We are of an age. Yes, it has come to it. We are now the boring saddos who sit up, waiting for our Small Man to come in from a CGD. Or worse, following industrial relations talks with regard to abstinence, which would defy any union, have to stay up flicking channels without the requisite Friday night glass of wine, in order to taxi them home through the byroads of Cregmore and Claregalway.
For the purposes of those who have a life at the weekend and from a wan who doesn’t, I will endeavour to paint a picture. CGDs are no alcohol events for 13 to 15 year olds held in the Claregalway Community Centre a number of times a year. From 7pm of a given Friday night the good decent men from the locality kit themselves out in the requisite high viz uniform to coral what can only be called a mass Desert Storm like invasion of standard vehicles i.e. people carriers, into the carpark. We want them on that wall, we need them on that wall, cause we can't handle the truth. They are the eyes and ears of the phenomenom. From here the car doors slide back, the platoons embark, to form an orderly queue. Jackets are surplus to requirements, regardless of weather. Standard kit for male troops include beige chinos (the ones with the arse hangin down), Jack & Jones collared T-shirt, various colours permitted, except pink and high tops. Laces on the outside are grounds for honourable discharge. Uniform for ladies, well... let’s just say short, unless you’re one of the infantry who done the sartorial oddity that is a Onesie. Make-up must be plastered on with a trowel. Weaponry is chemical warfare at a high level...Lynx. Yes, tonnes of the stuff, enough to take out a small country and coupled with smart phones they are armed to obliterate, or I mean, ‘get with’ the enemy.
At the end of the night decoding of FB page is necessary to ascertain whether or not mission was accomplished. Shell shocked weary soldiers with ringing ears drag themselves through the door, straight to the press for cereal or fridge for cold pizza (if I haven’t eaten it).
I can’t help but think that a CGD for us 80s crew is in order. I mean, we are the veterans after all, surely? It’d have to be in the Warwick, no question. We would have to make like Dr Who and go back in time for attire. For fellas, rolled up jeans, denim jacket, why not double denim, for old times’ sake. Ladies, quelque chose bat winged, stone washed denims, leg warmers and bangles, topped with bad perm and blue eye shadow. Armed with a can of Bulmers in one hand and a cigarette in the other we would shuffle our way around the floor to The Cure, The Doors and The Smiths. No amphibious vehicle to pick us up (cause you’d have spent the taxi money) but rather a burger in Salthill and a long walk home. No phones. If your squadron got split up, rendezvous at the cloakroom or the corner where you threw your jacket.
And the circle goes around again, the same questions are asked but now I’m doing the asking. How’d ya get on?, Any good tunes?, Who was there? followed by the same answers Grand, The usual, The usual. Interrogation complete.
For the purposes of those who have a life at the weekend and from a wan who doesn’t, I will endeavour to paint a picture. CGDs are no alcohol events for 13 to 15 year olds held in the Claregalway Community Centre a number of times a year. From 7pm of a given Friday night the good decent men from the locality kit themselves out in the requisite high viz uniform to coral what can only be called a mass Desert Storm like invasion of standard vehicles i.e. people carriers, into the carpark. We want them on that wall, we need them on that wall, cause we can't handle the truth. They are the eyes and ears of the phenomenom. From here the car doors slide back, the platoons embark, to form an orderly queue. Jackets are surplus to requirements, regardless of weather. Standard kit for male troops include beige chinos (the ones with the arse hangin down), Jack & Jones collared T-shirt, various colours permitted, except pink and high tops. Laces on the outside are grounds for honourable discharge. Uniform for ladies, well... let’s just say short, unless you’re one of the infantry who done the sartorial oddity that is a Onesie. Make-up must be plastered on with a trowel. Weaponry is chemical warfare at a high level...Lynx. Yes, tonnes of the stuff, enough to take out a small country and coupled with smart phones they are armed to obliterate, or I mean, ‘get with’ the enemy.
At the end of the night decoding of FB page is necessary to ascertain whether or not mission was accomplished. Shell shocked weary soldiers with ringing ears drag themselves through the door, straight to the press for cereal or fridge for cold pizza (if I haven’t eaten it).
I can’t help but think that a CGD for us 80s crew is in order. I mean, we are the veterans after all, surely? It’d have to be in the Warwick, no question. We would have to make like Dr Who and go back in time for attire. For fellas, rolled up jeans, denim jacket, why not double denim, for old times’ sake. Ladies, quelque chose bat winged, stone washed denims, leg warmers and bangles, topped with bad perm and blue eye shadow. Armed with a can of Bulmers in one hand and a cigarette in the other we would shuffle our way around the floor to The Cure, The Doors and The Smiths. No amphibious vehicle to pick us up (cause you’d have spent the taxi money) but rather a burger in Salthill and a long walk home. No phones. If your squadron got split up, rendezvous at the cloakroom or the corner where you threw your jacket.
And the circle goes around again, the same questions are asked but now I’m doing the asking. How’d ya get on?, Any good tunes?, Who was there? followed by the same answers Grand, The usual, The usual. Interrogation complete.
RSS Feed
