Saturday 20th/Sunday 21st June 2009
School disco, boobs & personal space
After what seemed like a successful comeback show, we were all eager to get to the after-show party and celebrate. Someone had the clever idea to drop all of our gear back to the hotel before the carnage commenced and we all ended up in different states (by that I mean levels of sobriety and not geographical coordinates but I shouldn’t rule that out either).
We waited for the festival cars to arrive, happily chatting to punters and giving out free cd singles as we sat on the pavement. A post festival meal had been organised for all the artists and although you’d think that eating was the last thing we wanted to do, we were starving and having dropped our gear off at the hotel, we made our way to the restaurant. The promoter was less than engaging with us but as the gig was more than successful, I can only assume she was less than pleased with my hard nosed bartering on the terms and conditions of our involvement in the festival, what can I do about that? Nothing.
With food in our bellies, we were eager to get the party started, Eamo, Ian, Dazzy and I took the first car to the party which was being held in the production office HQ. The others were taking a detour to see a man about a dog (that sells weed) and would meet us there.
We descended the stairwell to the river level function room, but wait….there must be some mistake because this place was lit up like Las Vegas, all that was missing was a slow set, stern looking reluctant-to-be-there teachers and a dividing line separating the boys from the girls. There was an odd mix of assembled party goers to add to the confusion; young teens to aging hippies, all high on something or perhaps just disorientated by the light. Luckily, there was a dance floor area without the Aurora Borealis where you could take refuge.
A certain person in our party, who will remain unnamed, spotted a girl with remarkably impressive mammaries and we were split between those who wanted to admire them and those wondering if they were actually real or surgically enhanced. Now, we’re not teenagers, but these were ridiculously large, I was having sympathy back pain looking at her. I figured they couldn’t be real, on the basis that her teeth would give Shane McGowan a run for his money, and if you’re going to spend money on plastic surgery and improving your look, you’d start with facial issues, right? I realise the boob topic is low brow and I’m better than that (really), but it’s a reflection on the standard of entertainment & aesthetic talent at the party. There was one girl though who obviously oozed class and wanted to know which of us would be sleeping with her that night, ah, “no thanks love”. She insisted on pressing her chest into me as we made mundane small talk, “doesn’t the river look beautiful under the city lights?” I had to bring it to an end so I let her know that after a few shorts the only thing I could get up is the stairs in the hotel, if I’m lucky. That worked a treat and I headed to the bar- just to make sure. Meanwhile Eamo was being stalked by an overly cheery young man and his entourage who recognised him from the show earlier. No boobs or offers of sex you’ll be relieved to hear.
We were invited to several parties but Eamo, Ian and I faded faster than the others, possibly because of our tourism exploits earlier in the day, and we decided to walk back to the hotel taking in the early morning quiet of picturesque Prague.
Later that day, P.I.E (give it a minute), despite the fatigue met at midday to explore further. We were motivated by the prospect of more TIG Friday food and we didn’t want to waste valuable time in another country. We took a tram to a more tourist orientated district and whatever it is about being Irish, we gravitated towards an Irish bar and had a slap up meal in the hope of finding our energy levels. It worked, for a while anyway. We bought a map and navigated the city streets, even doing the “Joey from friends” routine of stepping into the map to get our bearings. We were obviously tired because this was hilarious at the time. We gave the museum of torture a miss and hired another boat to suss out a different section of the river, but it was harder to pedal and we gave up quickly. We returned to the hotel and dropped up to see Lego, flaked out on his bed, listened to music and had a few beers and smokes. After a quick stop at TGI, we were collected at the hotel and brought to the airport. A great service you’ll agree, maybe they wanted to make sure we left the country???
Between tiredness and, in some cases, mild intoxication (as we were hanging around the departure lounge for about two hours) I couldn’t help but thinking that we were the last people you’d want to sit beside on a flight to anywhere. We were jovial (pardon the pun) to put it mildly. As we boarded, pre-empting the oversized luggage issue we had on the outbound flight, I mentioned to the cabin crew that they’d tagged all of our instruments under one name, despite there being seven in the travelling party, so not to freak out about the weight distribution. There was a quick look of recognition in her eye as she said “Yes, Royseven? The Friday crew told us all about you”. I couldn’t tell if that was good or bad. Perhaps Friday’s crew had been bowled over by our witty repartee and couldn’t possibly forget us? Anyway, 37,000 feet in the air, nothing could stop the silliness. As Lego and I tackled back to back crosswords and laughed at our own ignorance way too frequently, Eamo and Daz befriended the willing cabin crew showering them with north-sider humour and some Royseven recordings for good measure. Bernard, predictably, had fallen asleep before we even took off, and somehow the boys managed to convince one of the air hostesses to wake him up and say “Excuse me sir, could you keep it down? Other passengers are complaining about the noise coming from this row.” Bernard’s sleepy face was a picture as he attempted to make sense of what was happening. Ian was sitting beside him on the return journey and I just accepted that he undoubtedly thinks we’re a few disco balls short of club night. Ah well.
By the way, those boobs- they weren’t real. Fact.
- PAUL WALSH - ROYSEVEN