Peter Doherty, Archbishop Martin – And Knickers For Drink
A silly drinks promotion and two men to be reckoned with. It's all in a fortnight's reflections...
Eamonn McCann, 12 Oct 2011
What a pity that management at the Tramco nightclub in Rathmines chickened out and abandoned the “special promotion” whereby they’d offered a free drink to customers in exchange for their knickers. Responding to objections to renewal of their licence, the quisling management agreed that the knickers-for-liquor offer had been “inappropriate, undesirable and demeaning.”
However, I gather from a number of the less reputable blogs that Tramco may have been unfairly singled out. The same sort of offer of ouzo for undies, it’s claimed, remains available at a number of other night spots around the Republic. I freely confess that I hadn’t been aware of the proliferation of these panties-for-pints promotions. But then, I tend to move in rather refined circles these days where the idea of swapping your drawers for Drambuie (okay, no more) just wouldn’t occur.
Thing is, prior to the Tramco chiefs caving in, I had devised a fail-proof means of eliminating this practice of bargaining briefs (I can’t help it) for Bacardi.
The thought came to me as I wandered the aisles of the local branch of a major clothing store looking for something extraneous and suddenly spotted the price-tag on five-packs of the aforementioned flimsies... three quid!
Which at Tramco rates of exchange would work out at 60 cent a shot for the drink of your choice!
Five vodkas and Red Bull for three smackeroos!
Is there not an idea here with the potential to put paid to this inappropriate, undesirable and demeaning behaviour more speedily and effectively than hiring a lawyer to argue the case in a licensing court?
Somebody mentioned Pete Doherty as we stood around outside the Nerve Centre dragging the last toke from our psychotropic ciggies.
“He’s not Pete Doherty, he’s Peter Doherty,” came an outraged roar. “You wouldn’t call Jim Morrison Jimmy...”
Quite right. Respect.
Inside, Mr. Doherty ambled onstage before anybody noticed and, armed only with an acoustic guitar, launched into a ravishing, rambling two-hour set. Occasionally, two serious-faced young women joined him to inscribe languid circles in the air and lift their legs unfeasibly high in slo-mo gymnastic style. Expressive dancing, I’m told this is. Very good at it they were too.
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