to deny even knowing him, but was angrily informed that I was wearing the identical outfit. I did what any good friend would resort to, and fled the scene. I headed for the stairs, knowing that there was no way James could climb them in his current state. Once safely out of the danger zone I was joined by the rest of our troop, one by one, looking victorious as they reached the top floor the way that hikers must feel when they summit Everest. We toasted a few tequilas to St Paddy and his snake-wrangling escapades and hit the dance floor. As my comrades sought out drunken females to accost I headed for the strippers’ pole and worked on my moves. What I originally mistook for a circle of supporters making way for my inspired cobra-dance was in fact disgusted victims fleeing from my scent and general appearance, which now included Guiness-stains, tequila breath and a choking atmosphere of menthol cigarette smoke. And those damn bugs. I was approached by one intrepid (drunk) Korean las who propositioned me aggressively with a line that would entice most in my situation. “you want to make sex with me?”. The hours of smelly demoralization that I had endured all day long alerted me to the fact that something was not kosher about this scene. I knew that in my current sate I was not exactly a prize catch and anyone misguided enough to even approach me was either on something or had something. I sent her on her way with a stern but polite “bitch you must be on crack to even speak to me, get lost”, to which she enthusiastically delivered her offer to the next male she could find. He dropped his beer and the two of them headed for the door.
As things were becoming understandably hazy and we were all in danger of entering the ‘James-zone’ I was rescued by Mackenzie. She took one look at the depraved scene and laid down the law. With a disapproving look that I will one day use on my son if he ever cheats on his finals, she nodded to the exit and we were off. I attempted a few weak protests about making my own decisions but at that stage, she didn’t even need to convince me of how feeble they were.
