It's been a spicy Christmas

In the run up to Christmas I unwittingly ended up in late night curry houses no less than seven times in two weeks, with the result that I now have shares in The Tandoori Bite and I broke out in a rash. Don't get me wrong - I'm a huge fan of curry and late night drinking, but there are limits.

The perpetually benevolent and infinitely tolerant staff of Dublin's surprisingly small number of late night joints have seen me at my messiest; in fact, I'd go so far as to say that they have enough on me to quite ruin my reputation in society. I suppose small-hour Indian restaurants are our generation's brothels or opium dens...with similar discretion exercised by staff vis-a-vis their gentlemen clientele.

They are wonderfully ararchic places; there's something of the pirate rowdy dow in them. I've seen all kinds of wonderful things in Indians: from butter knife fights to chilly eating contests, men face down in Vindaloo and girls having wings eaten out of their decolletage.

I especially lament the passing of the old Taj Mahal. It typified a less regulated, more scallywag Dublin that's being sanitised bit by bit in favour of diffused lighting and fusion cuisine.

May the last few good Indians standing maraud on into '08 and beyond.

And may this rash not...

Another Crisis in Foptown.

ID-iot

I rather stupidly went along to a Christmas gathering in a certain so-called 'It' bar in Dublin some night during the week. I can't be expected to rememeber the names of days during the Xmas follies. I suppose I was hoping I'd have the chance to see Glenda when I opened the toilet lid and then let nature's call call me.

Anyway, the person I'd gone with kept fluttering off on me. Now normally I wouldn't notice such a thing as I'd be fluttering myself senseless too, but these kinds of bars have a distinctly chavvy flavour and that scares me, to tell you the truth. One could quite easily look sideways at the wrong blond and end up with a child called Shakira.

So I skulked about drinking too much Vermouth, with the result that I very soon blacked out. I came to with my date pulling at my arm insisting that I was going the wrong way down Dawson Street. It turned out she was right. You see, fops are born with no sense of direction; it's a trade off- God endows us with impeccable taste, rapier sharp wit and timing, but challenges us by denying us the ability to get our bearings.

My date then informed me that on being introduced to the owner of the bar, I promised him six of the best and then pushed him. The man, reportedly a fop himself, simply looked at me blankly. I must tell you this kind of ungentlemanly behaviour is farcically out of character for me;I couldn't fight off a head cold. This prompts the question: why would I do such a thing? My date was sure I'd been spiked. I think the reasons were much more complex and altruistic. It can be summed up in a question. If you'd met Snow Patrol before their unexplained rise to fame, would you have bludgeoned them to death with a lump of hard Italian cheese...for the good of humanity?

I rest my case. My hands are clean.

Another Crisis in Foptown.

Have a very merry Christmas everyone in Fopland. And remember, where ever you may be, let your fop flag fly. And avoid chavvy 'It' bars.