LOOSE DAMES
I meant 'dames on the loose...'
Well, last week I was in a blind panic, my pal Doris had slipped on thin ice and fractured her pelvis. (That’s what she tells me but seeing the look on her Horace’s face I dread what really happened) I digress, anyway, Due to the nature of her injuries there was no way they were getting to go on their forthcoming holiday. Poor Doris had been so looking forward to her turkey and tinsel week. Rather than waste two perfectly serviceable tickets *wink* she offered them to my good self. Well I hate to miss a bargain, so I got right on the blower to my dear friend Dame Evadne and told her to grab the next national express outa the backwoods and get her skinny butt up to Liverpool. The plane was leaving in 2 days and for her to get a move on.
I imparted a large list of requirements to her, she had to get up the shops, order thermals, wellies, protection (against the bitter cold), and a few quarts of Vodka (well u never know; now Ireland are in the E.E.C.) I was clueless to the duty free rules – best to be safe than sorry – and for the same reason I sent her packing down the chemists…..
Two days later, all sorted, we caught the ‘ferry across the Mersey’ Oh my! it was a bitter cold day, the wind was whipping up a storm( and up our tweed skirts), for the third time Evadne retched over the side- I was grateful we weren’t going to Dublin on the Sea-Cat !- she wouldn’t have survived 6 hours in the Irish sea- and I wasn’t sure Ireland was ready for her sort.
One up the Pier Head, we frog marched into town ( which was hard because Evadne appeared to have actually packed the kitchen sink, but if she really needed 12 pair of shoes, she could carry the bleedin’ lot or find a kind young man to help) Gasping for a drink the weakling wailed for a breather . I headed to McDonalds, but the sot hauled me into a disreputable public house. The ‘Legs of Man’ didn’t seem our sort of place but the ale was flowing (and so were the working girls) A kind chappie at the bar explained to me the pub name as I blustered. (Isle of Man – not……you know * blush*) After an exceedingly quick half we tore to the taxi rank on Lime Street – then I realized why the pub was heaving at the seams with ‘those sort’
Well we got up to the airport in no time ( the driver could have doubled for a Grand National Jockey the speed he took corners ) but we held on grimly as Evadne’s hat box smashed into my head and the G force sucked our cheeks to the back window – on our face! Tut tut at you all. The trauma of booking in, and the small problem of excess baggage (oh the shame) we both retired to the bar for a swift one to calm our shattered nerves. I suppose everything would have been alright if the flight had taken off on time. I sidestep to mention that the holdup was all due to the battle enactment at Speke Hall, er- apparently the roundheads had got overenthusiastic in the attack on the cavaliers and suffice to say all airport security were out rounding up stragglers of the main runway and fence repairing. Now did I mention that I’m a poor flyer? No maybe I didn’t, well suffice to say I need a stiff drink or eight to get me down the gangplank. Blind drunk these game old birds made it onto the flight.
Well damn me! - Wall to wall catholic nuns and us! I was scared to death that at the other end of the flight a mother superior might accidentally round us both up in our inebriation and we’d be incarcerated in the convent for the rest of our days (fate worse than death!) Well the fear rattled my delicate nerves once again so I fortified with a tot or two from my handy hip flask….
We were doing sterling until we hit a patch of turbulence, it was terrible. But I finally cured that by passing Dame Evadne the charcoal biscuits and everything settled down. Touching on the runway was a total relief I have to say. I see that the Irish do many things differently. I was expecting a gangplank into the International airport, but no. They threw the doors open and pulled a ladder of sorts up. We let the nuns go first in-case we got added in. I’d have been O.K then but I forgot Dame E’s little foibles (not them! We packed them for sure….) I mean -Evadne has a dreadful fear of heights and on reaching the ground threw herself prostrate onto the tarmac, kissing at it. I didn’t know where to look! Half a football stadium of nuns and her lying kissing Irish soil…. (Didn’t the Pope do that?) Well I just gripped her and belted off to the luggage claim department. Hopefully the contingency of religious travelled light and I could grab a ciggie to calm my shattered nerves (I didn’t dare try another drink because by this time I was seeing double – and there were enough nuns to start with…)
Our luck was in, Just Evadne, me and Louis Walsh collecting bags. (That man gets everywhere!) Well these ‘old bags’ got their old bags and tottered through customs. That’s when the proverbial sh*t hit the fan…. Do they all think that little old woman make great smugglers? I had half a dozen men rifling my smalls! Oh the ignominy of it all. The worst horror came when a handsome young chappie pulled my supplies outs my sock collection. With a knowing leer and a glint in his eye he boomed out
“You do know this is a Catholic country and we don’t allow these” He smirked and whisked away my entire supply! I suppose I did escape lightly as poor Dame Evadne was taken away to be strip searched… (Those poor young men, all I could here was yelps – she’s a devil she is!) She did mention later it was one of the best half hours she’d had in years. Well whatever she did must have worked because we were shunted through that airport like a dose of Andrews liver salts! Finally on Irish soil we breathed a huge sigh of relief. Then Evadne saw that greeting sign - you know - 'Welcome to Ireland Home of Westlife' OMG she was off. like a greyhound from the trap.....