Chapter Six: Rag Week

This blog isn't for everything. It's not for day dreams, or song lyrics. It's not for poetry (and oh yes, there has been poetry). It's not for deep, troubled introspection, not that I have much depth to trouble. It's for that reason, the exclusivity of this blog, that certain adventures get omitted. For that reason, this entry could read thusly:

"Once again, I got sick. This time, it was a rather crippling case of stomach flu that kept me in cold sweats and time trials to and from the bathroom. Now I am well, except for a sore throat and swollen lymph glands."

But that wouldn't be honest; it wouldn't be fair. There are aspects of life here that can't be brushed under the rug just because you're uncomfortable with our liberated European ways. I can't, in good conscious, ignore my Irish heritage just because of what you may think; judge me if you must, but know that you judge a glorious culture, with a glorious tradition.

"Collin", you say, "To what tradition do you refer?"

The tradition I refer to is called Ragweek, and is a right of passage for all Irish students. The goal is nothing more or less then to be drunk. For a week. Dawn to Dusk.

Let me tell you right now that I couldn't do it; the onslaught of the aforementioned stomach flu, yes, but I really haven't been drinking all that much, at least not to excess. 3 or 4 nights at the pub a week, and then it's only 3 or 4 pints, maybe; with Guiness like a meal, we're talking buzzed, at best. To be drunk for the amount of time Ragweek demands is not only financially infeasable, but a horrible health risk. But perhaps I should just tell my story.

Part of the fun of Ragweek is that almost every student does it; thus, the professors know that their classes are going to be empty, and having Ragweeked themselves in their youth, don't want to harsh anyone's buzz. So classes are basically canceled for a week. Thus, come Monday, Pat and I feel totally fine about tipping afew cold ones back at noon and keeping it up through the early evening. Slowly, his few Irish roommates become more and more, and soon we have 9 guys in his house. Now, we're buzzed, but they're hammered, and have been that way for hours. Two guys get into a fight in the hall over a vacuum; i think I saw another guy's junk. The point is, it's a good time. They all head out, but Pat and I want pizza.


We hunt pizza. We hunt pizza girl. Pizza girl offers us Garlic Sauce for our pies; the guys know what that means, but for the ladies, when a cute girl offers you anything, anything at all, you say yes. Pat and I consume our garlicky delicious pizza's, quite happily, and head off to a pub. And head back home. Our tummy's weren't feeling good. I crash on Pat's floor. Perhaps it was the fact that we each ate 16 inch pizza's; maybe it was the 12 hours of casual drinking; my bet is that the Garlick sauce was probably left out all day (just like all creamer, grossly enough). Regardless, Pat and I moan and groan out of both ends for almost an hour before we fall asleep. Until 2; that's when his roommates get home. Remember that they've been not just drinking, but tanked, for almost 18 hours; the first thing we hear is a chair being thrown down the hall, later, we hear breaking glass. They commence running around the house for the next 4 hours, until they all black out or combust around 6.

When we wake up, this is what we find. Just take these in for a minute.





That's a chair that was lit on fire. The bottles were just hurled against the wall with Nirvana fueled abandon. Someone peed on a chair. Plainly put, Irish youth are like animals. And their capacity to drink has been, if anything, underrated. It's like they've been bred to drink, like it's their genetic imperative; it's as if God Himself hid these people away on an island far from anything, specifically so that he could one day go drinking at a pub where everyone could match him shot for shot. Animals.

Tuesday sucked. My Ragweek was already blown, because I couldn't imagine touching a beer, let alone going out. I stayed in, napped, and eventually went to Mel and Elizabeth's (from Belfast), where Mel made us Jumbalya. My mouth had forgotten what spicy tasted like. Note to all Californians: When I get back, the name of the game is Burritos, the bigger the better. Then i went home and watched Firefly with my flatmates. That night, my stomach cramped up again, this time i think from my trip to flavor country.

Wednesday seems to have escaped me. I'm sure this is do to a complete dearth of interest, rather then the onset of dementia or abuse of the drink. We might have something with that dementia idea, actually...

Thursday, feeling better, I bought a bottle of a Tonic Wine called Buckfast; made by monks, it's this syrupy sweet wine that's beloved by the Irish for it's inebriative qualities. Pat and I began early (by American standards; the Irish were already drunk), and at about half a bottle i was close to smashing it against my own head. We went bowling, which was fun, and at that point i'm feeling pretty lousy, a mix of booze and some kind of demon that had apparently begun to incubate in my small intestines. As we left, i stole my bowling shoes. I'm not proud of it, but i've always wanted a pair of bowling shoes, and i'm trying to be more impulsive. Also, the demon may have been influencing me.

Then, for the next two days, i did time trials... ah yes, we're caught up.

I just wrote an essay for my History of Two Irelands in the 20th Century class, 4 pages. It was the first work i've done all semester. I almost enjoyed it. Almost.