So last week, I wrote about the St. Patrick’s Day parade, in which I, along with the rest of the pipe band, marched through the streets of Denver. It was all great fun as these things generally are, but the main event, the real deal happened on Wednesday, St. Patrick’s Day itself. No parade this time, but a 10-hour session of playing, drinking and carousing as we were transported by tour bus around the city’s Irish bars to entertain the revelers. A number of the band members took the afternoon off work to attend and most, the following day too. St. Patrick’s Day pub-crawls aren’t known for their moderation.
First stop was the Cherry Cricket. Located in one of the classier areas of town, it’s a not so classy bar catering as far as I can tell, to people who drink for reasons other than pleasure. It was mid-afternoon when we started and, with most people still at work, things hadn’t really got going. That said; we saw our first fight of the evening, not long after we finished our opening set, when a drunk pushed his girlfriend over before being summarily ejected by the bouncers. She landed pretty hard and sobbed even harder, but even so, the last time I saw them was in the parking lot where she was comforting him, presumably on his misfortune. Things were shaping up.
Following our two sets at the Cricket, the plan was for us to be driven around the town, stopping to play in a number of different Irish bars over the course of the evening. Budweiser were our sponsors and as such, were providing not only the bus, but also light refreshments to keep us lubricated. Now being something of a beer snob, I had reservations about this, but free is free after all. For reasons that still aren’t exactly clear, no beer appeared on the bus until we’d completed a couple of circuits but at each venue, the two (apparently 12-year old) Budweiser reps were pushing beer on us almost as fast as we could drink it.
It was at the first halt I learned one of the hard lessons of a St. Patrick’s Day pub-crawl. It’s very, very difficult to get to the bathroom. To begin with there’s the fact that you’re wearing a very large, heavy and valuable yet delicate drum, and there’s simply nowhere to put it. Then consider that the bars are packed from wall to wall with revelers. Then add a couple of dozen musicians, many of them holding drums every bit as large, or larger than your own. It’s not easy. I solved the problem by selecting a rather large, semi-sober gent standing near me with his girlfriend. I simply volunteered him as my official drum holder, handed it over and set off to take care of business. I think he was quite flattered.
I have to admit, details get a little hazy when it comes to the remainder of the night. I’m not clear if the bus driver was taking us the scenic route in order to give us time to partake of the free beer between stops, or he had very little understanding of Denver’s one way system but I know for sure many of these bars were only a few hundred yards apart, yet it usually took us twenty minutes or more to get from one to the other.
The crowds for their part; were very appreciative. No matter whether we were interrupting their dinners, their pool games or just their drinking, each audience gave us a warm welcome and made it clear their St. Patrick’s Day was now, absolutely complete because the Isle of Mull & St Andrews Pipe Band had shown up to play them a few tunes. Although to be fair, most of them were pretty blitzed and would probably have applauded a couple of guys with combs and wax paper.
The evening ended back where we started, at the Cherry Cricket, as we all blearily made our separate ways home. Being something of a cop magnet while driving, I had no intention of negotiating the 50 miles of winding road that would lead me home. To that end, I’d folded down the back seats of my car, thrown in a sleeping bag and strategically selected a parking spot in the structure of the local mall. I was careful to select a site with a wall to one side, well away from the overhead electric lights and morning sunlight and where I would be undisturbed by any passing traffic. In short, I accounted for every eventuality, with the exception of mall security who banged on my window at 3:30am to insist I moved on. 2 hours of sleep had in no way allowed my body to clear out the alcohol, to say nothing of the fact that I was drop dead tired.
Earlier reconnaissance had revealed there was no other public parking within miles of my current location so there was nothing for it but to set off driving in the hope I could find a park or a church or anywhere I could pull over and sleep a little longer without disturbance. Predictably, the only cop who saw me, pulled me over. Clad as I was, in boxers and a T-shirt, barefoot and with no clear idea where in the car the rest of my clothes were, I was very happy to locate my sporran with my driver’s license, moments before he arrived at the window. I know I wasn’t speeding and don’t believe I was committing any other offence, so I’m not sure exactly why he pulled me over; he didn’t tell and I didn’t ask. But it must have been pretty obvious I was way too drunk to be driving and as he ran my license check, I was busy preparing my sob story. I’d had no intention of driving, (see my sleeping bag there); it was just those meanies at the mall, who wouldn’t let me sleep, blah, blah, blah. However, for reasons known only to him, he chose not to write me a ticket; simply handed back my license and sent me on my way. Ten minutes later, I was in a railway station parking lot, back under the covers and sleeping the sleep of the just.
Maybe we should just consider it the luck o’ the Irish.
First stop was the Cherry Cricket. Located in one of the classier areas of town, it’s a not so classy bar catering as far as I can tell, to people who drink for reasons other than pleasure. It was mid-afternoon when we started and, with most people still at work, things hadn’t really got going. That said; we saw our first fight of the evening, not long after we finished our opening set, when a drunk pushed his girlfriend over before being summarily ejected by the bouncers. She landed pretty hard and sobbed even harder, but even so, the last time I saw them was in the parking lot where she was comforting him, presumably on his misfortune. Things were shaping up.
Following our two sets at the Cricket, the plan was for us to be driven around the town, stopping to play in a number of different Irish bars over the course of the evening. Budweiser were our sponsors and as such, were providing not only the bus, but also light refreshments to keep us lubricated. Now being something of a beer snob, I had reservations about this, but free is free after all. For reasons that still aren’t exactly clear, no beer appeared on the bus until we’d completed a couple of circuits but at each venue, the two (apparently 12-year old) Budweiser reps were pushing beer on us almost as fast as we could drink it.
It was at the first halt I learned one of the hard lessons of a St. Patrick’s Day pub-crawl. It’s very, very difficult to get to the bathroom. To begin with there’s the fact that you’re wearing a very large, heavy and valuable yet delicate drum, and there’s simply nowhere to put it. Then consider that the bars are packed from wall to wall with revelers. Then add a couple of dozen musicians, many of them holding drums every bit as large, or larger than your own. It’s not easy. I solved the problem by selecting a rather large, semi-sober gent standing near me with his girlfriend. I simply volunteered him as my official drum holder, handed it over and set off to take care of business. I think he was quite flattered.
I have to admit, details get a little hazy when it comes to the remainder of the night. I’m not clear if the bus driver was taking us the scenic route in order to give us time to partake of the free beer between stops, or he had very little understanding of Denver’s one way system but I know for sure many of these bars were only a few hundred yards apart, yet it usually took us twenty minutes or more to get from one to the other.
The crowds for their part; were very appreciative. No matter whether we were interrupting their dinners, their pool games or just their drinking, each audience gave us a warm welcome and made it clear their St. Patrick’s Day was now, absolutely complete because the Isle of Mull & St Andrews Pipe Band had shown up to play them a few tunes. Although to be fair, most of them were pretty blitzed and would probably have applauded a couple of guys with combs and wax paper.
The evening ended back where we started, at the Cherry Cricket, as we all blearily made our separate ways home. Being something of a cop magnet while driving, I had no intention of negotiating the 50 miles of winding road that would lead me home. To that end, I’d folded down the back seats of my car, thrown in a sleeping bag and strategically selected a parking spot in the structure of the local mall. I was careful to select a site with a wall to one side, well away from the overhead electric lights and morning sunlight and where I would be undisturbed by any passing traffic. In short, I accounted for every eventuality, with the exception of mall security who banged on my window at 3:30am to insist I moved on. 2 hours of sleep had in no way allowed my body to clear out the alcohol, to say nothing of the fact that I was drop dead tired.
Earlier reconnaissance had revealed there was no other public parking within miles of my current location so there was nothing for it but to set off driving in the hope I could find a park or a church or anywhere I could pull over and sleep a little longer without disturbance. Predictably, the only cop who saw me, pulled me over. Clad as I was, in boxers and a T-shirt, barefoot and with no clear idea where in the car the rest of my clothes were, I was very happy to locate my sporran with my driver’s license, moments before he arrived at the window. I know I wasn’t speeding and don’t believe I was committing any other offence, so I’m not sure exactly why he pulled me over; he didn’t tell and I didn’t ask. But it must have been pretty obvious I was way too drunk to be driving and as he ran my license check, I was busy preparing my sob story. I’d had no intention of driving, (see my sleeping bag there); it was just those meanies at the mall, who wouldn’t let me sleep, blah, blah, blah. However, for reasons known only to him, he chose not to write me a ticket; simply handed back my license and sent me on my way. Ten minutes later, I was in a railway station parking lot, back under the covers and sleeping the sleep of the just.
Maybe we should just consider it the luck o’ the Irish.
