Not only does it rain sideways in the west of Ireland, but as I discovered on my way over to the Tedfest this morning, it feels like a thousand tiny needles smacking your face, as you stand on the deck of the ferry, waiting to cross to the Aran islands from Rosaveel, about an hour from Galway, and a million years from the Celtic Tiger. My brothers and I spent the last our or so making references to any movies to do with being at sea, but Rob being who he is, he couldn't stop help himself and insisted on talking like George Clooney in 'A Perfect Storm'. He even smelled vaguely of cod after a while, which was particularly worrying.
The crossing involved force eight gales, and plenty of green faces. At one stage we nearly lost our youngest brother, Ben, who being hilariously scrawny and no sea dog, was overcome with cabin fever, and briefly confused himself with Noel Coward in 'In Which We Serve': he ran out to the bridge, and hurled abuse at passing German U-boats, until the big one crashed over the port side of the ship. It was close, but we finally dragged him out of the water after much stress and effort. Wasn't a pretty sight though.
All's well that ends well, and the truly hardy ones have made it, such as Pat Mustard the milk float Lothario, and Darren, the avuncular Corkman who has arrived with grey wig and a sparkly blue jacket. Still have no team for the football tomorrow, but we are hoping that some excessive defending could get us all the way in the Craggy World Cup, and perhaps the officials may be open to generous decisions our way. I only hope Ben recovers from his near death experience to play, or I'll be the soft touch the opposition kick up in the air. The next few hours will be crucial...
