The problem with the Irish is when you put a few dollars in a straight-up mick’s bank account (or much worse, his parents) out come the pocket squares, the bow ties, the tweeds, the garish pinks, and what have you.
While a blue-blooded McCopycat will take pains to make himself a fair facsimile of a young, lost Kennedy brother …
… others still will tend to be a bit more O’bvious.
And that’s not so bad.
But unfortunately, there is no built-in preclusion that keeps us from helping ourselves to our genetic fair share of whiskey drinks just because we’re dressed like motherfucking dandies.
So when it’s on, it’s on – and there’s no turning it off whether we’re in a commuter’s pub, the Metropolitan Club, or on an international flight. (Hello Mr. Finneran).
That’s why you can’t be surprised if a few Irish guys from Long Island go bonkers at a terrace party in the New York Athletic Club.
I have no doubt those guys felt comfortable enough at “The AC” to let themselves revert to jungle status and go fighting over a girl.
I know because I used to go and have great fun at these terrace parties on the dime of friends who were members. I never said or did anything different at the AC than I would at the Blarney Stone or the Emerald Inn, I was just dressed different is all.
But what makes these soirees special are the husband-hunting young ladies who flock to them. First you play the name game “What’s your name? Who’s your daddy? Is he rich – is he rich like me?“, then you go out all night drinking with them. It was like shooting fish in a barrel.
But to backtrack a second, at some point in the night, invariably while still in the “Tap Room” (where the party goes once the buffet/dancing/whatnot shuts down @ 10pm or so), I would be over-sauced, throwing peanuts at drunk women, temporarily forgetting about arrest warrants and unemployment checks, when a guy – the same guy every time – would waylay me: “Hi, I’m Seamus O’Clownahan from the NYAC membership committee” – he’d get me to try and join the club.
The only club for me today is the Wall Street Jackass Admiration Society. He broke the story. Don’t let BusinessInsider, HuffPost, Cockbreaker, or any of those faggot sites steal his thunder.
If anyone finds some pictures of the brawl, please send and we’ll post them on this bitch.