Irish I Could Shut Up

A few nights ago, I went to a club called “WON,” which, truly, stood for “World of Nightlife.” In Nuremberg. Germany. Seriously. Oh, American culture, how I adore thee. You can probably imagine what this place looked like; lots of neon everywhere, a smoke machine running on full blast, friggin’ lights going everywhere, and LOTS of techno in the house. A drunken dancer’s paradise; many of you can probably see the “Drunk John Shuffle” going full steam ahead in this place. But, seriously, it was a pretty cool location just because there was such a wide variety of people there. There are a lot of American GIs living in the Nuremberg area, so I ran into several of them, and there were lots of college students there, and, since WON is such a large location (for real, people, we’re talking about the flippin’ WORLD of nightlife), people from all over the Nuremberg metropolitan area come to this joint. So, as I’m shufflin’ all over the floor, I feel like it might be time for a break. I had started dancing with this group of three girls (who I later found out were all 18…whoops), so I ask them if I can buy them drinks and we make tracks for the bar. As I’m standing there drinking my delectable German pilsner with these girls, I hear a voice in my left ear say, “Ah-mehrickan or Cunadian?” Turning to my left, I see a tall chap with a shaved head and a t-shirt for some punk band that also says, in big letters on the back, “FUCK THE GOVERNMENT.” Ironically, he’s American military. However, that didn’t account for the strange accent.
“Where are you from?” I ask.
“Ireland, but I’m in the American Army now.”
“Really? Irish in the American military? What are you doing in the Army?”
“Trying to get citizenship- I got exiled from Ireland.”
Now, usually, when someone is exiled from their home country, they usually don’t tell people about it; logically, it’s rather easy to see that one is only exiled for a rather tremendous crime. And, using further logic, it’s probably also rather easy to figure out that when one is from the Republic of Ireland and one is exiled, it’s rather likely that the IRA was involved. I could have left it at this and been satisfied that my answer to this question was likely correct, but, no, I had to ask; I had been drinking, and, as one is apt to do when feeling a little saucy, I said the wrong thing.
“Exiled? Whaddaya, IRA or something?”
Open mouth, insert foot.
His response? “Well, I’d tell ya, but I’d probably get in trouble.” Correct-a-mundo, J-Dubs.
Soon, though, it seems he stops caring about the consequences of telling me that he was exiled from Ireland for being a member of the Irish Republican Army. Yes, it seems that our dear friend lived just south of the Northern Ireland border, over which he would often steal to plant bombs in parked cars in order to kill those dastardly Protestant Northerners. Over the next ten minutes, he relates to me many of the things that he did for which he was eventually exiled.
My response to this? Again, probably the wrong thing to say.
‘Ok, John, just agree with the man, and get back to dancing with these girls before they get bored and walk away,’ I think to myself. ‘Just open your mouth and say it.’ Here goes: “Don’t you think the targets of the IRA could be better placed? To me, and the world at large, it just looks like you’re killing Protestants indiscriminately.”
Goddamn it, John. Way to pee all over your balls. This comment launches another 20 minute diatribe on the part of our mick friend here, detailing just all the ways that the British and the Protestant faith at large are the enemy of Ireland and her sons and daughters. After he’s finished, I finally wise up and say, “Well, all I know is that Michael Collins guy really had a sack on him.” Which scored me a free double shot of Jameson’s Irish whiskey, a pat on the back, and a free pass to go get my groove on. Altogether, perhaps not a German experience, but an international one all the same. Silly micks.