…a tragic venture into the Old World
by Evan O’Gorman
Original illustrations by Conor Anthony Nolan
Throughout the ordeal I hadn’t stopped to question the circumstances that led me to this moment in my life. That very second. There I was, sharing that sagged rollie with an unpredictably aggressive middle aged man in a yellow polo shirt – shouting incoherent gibberish and frantically waving his fist. How deep into this mess was I? And then, just as sobriety began to creep over the horizon into my frontal lobe, it hit me. I was somewhere I shouldn’t be. Somewhere I was testing my own integrity. Out of my depth. There were terrible vibrations coming at me from all flanks. Savage students hungry for temptation scuttled around the halls like crazed worker ants. A middle aged couple swearing and spitting on the battlefield that remained of a once humble living room. Who were all these people? Where did I come into the equation?
India sees home to the largest population of wild Tigers in the world. Two-thirds of the planet’s tiger community resides within the tropical jungles of India, with some 2,200 of the elegant beasts roaming the wildlands.
These Tigers have a tough existence, however. With India’s population now exceeding one billion, these Tigers have been forced into exile, and struggle daily to survive.
Once recognised for their strength, might and ferocity – the mighty tiger is dying.
But why? How could such a fearsome beast be overcome?
There’s the obvious reason of poaching – a destructive hobby no doubt linked to underlying trauma of one’s neglectful upbringing – but it doesn’t stop there. Poachers are merely adding to the already present epidemic – coexistence with the Human race.
We have proven countless times we cannot coexist when limited resources are at stake. There’s no point debating it, that’s nature. The Tigers are the latest victim to attempt a resource-sharing scheme with the Humans.
As India’s population continues to grow at a viral rate, land is being reclaimed. Tigers are no longer Kings in the wilderness. As the native Indian people continue to dominate the food chain, Tigers struggle to endure their now miserable existence.
There can be no judgement held against the Indian people. They too are simply trying to survive.
But what will become of the Kings? Will they soon perish in the lands they once ruled?
Maybe their time has come. One would hope not, but what is a King without their Crown?
For almost four years now I have frequented a local bar called The Bloody Stream. The name alone is certainly a conversation starter, but it is the pure practicality that still appeals to me years on, where other bars have become irrelevant.
The bar itself is located directly below a train station – the last station on the Dublin line, in fact.
The station serves the town of Howth, a popular harbour town in Dublin. During the summer months, you won’t get parking in Howth. The town is swamped with people, those from around Ireland and tourists – some losing their Howth virginity – some returning for the sweet taste.
These circumstances prove crucial to the Stream’s survival; an endless supply of visitors to the town, thousands of which passing through the bar every time they depart/board their train. This gives them a big advantage over their competitors.
There are about 10 bars/pubs in the town, and although each have their own unique and inviting characteristics, none quite compare to the Stream.
According to local legend, the name was acquired following a great battle which took place on the location during the second Norman invasion of Ireland in 1177;
A heavy battle took place near here between the forces of Sir Almeric Tristram (said to have been a descendent of one of the knights of King Arthur’s Round Table and whom took over command from Sir John de Courcy on the expedition’s arrival at Howth, who was unable to leave his ship) and the Danes, who were occupying Evora Bridge at that time. Inevitably the fighting produced blood, some of which found its way into the little stream that has been known as “The Bloody Stream” ever since.
Several locals will dismiss this story, denouncing it as a myth. Some insist the name originated from the establishment’s original trade (wine) and that The Bloody Stream was no more than a play on words.
But the Stream’s unique character derives far from simple qualities such as the ideal location and catchy name. There is something far more intriguing about that bar.
On the face of it, there’s not a whole lot going for the Stream. It’s far too small, and regardless of what night you go, it’s guaranteed to be a cramped, beer spilling experience. The majority of the bar is an outdoor beer garden too, which isn’t a ideal when you’re in Ireland. Sure, there are canopies to stop direct rainfall, but you’re still guaranteed a good soaking.
One of the strangest things about the stream is the darkness of the interior. There is an unsettling lack of lighting in that building, due to it being situated below ground level. None of that really matters though, because if you’re willing to endure the nauseating copper taste of Stella Artois, one can get a pint of it for a humble €4.
I can vaguely recall one particular night in the Bloody Stream many moons ago. At the time I was working as a customer repellent agent at a local Thai takeaway. My shift ended shortly after 10pm and I had arranged to meet a few friends for casual beers in the Stream. The night occurred a long time ago, so my memory is blurred. But strange things happened that night.
Everything started very casually and characteristically – within two hours of our casual night, we were all very drunk. Dancing seedily to carelessly mixed music and shouting loose opinions on subjects we knew nothing about. The crowd had seemed unusually on edge the whole night, but I had no valid reason as to assume why.
The staff there would generally start kicking people out at around 3am. But I remember checking the time and seeing it had just passed 4. Surely a lock-in was occurring, as we were still sinking litres of bitter Stella.
I think it was around 5am when they finally unleashed the short bald men in heavy black coats upon us, forcing out of the crammed bar like a herd of mentally insane cattle, ready to turn on you for any reason they deem necessary.
There was chaos on the streets of Howth as the masses poured ashore from the doors of the Stream. I was struggling to walk at this stage, and I was in need of any form of refuge.
There were screams amongst the slurred chatter in the crowd of a plan to continue this hostile affair at a house not far from where we were. We agreed to venture to this house, as we had dwindling hopes of obtaining more alcohol. The Stream had been hit with drought, and we were desperate.
God knows how we got there, but we did. There were four of us – myself, Downey, Craddock and Keogh – amongst the 20/30 others who sought their desires, willing to travel to uncharted lands.
Upon arriving at this house – without any knowledge of the whereabouts or identity of the owner – we found ourselves separated amongst the different compartments of the building. Not that it was a large house by any means, but we were in unfamiliar territory. When you reach a stage where you have such little knowledge over your current circumstances, there are few things more terrifying than sobering up surrounded by unusual goings on.
Our quest for alcohol was now defunct, as we had only secured a disappointing tally of 3 cans of warm, stale lager between the four of us. Myself and Craddock were sat on opposite sides of the living room with the other two MIA. We were sat next to dozens of people, all strangers to one another. There were obvious factions of people who had arrived together for reasons unknown to me. The walls were covered in decaying paper and smoke stains, which we as a room of outcasts and outlaws were rapidly contributing to. Every light in the house was turned on, causing intense disorientation and pain. The room was outdated, giving the feeling that I had time-travelled to a 1980s Dublin. There was a battered looking low-set coffee table coated in coffee rings in the middle of the room, surrounded by two cloth sofas stained with beer and ash accompanied by several idle dinner chairs, all worn beyond refurbishment. The TV was about 11 years old and took up an entire corner of the room, playing a series of late night teleshopping clips.
At one stage I remember sharing a moist cigarette with a leathered, crusted man his 50s. We were discussing something I didn’t care about, but throughout the conversation the man would cut across his own sentences to shout aggressively at the other members of the room.
Throughout the ordeal I hadn’t stopped to question the circumstances that led me to this moment in my life. That very second. There I was, sharing that sagged rollie with an unpredictably aggressive middle aged man in a yellow polo shirt – shouting incoherent gibberish and frantically waving his fist. How deep into this mess was I? And then, just as sobriety began to creep over the horizon into my frontal lobe, it hit me. I was somewhere I shouldn’t be. Somewhere I was testing my own integrity. Out of my depth. There were terrible vibrations coming at me from all flanks. Savage students hungry for temptation scuttled around the halls like crazed worker ants. A middle aged couple swearing and spitting on the battlefield that remained of a once humble living room. Who were all these people? Where did I come into the equation?
Eventually I escaped the conversational clutches of the strange man and found myself in a position to talk with Craddock. Now regrettably aware of my current surroundings, I learned that Craddock had planned his departure moments prior to my epiphany. I knew he was right, we weren’t welcome here, but there was a compelling force enticing me to stay. Why was this happening? I had no interest in being here, surrounded by this wild mixture of rabid outlaws. But yet a part of me didn’t want to leave.
The strange man in the chair was on his feet now. This time face to face with one of the teenagers who had come as part of a bandit group in search of temptation. Things were escalating beyond control of any greater being. Escape was imperative.
Craddock and I attempted to recover Downey and Keogh and recruit them in our departure, but they insisting on staying.
A jacket belonging to one of them was in a bedroom on the upper floor, in which an older woman (who resembled a female variant of the man in the yellow polo shirt) had just taken one of the teenagers to after things heated up in the kitchen.
It is foul to imagine the crimes against humanity that occurred within that shadowy, cramped bedroom. Craddock and I made haste, disappearing into the dark, off-road trails that diced up the estates of Howth.
I never asked did them what they saw in that bedroom, but they recovered the jacket unharmed.
Maybe it is people such as these who give the Stream its flavoursome character. Despite the merely material features, the Stream is completed only by its beautifully bizarre patrons. It’s rare that one will pause to reflect on their surroundings, both physical and spiritual. But recently I found myself in the stream on a tight budget, and was relatively sober by about 11pm. I began to witness events that never before occurred to me, things I couldn’t help but think were always happening right before my eyes – perhaps supressed by the fake, sinister combination of serenity and anarchy that comes with our inherent need to escape through terrible means of intoxication.
There are certain people here that you don’t see too often anymore. Men and women in their 50s and 60s who travel alone to The Stream every night, spending the majority of their miserable lives toing and froing to music of a genre they couldn’t even name. They stand unsteadily at the bar. You can smell the sadness, yet they wear a seedy grin and pressed, linen shirts.
They’re here. The last of the fucking Tigers. They’ve congregated at the last waterhole they could find. No amount of building investments and pension funds can save them now – only the desperate, futile attempts to resurrect their long decayed youth.
These dried up men and women are the last known survivors of the Celtic Tiger Pack. They were the ones who managed to squeeze through the anus of the recession, and come out unharmed. One would assume this to be a great achievement. To ride through a global economic shitstorm without sustaining any damage.
Short term, sure, you are a king. But then evolution comes to roost, and those mammals that have failed to adjust to their environment get sucked into the reality that is extinction.
Just like in India, where the human population have begun to claim the homes of the Tigers, those who have lived, suffered and evolved through dark times have claimed the society that these Celtic Tigers once ruled. Their kingdom has been consumed by those who have evolved, and the Kings have become society’s peasants.
They come to the Stream in search of respite, because it is all they know of the Old World.
There can be no judgement held against this new generation. They have suffered and evolved, and are claiming territories they have every right to claim. But what will become of the Tigers of the old world? For now, they continue to stumble aimlessly around the dancefloor, a cocktail of alcohol and prescription medication numbs their reality – what little of that reality remains present.
They will seedily attempt to coerce one another in what can only be descried as a depressing movement of loneliness and desperation, in the hopes of finding any form of mate available. If you look closely, you can see the old world reflecting through their hazed corneas. There is anger and loss in these eyes. They once had it all, and despite their survival, all that remains in their lives is money and memories.
The Stream is not the only waterhole where you will find these Tigers of the old world, but it is one that can be recognised as a diverse landscape of beings, where the new are rapidly out-evolving the old, and despite their social and economic superiority, they have already lost the battle to avoid extinction.
And just who were these Tigers? They were the developers, the investors, the landlords and traders. They were Ireland’s answer to the oligarchs. Haughey’s minutemen.
The Indian tiger is endangered. The evolution of man has surpassed that of the once powerful creature. We were warned their extinction will come by 2020 – but they are not alone in their inevitable demise.
You can’t stop what’s coming. Evolution holds no doors.
Evan O'Gorman 