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Cinnamon patrol

Mr and Mrs Lili Wedding

 

Loving me tender

Before I begin, I'd like to be clear: this isn't a post about Valentine's Day or love or smooshy stuff, nor is it about my love of chicken tenders. These are certainly blogworthy topics in my mind, but what I'm actually here to post about is meeting Elvis in the pub last night.

Yes, Elvis. And it isn't the first time I've met Elvis in a pub in Dublin, either. But I digress...

So in response to a slightly lacklustre feeling (associated, no doubt, with a return to relative normality after all the excitement of the world's longest family-visit-trip), David suggested yesterday that we go to Ryan's, a local pub, for "a sneaky pint". I'm not sure why it was sneaky, but it was an appealing idea.

So after leaving work early (5pm! I could see the road without headlights!), we convened at Ryan's with our pint each of Guinness. Ryan's - or, the bit I saw - is vastly superior to our other locals - the Cobblestones (which is unrenovated to the point of yuck, doesn't seem to believe in central heating, and is apparently so dirty that Irish men prefer a bottle of beer as opposed to a pint), and Thomas Reid's (wherein a pint cannot be poured properly, which bodes very ill indeed). Cosy, not fussy, and with a fair few regulars, but in such a way that you still feel comfortable popping in as a not-regular.

We were sitting quietly at our table when David looked up and his eyes widened. I smelled him before I saw him - Elvis, unwashed, and clearly worse for the wear after who knows how many pints. And whilst he had no costume, and spoke in a thick Irish accent, I knew immediately who he fancied himself to be, thanks to a spectacular pair of sideburns.

During the next 5-10 minutes, Elvis made allegations concerning Nicholas Cage's relationship with his daughter, explained the technique that led to his sexual prowess, and speculated on the likelihood of David (ahem) getting lucky that night.

I didn't have the heart (or the breath, I was laughing too hard) to tell Elvis that Lisa Marie had moved on, married someone else, and had twins with him.

Eventually one of the guys behind the bar told Elvis to go away, but my snickering continued long after he moved (his really rather smelly self) along.

As far as Elvises in Dublin pubs go, this one was much lewder than the chap I'd encountered in the Swiss Cottage one evening, who had a reasonable singing voice, and the sense to sing a few songs before hitting on me.

So, Elvis. Not dead, but living it up occasionally at my local pub. Who'd've thought?

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Anonymous Katie Says:

Oh my God, do you think he will be there on St Patrick's Day? You MUST GO BACK. And this time, take that fancy-shmancy medium-format camera and get some photographic evidence. ELVIS LIVES!

 

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