Tommy Tiernan

On a strange night out with the wife

Myself and my fine lady were drinking together. We’d just been to see

Richard III, with its great passages of passion and spit, and Aaron Monaghan being rung like a bell from the playing of it; the words reverberating out of him, ringing me like a bell. Richard is crippled, and so sees himself as an outsider. He seeks revenge on the world that won’t have him as he is, although, in truth, this exile is of his own imagining.

I miss the camaraderie of acting. I miss belonging to a group of storytellers. I had started out as an actor and loved it, but something in the independence of stand-up overwhelmed me entirely. It must be great to be part of a group and know that that’s who you are. I would wonder why I chose to be by myself.

We spied a bar, my wife and I, and went in. A marvellous place; a cave of mahogany brown and dimly lit corners. There was a lovely crowd of people inside in it, all soft hips and laughter. A great gathering seeking release. Room was made for us to stand by the counter. A lively-eyed woman came up to me.

“I hate Sligo,” she said, “I mean, I really hate Sligo.”

She had appeared from around the corner of the snug.

“Jesus Christ, I do. I’m not joking.”

(I’d been up there recently, and had earwigged on a fella complaining that he hadn’t been able to get the full-Irish when he was having breakfast in France.)

“Where are you living at the minute?” I says. “Sligo,” she replied. She had a bruise on her forehead, like she’d scuffed herself.

“I was in an ambulance an hour ago; they didn’t know what to with me. I was dancing to a punk band in Portobello... I’m fine. I’m totally fine, but Jesus Christ. I lay down on the road and the ambulance came by. I mean, what the phuck, like?” I was a bit concerned about her. “Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?”

I had visions of her sleeping on the street. She started laughing. Her droll husband came over, a bit older than she was. Drooped in corduroy, his expression hung like a wet facecloth, he threw his eyes softly roofwards as if to say, ‘it happens every day’ and took her gently by the hand. She’s minded there, I thought to myself. He’ll hold her now for a while.

I was on the whiskey with a porter chaser. I have to watch meself; three or four would be enough. Any more, and I could fall into the darklands. My wife sipped mischievously on her gin and tonic. She’s from the foothills of the Dublin mountains. There’s Viking blood in her veins, and a touch of the Tudor, too. A phenomenal concoction.

A crooked woman appeared beside me, out of her mind on something unpleasant. Eyes the size of pool balls in a seagull-size head.

“I’m 31... 31! I’m so old… Can I hug you?” She was talking to the pair of us.

We declined, and she turned away hunting other crumbs.

The room was moving slowly now like a carousel. A sing-song of faces full of alcohol and chat.

“I’m a magician,” this fella says. He took a fiver out of his pocket and folded it up and blew on it. It turned into a 50.

“I did that in a restaurant one time and the waitress called security.”

The hour or two seemed to go by so fast. The barman called time, and the party’s over. The mess is ended, go in pieces. A man hands me a cigar. “From Portugal, Tom.” It’s colder outside. The eviction has turned the throng of us into stragglers. I hold on to my wife. We waltz back to the hotel, warm in each other, and fall into bed.

I rise early the next morning and go into the church just there off Grafton Street. Princess stayed on in the bed like a cat on a warm window seat, loose-limbed and asleep. I could have lingered on. I could have been easy in myself and it seemed a shame to be leaving her, but I had a notion for the sung Mass.

I sat in a pew underneath the choir and the singing began. I’m tone deaf, so can never join in. It felt good to listen. I was singing along inside in me head, although nothing would have pleased me better than to open me throat and contribute.

I went up to Holy Communion, and received the host from a small South American priest, a long way from home. He looked at me. “Body of Christ.” He meant it. I tried to. “Amen.” I got back to my seat and looked around. I thought that I would like to live here and do this every day. The Mass was ended, and we clapped when the choir finished up. Another community dispersed.

I was outside again. I walked through deserted streets on my way to meet mo ghra gheal, and I realised that perhaps all states of belonging are temporary. In work and play, in marriage and worship, we swing from the social to the solitary. And the odd thing is that maybe underneath the to-ing and fro-ing, that we are always part of a community. We share the experience of being. We are alone together...