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Hogan’s Bar in Dublin was busy, and myself and the girls looked gorgeous. We were young, single and we wanted the lads across the way to notice us and we sat down, pretending not to pose. I had only been in Ireland for a few months, but my workmates were taking me out to meet the local fellas. I wanted the lads to notice the hell out of me anyways. I quite fancied an intense affair with an Irishman.

I noticed a looker, sitting with his mate drinking a Beamish. I wondered if he was from Cork, seeing as he was drinking that brown murky ale. And I wondered if I was gonna be able to understand him when he came over to talk to me. I smiled at him, a big, full smile, which works so well in the States. The smile says, “Hey, I’m open for business, and I choose you as a client!” But the lad just looked down into his Beamish and kept talking to his mate.

I asked Aoife, from sales, about this. She roared laughing, and said, “Lady, you are in Ireland now. Those boys won’t make their approach until 2a.m. and only after they have plenty of booze on board. And only if you are in Copper Face Jack’s.”

I ask, in horror, “WHY THE HELL NOT? And what is Copper…” Fionnuala from accounts and Mary from the warehouse join in. “Oh Jaysus girl, Irish men are the worst pullers in the world. They won’t approach sober, and they won’t approach without their wingman and four layers of hair gel. And they can’t string two sentences together. It’s pure awful.”

I say again, in horror, “BUT WHY???” Fionnuala and Mary and Aoife all looked at each other and laugh. Mary whispers, “We don’t know, probably because they are reproductively clueless. Don’t worry, Sinéad, we will go to Coppers later and you will see what it is like at the coalface.”

So I look across Hogan’s bar at the one that will get away. It seemed a shame that the handsome Beamish drinker could not cross the floor of Hogan’s to talk to me without doing something grossly wrong in the eyes of Irish bar culture.

At midnight, Aoife says, “Right ladies, it is time to make our way to Slapper Faced Jacks!” I pick up my coat, and handbag, and take one more look at Handsome across the bar. He had polished off his fifth beamish by this stage. As I stood up, so did he. My heart leapt to my mouth as he started his rather unco-ordinated drunken walk across the floor towards me. It seemed the floor would go on forever, it was a most important and perilous journey. He made it intact. Phew.

Just as he sat down next to me, Aoife hissed at him, “Ah would ya ever feck off, you drunk eeejit.” Mary joined in, “What are ye, a bunch of pervs? We are talking WITH OUR FRIENDS.” And Fionnuala says, “Could ye not have made your approach about 4 drinks ago?”

The guy smiled at us. He said, “No. I cannot have approached you four drinks ago. Because you would have savaged my head off anyway. The drink just lessens the blow. We drink on approach because you are so mean.”

Mary says, “Yeah, whatev. Laters ya feckin’ eejit.”

She pulls me away from Mr Handsome but I reach back to grab my handbag. And I see Handsome slipping a business card into it. Maybe I will give Colm Murphy, Group Internal Auditor of Fresh Eire Accounting an email tomorrow.



Enter the Competition

This year’s winner was Sinead Barry, who wins the €100 prize money. You too can enter the competition for next year by getting those creative juices flowing. Stories should be 600 to 800 words and can be submitted by 31st July 2014 to


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