Primal Sneeze

This has been languishing in drafts for a long time. I was going to leave it there until it jumped up and clocked me on the shins like the footrests of a blackbelt’s wheelchair.  Bear with me - after this, there’s only one more. I don’t know when I’ll be able to face into writing it - when the nightmares stop I suppose. They will stop eventually. Won’t they?

Thursday

We realised the sales guy from the marquee company screwed up the measurements. The damn thing didn’t fit. I learned curses in Slovak, Polish and Russian from the erectors. Anyone living within a 10km radius learned them too.

They would do what they could and return the next day with more suitable gear.

I made them a lake of soup and a mountain of sandwiches for lunch and I was deemed the best fella they’d ever met. More coffee, sandwiches and biscuits at 4:00 and I was deemed the best fella they would ever meet.

That’s me. The best fella. I can make soup to beat the best of them. You want to see me open tins!

The kiddies entertainer arrived to check out the place. He’d be back Sunday morning to set up the bouncy slug/caterpillar/train/thing/yoke. In the meantime, could he store some of his magic kit? To save space in his van.

Last word of advice before the entertainer left - don’t open the boxes. They are a killer to repack if you’re not used to it.

As soon as he left I opened them all.

Friday

At 7:00 I noticed a bread van slow down and pull in. It died right at the entrance, blocking access. The boss arrived with a smaller van, what could fit was swapped over and the driver headed off. The boss would stay with the corpse until the tow-truck arrived. It did. At 7:30 that evening.

In the meantime passing trucks were flagged down. Have you got a chain? No. Right, fuck off so. Next one: Have you got a chain? No. Right, fuck off so. And so on, until one had and the van was pulled into the yard. At least now we could get in and out.

Three sittings of soup and sandwiches. This time there was an endless supply of bread and better still, buns and cakes. To pass the time the bread-man pitched in and helped the marquee guys and they all became the best of friends. Happily ever after and all that.

I busied myself making signs. Most would never have been in the place before and we didn’t want the hassle of guided tours when there was eating and drinking to be done. Toilets. Bar. Buffet. Smoking area. Exit. GAA match. And these …

The new layout of the marquee turned out much, much better. Financially in that there was more area for the same price (fuck up compensation) and aesthetically in that there was one large high-roofed open space like a cathedral and smaller cosy rooms off it like snugs in pubs of old. Very Ireland of the 50s - religion and drink. For no apparent reason it became know as the Marquis de Sade.

Last word of advice from the Marquis de Sade’s erectors before they left - don’t take the plastic film off the floor until the last minute so it stays clean.

As soon as they left I took the plastic of the floor.

Saturday

Parking was going to be a problem. Two neighbours had offered their driveways - one across the road and one a short walk away. But who would park where? What about the Maynooth’s - the ones with small kids? They’d better park at the house then. We don’t want some kid getting a shit-haemorrhage and ne’er a nappy to hand. What about the other Maynooths? He just had a heart bypass. Then the walk’ll do him good - they can park in the Red carpark. And so on until all the guest list was sorted. Then the phone calls.

Howya, John. About tomorrow. You’ll be using the Blue carpark. How will I know I’m in the right one? It’ll be blue I told ya! And it was. On the road, big blue arrows pointing left and big red ones pointing right, and blue and red discs on poles on the neighbours’ lawns. Just like Liffey Valley Shopping Centre.

The tables and chairs arrived. Lovely pretty affairs like you’d see at a wedding but butt-clenchingly heavy. I groaned, cursed and sweated watching the guys unload them. What? Fek off if you think I was putting my back out before the best session of the year.

They demonstrated how to put the covers on the pedestals and how they’d fall apart if anyone tried lifting them the wrong way. Which intuitively seemed the right way but apparently it wasn’t. It’s not as if a row’s going to break out and they get tossed around, giggled the foreman. Unless someone mentions aunt Maggie’s big arse. His face dropped. A local man he too remembers what happened at Pat Hoey’s funeral. Well, he said, we’ll just have to hope for the best.

Last word of advice from the furniture man - don’t put the tablecloths or pedestal covers on until the last minute so they stay clean.

As soon as he left I put on the tablecloths and pedestal covers.

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