Somehow, I have managed to double book myself tonight. It’s really hard to know what the day is here and everyone gets confused on a regular basis. There just doesn’t really seem to be anything to distinguish one porridge-white day, from the next. So, tonight I have to squeeze in A Night with The Gaelic Tenors and Suhaila’s wedding; and, before that, I need to get sparkly Cinderella slippers – the pre-requisite for the evening.
Angie and I dash from work to the mall, purchase sparkly slippers in record time. We scramble into our glad rags, which on my part are rather over the top for the Gaelic Tenors, but then I have a glamorous wedding to attend afters. Well, at the same time, in truth!
There’s nothing like turning up in a ball gown and sparkly high-heels at a rowdy Irish night. I keep my tiara in my bag. Wise. The Gaelic Tenors concert is being held in the ballroom of the Renate Hotel, and it is heaving with several hundred people. We are here with a crowd from the hospital, despite the fact we are officially banned from socialising with them.
The meal is a sumptuous feast, the entire dessert menu is most certainly Irish, it is all chocolate! I am presented with my own miniature chocolate grand piano.
Once the chocolate orchestra has been consumed by the guests, everyone is ready for the singing. Minutes pass, then an hour, and another. The muttering of the crowd, buoyed up by pints of the black stuff, grows to a roar as people start a sing-song themselves. Finally, several ‘Wild Rovers’ later, the MC comes on and says there is a problem (unspecified) and instead we are going to ‘enjoy’ being regaled by one of the singers (prostitutes) from the sleazy bar upstairs. We groan, we know what is coming. Sure enough, we endure twenty minutes of a Thai girl, in red clingfilm, screeching her way through the greatest hits of Elton John. She leaves the stage to lukewarm applause and we are subjected to ten minutes of dry-ice mists and green laser lights, presumably a Riverdance revival. By now everyone is grouchy, no amount of green mist is going to dispel the red mist gathering in the room. A drunken pianist wobbles onto the stage, and tinkles on the keys, tunelessly. I fear for his life.
All in all, this is adding up to a typical desert night, i.e. nothing going to plan, but, of course, plenty of dire music and wriggling Thai girls. At last, the MC returns and introduces three sweaty, orange-toned oiks. They stumble onto the stage, the pianist looks sober beside them.
‘Hello Dubai,’ they bellow.
Silence from the floor.
Only a few hundred miles wrong, then.The green mist turns blue, with true Dublin language.
This proves to be the highpoint of the Act, and I am glad that in the end I only have to listen for twenty minutes to them murdering beautiful Irish folk songs. The wedding calls. I pull my tiara from my bag, and run off into the night, leaving the sweating pumpkins behind.