The Inter varsity!!!

Written By Michael (duck hook) Downes


On Wednesday, March 28th, 2007 at precisely 12pm, I exited the hell-hole that is CBS Lucan. I had completed, infanticide free, my last class for what would be a total of 19 days, comprising of my Easter holidays (for which I am not paid) and 2 days of madness up North, where a number of achingly average golfers and I were to tee it up in the All-Ireland Collegic Intervarsity Golf Championships, 2007.
It sounds more prestigious than it is. Although it is actually affiliated with the Golfing Union of Ireland, Trinity College had long since confirmed the event as little more than a piss up of momentous proportions, exemplified by their legendary decision just a few short years ago to 'challenge' for the title without the fairly basic pre-requisite that was their golf clubs. With this in mind, I headed towards McDonald's, from whence I was to be charioteered away from the Republic and up yonder to the Hilton Templepatrick Hotel and Country Club, the venue for this years event.
Regrettably, many of our party had missed lunch, and I was forced to endure a Happy Meal, which resulted in a bout of severe indigestion that was to last far longer than any ambitions I had of performing well in the tournament, and prove the source of many a headache to everyone else as I repeatedly lamented my lack of Gaviscon tablets. It did however, lead to the introduction of 'Blinky', a 3 eyed plastic alien, that had accompanied my Happy Meal, presumably as a warning against eating it, and this lovable creature was to act as the team's mascot for the following...25 minutes, after which he was soundly forgotten. We set off at roughly 1pm in the afternoon.
The NUIM Golf Panel was comprised mostly of alcoholics, post-graduates and two people who could drive. There was myself, Rory, Jamie, Bernard, Jonathon and the only one of us with any real talent, Paul. And that was just at coming up with new personalized drinks. We were to be joined by James on the Friday morning, day 2 of the tournament, as he had a prior commitment, his confirmation or something. 7 recruits, bound for a world of drink, sectarianism and too many putts, we arrived in Belfast at the Malone Lodge at about 5 30pm that evening and quickly went about vocalizing who did NOT want to room with whom. After that... unpleasantness, we went for a practice round at the course, unbelievable dedication considering the aforementioned antics of Trinity, although we did only play 9 holes. The consensus on the course was obvious; barring alcohol poisoning, it was going to be torn apart.
The rest of the evening was a quest to see who could get so fucked up, they actually had an excuse for playing badly. There were two obvious front-runners from the start- our esteemed President, Jonathon 'frog' Ward, and his protégé, the affable Bernard Quigly. Both were victims of a type of demon brew concocted by one Paul O'Hanlon, which consisted of a double vodka with smirnoff ice and a pint of Carlsberg, and was later appropriately named 'the O H'. Surprisingly though, it was Rory who was thought to be the main casualty of the O H, as, following a wild night of propositioning everything that moved, he discovered that the rest of us had departed at "only" 3am in the morning. Distressed, he immediately flagged down a taxi, but shortly afterwards, realised he was unable to remember the name of our lodge. This was to lead to, what one can only imagine, a tense few minutes as Rory pondered in his vodka-addled brain how best to break this realisation to his driver. However it was ultimately expressed, the cabbie was not impressed. Rory was unceremoniously dumped at the local Barracks, and finally delivered home, without some sort of probationary disciplining, much to his relief, at about 5am that morning. I recall the time with reasonable certainty because it had been decided earlier that he would be rooming with me. I woke up at 5 05am, with Rory

She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.

His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a tumble dryer

Her hair glistened in the rain like nose hair after a sneeze.

The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't.

McMurphy fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a paper bag filled with vegetable soup.

The dandelion swayed in the gentle breeze like an oscillating electric fan set on medium.

Her vocabulary was as bad as, kinda' like, sorta, whatever.

He was as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree.

The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease

Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Ballina at 6:36 pm travelling at 55 mph, the other from Claremorris 4:19pm at a speed of 35 mph.

The politician was gone but unnoticed, like the full stop after the Dr. on a Dr Pepper can.

John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.

The thunder was ominous sounding, much like the sound of a thin sheet of metal being shaken backstage during the storm scene in a play.

The red brick wall was the colour of a brick-red crayon.

Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.

The plan was simple, like my brother Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.

The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for while.

"Oh, Jason, take me!" she panted, her breasts heaving like a student on 50 cent-a-pint night.

He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck either, but a real duck that was actually lame.Maybe from stepping on a landmine or something.

Her artistic sense was exquisitely refined, like someone who can tell butter from the "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter" ad.

She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.

The revelation that his marriage of 30 years had disintegrated because of his wife's infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a formerly surcharge-free cashpoint.

It was a working class tradition, like fathers chasing kids around
with their power tools.

He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a dustcart reversing.

She was as easy as the Independent crossword.

She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was room-temperature British beef.

Her voice had that tense, grating quality, like a first-generation thermal paper fax machine that needed a band tightened.

It hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to the wall.

Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two other sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master.