110%

Give it 110%. I mean, what my effort? Fuck this one gets me every time. Mostly because it's an assertion that effort has to be put in place. That I will, in order to succeed in whatever probably pointless endeavour, like becoming a successful actor, or attaining an exam grade, have to exert all the effort.. no. No, not all of the effort, more than my body and mind can muster. 10% more, not 20 or 500. Just ten . Maybe it's because of my distinct aversion to effort that my soul shrivels upon hearing hearing this or my resignation to failure in whatever goal I am pursuing is before I've even begun.

Dear Irish Americans

Dear Irish Americans,

I'm going to take a moment to thank you guys for the great stuff you've given to all of us Irish folk, like provide shelter for our refugees and economic migrants over the years, or funds to social causes like community projects and the RA, or the substantial amount you contribute to our tourist industry over the years. Hey, we even largely enjoyed the first Boondock Saints movie, Forrest Griffin, that one song by The Dropkick Murphys and that one song by House of Pain but there's something we need to discuss and it's not about you guys ordering Irish coffees after our bar staff have cleaned down the coffee machines, or the horrendously named “An Irish Car bomb”, I mean we don't order two B52s, set them on fire and call them the Twin Towers and if you can stop doing that, great but there's something a little bit more pressing.

I know some of you might even be surprised that I am on the internet, rather than on a horse and cart on a hovel in a bog, but we've the good ol' fashioned world wide web. So, when we see the confederate flag, as in the one adopted in 1905, some forty years after that racist little rebellion failed with captions like “Why aren't Irish Americans in an outrage? They were the first slaves. Bet most people don't even know that.' You see this quote here, it's wrong on so many levels. I mean, were we the first slaves ever? Because I'm pretty sure the Irish weren't even an ethnic group when some great great ancestor of all of us decided “shit, we could sure do with some free labour”. No, you see some Irish people were slaves, that is true. But we're talking about a tiny percentage of people, who got shipped off to the Carribean. Often they mixed with black slaves, such as on Montserrat, but a larger amount were indentured servants – a condition that by modern standards would be considered slavery but a condition that many Irish people entered into willingly, not always willingly and some were outright forced into it, but there were still significantly less Irish indentured servants than there were chattel slaves. Meanwhile, during the middle passage between Africa and the new world, an estimated 800,000 black chattel slaves died in transit, likely far more than the entire number of Irish indentured servants and slaves who survived the transportation process. As I touched on before, most Irish Americans who can trace their roots via genaology or DNA tests will likely only be able to trace it as far back as their ancestors being refugees from famine or British oppression, or as being economic migrants looking for a better life in the states. And yes, these Irish migrants often had it rough with landlords, jobs, local governments, restaurants and bars with policies that said “No Blacks, No Dogs, No Irish”, they weren't still being legislated against as recently as the 1980s or 90s. They could also assimilate into white society by being that. White. And we are fucking good at it.

Now I could get super left wing and make some point about how after being the British boot for so long the Irish decided to lick some other boots by forming mobs like the NYPD but what I'm trying to dig at are Irish Americans who use this blurred lens of history to justify at best undermining the struggles faced by African Americans and at worst full blown white supremacy. I've seen other memes featuring Lucky the Lepprechaun as in the mascot for the sugary shit cereal Lucky Charms with captions like “Irish protest for the removal of the lucky charms lepprechaun because it's offensive. Just kidding, the Irish aren't offended by Jack because they're not pansies”. Somethings do offend us. LIKE YOUR FUCKING RACISM. We're not going to get annoyed by a badly voiced, poorly animated cartoon of a folklore character because that character isn't based on some “Magical Negro” Uncle Tom stereotype like Uncle Ben or Aunt Jemimah. And there's a ton of stuff the English do that we actually get offended by, but again, a cartoon mythical folklore character doesn't do much ot push over the edge. Why is it that you guys who come out with these memes are usually the ones obsessed with geneology and DNA tests to see if you were an Irish warrior or a Viking one, when the fact is, though they probably had very good cause, your ancestors ran away from something. And somewhere along the way, they received enough compassion to help them survive all the adversity thrown at them. Why don't you try giving some of that compassion back to I don't know.. Syrian refugees, Mexicans or dare I say it, black people. You see, your DNA might be of ethnic Irish heritage, but that doesn't mean it should be an excuse for bad behaviour.  Don't be the type that goes "Oh I drink too much and I call a spade a spade, because I'm Irish."  No.  Your DNA doesn't explain your behaviour unless you're genetically a sociopath.  So let me suggest you try something that we're doing. Like your country claims to do, here in Ireland trying to accept people making an honest go of it. 

See, we have racism here, I'd be lying if people of colour didn't get abuse thrown at them and I'm ashamed of my fellow countrymen who do that.  The rest of us though, we're trying different options.  Like south of the border, they even voted in a gay Indian man as their head of state, now they kinda want rid of him because just like in the case of being a straight white person, your colour of skin or sexuality has little to no affect on whether you're going to be a ball bag or not and our somewhat wary of the Catholic church rapidly secularizing state, we will give virtually anyone a shot. So I'm going to tell you something you really won't want to hear. My Polish and Nigerian mates, the ones who have lived and worked their asses off in this country for over fifteen years are more Irish than you second or third generation guys. Being American doesn't depend on you being ethnically American does it?  Otherwise only those with indigenous tribe heritage would be true Americans. Why would being Irish be any different?  So yeah, having your little plastic paddy fantasy is cute and harmless, like those people who dress up as Sonic the Hedgehog characters and have sex with each other But the fact is that just because your great great grandpappy had a pint of Guinness in Cork in 1873, doesn't make you more Irish than someone who has lived in this country most of their lives.

So be cool, Irish Americans.  If you can put a mask on and get that populist shitehawk president of yours to do a better job of handling the same pandemic we're all struggling with, we might let you come have a drink here when the dust settles.  Hell, I'll even let you buy me a pint and you can tell me about your great grandpappy's moonshine that made your dad lose his vision for a few days.   Just lay off the racism, mmmkay?

Yours Sincerely,

An actual Irish guy.

P.S. I swear to fuck, if I have to turn that coffee machine back on and start shaking whipped cream just because you want an Irish coffee at 11 o'clock at night I will politely show you the door.

P.P.S. You can of course be black and Irish.  This fella has done far more for our country than almost any of you plastics






I write almost entirely for fun and because I love storytelling, but if you're feeling generous and want to throw a coin or two my way, below is my paypal tipping address.  A fair amount of the money I spend these days goes on either writing classes or tipping other artists for bringing us cheer at this grim time, so I wouldn't say you're wasting too much if you do.   Christ that last sentence is even more try hard..

My Paypal Link

The Real Bartending Blues pt 1

So in one of my previous posts, I concocted a short story about an Irish barman suffering all of the most common complaints someone in the trade is likely to experience. If you haven't read it and want to, here's the link:

https://charlto.blogspot.com/2020/06/the-bartending-blues.html

You can also listen to it here

If you have read it, you'll know my writing style is incredibly verbose. It's almost like I get off in using excessive amounts of words to over illustrate something that can probably be done in fewer words. I am not about tight word economies. If you're up for reading this article, you can expect more of the same. The previous post was a combination of fiction and non-fiction. That is to say that everything that happened in the story has happened to me or another bartender, just not necessarily on the same night or in direct succession. That being said, every place I have worked in has given me a story. This post will be about recounting them.

I'm not going to tell you abut every bit of flirtation or sexual tryst I've had during the bar career, because I'd like to at least attempt to play the gentleman card for a while yet. Kissing, or eating someone out until they squirt in your eye during prolonged clitoral stimulation and telling isn't part of the plan and besides that, I don't actually get laid from bartending as much as one would expect. Now of course, I get hit on. All bartenders do, regardless of whether they're physically attractive or not. I'm sure there are some psychological studies which might look at the power dynamic created between a patron and a bartender who controls the alcohol supply, or the fact that someone even remotely friendly when you're under the influence will appear more attractive. Without stroking my own ego too much, I'm not the ugliest or most socially awkward guy in the world, so numbers have been passed my way, however the people who hit on me whilst I'm working are typically at least a little bit inebriated at the time. If I were to go meet them after my shift finishes at some tender hour of the morning like two or three am, they're could well be drunk to the point sleeping with them could at the very least for them be regrettable and at the worst, be morally reprehensible, or straight up illegal. Texting them a day or two later will sometimes mean they don't remember you, or you have to begin the flirting game all over again. I've had beautiful women try to drag me home, but being that they were hammered, I politely declined, but suggested I we exchange numbers. The conversation the next day usually revolves around them trying to remember who I am, only to feel “the fear” that they had done something or said something that they shouldn't have. Maybe my “game” is weak, maybe I'm took picky. It is, as they say, what it is. So anyway, let's make with the good stuff.

Robinson's Bar, Belfast

Apart from doing the odd bit of waiting for the function suite of the rowing club my Dad belonged to, the first bar I ever truly worked in was Robinson's Bar. Opposite the most bombed hotel in the history of Belfast, Robinson's is a multi-storey pub that attracts loudmouth tourists and loudmouth locals. Seriously, I've heard genuine “bullshit-you-not” rumours that Robinsons was one of the first places that cops checked for those who had “escaped” from mental hospitals, from those in the charity sector as well as hospitality. I started there as a glass collector, or “bar back” as they're often known as. My duties were largely revolving around the simple act of collecting glasses as the name suggests, but would extend as far as cleaning tables, restocking the bar and cutting fruit. I hated the job from the interview. An interview which I had gone into with an LSD come down, which made had me accidentally walk into the wall behind me as I got up to leave my seat. The interview process, which was shared with a ditzy seventeen year old girl had us both stumble through the most basic questions.

“Why do you collect glasses?”

“To keep tables tidy. Prevent glasses from being knocked over. Glasses can be used as a weapon! Reduce chance of spillage!”

“Yes, those are good reasons, but what it the main reason you collect glasses?”

“GLASS IS A WEAPON!”

“You've given me that one. Hrmmm there's a more obvious one”

“No idea, sorry.”

“What do we serve drinks in?”

“OHHHHHHHH!!! Bottles?”

When I had started, I was not in a good frame of mind. My father had passed on not long before I started and a year prior, I had finished university, I was full of hope and expectation for a great working life, only to encounter a job market plagued by the global recession. Something we appear on the verge of in this COVID 19 governed society. It was a job that I was good enough at to say it was beneath me, but the attitude I displayed was one of the many reasons I wasn't given an opportunity to learn bartending. It probably didn't help that I'd be stoned half the time I was working there, or I'd drift out on my break and have two pints in Wetherspoons before returning to half ass my job a bit more. A practice I'd continue in some shape or form in various jobs for years to come, just typically with a lot less of that prick Martin's establishments. That, along with occasionally, covertly finding a bag of miscellaneous white powder on the floor and playing “sniff the mystery gear”, or you know, getting away with the fact I was doing as little as possible counted as the main perks. If I would loathe that feeling of subservience bartending sometimes grants workers, I'd really grow to hate it as a barback. It's a real “fetch me, bring me” job, you know, like on your first day where you're told to get a “long weight” or “some tartan paint” by some bartender eager to test your gullibility levels on your first day on the job. And yeah, I went and asked for that long weight, with an eyebrow raised high enough to challenge The Rock himself. That's not to say I didn't revel in that tradition for years to come. In fact, when I did it, years later, I was probably worse, praying on poor bar backs who didn't even speak English as a first language. Despite the haze of hangovers and mild substance abuse, barbacking had its odd notable moment – like myf irst physical confrontation in a bar, or the second one, which were a lot tamer than one would expect from the bar across the raod from the most bombed hotel in Belfast.

To speed service and get as many empties from the tables, I'd stack the collected empty glasses in towers of about twelve and sometimes carry two at a time. This is something which is probably fairly dangerous at the best of times but probably a lot more so in a bar with sticky floors, handbags and middle-aged cankles strewn about the floor. Despite that fact, generally nothing goes that badly, except for one occasion, when some clown decided to do the unthinkable. Any bar that I work in, I've known female staff to be harassed by sleazy prick patrons. I've offered to speak to the patron and warn them off, I've encouraged them to speak to managers, or doormen, but out of shame and embarrassment, they've chosen to avoid fuss and take the silent option. It saddens me that guys not only feel entitled to be grabby like they are, but get away with it. Then it would happen to me a few times with hen parties and I'd let a bum pinch from a rough looking oul doll slide because aside from making a quip about it, I didn't feel like it was worth my while making a fuss. When guys did it, it became slightly more of a big deal. Particularly on one occasion, when I had my two towers of glasses stacked in my hands and I felt a jab on both sides of my hips. You know that “electric shock” thing the primary school bully used to play on you as a kid? Imagine that as a grown fucking man doing his job carrying dangerous-when-broken-objects and some clown you've never met before decides that it'd be hilarious to stab you with his index fingers in the sides. I was, as you can probably tell, outraged. I quickly set down the glasses and tore into the grinning fool behind me, giggling like the little school boy bitch that this 30 something man seemed to think he was.

“What the fuck do you think you're doing?” I growled aggressively.

“I'm sorry!” he yelped nervously, still giggling slightly as he did.

“No you're fucking not. You clearly didn't think one bit about how that could affect me. Think about how dangerous that could have been. How I could have then had to spend another twenty minutes clearing up bits of broken glass because you thought it was hilarious to touch me. Who the fuck are you anyway? Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“I'm sorry,” he whined again.

“Don't be sorry. Don't fucking do it. Just sit there and have a good long hard think about how you fucked up.”

It felt GOOD. I hadn't had a blow out of steam like that on someone for a while, but I will always remember that as my moment of “I need to get the fuck out of this job.” A month or so later, I left the place and didn't look back. I think I've been back for a pint once or twice in the ten years since, but I'd rank it as one of my least likely venues to visit in Belfast.

In my last month or so, there was another instance where a bouncer had to kick two guys out. I got told by one of the bartenders to give the bouncer a hand. Whilst one bouncer had one aggressive customer on the ground, I simply stepped in to make sure that the other customer didn't try to interfere, or stamp on the bouncer. He cocked his hand back as if to throw a haymaker at me and everything went in slow motion. “I've got to block this, or move out of the way, even kick him with a front kick”. It was as if my years of training martial arts, actually was getting in the way, I had too many options, I couldn't decide and in my hesitation, was probably going to get clocked. Just as he went to throw that punch, up came another set of arms, a second bouncer descended on the angry prick and scooped him up from below the arm pits. Saved, by the bell. 

I don't remember too much else from working in that place, other than the odd bit of “fluff” but it made me come to the conclusion, if I was going to stay in the bar industry, I was going to do everything in my power to avoid working as a glass collector ever again and, jokes aside I would give a bit more respect to any good bar back that I'd work with.

Next week, I'm going to fill you in on the other places I've worked in.


I write almost entirely for fun and because I love storytelling, but if you're feeling generous and want to throw a coin or two my way, below is my paypal tipping address.  A fair amount of the money I spend these days goes on either writing classes or tipping other artists for bringing us cheer at this grim time, so I wouldn't say you're wasting too much if you do.   Christ that last sentence is even more try hard..

My Paypal Link

The Boy who pulled the Labrador's tail

This is another one of my badly written short (longish) stories.  This one is obviously a work of fiction.  I wouldn't ever smuggle drugs over international borders, nevermind take them.  I also wouldn't be as dumb as to admit it on the internet.


It's 2010 and in the height of the global recession and I'm dressed like one of those blazer/jeans combo wearing arseholes, hiding my hungover eyes like I'm Johnny Depp in Blow. Unlike Depp's character, I would soon find out that I'm not as cool as he is when it comes to transporting drugs over international borders. It's late afternoon and I'm in the middle of the security line. People are in front of me and behind me. Then I feel someone else's presence, crawl up on me like a sex offender ninja. A sweaty ghost of a man, brushing his rash-like stubble against my tender, twenty-three year old cheeks. I look around and realize that there's no-one there. And then I realize something else. My thumbs have discovered something – in that little useless Russian doll inner pocket of my jeans – you know the one just big enough to fit a condom in is a tiny baggy of low grade cannabis. Just enough to roll a single Rizla, heavy-on-the-tobacco joint. That ghost returns, and jabs a needle into my veins. A needle which injects a thousand spiders into my bloodstream, making me itch and jitter irrationally. I take a deep breath. It's too late to turn round. To do so now would alert suspicion. The only way forward is, well – forward.

I'm 90% fear, 10% swagger. My balls are as big as yams, my dick as small as a frozen pea. I shuffle forward, remove my bet, the laptop from my bag. The jacket is off and though I'm still wearing my t-shirt and jeans, the cool summer breeze hits me like a gale from an arctic tundra. I am simultaneously exothermically producing heat, whilst feeling the icy coldness of the abyss within me. With everything I was bringing now on the conveyor belt of the x-ray machine, I threw myself through the jaws of death that was the metal detector. The one thing I feared – the one sound I didn't want to hear rang off. My heart sank. My asshole tightened. That ear-piercing beep went off, echoing through my brain. The one that would doom me to the prison of not just correctional facilities but of my mother's shame. I thought to myself, then and there though, that if I were doomed even to a thousand hours of community service for the scraps of a spliff, I would do it with a chuckle.

“I think I must have swallowed a piece of metal as a kid – I'm always setting these things off.”

It was true – I had swallowed a few coins as a dipshit four year old and I was always setting metal detectors off, despite never carrying any jewellery or weapons.

The old man customs agent granted me that chuckle.

“Ha, it's just a random stop and search, nothing to worry about,” he said with a failed attempt at reassurance.

That's what it was. A random stop and search not at all linked how damn good looking I was or how much of a 'I'm carrying drugs on me' vibe I gave off. Nothing to worry about though? He wouldn't be saying that if he were in my shoes, the ones which were now stabbing into my feet like I was being tortured by a drunk acupuncturist.

The old fella comes over and I try not to enjoy another man patting me around my crotch too much, but I try to relax into it as much as possible. At this point in time, I am having my 'In Elysium' moment. I'm already dead.

“Nice Transformers t-shirt by the way – great movie”

I think about arguing with him for a moment, tell him that Michael Bay's direction was pretty terrible. I could launch into a tirade about the objectification of a teenage Megan Fox and how I am an old school cartoon fan, which even then I shouldn't be because they're only designed to sell overpriced flimsy plastic toys, but I don't. I don't, because I've realized that he's not found that little piece of puff, nestled in that pouch normally reserved for prophylactics. That I don't have to worry about crying to my mum, or scrubbing graffiti off of public property, or even about which paramilitary prison gang I'd have to do favours for. My asshole loosened – not at the thought of having to look after the soap, but in the immediate feeling relief I experienced when I realized I was free. Free to put my laptop back in my bag, put my belt and jacket on and cruise through the airport at a leisurely pace. Now I really was Johnny Depp.

Off I went. The first flight took me from Belfast to London, where after cruising through another airport, I'd wait to fly to Gothenburg. The hangover was still there, but the anxiety was gone, replaced with almost pleasant tiredness and ever increasing dehydration. Despite this, I felt serene; if going through that security line didn't break me, then no amounts of shitty Ryanair flights with their lack of legroom and their constant bombardment of advertisements would. I felt blessed by the spirits of both Mr Nice (who was alive at the time, but I had read his book) and Pablo Escobar smiled down upon me. See, this wasn't even the first time I had gotten away with smuggling a bit of grass through airport security. I thought back to the time where, only two months prior I had gone on a lad's holiday to Copenhagen. Despite being patted down in Belfast they hadn't found the two grams of lemon haze folded up in my wallet. When we had flown over to Luton airport for the connecting flight, my friend had managed to trigger the X-Ray machine. A younger male and older female security agent had rifled through the bag and pulled out a series of ever increasingly comical novelty items – as if Austin Powers had designed The Generation Game. Custom underwear, a giant novelty condom, regular condoms and finally a grinder all got dragged out. It was a nice, chunky stainless steal job. The male agent pointed it out to the middle aged woman, who despite working in a job where you might be expected to know what a grinder was appeared to have absolutely no idea.

“That's for oregano, isn't it mate?” asked the man.

“It is, yeah,” agreed Pol, grinning like the Cheshire cat from ear to ear.

We couldn't believe our luck and despite the fact a couple of the lads were annoyed at me for taking the risk I had, the joint at the other end of the flight had tasted even sweeter. I would experience this sweet taste again.

After those airports and flights, I found myself in Gothenburg airport, being handed back my passport and wished a good stay by one of the polite agents at arrivals. Fresh air and the chance to roll that one-skinner of victory was mere metres away.

And then he appeared.

Well I say he, I just assume that blonde haired demon was male and when we spoke, his voice was deep, bassy and intimidating.

The area immediately after the passport control was a hallway with two unisex cubicles on the right hand side (they're pretty progressive in Sweden and have de-gendered toilets decades before anyone else – a little bit shit if you are a guy busting for the urinal but you just have to suck it up) a queue of people waiting for the toilets and then, three of Sweden's finest customs agents. Two human and female, the third was our furry little demon himself.

The dog locked his beady little eyes upon mine and I found myself entering a Dr Dolittle/Shining trance.

“I know, motherfucker,” he said, his words humming through my ears.

“I'm sorry, I'll get rid of it. I promise,” I yelped.

“It's too late.”

Right then and there, those spiders re-emerged started crawling through my veins and into my capillaries. I was twisting, scratching and probably twitching like the subject of a biotech experiment.

These people needed to HURRY THE FUCK UP.

Eventually, the queues dissipated and I got into the toilet cubicle. I unzipped my jeans and pulled them down. Then, whilst simultaneously pulling out my member, shrivelled like the global economy, I withdrew the scrawny morsel of marijuiana. My treacle like urine splashed aggressively over the seat of the bog, my shakey hands dragged the scraps of herb out so my eyes could regard them one last time. How bad could this really smell? How strong a sense of smell could that dog have? Before I could even consider trying my luck any more, my hands sprang open, which meant that dark yellow fluid now puddled onto the floor from my dangly pea-shooter and our border-crossing-bud was submerged into the bowl. I sighed, concerned that this baggie would clog the cistern and I reached into the pool of piddle to withdraw it. I opened the lid of the woman's sanitary disposal bin and dropped it in, finally in a place where it may be the least offensive item. I washed my hands, dried them and finally put that pathetic excuse for a penis away. It was time to leave the airport and head off to the city centre, without weed, but without handcuffs either. Or so I thought.

As I approached the three custom agents with a nervous smile, they barred my exit.

“Hello sir, can you come with us?”

I panicked. Could they have cameras in the toilets? Surely that was illegal. Surely that was a complete breach of human rights. That would mean they would see how small my dick was. I looked at that small, evil piece of shit, as it tried so hard to be cute.

“It was you? Wasn't it?”

The two human custom agents led me to a tiny room adjacent to the hallway, where they would rummage through my hand luggage on a small desk.

“Can we have a look through your bag?” they asked, as if they hadn't started it already.

“For what reason are you in Sweden, sir?”

“Oh. I'm here to play a card game.”

“What? Like poker?”

“Eh.. sort of, Magic the Gathering,” I croaked out, meekly.

“Ah yes, I see now,” one agent said as her hands disregarded how expensive my cards were on the secondary market. “And your passport sir?”

I reached into one jacket pocket. Then another. And another. Then my jeans. I sprinted back to the toilet cubicle and there it was, nestled atop the hand dryer. I grabbed it, breathed a sigh of relief and handed it to the agent.

“It's a good thing we stopped you sir.”

“Yes it is, thank you,” I said with a nod and a smile.

Content with my bag and my documents, they let me pass. I entered into a room designed for letting people wait on buses. Through the windows I saw one coach bound for the city centre peel away. No matter. I'll just wait for the next one.

I pulled out the novel I was reading from my bag – one of the Stieg Larsson books. “The girl who pegged a dragon in the arse with a strap on” or something. You know, when in Sweden, read some Swedish literature. 15-20 minutes passed and the two customs agents appeared.

“Sir, why are you still here?” one asked.

“I'm waiting for the bus.”

“Oh. There are no more buses left.”

“You must have missed the last one when we were searching through your stuff.”

“Oh. I shit. I better get a taxi,” I said with a sigh. This was going to cost me.

“Where are you headed?”

“The city centre.”

“Well that's where we're going. We'll give you a lift.”

“Amazing. Thank you.”

They led me to a Volvo (of course) and I got into the back seat behind the driver. The the two female custom agents up front and guess who was there in the boot. Yep. Man's best friend, after a little it of tail wagging settled in behind me.

The demon and I locked eyes with each other once more and did our Shining bit.

“Nice try, motherfucker, but you can't catch me, I'm the ginger pube man.”

I broke my gaze with the pooch and spoke to the agents once more.

“Awww he's a good boy.”

They laughed and as one drove, the other gave me some information about the city and asked me about Magic.

“The card game.. is it like warhammer?”

“Oh god no. I have lost my virginity, you know.”

They laughed. I laughed. My phone rang.

It was my friend who I was staying with.

“Hey man, where are you?”

“Funny story, but I've got picked up by the cops already. Don't worry, they're giving me a lift to the city centre.”

“Ok, great, see you soon!”

I ended the call and the custom agent driving the car piped up.

“We're not the cops, sir. We're the customs agents. We're the good guys.”

I chuckled.

“Right you are,” I said, winking to the dog.

The rest of the trip wasn't as eventful. I played some cards, badly, making mistakes with cards that better players wouldn't have. Regardless, I'd say it was worth it for that experience alone. It was the last time I'd smuggle any amount of cannabis anywhere. After that, it was only ever hard drugs, but that as they say, is a story for another time.

I write almost entirely for fun and because I love storytelling, but if you're feeling generous and want to throw a coin or two my way, below is my paypal tipping address.  A fair amount of the money I spend these days goes on either writing classes or tipping other artists for bringing us cheer at this grim time, so I wouldn't say you're wasting too much if you do.   Christ that last sentence is even more try hard..

My Paypal Link

The Bartending Blues

The Bartending Blues

Ahhhh bartending - after several months of a government sponsored holiday, care of COVID, I should be happy to return to you. I mean.. you've provided me with so much joy over the year. All those times you've had me covered in piss scented beer from the drip trays, old cigarette butts from ash trays, and the beautiful brown crumbs of skidmarks that I've had to scrub off bowls with the frayed ends of old toothbrushes. Not sure why I did that, I mean nobody asked me to, I just felt that I'd save the cleaner some work. I mean what does a bartender do? I'm not saying anything new in that we're the part-time social workers, psychiatrists, kind ears and liquid magicians who are blowing your mind with tasty beverages when we're not fixing them with our ears and our words.  I mean, we may not be saving lives like nurses do, but there are times when having to listen to a customer tell you about their arsehole hair bleaching practices should result in a higher hourly rate.  However, bartending is doing largely what you're told by your manager to do. Which in my case is usually "Conor.. please don't be too harsh at all the dumb cunt customers." Really though?

The ones who lean on the fucking hatch that is clearly marked "please don't stand here". I mean it's not exactly like we need access to a bar floor covered in broken glass and vomit because some genius lost the ability to maintain a grip of his pint glass or his bowels after three redliners - that's when some clown chooses to infuse the silky smooth anaseed notes of a flaming sambucca with the spicey vingarette of tobasco because he's "such a lad". Usually, the same guy who comes in, looks at the badges on every tap, then the menu, then to me, so that he can ask.

"What do you have on tap?"

They're there. THEY'RE FUCKING THERE. I know it's a bit too much to ask that you have basic literacy skills when you come into my bar, but if you could read the labels, I wouldn't have to rub my two remaining brain cells together to give you the answer you could get with basic understanding of the alphabet.

"We have Heiniken, Birra Moretti, Guinness, IPA, PA a nice organic Cider.."

"Do you have Carlsberg?"

Did I fucking say Carlsberg?

Amongst those names that you heard me say, did I say fucking say Carlsberg? Do you see it on tap? Sometimes I just give him a pint of Heiniken and tell him it's Carlsberg. Same tasteless piss weak lager, he's not going to know the difference. I could just empty the drip trays into a pint and the bastard wouldn't have the tastebuds to distinguish it.

“No, sorry. We've got Heiniken, fairly si-”

“What's the strongest pint you have for the least amount of money?”

I stand there silently for a moment. Is he asking me to create an Excel sheet creating mean averages for percentage of beer vs its value in pound sterling?

“Ummm.. probably the Heiniken,” I say, kicking myself that I didn't just sell him the drip tray beer as Carlsber and hoping that whether my answer is right or wrong, it's enough to placate him.

That same guy will then tell me that because I'm Irish, I need to know that because his great grandfather was indeed from Dublin, that makes him, Mr centre-of-wit-and-intelligence-also-Irish. Then he springs on me something which completely utterly blindsides me. Something that makes me stare off into the distance, like my eyes themselves are searching for the higg-boson particle.

“Do you know where Dublin is?”

Do I know where Dub- The capital of my own country. DO I KNOW WHERE-

"Ah Dublin, is a good city," I say with a smile.

"Yeah it is, I was there on a stag do last year. Fuckin hammered haw haw haw." In fairness, I also went on a stag do and was hammered, but I'm not going to tell him that because the more I have to engage with this highly evolved amoeba cell the more I'm going to want to pour tabasco, then sambuca, then fire into my eye in the vague hope of ending it all.

That urge to hurl myself into a firey alcohol fuelled abyss is only intensified when he's joined by his dumpy female. Maybe it's his wife, maybe it's his sister, maybe it's his mother. Could even be all three. She comes in and your brain's probably already conjuring some fake-tanned crabalocker fishwife except, for me, that'd be nice if that were the case. Unfortunately for our handsome hero, this crabalocker fishwife is actually a pornographic priestess. Tall, curvy in all the right places, slim in all the other ones, perfectly angled cheekbones, clean bright white teeth which put my six coffees a day stained ones to shame and beautiful dark eyes, like two black holes that I could just fall into and the universe would cease to matter. She picks up the menu, peruses it for a moment, looks over my head at the spirits on the shelves for a moment, then, as if God answers my prayers, casts her gaze upon mine. As my heartrate soars to Tour de France cyclists going uphill levels, I somehow manage to forget that she's some deliverance style lover/sibling combo of this that is.. until she opens her mouth and asks that question I simultaneously prayed to Allah, Yah Weh, Vishnu and Satan pleading with them that she wouldn't ask. A question that, even if we could have the menu in giant fucking letters on a board behind me would still get asked. She could have vision so sharp she could read the bottom letters of an eye test three miles away and these words would still dribble out of her beautiful, sumptuous, wasted lips.

“What pink gins you got?”

The words ring out like a gunshot in my ear.

It's not even that I'm that snobbish about the venomess peppa-pig-coloured distilled muck that she wants to drink, it's not even that just like her brother/manthing she can't be bothered to process the obvious information in front of her, it's that she let's out those words with that Estuary accent which could make me want to put tabasco, sambuca into my ear and set it on fire, and this time, definitely in that order.

The illusion shattered, I decide to continue with the banal disintigration of those two poor, lonely, remaining braincells.

“We've got Beefeater Pink, or a lovely rhubarb infused one fr-”

“Do you have Gordons?”

“No.. sorry.”

“Well why not?”

Because it, like all pink gin is shite and we shouldn't be stocking any of that flavoured slime.

“I -uhhhh--- I'll ask the manager next time I see him. Beefeater is good.. I hear”

“Fuck it. I'll have one of them then.”

I go and pour the damn drink, knowing that she'll be complaining about the price and will impart the information that I so desperately seek – the knowledge that she pours much bigger measures in her house and then she hits me with that uestion. The one I'm not totally sick of answering every single time I'm making a drink.

“Are you Irish?”
“Aye.”

“Do you know Leitrim?”
“Not that well to be honest.”

“Well that's where I'm from.”

I can't help it, I'm doing my best to not swear or say anything too harsh, but the snark. The snark can't be controlled sometimes.. it just creeps out of my mouth.

“Great. How's that working out for you?”

She's offended. Deeply offended now.

“I want to speak to your manager.”

“Fintan..”

I call him over and mouth a sorry. He understands. A certain level of snark is needed sometimes. Like to the guys that go up to the live band and ask for a go on their instruments, because they can do a “great rendition of Wonderwall.” To the American tourists who wonder in at 11.30 at night to ask for Irish coffees on a Friday night when the queue is already three deep and then can't understand why the coffee machine has been cleaned and closed down. To the middle aged woman ordering a vodka and coke, who only tells you after you made the drink that they didn't want ice in it, because you were supposed to be euipped with your crystal ball and predict that this weird bitch would want her beverage exactly like this. I won't be getting writ up for this one.

Then they walk in. The big eared Kensington/Windsor/wherever-the-fuck-else crowd that love nothing better than treating me like the shit on their shoe, just because their shoes have a higher net worth than I do and that they bought their shoes from the pocket money Daddy gave them for not calling him a Tory cunt, all whilst this Irish peasant does menial work and has a funny accent. Don't worry, I'll do my best to be quiet and subservient and appreciative when he comes up to the bar. I'll just count to ten and breathe when exchanges like this happen. Maybe they'll be so kind as to buy me a shot if I just do exactly as they say. Preferably a shot of sambucca, which I'll top with tabasco and fire.

“Can I get a -”

Here it comes, here it comes..

“A pint of IPA, two Peronis”

“We don't have peronis sorry, Moretti OK?”
“Yeah that's fine.”

This might be OK. We can do this.

“A bottle of prosecco. A gin and tonic”

“Single or double?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry single or double?”
“Yes.”

“A double then?”
“No – single.”

“Ok, what else?”

“Can we have one of every cocktail on your menu?”
“Uhh yeah.”

“Oh and it's her birthday..” the big eared goon says with a point, as if I'm meant to know Camilla Parker-Bowles Jr. “Can we get a round of shots on the house?”

“Um, no sorry.”

“Ah gooo on. You're Irish!”

Yes, us Irish people have a long and happy history of giving stuff for free to the English upper class.

“Sorry. No can do.”

“But why not? Go on.”

“It's just not something we do here.. bar policy and that.”

“Right, well let me speak to your manager.”

I turn around, the poor guy has just managed to settle little Miss Self-importance. He's going to love this one.

“Finn-” I say with apologetic eyes for the second time in the night. I tilt my head, pointing him towards our new friend.

“Listen, it's Susan's birthday. We're spending a lot of money here. Any chance we can get a free round of shots?”

God I want to grab him by his big flappy Dumbo-fuck ears and slam his head into the puddle of piss-smelling pale ale he's created jostling to the John-Lewis-style cover of 'Purple Rain'. I want to elbow drop him like howTony Jaa does when he's fighting everybody in Ong Bak. I want to -

Breathe. Breaaaaaaatthhhhe. Count to ten.

“Right OK. What shots would you like?”

“Yes.”

“What shots? I'll tell you what, I'll give you a round of Irish whiskey..”

“irish whiskey! Bleh! Don't touch the stuff! What is it with you micks.. is it an Irish bar or something?”

“Well yeah, it is yeah.”

“Ok. Well fine. Whatever. Irish whiskeys will do fine.”

I let out a small sigh. One that is part due to Fintan's choice resolve the situation without hassle and part due to his willingness to just let it slide. I didn't want him this clown to win, but here we are again. I go back to shaking and stirring, pulling up bits of mint, garnishing fruit onto the top of the drinks. I am in my element, constructing them with pride and dilligence. They're all made up, beautifully presented, expertly made. If I could drink them, I would. I would down them and hopefully pass out within the hour so as to remove myself from the situation. I pass them over onto the bar counter in front of him, on bar mats no less. He starts passing them around his group of Made in Chelsea-rejects. He manages to drop one, meaning I'll be forced out to come round, sweep up the mess of broken glass, crushed ice and sticky liquid now clumped to the bar floor. Of course doing so means that despite my massive frame, I'll have to make myself more apparent, with a constant stream of “excuse mes” to the high-heeled harpies screeching about what Oliver got up to with Imogen in the jaccuzi last weekened.  I sort of thank the fact I wasn't there, otherwise I'd most likely be doing life for drowning them in their heated evervescent tank of even stickier body fluids.

I go back to the bar, print off the bill and present it to him, grabbing the card machine, readying it with the amount stated on the receipt.

“Oh and a pint of Guinness..”

No, of course not. Wouldn't be right for me to expect you to know the very simple rule that us bartenders have for wanks like you: order your Guinness first. So it can you know, settle.

I put the Guinness on and reprint the reciept, type the new number in the card machine and present it to him.

“Oh can we split it over three cards. 25% on one, 33% on the second, 17.5% on the third. We'll pay in cash for the rest.”

I pull out my phone and start doing the percentages, at this point, the bill could come to a round £100 and I couldn't rub those two brain cells together enough to create a spark of mathematical success. I take the first card, put the amount into the card machine, then the card itself, then hand the machine over to the Earl of Pissingmeoffdom. Or at least I try to, he's too engrossed in conversation with the Lady of the IPA lake to pay attention. After practically poking him with the machine, he gives his attention to me, with a look of “what do you want”, before the slow realization occurs that yes, I might need his pin number if we wish to proceed. The same happens with the next card. And the next one. Except on this occasion, it's Olivia and she hasn't bothered to move the money from her current account onto her Monzo card, because fuck you, that's why. Then Charles goes to pay his amount, lifts the bill and reads it, with a slack-jawed gape, almost like he's been stolen from.

"Listen, you, Mick. I don't think I should have to pay service charge on thse cocktails. After all, I've had to wait for a whole two minutes for you to make them.  Ridiculous."

"Yes sir, but you did order eight different cocktails, all with a multitude of ingredients and garnishes. Apologies for taking my time to make sure they are perfect for you."

"Well Juliette is allergic to corriander and there was corriander in her cocktail. She should have been warned about that.”

“It's on the menu. Corriander also has a distinct smell. Of corriander.”

“Well Marianne dropped her drink, so we shouldn't be paying for it.”

“Unfortunately sir, as the drink was in good condition when I handed it to your friend, what she chose to do with it afterwards is entirely her decision.”

“Well – the Guinness. It's not full. That's not a pint. Look at the shape of the glass.”

“Yes, it's settling. I will finish it in a moment. Guinness is poured in two parts. Industry standard.”

“Yes, well I'd much rather I only play the cost price. Even then it's too much."
"Oh that's fine. That service charge was only to be used to pay the extortionate rent I pay on the single bed broom closet your Father is so kind to rent out to me."

"Now now, there's no need to get like that. It's just that I will spend my money alot better than you would. You don't have the education..."

At this moment, my funny accent is gone. My willingness to be pleasant is gone. I go full Belfast, one of the few accents famed for being scarier when the speaker doesn't shout, but talks slower and quieter. An accent where its owner neither needs to swear nor make an overt threat. It's all in that fear and confusion illiciting subtext.

"It's like the philosopher, Friedrich Neitzche once said - he who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become the monster. When you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss also gazes into you."

"Oh right.. I never thought about it that way. Please. Have my money. Take a drink for yourself."

"Cheers.”

I wait with my hand out for Charles' cash to go into it. A hand he just ignores and instead, he places the cash in that big puddle of IPA, leaving me to scramble it out of there, suddenly feeling like I'm one of the lepers in the New Testament who's been suddenly transported through time to the Royal Albert Hall and being expected to play the grand piano. I pry the brass nuggets from the piss pool and put a drink on the bill for myself before I cash off, lightly flooding the till drawer with the moisture from the coins.

I pour myself a shot of sambuca and tabasco and angle the lighter ready at the surface. Maybe I'll stick it up my ass this time.

I write almost entirely for fun and because I love storytelling, but if you're feeling generous and want to throw a coin or two my way, below is my paypal tipping address.  A fair amount of the money I spend these days goes on either writing classes or tipping other artists for bringing us cheer at this grim time, so I wouldn't say you're wasting too much if you do.   Christ that last sentence is even more try hard..

Paypal Link

Some random stuff I wrote on the Facey-Bs

Well, I post too much on Facebook.  May as well put some of my (hopefully) funnier moments of the last two days up here.

On post-lockdown shopping:

There's something so sad about people fighting to get into Primarks and Nike stores on the first day that the shops are open. That somehow spending money in some place where people in conditions not much better than slavery are used to make low quality clothing items will make people feel OK, or important again. That they've been able to socially distance for all these months to avoid passing round a deadly, contagious disease like a big joint at a party but are prepared to risk it all for a new pair of trainers, or some tatty clothing that won't last a year troubles me. I mean for fucks sake, just order your shit for cheap off Amazon, if a megalomaniac profit over people bastard is going to get your money, don't bother leaving the house.

Edit: Just tagging on, this was supposed to be both funny and sad, was trying to take a dig at myself for ordering too much stuff off of Amazon and I'm sure some people have good reason to get stuff from Primark etc., just try not all to rush in at once.

Conor's laws for life

1) The moment you think you're intelligent, is likely the moment you're making a grave error

2) Never start a fight you can't finish

3) Anyone who makes a big deal about being honest or telling the truth, likely aren't

4) Anyone who writes "attended school of hard knocks" on their Facebook profile is 100% a pussy

5) The moment you spot a cash machine with no queue on it, a queue will form as soon as you start walking to it

6) If you're someone who boasts about never eating fruit or veg but gets sick all the time, you're a bit of a knob

7) Devote a percentage of your income on headphones, you will lose them

8) If there is an outcome you really dont want, but there is a small percentage chance of it happening, chuck a tenner on it (see Trump election)

9) if you're writing a rules for life on social media, you must be bored as shit, or a bit of a dick.

10) if you don't fully understand a problem, or social issue and can take the time to study it to figure it out better, do that. Don't just wade in like youre John Wayne in a saloon. Nothing wrong with admitting you're out of your depth. Sometimes just shut the fuck up.

On Lockdown Shape

My body shape, after three months of lifting weights, doing no cardio and drinking and eating too much

I am now the cheapest, least qualified PT in Belfast.  £15 for an hour and a half.. whaaaat?

On Amazon Stealing

Not content with stealing the labour from its workers or the taxes from the coffers, it moves onto stealing wishes marketing strategy

On Accepting you can't fight for shit

Waking up to realize that the dream you had where you had a fight in the UFC scheduled in two weeks time was in fact a dream and you dont have to worry about the fact you still cant fight for shit sets you up for the rest of the day

How not to fight Muay Thai

On Attempting to be smart whilst drunk

On how to make pasta

On how to make a cup of tea

Seriously.

questions and answers about the Royal Central School of Speech and Drama MA Acting for Screen

1. In general, would you recommend the MA acting for screen program at Central? 

For the most part, yes.  I would absoloutely do it again, but there were some places that I felt it could be a lot better

 2. What were you looking for out of the course & did you get it?

From a technical/skill standpoint, then for the most point yes.  In terms of employability as an actor after the course, not necessarily.

 3. Did the program prepare you for the real world? Did you get a nice reel out of it? 

I have heard of other courses which set you up better for the "real world" in terms of setting up businesses, finding work which is potentially well paid but still conducive to being an actor.  There were warning signs provided by the school that seeking work as an actor is tough regardless of your perceived ability or background, but I feel there is a change I didn't pay enough attention or respect to them.  I believe you've already seen my reel, which I feel was a great reel and did some good things for me in the years after RCSSD, I've since updated it as it's good not to have an old one stagnate for too long.  I did however do it myself as you can tell by the scruffy editing!

This is the RCSSD one:

And this is my updated one, of my own editing:

 4. After the program, did the school help with getting work, setting you up with agents, etc.? 

Not really.  There were a couple of showcase nights where short scenes or short films we were involved with were shown in the main auditorium and agents were invited, but few if any actually showed.  Once third term had wrapped up or even as early as mid-third term, we felt largely on our own.  There were a few girls in the class who really did their research regarding agents and made lists for people, organized glossy headshot photo printing.  At the time it was still common place to mail them out directly to agents, though whether or not that has changed, I'm not sure.  I didn't get a good agent until mid 2018 after being hussled by one who I paid to join (don't ask)

 5. I believe I saw that you didn't study acting in Uni prior to going to Central (I also did not), did you find that hindered you in any way?

Yes and no.  I did feel that those who had studied acting prior to the masters had a bit of a head start and for me the three strongest students were all BA Drama etc. graduates from other institutions, so I definitely felt green.  I do believe that you will get up to speed quickly if you put the work in.  You can also read some books and try exercises out ahead of time. 

 6. How were the teachers and did they have a large amount of real life experience (were they working professionals)? 

A mixed bag.  Amanda Brennan is the head tutor and I think she is great at her job for the most part, although at times seemed to pick favourites.  She is fairly insightful and intelligent and has a lot of experience coaching high level actors (I believe she prepped Andrew Garfield and helped him get the spider-man role) along with working as a writer and director  Armen Gregory is fantastic as well for his script analysis and dynamic style of teaching, he is for sure a student favourite.  Jo Shah's class on representation within acting felt very much like an academic necessity for the course to receive MA creditation but it didn't feel particularly useful as an actor and she relied on YouTube lectures from other people.  Dave Nolan is one of the movement coaches and has worked as a special action extra (I believe) on shows like Vikings.  Whilst I got on fairly well with him, there were some people who took issue with his style of teaching.  He shared the responsibilities with Anna (whose surname I forget), I liked some of the things I learned in that class, but I am still unconvinced on its usefulness overall.  I would recommend you look up Feldenkrais as these activities are used extensively in the first term.  In the second term things I enjoyed more like Laban techniue came in to play.  I am unsure who is coaching voice right now as the teacher at the time was suffering from some health issues.  Keir Burrows taught some of the camera techniue classes, he is more of a director but has made award winning feature films. The dance instructor, Paul was the same genetleman who choreographed all sorts of dance scenes - including the Harry Potter wand fight scenes.  He is a little harsh at times, but he recognizes when people put the work in.  He commended me for my efforts of going from one of the worst dancers to being one of the better ones, purely because I'd put so much work in.  Praise where priase is due is nice.

 7. How was the workload in the school? How were classes? In classes were you writing papers or more getting on your feet and working/filming?

The workload for the first term is intense and the second term is relatively intense as well.  You have 4 days of 9-6 timetabled hours as a bare minimum but you may have agreed times to meet up with other students, work on projects, practice dancing, line running, writing etc.  We were almost always on our feet, though occasionally we sat down for some voice work.  The classes are almost always active, save for Jo Shah's class which is about 2-3 hours long.  Most of the essay writing you do is on your own time.

 8. Did you also get a taste of other aspects of filmmaking (writing, directing, editing, producing, etc.)? 

Yes, though as with many things it all depended on how much time you were going to put into it.  You were shown the editing suite and Adobe Premiere Pro but typically if you were in a group with an experienced editor (there were a few in our class) they were able to handle that.  You aren't coached that much on any of these other skills, so having a rudimentary understanding of these things would help.  Each semester has moments where you will be working on projects, roles of directing/editing/writing are shared out.  Enthusiasm without being controlling will go a long way.

 9. More importantly, did you like it? 

Well I would definitely do it again, so I would say yes.  I've been lucky to have stayed in contact with some of the students on my course and consider myself very good friends with them.  From what I gather the course has improved with regards to the number of short films you make and who the outside director/producer/writers are for those.  In the second/third term I was cast in a short film that school funds had been given to the writer/director to write roles which suited us as students.  He then decided somewhere in the second/third term to change the role entirely and found I was no longer what he wanted and brought in a past student of the course who suited it better (much smaller build, younger face, almost natural nervousness to him) this and a couple of other things did put a little bit of bad taste in my mouth, but again overall I was happy enough.

 10. Anything else you'd love to add!

There is so much you can do to prepare for the auditions and for the course itself.  I would recommend you take the 21 Day Self Tape Challenge (Purocasting) as it is pretty cheap for a lot of lessons in working with scripts and doing monologues to camera.  I would also recommend you try chi gong - a martial art a lot like Tai Chi which Amanda uses as her warm up.  Check out Chekov's techniues.  Maybe get Amanda's Energetic Performer.  Look up Feldenkrais  Download Celtx as it's a free script formatting program if you want to write scripts.  DaVinci Resolve is a free Video Editing software suite, maybe not as good as Adobe Premiere Pro, but great for free and worth learning how to use if you want to get involved with editing.  If you haven't got headshots, maybe hold off until you have the list of recommendations (Yazzmin might know this) and get them done in London.  Obviously make sure you know your lines for the monologues, work hard do your preperation, make a character, make clear choices whilst observing stillness, all that good stuff!  Figure out your funding in advance, I should have taken a part time job sooner, though who knows what the economic climate is going to be like after COVID is deemed less of a threat than it currently is.