Rachel Lavin-
Trinity, a melting pot of culture, a dolly mixture of nationalities, or as one fourth year put it ‘Trinity, its like England but smaller’. Either way it’s such a rich mixture of people and probably one of the most diverse colleges in the country. However, a culture shock was the last thing I was expecting coming to Trinity. The most I was expecting from the big shmoke was a few Dubliners, Southerners and I’d even put up with Sligo people. But nothing would have struck me more on the first day—lugging suitcases into college full enough to clothe a third world country and as I tried to brush off my mother as she lamented country old adages such as ‘It’s the blow of the whistle that separates the men from the boys’ (!?)—than the array of accents floating across the courtyard.
With all this at hand I set about culturing myself in my time in Trinity, introducing the non-nationals to the shift, eating pesto and humus (I’ll stick to the spuds thanks) and even my Roscommon accent is slowly adapting.
Of course this is a bone of contention at home, the rosh-common accent being a sacred rite of passage you see. My parents’ biggest fear sending me to Trinity was that I’d return with ‘some sort of a D4 accent’. However after a few months living with my English flatmates, on breaking a plate at home, instead of cursing the usual ‘ah shite’ I exclaim ‘Oh Crumbs’. Least to say the looks on their faces was priceless.
So I’ve adapted to the multi-culture, even been evicted from an international tea party for my Irishness (although I was mainly there to steal food). I’ve participated in a shift map, one clever group of friends aim to shift every country in the world—watch out Azerbijan! And I love the fact that come inter-railing season I have dibs on a couch and can take advantage of a mammy (careful now!) in every other country.
Roscommon--to most, the absolute middle of nowhere
However lately amidst my mind broadening cultural pursuit, instinct kicks in. I start to feel detached from Irish culture, what with constantly being asked horrifying questions such as ‘where’s Roscommon’, although Irish people are equally guilty of this, and I can’t even indulge in the ultimate Irish banter in the pub because Mother Reilly’s or ‘Ma Reilly’s’ has become the resident watering hole of Team England.
This is all contributed to by the fact that I haven’t been home in weekends due to the delightful ordeal that is essays. I miss home-cooked dinners, yes pot noodle gets tiring, freshly washed clothes and the sympathy moola you scab off the mammy. In a bid to cure the auld home-sickness I try a walk. Now I’m too afraid to leave Halls thanks to the Milltown Molester (I’ve been told alliteration is key when labeling your friendly neighborhood pervert), so I stay within the gates safe in the invincible protection of Paul from security. I try stroking the Halls cat to remind me of the farm, but due to its surprise viciousness that doesn’t work. I almost give up, but then I see it. Standing in all its magnificence, gleaming in the sunshine, symbolic of everything home is to me. It is a scarlet Massy Ferguson 135.
However, it is not until I am seated inside gripping the steering nostalgically that I realise I have hit a new low. I quickly vacate the cab before the warden slaps me with a makey-uppy fine and return to my apartment in despairing. Before I throw myself into the pond, salvation appears in the form of Plunkett McCullagh’s e-mail announcing Halls’ very own Mystery Tour. Now for those of you unfamiliar with a Mystery Tour, it is a wild and exciting adventure in which a bus takes a group of unsuspecting students to an unknown disco destination in the wilds of rural Ireland.
Or in the words of one wise first year ‘it’s basically a mass piss-up on wheels’.
At last a chance to return to my roots, indulge in the finest of culchie banter, engage in the utmost of our Irish roots in the name of St. Patrick and have fun telling the townies to pet the bull, hold the electric fence and the like.
Wednesday night comes and we board the bus like excited children on the annual sugar-fuelled school tour.
Naggins are strapped on every thigh, ankle and bra á la Lara Croft and with beer bongs flowing with booze, the Irish rebel songs are bated out above the head of the bus driver and the craic is predicted to be ninety and the shifts galore to be had. Looking out the window we finally get off the M50 and are wheeled around the nauseating back-roads with only the sight of fields and cows. Looking around the bus, I bask in the finest of this Irish student culture, and with the promise of heading further down the country, all home sickness dissipates.
And then, somewhere along the country escapades I realise what has happened. Anxiety, fear and desolation creep over me as I realise that I am missing my shneaky naggin. I sit there in paralytic shock; I am suddenly destined to the worst of all imaginable realities, the sober Irish night out…
Amidst staring despairingly out into the dark bleak countryside and feeling that my sober self, amongst all the ‘Bantz’, stands out like a pedophile in a playground, I start to observe the finer details of Irish culture.
Our first destination is the exotic Maynooth. Here, a gaggle of Halls’ Ladies invade the town in a tipsy mess, stopping traffic with threats to ‘feast on the locals’ and a line of our boys christen the local church.
We Trinity students, such a classy bunch.
Shneaky naggin--absolute essential for any bus journey
Nevertheless two hours of busting our moves and showing Mantra how it’s done in the big Shmoke, we board the bus again, and resume drinking into further dizzying heights of drunkenness.
I am still playing catch-up however and despairingly give up on intoxication. I resort however to the unintended moral high ground of soberness and start to observe more closely the intricate regulations that should be followed on ones mystery bus.
Step 1; Toilet breaks should be avoided for the sake of dignity. I’m sorry Ladies but no amount of practice can perfect the crouching position.
Step 2; Similarly, stairs should also be avoided or if however you find yourself sober, sitting opposite the bottom can provide hours of hilarity at the expense of fellow students spines.
Step 3;Don’t tackle the beer bong unless near a window and if downstairs, close the window for your own safety. If however you are over-funelled with alcohol you may like many find yourself waking up in Naas General Hospital or other stomach-pumps around the country. Best advice, avoid the beer bong altogether.
Step 4;Possibly the most complex issue is practicing the art of the shift and drift. This was epically failed on several occasions. You see drifting on a bus is virtually impossible and the awkwardness of trying to avoid the desperate seductive glances of one three seats away. Drifting however can be achieved by bus-hopping, yet this is counter-acted when like some, you shift a girl on each bus. In this case I suggest just get off at a toilet stop and stay there, a woman’s scorn and all that, least of all in confined spaces.
Once we arrive in Carlow, where men are men and sheep are nervous, a whole new set of intricacies are applied.
Step 5; Conversing with the locals. Okay I’ll be honest here, the best thing to do is when it comes to the topic of where you go to college; deny, deny, deny. We all know the hostile reaction to the T-word. The scathing look that says ‘ya think you’re sooo great’ and the bitter edging away. Yes, if you’re looking for the Carlow shift you need to seem ‘normal’. Saying you’re from Carlow I.T. doesn’t work because from personal experience pretending you know Tony and then when Tony appears the suspicious awkwardness follows.
Also be prepared for the Culchie flirt, ‘Are you well?, cos you’re looking well’ or sometimes the silent exchange of pointing. Reply with some slight show of approval and let the shifting begin.
Step 6; Finally and in no ways specific to a certain Halls resident don’t miss the bus, somehow lose your shirt and wander Carlow half naked, trying to break into garden sheds for somewhere to sleep, settle for a ‘clean’ recycling bin and finally give in and get a 100euro taxi back to Dublin…just sayin.
I spoke to one such person who happened to experience this, his reply on the event ‘I wish people didn’t lock their Garden sheds!?!’
Overall, after two hours of sprawled out sleeping on a drooling pile for warmth while some have given up on drifting…relentlessly, and some in that demented stage mid drunkenness-soberness devour the chips they’ve snuck past the JCR turned bouncers for the night, we are back in the big Shmoke. I begin to lose my faith in Maynooth and Carlow, even questioning our Irish culture after my sober observations of the show of drunkenness, sluttiness, and general complete loss of dignity (you won’t get that back on the Halls lost and found Facebook page). Perhaps I should give up on my Irish ways, and resort back to culturing myself, join Team England perhaps. I could wear Chinos, inhabit Ma Reillys, throw Halls’ finest dinner parties and be gossiped about like a celebrity.
But come Paddy’s Day, out of groggy sleep I am awoken to the sound of pots being clanged in the courtyard to the loud and rowdy singing of the best of Irish Rebel Songs and the anthem. Looking out the window, it’s only Team England dressed head to toe in green giving ‘come out ye black and tans’ socks.
Perhaps being in Trinity I can have the best of both worlds!
In conclusion if you can’t beat them join them, therefore…
Step 7; On a mystery tour, the most important thing to remember,
Don’t forget your shneaky naggin!
