‘Okay, you can open them.’
‘Aaggh!’ Aisling screamed, ‘Christ on a bike, I nearly had an accident, Moira. Anyone but him!’
Moira grinned behind her Bono face mask.
‘I like U2’s early music when I’m doing the housework, it’s so angry and full of fire it sees me finish the hoovering in next to no time,’ Ro-ro announced randomly as Moira began passing the identical masks around for the group to wear.
‘Ha ha, very funny,’ Aisling said, leading the charge down the stairs as she peered through the round eye holes. She had to admit though it was.
THE CHAUFFEUR, WHOSE name was Ned, was well used to raucous hen nights but this was a first he thought, holding the door open. A split second ago ten female Bonos, all reeking of various perfumes and booze and wearing the sort of shoes that would put holes in your lino had piled out of the guesthouse. Now they scrambled into the back of the white stretch limo one after the other. He closed the door on their squeals over having located the mini bar before getting behind the wheel. He was grateful there was a screen separating him from them lot in the back. It was relatively peaceful here in his own little bubble. A tap on the screen before he could even turn the key in the ignition put paid to that however and he pushed the button to make it slide down.
‘Ned, my man, do you happen to have any U2 with you?’ the Bono he’d noticed was wearing purple knickers as she clambered into the limo asked. ‘We thought it would be a great craic to play Beautiful Day loud and when we pull up at the lights instead of mooning people, we’ll Bono them.
Sweet merciful God, it was going to be a long night, Ned thought, fishing out his U2 CD.
Chapter 18
The limousine slid expertly into the side of the kerb outside The Singing Bird shortly after midnight. Ned cocked an ear, no chance of the hens in the back having turned into pumpkins though, not given the amount of noise they were making. He looked at the flashing neon sign over the entrance to the bar and breathed a sigh of relief. This was his last stop on the pub crawl itinerary and he was more than ready to call it a night. He couldn’t wait to hang up his chauffeur’s cap and fix himself a warm milk to sup on before sliding in beside his Janice who’d be snoring her head off by now. The Bonos in the back had precisely an hour here and then he’d see them safely home. They’d all be feeling a little sorry for themselves in the morning he was guessing as he got out of the limo and adjusted his cap.
The tense situation on Wellington Quay was seemingly forgotten about with the prospect of karaoke here at The Singing Bird. The exclusive brick Clarence hotel on Wellington Quay was owned by Bono and The Edge. The nightclub tucked away downstairs in its depths was where the beautiful people of the city congregated after dark. The burly fella on the door had taken umbrage to the women impersonating the man who wasn’t only his boss but also his personal hero and had refused them entry. He did say he’d let the one with the purple knickers in on account of her looking like a supermodel with a Bono mask on but she’d said it was one for all and all for one or something like that. The mammy and her friend had told him it was discrimination was what it was and threatened him with going to the papers but then they heard the next and final pub was The Singing Bird and there was a stage and proper microphones and everything and they’d all but thrown themselves back in the idling limousine.
Now Ned held the door open and stood back to let the clucking hens out thinking it was lucky for them they weren’t famous with the paparazzi all lurking and waiting to snap them getting out of the back of the limo. They’d need to learn a little decorum if that were the case, especially the one in the purple knickers.
Aisling straightened her dress and fluffed up her veil before linking her arm through Moira’s. ‘I’m having a grand time, so I am, Moira. Thank you for organising this. It’s brilliant being able to let my hair down.’
‘You have been a bridezilla. It’s good to see you relaxed.’ Moira grinned, nudging Aisling before pointing out a group of lads wey-hey-heying as they walked down the street with chips, no doubt smothered in curry sauce, in hand. Aisling was sorely tempted to charge on over and help herself to a few soggy sorry excuses for a potato but she was also keen to get inside the bar and get hold of the microphone. She blew them a kiss and received a cheer but no offer of a chip and so, linking her other arm through Leila’s, she dragged them toward the neon light.
The rest of the group staggered forth, Maureen and Bronagh bringing up the rear. Maureen nearly tripped on a cobblestone but Bronagh caught her before any damage could be done. ‘Sure, it’s a good thing we’re here to keep an eye on the young ones,’ she said steadying herself.
‘It is indeed, Maureen,’ said Bronagh, hiccupping.
The group blinked as they found themselves in a darkened, smoky bar. It was hot and crowded, and the whiff of body odour was lurking in the air-conditioning ducts. They’d all pushed their Bono masks off having decided he would be too hard to emulate on stage. Roisin shouted over the top of the woman who was murdering Whitney Houston up on the stage, ‘Clearly there are a lot of frustrated wannabe pop stars in Dublin.’
‘Jaysus, she’ll put us all
