I would like to blame this on Saint Patricks day but in all honesty it is completely my fault. As of late – and it actually started before Saint Patricks day, I have developed a drinking personality. After a certain amount of time a twang develops in my voice. My name slowly morphs from Adrian to Paddy and it’s all down hill from there. (I’m kidding about the name but you get the idea)
Trouble is that I’m getting good at it. On Saint Patricks I was telling people that I was from county cork. The usual response was that I sounded like I was from Dublin. Last night I couldn’t convince people that I was actually a kiwi.
We had heard about a pub called the Porterhouse. It is in a ‘traveler’ area behind Oxford street. Traveler area, means an area of cheap accommodation where backpackers who are staying for a while, live. It is one of those very authentic pubs. Everyone behind the bar has an accent and almost every single person in front of the bar does also. They have various themes and activities on various nights such as Guinness night, quiz night etc. Sunday night is simply billed as sing along night – bring an instrument and join in. I now realize that they don’t really talk it up much because they are probably happy to keep just those in the know going along.
We had intended to go to an AFL game at the SCG then go home. In fact we had intended not to have a thing to drink. So it all began with the best of intentions. Well the game was exciting and the beer was cheap.
As we left the SCG we remembered what the Porterhouse had on a Sunday night, and also it’s proximity to where we were. I have to admit that I was feeling fairly self conscious as I was wearing shorts but I was wearing the essential ‘Irish Permanent’ rugby Jersey so I fit right in. The accent slowly set in and as I was talking to people they would ask where I was from and not believe me for a moment when I said I was a kiwi. I really had to concentrate to speak like a kiwi again.
As the music started, the atmosphere was incredible. The Bar has a lot of wood paneling and the lights were low. In fact the corner where the musicians sat around a large table covered in half drunk pints was only lit by half a dozen candles. There were five guitars, two hand drums, a violin and a piano. It was not at all organized but it was excellent. Most of the time the music served as a background to the throngs of celtic conversations/ arguments/ stories and jokes being told in the now very full pub. Every couple of songs, the conversations would die down and people would join in. ‘Wonderwall’ was an impromptu three part harmony between pockets of the crowd, all conducted by a bald middle aged Irishman. No prior instructions for the crowd, just hand signals. At this point I believed that this would be an incredible experience that I would remember for a long time. But there was one more surprise for me.
Please read this next bit carefully.
A very catchy song started up. Everyone in the bar (except for Johnny and I) instantly responded to the first couple of chords. Everyone there burst into song and moved closer to the musicians. It was the kind of song that is a classic, and Anthem, the one that someone will start singing and everyone else will join in, at the top of their voices. And they were. Yet for all of this, not a single chord of the song was familiar. I carefully went over to John and asked him if he had ever heard the song before. As I walked over one of the musicians leapt onto a table and started gesturing towards the roof like shooting at birds was an action that was part of the song. John was just as confused as I was. I handed John my beer and worked my way through the crowd to the bathroom. While in there I asked (in my now authentic irish accent) “Excuse me, what is this song, I feel like I should know it.”
“Of course you should, it’s the IRA anthem”
wow.
Trouble is that I’m getting good at it. On Saint Patricks I was telling people that I was from county cork. The usual response was that I sounded like I was from Dublin. Last night I couldn’t convince people that I was actually a kiwi.
We had heard about a pub called the Porterhouse. It is in a ‘traveler’ area behind Oxford street. Traveler area, means an area of cheap accommodation where backpackers who are staying for a while, live. It is one of those very authentic pubs. Everyone behind the bar has an accent and almost every single person in front of the bar does also. They have various themes and activities on various nights such as Guinness night, quiz night etc. Sunday night is simply billed as sing along night – bring an instrument and join in. I now realize that they don’t really talk it up much because they are probably happy to keep just those in the know going along.
We had intended to go to an AFL game at the SCG then go home. In fact we had intended not to have a thing to drink. So it all began with the best of intentions. Well the game was exciting and the beer was cheap.
As we left the SCG we remembered what the Porterhouse had on a Sunday night, and also it’s proximity to where we were. I have to admit that I was feeling fairly self conscious as I was wearing shorts but I was wearing the essential ‘Irish Permanent’ rugby Jersey so I fit right in. The accent slowly set in and as I was talking to people they would ask where I was from and not believe me for a moment when I said I was a kiwi. I really had to concentrate to speak like a kiwi again.
As the music started, the atmosphere was incredible. The Bar has a lot of wood paneling and the lights were low. In fact the corner where the musicians sat around a large table covered in half drunk pints was only lit by half a dozen candles. There were five guitars, two hand drums, a violin and a piano. It was not at all organized but it was excellent. Most of the time the music served as a background to the throngs of celtic conversations/ arguments/ stories and jokes being told in the now very full pub. Every couple of songs, the conversations would die down and people would join in. ‘Wonderwall’ was an impromptu three part harmony between pockets of the crowd, all conducted by a bald middle aged Irishman. No prior instructions for the crowd, just hand signals. At this point I believed that this would be an incredible experience that I would remember for a long time. But there was one more surprise for me.
Please read this next bit carefully.
A very catchy song started up. Everyone in the bar (except for Johnny and I) instantly responded to the first couple of chords. Everyone there burst into song and moved closer to the musicians. It was the kind of song that is a classic, and Anthem, the one that someone will start singing and everyone else will join in, at the top of their voices. And they were. Yet for all of this, not a single chord of the song was familiar. I carefully went over to John and asked him if he had ever heard the song before. As I walked over one of the musicians leapt onto a table and started gesturing towards the roof like shooting at birds was an action that was part of the song. John was just as confused as I was. I handed John my beer and worked my way through the crowd to the bathroom. While in there I asked (in my now authentic irish accent) “Excuse me, what is this song, I feel like I should know it.”
“Of course you should, it’s the IRA anthem”
wow.
