Bucko's World

Belfast Day 2 part 3

After the disappointment of the Tender vessel – other than the hilariously drugged up host – we head back to the main exhibition for tea break number 11 and plan making for this evening.  So…

…after a refreshing 40 winks or so back at the hotel, we find ourselves returned to the mean streets and looking for some invigorating entertainment ahead of our night out.  Now, when my mother had found out we were coming to Belfast she had two sage and helpful pieces of advice.  1) – why the fuck do you want to go there? (I may be paraphrasing) and 2) – we always stayed at the Europa Hotel when your Dad was around.  OK, let’s ignore 1) for now (or indeed forever…) and look at number 2.  Or not, as it was three times as much to stay there as it was the Premier Inn – and no matter how fancy it’s reception area and supercilious the staff money talks and bullshit walks.  And this walk goes to eleven…

Anyway, having admired the illuminated edifice of the Europa from afar (well, as close as they would let us in jeans and a Maiden T-Shirt, i.e. not that close at all) we find ourselves at the a pub with the world’s greatest name ever - The Crown Liquor Saloon…

And believe me, the establishment is every bit as good as you would hope it would be from that fantastic moniker, plus about 500%...

When we enter, having a little knowledge of this National Trust property, we look for one of the booths we’ve heard about to settle into for a drink but find they’re all taken, and that the rest of the pub is packed to the rafters.  Others in our group look defeated, but I’m having none of it.  I’ve never seen a pub anything like this and I’m buggered if I’m leaving just because the chances of getting a beer appear to be about 50 to 1.  Fuck that.  We have a Lisa with us and we’re prepared to use her.  We shove her through the throng towards the bar and let her do her magic.  Seconds later not only do we have some drinks on the way, but three tall seats at the bar as the only other English people in situ (three quite lovely young ladies…) decided following the onslaught of Lisa’s elbows and handbag that there is somewhere else they’d rather be.

I’d try to describe this temple of Dionysian worship but it would be pretty futile – it’s just the most extraordinary pub I’ve ever been in.  Gas lamps abound, barely illuminating the bar, dark wood sculptures decorate every booth top, mosaic bar signs glitter behind the bar staff in the limelight, and the whole place buzzes like a beehive in full summer swing.  It is simply epic. 

And then they do a beer with such a local connection it’s impossible to resist.  Yes, it really is called Belfast Beer – and is actually rather bloody good.  It could be shite, of course, bearing in mind that with that name the 20,000,000 Yanks who claim to have been from this exact fucking pub will drink the place dry of it every night it’s available, but it isn’t.  The brewery have made it bloody good, and therefore, it’s even more important that we’ve formed an impenetrable barrier of bodies, bar stools and clothing piles between us, the locals, and any unworthy sorts who may try and get between us and the bar for a beverage.  I’m pleased to say job done by us, but other areas could do with a proper shake up, as we could hear quite a few Yankee Doodles complaining how warm the beer was, how packed it was, and why there were no booths put aside especially for these glorious former sons of Hibernia.  Daft cunts.

Strangely enough, even as we sat there contemplating life and the Yank arseholes, things took a turn for the weirder.  A group of Japanese came through, making a massive fucking racket, elbowing people out of the way, generally being gigantic tossers and started taking endless selfies, group shots and even photos of other people’s drinks, all without a by or leave for anyone who may currently be in the bar, you know, paying for drinks.  It seemed that manners were something reserved for home and so long as you didn’t speak the language you could do anything you wanted with impunity. 

Rather wonderfully, the locals were having none of this and (probably not for the first time) gurned and photobombed their way through all the Japs’ pictures, before politely pointing them towards the bar with the universal sign language drinking gesture as accepted by all.  When they tried to ignore this simple suggestion and continued to try to photograph the entire pub, these helpful locals pointed them towards the exit and made sure the cheap fuckers didn’t make it back in again.  British passive-aggressiveness at its best.  I felt very proud, and even the annoying Yanks could be heard saying something along the lines of “Jeez, at least you buy a drink before annoying the fuck out of everyone else in the bar…” Word. 

You know, if you’ve been to a temple in a foreign country you were no doubt expected to make an offering – and probably take your shoes off too – so why do these fuckers come here and think that can come through ours without at least purchasing a couple of pints of Foster’s or Carlsberg (and a couple of packets of Scampi Fries) is beyond me.  Blood boiling ensues…

Despite everything, our couple of hours in the Crown is actually excellent and before we know it we are right up against the time for our reservations at Howard Street Restaurant.

We know that it’s only two minutes from the pub but here’s the rub.  When we get to Howard Street, it is simply a long road of office type buildings, all with the same faceless green doors.  For half a mile.  We’re that far down before one of our group suggests that we are no longer “near to the pub”.  They are correct.  And we’re now 10 minutes late for our table.  Being English this is not acceptable, and we are all in various levels of panic.  Will they give our table to someone else? Will they deny any knowledge of our booking as we watch a lucky table of four high fiving and getting the cocktails in?  Will they turn all the lights out and hide behind the sofa when we ring the bell asking to be fed and watered?

Well, luckily for us Irish people have a slightly different concept of time from us Londoners’, and by the time we’ve been back and forwards up the street a dozen time and eventually worked out the restaurant has no sign and the same plain green door as the rest of the buildings, we’re glad to finally be crammed into an inglenook away from the rest of the restaurant’s punters, like the naughty children in the corner.  Don’t worry folks, when you’ve got the name best get the game, you feel me fam?...Err, I’ve no idea what that means…

Anyhoo, despite feeling cornered off away from the rest of the punters, we have an excellent meal, and a great night.  The Pork Belly with Black Pudding and caramelised onion and Potato gratin was quite orgasmic, and the drinks were good; service friendly, funny and rather excellent and we had a great time.  Deffo would go back again if we were in town…

And so we’re off back to the PI, where K&P rather sensibly fuck off to bed leaving me and Lisa with a bottle of white and tomorrow to plan…

Belfast Day 2 (Part 2)

Due to the tardiness of the café, we’re running a bit late for our 11.00 start at the Titanic Experience, so we decide to grab a cab there.  Lisa has seen a cab office just across the road, so over we hop.  On arrival we notice that rather than being your usual cab office with a surly old cow behind a screen – who tells you “ain’t nuffink for twenty minutes” while playing with her hair, chewing gum and refusing to make eye contact lest she miss something on the Gold UK re-runs of Eastenders  - it’s just an ante room with three plastic chairs and a telephone.  Quality service guaranteed then.

Lisa does the biz and we’re told it’ll be a few minutes so we wait outside…

It’s worth, at this point, giving a brief description of the cab hole’s location.  Facing the building, to the left is a wide entrance into warehouse where vans and small trucks are constantly on their way in and out.  You can’t miss it – when the large, garage type door is down it says “Keep Clear” in massive fuck off letters – and when that’s open you can clearly see all the vans and trucks being unloaded.  To the right is, unsurprisingly given the location, a taxi rank – big enough for at least four cabbies to line up and eat crisps, watch daytime TV on their iPads and bash out a sneaky wank while waiting for their next fare.  Ever wonder why they all have those vinyl covers on there seats?  Seems straightforward enough to me – and so I’ll continue…

Almost immediately a BTCC car disguised as a cab turns up, mounting the kerb, screeching to a halt millimetres from where we’re standing.  How he didn’t take us all out is a mystery.  My life certainly flashed before my eyes and I was left slightly deflated at how dull it had been.  He has one wheel up on the kerb and is just six feet from actually being able to pull into the cab rank.  I’ll let him off that coz if he’d made it that far we’d have all been toast.  He gets a 4 out 10. 

As it turns out, this isn’t the cab we’re looking for.  We find this out when we go to get in and the cabby tells us “This isn’t the cab you’re looking for” and that he’s only there to tell us our cab is on it’s way.  He has no passengers and sits there a full five minutes before driving off without a fare.  He’s downgraded to a 3.

Next up another cabby pulls in.  He’s outside the cab office, no wheels on the pavement; but still, as if the place has some strange curse on it, not in the cab rank.  He let’s some passengers off and then waves at us.  Over we trot and he asks “Are yeez waiting for a cab?”  Holy Mother of God.  “Yes!” of course we’re waiting for a fucking cab you numpty and we go to get in.  Before we’ve even touched a door handle he says “Ah sure, I’m sure one will be along in a wee minute.” and fucks off.  Really? 3 out of 10 feels fucking generous.

A few minutes later another cabby pulls up, this time straight across the entrance to the warehouse, some 30 feet from the cab rank.  He is absent of customers, and, obviously keen to get his next fare on board, he pulls out his mobile and makes a phone call.  It’s obviously important because he completely ignores us, the truck trying to pull into the warehouse, and the two trying to get out.  Eventually he notices the situation and pulls forward far enough that the truck trying to pull into the warehouse can at least pull off the road, but not far enough to let the others out.  This takes an immense level of skill and car control – or the most obstinate attitude known to man ever – you decide.

When we finally get in and tell him where we are going he pulls away by driving up the kerb and thumping us down the other side.  1 out of ten feels one too many.

The Titanic Experience, like many other tourist attractions, offers different levels of “Experience” depending how much you are willing to cough.  It’s one price to come in and wander round on your own, or a few quid more to do that with a particularly dodgy picture included.  Finally, there is the full on guided-tour-team-photo-and-money-off-in-the gift-shop-and-tearoom-experience that we decide to go for.  As it works out cheaper than coming in, hiring one of those weird headset things and paying for the photo, we feel we’re onto a winner.  High fives all round!

As the attraction has been built right next to the slipway where the fabled old boat was assembled, part of the tour is outside, and it comes as no surprise to anyone that just as our guide arrives the weather outside turns biblical.  Nice.  We are, however, a hardy bunch and get through the first ten minutes hardly noticing soaked jeans and the icy streams running down our necks.  Personally, I still had my sunnies on.

When the weather takes a turn for the worse (this is marginal by this time believe you me…) we’re ushered back in and the tour continues in the warm and dry, even if the squelching is quite loud from one or two in our group.  This, you may or may not believe, is better than for some; to whit, if you’d elected to do the Segway tour of the boatyard…

 Damp we may be, but looking at those poor fuckers trying to control those machines in the pissing cold – and even watching one of them miss an exit ramp completely and land smack on their face (co-incidentally right where the violins made there last stand) – is a sight to behold.  And behold we do, with tears running down our faces.  Or rain dripping down from our hoods, it could be either.  Seriously, it’s like watching a bunch of drunk Daleks having a rave, off their tits on Space Dust and Sherbet Fountains, it’s fucking classic.  Which seems slightly at odds with the gravity of the exhibition…

..coz as we move further and further up the building we find we’re at the level where people would have been jumping off from the ship as it was sinking – and it’s high…and humbling…and fucking scary to think about…

The only thing to say about this experience is this – to appreciate the scale of what happened here, you have to visit, no words of mine can give you the slightest clue to the scale of this place…so put your out-of-date thoughts aside and come and have a look – it’s EPIC.

As a quick aside, and before we head off for tonight’s piss up involving strippers, midgets, and girls firing ping pong balls out of their vajazzled hoo-hee’s – well, that’s Belfast for you – we must mention our stop off at the only remaining vessel surviving from back in the Titanic’s day – and it’s called the Nomadic. 

Now, this is actually the last remaining ship from the Titanic era, having been built at the same time, and being used to transfer passengers from Cherbourg to the Titanic; and I must admit, I expected it to be awesome.  Erm, it wasn’t.  Perhaps, back in the day, it’s lino floors and bench seating were de rigueur for the fan-waving and generally-more-snotty-than-you-set, but as a first class passenger now I would expect a bit more than a separate toilet and slightly effeminate barman to justify my massively expensive trip across the Atlantic compared to 3^rd class…Hmmm…

We do, however, get a 1^st class greeting when we board.  This is perhaps because the young lady welcoming us onto the ship is the most enthusiastic employee in the history of the world ever, or because she is completely coked out off her tits.  Personally, I’m not sure…

…Honestly, this little vessel, which had one very brief role in life, if we are to be fair, is, today at least, being bigged up as the best thing since sliced bread, with a seven day shelf life and extra fibre for those of a looser disposition, by a girl with eyes like saucers and a faster gag delivery than Frank Carson at his 70s best –it’s a cracker! 

I was biting my lip and in tears as she was telling us where the bar was and how the barman spoke faster than her.  She even suggested he’d make us any drink we’d like, which was a stretch in anyone’s imagination seeing as he was a fucking hologram.  Daft cow…