Its ACC Cork Week at Crosshaven. Who else could we dispatch in a pair of dubarrys and a musto jacket but Casanova himself..." />

Justin Barry - My Side - Chapter 9

Posted on Jul 17, 2008 in Justin Barry - My Side

 
 

Justin Barry - My Side
Chapter 9

The only prize for guessing where I was last Saturday night is an old pair of Mahony's jocks that have been lying on our utility room floor for the last month, which, quite frankly, I'm rather keen to move off the premises in any event. Ah yes my loyal subjects, it was the traditional bi-annual jaunt down to that much-loved Mecca of Dubarry shoes, fawn chinos, Ralph Lauren polo shirts, garish bright red Helly Hansen jackets, buff hairy burnt-to-the-bone chests, overpriced sauce, and if you're really lucky, one or two bits o' gear too. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Cork Week 2008.

ACC Cork Week attracts some of the best talent in the sailing world.

It's sponsored by ACC Bank this year, which is more than appropriate, as I can assure you with the uermost of confidence that there was some amount of ACC spoken down there, and that more than a few young buckos were in need of a good ACC themselves when they awoke from their booze-induced coma on Sunday morning in absolutely putrified condition. The old Helly Hansens don't look quite so trendy after they've been draped in curry sauce up to the elbow and adorned with a good old-fashioned industrial puke down the front. I'm sure many of you young scallywags are sufficiently au fait with the aforementioned doomsday scenario to render the inclusion of a detailed graphic all but redundant at this particular juncture.

Anyhoo, I digress. Where in the name of Boutros Boutros-Ghali was I? As that feckin eejit off CSI Miami would say, let's retrace the events of the evening in question shall we.

I had plans to head down there all week long, and the thought of a good night on the sauce surrounded by some tasty young lady-folk was about all that was keeping me going at the old wizzork. Only thing was, we didn't have anything sorted shelter-wise, and from past experience, it's a right joke trying to get a taxi back to town from Crosshaven. So things were still well up in the air come Saturday morning, when out of nowhere in fairness to him, Timmy O'Connell produced in a major way.

He managed to convince his old fella to let us use his yacht for the night down there. I never even knew they had one, and the thing ain't no rubber ducky either. It's got a deck upstairs for soaking up a few rays, two little bedrooms for God's sake, and a jacks for good measure - mange tous la qualitee. The thing is practically a floating Travelodge. So I said I'd drive down in the old Punto, take Mahony and Murph with me, crash there for the night, sleep off the effects and head back at our leisure on Sunday. We left at five, stopped at the offy in Carrigaline to get a right hefty supply of tinnage, and we were "up on deck" as they say, cold bad boy in hand not long after the clock struck six. Perfecto.

After a skinful there and the plan-of-attack well rehearsed, we made a break for the main action at 9-ish, well tipsy at that stage, but with my mind firmly on business. I'm there to the boys "Land Ahoy Me Maties!" when we saw all the birds in the distance, which they appreciated. Some funky band were bangin' out the tuneage in the main marquee upon our arrival, so all was set for a major sleaze-athon. We got chatting to these few birds, who were all about 22, from Mallow or some gaf, and they said they were staying in Crosshaven in one of their holiday houses for the night. Oh how convenient indeed.

An 'action shot' of Murph I took on my phone this morning. Typical.

Turns out one of them, a Sarah-type, was just graduated from the old Law up at UCC, which of course gave JB the perfect angle of attack, when I told her I was a Law graduate myself and the current rising star of MurphyDaly.

"Ooh my Gaawdd", she exclaimed, "that's so weird, I'm actually thinking of applying to them for my apprenticeship! This is so cool, you have to tell me all about it."

"Yeah no worries, I could put in a good word for you too with the partners. I get on very well with them, it's actually more of a colleague to colleague relationship at this stage rather than the stereotypical boss-apprentice scenario, you know what I mean." (shooooorrr buddy)

"What area are you in yourself in there Justin?" her voice now climbing to yet greater heights with the sheer excitement of being wrapped in conversation with an insider of Cork's clandestine legal world.

"Mergers and acquisitions is my own particular hobby-horse, nothing I love better than a big old merger to kick off a week's work you know." (sure it was only last Tuesday I did an unreal job of merging a piping hot cuppa' for Daly with a nice fresh Custard Cream - the big guy's favourite mid-morning nibble).

And so two star-crossed lovers found each other on that wondrous Saturday night down at Crosser, my cruise ship of romance drifting so helplessly into her more-than-welcoming harbour. We all headed back to the yacht, and myself and Sarah took up lodgings in one of the cabins. Barry Jones was around to start off with. The rest I shall tastefully leave to the public's imagination, but let me just say this much - I very much doubt she will get a better three and half minutes of sheer pleasure all summer long. Enough said playas.

I did give Sarah a call the other night alright, but I've got bigger fish to fry now I'm afraid. Myself and Stevie Murph just recently booked flights for a week out in Sin City itself - none other than Las Vegas, Nevada. We're jetting off next week, and needless to say, you'll be the first to know about the impending shenanigans. Five large on black my good man!

by Conor Ward

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