The (mis)adventures of Super-S

So St. Patrick’s Day was a couple of days ago, and like any good lover of Irish culture I made plans to celebrate. Surprisingly, unlike previous years where I’ve been in a setting where it was more difficult to celebrate, this year I was not very enthusiastic about making plans.

Nonetheless, I have friends and those friends made plans for me. We were supposed to go to the parade in Belfast’s city centre. They went. I slept through it. SuperM had left for London that morning and I was up from 6:30 a.m. till 10, when I must have passed out while reading. Oh well. I caught up with my friends at a pub and proceeded to get tipsy enough to tell embarrassing stories about myself (and my friends, please forgive me) between the hours of 2 and 4. They were not my brightest hours.

In any case, we all made our way home around 5 p.m. thinking that we were done for the day. We’d done our job and it was time to sober up and get some work done. Except that at around 10 p.m. I got a message from GG telling me that our friends were calling from a pub in town that was known back in the day as being a Nationalist stronghold, telling us that the groove was too good to miss.

So we made our way back into town and were buzzed in the door of the pub (apparently, back in the day, security was very high and they wouldn’t let you in if you didn’t look like their sort of person). We weren’t two feet inside when we were accosted by an older gentleman at the bar who asked us where we were from and then with a grin on his face proceeded to tell us that we were in the presence of greatness. He pointed to a man in the corner wearing a tweed jacket and a cap and leaning on a cane and said, “That, ladies, is the second man to try and bomb Margaret Thatcher.” He then proceeded to shove us in his direction and made us take a picture with this man before allowing us to place our orders at the bar.

It may not have been the most eventful St. Patrick’s Day ever, but it’s certainly the most infamous.