MEN BEHAVING BADLY

Within three minutes of our arrival into Ballybunion, photographer Cathal Dawson was crying his eyes out. This was something he would come close to doing a number of times again over the course of the 36 hours we spent in the North Kerry seaside resort but, initially at least, his tears were born of helpless laughter, rather than complete desperation.

Our five-hour drive down from Dublin had been tedious in the extreme. Aside from occasionally stopping for hitchhikers and then speeding off with a beep of the horn as soon as their grateful hands touched the car door handle, we had passed the journey bitching about our work colleagues, laughing at local radio and discussing the working weekend that lay ahead. Our respective briefs were simple enough. I was to soak up the colour at the world famous Ballybunion Harp Lager International Bachelor Festival – an annual event where 20 boisterous young men compete for a £1,000 prize, a piece of Waterford Crystal and the rather dubious title of Bachelor of the Year – and write a couple of thousand words about the whole experience. Cathal was to take the photographs.

In other words, I was to go there, get ratarsed drunk and cause as much trouble as was humanly possible. Cathal was to take the photographs, carry me back to the hotel at night and, if the situation demanded it, hit anybody whom I’d seriously offended over the head with his Nikon. At least that’s how I explained it to him.

“Hmmm,” he had frowned, his brow suddenly furrowing into an uneven series of deep worry trenches. “You’re not Hunter S. Thompson, you know. So don’t go acting the prick!”

“Do you want some of this acid?” I asked, reaching into my shirt pocket.

“Hmmmmmm.” That frown again.

In retrospect, he was definitely the wrong man for the job. Cathal’s the quiet type – doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke or take drugs and is happily married with two young children. I, on the other hand, have a multitude of bad habits, no real responsibilities and the mentality of a seriously immature 15-year-old (well, that’s what my last girlfriend told me just before she split). The Ballybunion Bachelor Festival was a sort of Mecca for guys like me. Or so I hoped anyway. As it transpired, I was not to be disappointed.

* * * * *

We arrived there shortly after 6pm on Friday afternoon. I’m not sure quite what it was we expected to find – personally I was hoping to be greeted by the sight of hordes of young virgins and middle-aged American heiresses prostrating themselves by the roadside in search of their dream bachelor – but the scene that met our road-weary eyes as Cathal’s Volvo purred down the main street (actually, the only street) was so surreal it wouldn’t have been out of place in a David Lynch movie.

Driving into Ballybunion was like stepping onto the deck of the Marie Celeste. The place was deserted. There wasn’t a single virgin, American heiress or, come to think of it, bachelor in sight. In fact, there was absolutely nobody around, not even a local. Well, nobody save for three pissed-off looking old guys playing a cheesy jazz gig on one of those lorry stages by the side of the road.

They perked up considerably as our car approached, picking up the tempo and smiling encouragingly as we slowly drove past (“Please stop and listen to our music. Please!”), the pair of us staring out of the car window in open-mouthed disbelief at this three-dimensional, musical billboard. Disappointingly for them, we didn’t stop and the tempo slowed again just after we’d passed, like the sound of a Geiger counter moving away from radiation.

It was at that point that Cathal completely lost it and suddenly began to laugh hysterically. “What the fuck was all that about?” he shrieked. “There’s nobody watching them! THERE’S NOBODY WATCHING THEM!!!” His shoulders began to shake so violently that I feared the wiring that warms up the car seats had somehow loosened and electrified his rear end. Luckily, we were quite close to our hotel car park by then, so when he fell against the wheel and swerved the Volvo we actually stopped in a parking space, conveniently located between a skip and a stone wall, with just three inches door-opening space on either side. Okay, so it wasn’t actually a parking space. It was just a space. But we were parked there.

“THEY’RE STILL PLAYING!!” Cathal roared, thumping the steering wheel. “THEY’RE STILL PLAYING!! AND THERE’S NOBODY WATCHING!!!! AAARRRGGGHH!!!”

“Er, chill out, man,” I said. “It wasn’t all that funny.”

“AAAARRRGGGHHHH,” he screamed, his face becoming so red that, within moments, it was practically indistinguishable from his carrot-coloured hair. “THAT’S . . . HA! . . . THE FUNNIEST . . . HA! . . . THING . . . I’VE EVER . . . HA! HA! . . . SEEN!” By now hot tears were running down his cheeks and he seemed in serious danger of choking.

“Maybe they were just sound-checking?” I suggested, in an attempt to calm him down.

“NO!! THEY WERE . . . HA! HA! . . . PLAYING A . . . GIG!!! AAARRRGGHH!”

Three minutes later, he was still at it, completely drunk on mirth. He was shaking so much, the car had begun to rock. I was beginning to feel seasick. Eventually, I did what anyone would do in that situation. I belted him hard on the head with a book of roadmaps. “Get it together for fuck’s sake!” I snapped. He stopped laughing and wiped his cheeks dry. The car fell silent for a moment.

“Thank you,” he eventually gasped, taking a deep breath. “I needed that. Must’ve been all the driving.”

“Any time,” I nodded, glad to have been of service.

Once he’d gathered himself sufficiently (which took some time), we climbed out of the car windows and walked towards the hotel entrance. An old man in a dirty porter’s jacket who had been staring suspiciously out through the door at the rocking Volvo clicked the lock as we approached. Sensing that there may be trouble ahead, I scrunched my features up into a bouquet of trustworthiness and hissed at Cathal to stay behind me.

“Hello there,” I waved through the glass. “We have a reservation.”

He said nothing and continued to stare. Or rather, glare. Loosely translated, his facial expression read: “Fuck off weirdos – you’re not staying here.”

“We’ve just driven here from Dublin,” I said, hopefully. “We’re here for the Bachelor Festival.”

“You’re from Dublin, are ya?” he eventually said in a Kerry accent thicker than treacle.

“Yes, Dublin,” I replied patiently.

“And him?” he said, nodding his head in Cathal’s direction. “Is he alright?”

“No, he’s a photographer,” I explained.

“Right so.” Still looking somewhat unconvinced, he reluctantly unlocked the door. Which, given that the strains of the jazz trio around the corner launching into yet another crowd-pleaser were just becoming audible to Cathal’s ears, was probably just as well.

* * * * *

Our hotel wasn’t exactly a Five Star. In fact, in many ways, our hotel wasn’t even a hotel. Despite my protests, the receptionist made us wait until half-time in the World Cup match before showing us to our room. “Brazil are playing,” she explained, as if that explained everything. “I don’t care,” I replied. “But I do,” she parried. Touche! Once we eventually got there – 15 minutes later – we took a few moments to freshen up after the journey and get changed, before hitting the town.

I had thought long and hard about the appropriate clothing to bring to a bachelor’s festival. Figuring that I probably wouldn’t get much wear out of my most bachelor-esque item, a velvet smoking jacket, I had considered bringing a multi-coloured Hawaiian shirt (like the type they wore in Bachelor Party). Hawaiian shirts are ideal bachelor attire, mainly because you can get sick on them without anybody noticing. I eventually rejected that idea, however, on the grounds that I didn’t actually have one. Denims, leathers, Bermuda shorts and T-shirts bearing beer company logos had also been rejected (for similar reasons). Eventually, my weekend wardrobe had been decided on the basis that I could only pack what I owned.

I changed out of my black suit and got into a different one. Also black.

* * * * *

Once out on the street we were confronted with the serious dilemma of having to pass the jazz band again, only on foot this time. “Will you be alright?” I asked Cathal. “Can you handle it? Can you pass the jazz band test?”

“I’m cool,” he assured me. “I can take it. But I have to get a photo of these guys!”

We turned the corner and walked up towards the stage. A small audience had gathered by now – three dogs, a cat and a drunk. Actually, the drunk had just stopped to piss against the wall but he was still humming along as he relieved himself. The band brightened considerably at our re-appearance. They brightened even more when Cathal removed the camera from his shoulderbag. “Fame at last!” their delighted facial expressions seemed to be saying. I distanced myself from the whole scene, walking another twenty yards or so up the road.

Suddenly I heard Cathal screaming. “FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!”

I turned to see him slapping his camera with all the rage and fury of a wife-beating politician. “What happened?” I asked. “The jazz guys break the lens?”

“My fucking flash isn’t fucking firing!” he seethed.

“Well, it never will again if you keep on hitting the thing,” I pointed out.

Realising I was right, he turned his frustrations on himself and began slapping his forehead. “I didn’t bring a spare,” he groaned. “I might as well not be here.”

“Cathal, we need shots!” I snapped, suddenly realising the potential seriousness of the situation. “We don’t work for Playboy! People only read my articles for the pictures!”

“Well, what can I do?” he shrugged. “We’re not gonna find a camera repair shop in this place!”

I paused, realising he was right. Without a flash, we were screwed. I took a deep breath and said the only sensible thing left to say. “Let’s go to the pub and think about it,” I suggested.

True professionals that they were, the band played on as we continued up the road.

* * * * *

Three hours later I was sitting in the Railway Bar on Main Street, feeling pretty miserable and melancholic, despite the seven gin and tonics I had downed. A series of frantic mobile calls had eventually led us to a Tralee-based freelance photographer who had a flash compatible with Cathal’s camera. He was fine about loaning it to Hot Press for the night but we had to come and get it ourselves. Still cursing his bum luck, Cathal had prepared to set off for Tralee in the Volvo. “It’s a fifty fucking mile round trip,” he had moaned. “What a pain in the arse.”

“Well, if you’d been professional about it and brought a spare . . .” I muttered into my drink.

“What did you say?” he snapped, glaring at me with the all the fierceness of Medusa on a bad hair day.

“Erm . . . nothing,” I smiled weakly.

“Right! I’ll get this flash, we’ll take some shots later tonight and some more tomorrow morning and then I’m getting the fuck out of this dump. This whole fucking trip is cursed!”

Leaving me with those cheery words, he had turned on his heel and stormed out of the pub (tripping over the “Welcome To Ballybunion” doormat along the way). I was starting to get really worried. He seemed pretty pissed off. It’s not unlike Cathal to be somewhat dour – in fact, dourness is his trademark – but this was worse than usual. It had to be something more than just lousy jazz and his flash failing. Maybe something traumatic had happened to him here years ago, some long-repressed humiliation, and the distant memory was now playing with his subconscious. Or maybe he was just cracking up. Either way, drastic action would have to be taken. He couldn’t leave in the morning. We needed shots of the awards ceremony the following night to go with the story. More importantly, I needed a ride back to Dublin.

Anyway, seeing as I was temporarily sans photographer, I decided to hang in the bar for a while. I couldn’t see any bachelors around, but Ballybunion’s a small town and I figured the action would come to me eventually. I stayed there, drinking. Nothing happened. Some time passed.

Eventually it was the barman who sussed that I was probably in the wrong place. “Are you here for the festival then?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I nodded, sipping my drink. “There doesn’t seem to be much happening though.”

It was true. My reflection in the Budweiser mirror behind the bar aside, I hadn’t seen a single bachelor all evening. Although the bar was busy, it was mainly full of either the very-young or the very-old. The people I was looking for would, undoubtedly, be the very-pissed. People like me.

“Here, you might find this useful.” He handed me two small brochures, listing the itinerary of events for the Festival. An itinerary! Now why hadn’t I thought of that? “Thanks, man,” I said, “but I only need one.” “I’m only giving you one,” he replied.

The Bachelor’s Festival actually lasts for ten days (we had timed our arrival to coincide with the finale) but a quick glance through the events listed in the brochure confirmed what I had suspected would be the case all along. Despite the fact that I’d missed eight days of the Festival, I hadn’t actually missed anything. Well, I hadn’t missed anything important. Although the Festival is undeniably overlong, you could never accuse the organisers of flogging a dead horse. Instead they seemed to start with a dead horse and proceed to flog some life into it.

A week previously, on Friday the 26th of June, Mr. Gerard Collins MEP had officially opened the Festival. The following night, the 20 competing bachelors had been introduced on an open-air stage by Lorcan Murray (followed by Ballybunion’s “first ever” fireworks display). According to the itinerary, the rest of the week had been jam-packed with such exciting events as “Face Painter on Main Street” (Tuesday, 2pm), “Periwinkle Picking Championships on Main Street” (Sunday, 5pm), “Bar Tenders Race on Main Street” (Wednesday, 8.15pm) and, my own favourite, “Donkey Derby on Main Street” (Wednesday, 9pm). Had I been around during the week I would undoubtedly have chosen to be an exile off Main Street. In fairness there had been some other events as well. Discos, roller discos and various live acts playing on that lorry stage. Like I said, I hadn’t missed anything.

I turned to the page listing that day’s events. Eureka! There was a Bachelor’s Mock Wedding – whatever the hell that was! – happening in O’Carroll’s Bar. At that very moment! It was time to go to work! In celebration of this sudden burst of enthusiasm for the job at hand, I ordered another drink.

“Where’s O’Carroll’s?” I asked the barman.

“It’s on Main Street,” he replied.

* * * * *

As expected, O’Carroll’s was jam-packed with bachelors. And, as predicted, they were all very pissed. What I hadn’t expected to find, however, was half of them wearing sexy lingerie, Superman-style, over their trousers (save for one brave individual who looked so uncomfortable he had to have been wearing his underneath). To my amazement, the contenders for the most masculine title in the land were dancing cheek to cheek with each other, hugging, kissing, and generally behaving in a sexually ambiguous fashion. And there wasn’t even a football match on the pub’s big screen.

I was immediately suspicious. Maybe Hot Press had set me up! After all, up until a few years ago, the festival was actually known as the Ballybunion Gay Bachelors Festival. Eventually word reached Kerry that “gay” no longer meant what it used to mean and they made the appropriate amendments to the moniker. But maybe they were having the last laugh . . .

As it turned out, lingerie was more-or-less compulsory for the Mock Wedding, which was due to begin at any moment. I grabbed myself a drink, sat down and took in the drunken depravity surrounding me. Aside from the crowd of lingerie enthusiasts – or “transvestite Supermen” as I described them in my notebook – there were also a few characters in fancy dress. Two guys were dressed up as Michael Flatley, i.e. they were wearing tight black vests and had tied red ribbons around their heads. Someone else was entirely decked out in ’70s clothing, flares and all. “Where are you representing?” I asked him. “I’m not in the Festival,” he replied, “I live around here.”

Having decided that I’d better do some real work, I busied myself gathering quotes. Every few minutes, I would call a bachelor over, stick my tape-recorder in his face and ask the stunningly original question, “What do you think of the Bachelor’s Festival?” I asked eleven different people in total, before giving up. The resulting replies can be broken down as follows: 3 x “It’s fucking mad craic!” 4 x “Brilliant craic altogether,” 2 x “Great craic!”, 1 x “I’m really fucking pissed!” and 1 x “Quick, I’m gonna puke! Where’s the jacks?”

I was eventually joined at my table by two attractive, twentysomething females. Presumably they felt safer sitting near a man who wasn’t wearing tarty nylon knickers over his pants. It turned out that they were journalists as well. Their names were Catherine and Laura and they worked for a Limerick tabloid. Laura was a member of the judging panel who would be assessing the bachelors the following afternoon. Catherine was there as her moral support. They hadn’t been to the Festival before but they’d both heard that it was – surprise! – ”great craic”. As we watched the bachelors drunkenly cavort around the room, we all looked at each other and went, “Hmmmm”.

“Are you looking forward to the judging?” I asked Laura.

“Ugh!” she replied, shuddering. Hey, there’s nothing like a bit of enthusiasm.

The Mock Wedding was, well, a mock wedding. Bride, groom and bridesmaids were all bachelors. The ceremony was conducted by the Limerick representative who made the happy couple take the following vow: “For better or for worse/For richer or for poorer/With or without Viagra/Till death do us part/Amen.” He had made a great effort to look the part and was fully dressed up in priest’s regalia. Except for the sun-hat. And the shorts. And the panties. Well, maybe the panties were appropriate but I’ve never seen a priest in a sun-hat!

After the mock wedding – a debauched affair if ever there was one – the girls and I decided to head out on the town. According to my itinerary, we had two options. There was a Mega Beach Party in the Atlantic Hotel. Alternatively, there was Festival Club Dancing in, em, the Atlantic Hotel. What this actually meant was that there was Festival Club Dancing at the Mega Beach Party in the Atlantic Hotel. Following a heated debate, we eventually decided to go to the Atlantic Hotel.

Cathal was already there when we arrived, borrowed flash in hand. It turned out that the Tralee freelance had been called out on a job and had had to leave his house. He was driving in the opposite direction to Cathal so they had kept in contact by mobile phone and turned their hazard lights on so they’d recognise each other on the road. Their cars eventually met just outside a graveyard. This hadn’t done a whole lot to improve his mood. Still, at least his equipment was in working order and he was all set to work. “Let’s get this shit over with,” he said grimly.

The organisers of the Mega Beach Party could never be accused of false advertising. Working on the principle of “If you can’t bring the party to the beach, bring the beach to the party,” they had completely covered the dance floor with sand. The plus side of this arrangement was that if the music was too loud, you could communicate with people by writing in the floor. Unfortunately, it also gave the DJ an excuse to play ‘Sex On The Beach’ around six times.

When the bachelors arrived they were all in beach wear. To be honest, it wasn’t a particularly pretty sight. We took some photographs, mainly of me being carried around the place by a bunch of drunken, thong-wearing wasters. But I only know this because the shots were shown to me later. I can’t remember anything else about the night. In retrospect, this is probably just as well.

* * * * *

At 2pm the following day, Cathal and I went on a grand tour of Ballybunion (I had somehow managed to convince him to stay for the awards that night. Actually, I had threatened to kick his teeth in if he left). We went down to the beach and checked out the famous seaweed baths. Then we walked up a hill and looked at an old castle wall. We wandered up through the town, admiring its chip shops, pubs and amusement arcades. Then we wandered back down through the town and admired them all over again. By the time we were finished, it was 2.30pm.

“There’s not much to do here, is there?” Cathal moaned. “Let’s go to Tralee.”

“We can’t,” I protested, “We’ve got work to do. The bachelors will all be in the Greenmount Hotel for their interviews in an hour.”

“An hour!” He stamped his feet.

We stopped to read a placard on the wall outside a shop. Actually, it wasn’t a placard. It was a laminated photocopy. But we read it anyway. Apparently Ballybunion has a third claim to fame. In addition to being Ireland’s most unfortunately named town and hosting the Bachelor Festival, it was also the location of the first ever trans-Atlantic wireless telephone conversation. In March 1919, Dr. John J. O’Carroll shot the breeze with Marconi from a newly-built communications centre in the town (blown up three years later in the War of Independence).

“It doesn’t say what they said to each other,” I commented.

“Maybe it was something like, ‘Please, get me the fuck out of here!’” Cathal suggested.

* * * * *

The twelve-strong judging panel for the awards consisted of various committee members, local radio presenters and journalists. From 3pm on Saturday afternoon, the panel sat in a back room in the Greenmount Hotel, interviewing each bachelor separately. The winner would be decided on a combination of this interview and his on-stage performance at the Awards Ceremony. For their part, the bachelors prepared themselves for this testing ordeal by sitting in the bar out the front, consuming copious quantities of alcohol and having a belching competition. Cathal and I arrived shortly after 3pm to find them engaged in a singsong: “We’re horny – so horny, horny, horny/We’re horny toniiiggghhttt.”

The Dublin bachelor, Alan Fynes, a manager at Planet Hollywood restaurant, sat in the corner surveying the whole scene from behind his shades, voice too shot to join in the singing. “It’s mad down here,” he croaked. “Completely crazy. I actually missed three days of it because I had to go back up to work. But I’ve been making up for lost time.” With this he made the drinky-drinky gesture.

“They were trying to make me take a seaweed bath yesterday, but no way,” he continued. “I spent the entire day drinking. And then, last night, RTE ran into my room. They knocked on my door and, as soon as I opened it, this woman stuck a microphone in my face. Then this guy behind her turned on this really bright shiny light. I had to do a runner. I couldn’t deal with it!”

Another bachelor who was finding the going a little tough was one Patrick Mooney. Patrick was one of the four bachelors from overseas who give the festival’s name its “International” status. He was from Texas (the other three were from London, Wales and Chicago, respectively) and had been invited to participate while on holiday in Limerick last year.

Patrick was a little different from most of his competitors. Being a young, middle-class American, he was fairly clean-cut. Most of the rest of the bachelors, however, were all half-cut. “I’m definitely enjoying it,” he assured me in a casual drawl. “It’s a little fast-paced though. I tried partying with the Irish guys at first but that just wasn’t gonna work. They were still calling me a cissy anyway, so I figured I might as well just drink at my own pace. So I’ve been having beer then water, beer then water. Not glug, glug, glug, which is the way these guys seem to drink.”

I asked Patrick was he optimistic of winning the grand title.

“I don’t really look at it that way,” he said coolly. “I went to the bookies and they were saying 6/1. But we’re just having fun really. If I won, that’s be really cool. I’d love to take it home to America and say I was the Irish Bachelor of the Year. Everyone likes to win, I suppose.”

England was being represented by the rather unlikely named Andy Dallas, an IT expert at the British Embassy on Merrion Road. A Londoner, Andy seemed to be taking it seriously. So much so, that he had even brought an “image consultant” named Dougie Kerr along with him (actually, Dougie – an amiable Glaswegian – was the only person I saw all weekend who actually wore one of those Hawaiian shirts). He had also dyed his hair bleach blond for the occasion. “It cost me £48 at Toni & Guy,” he told me. “The girls in there, I love ‘em! (whoops). Nah, seriously, I had this done last summer and I was planning on doing it again anyway. And this just seemed like the perfect opportunity.”

Ever loyal to his Queen and country, Andy had bunked off his Embassy work for the week to go on the piss in Ballybunion. By now, he was looking a little rough. “I only came down for the weekend originally,” he explained. “I came with an overnight bag. I came down for the launch but I was meant to go back to work last week. And then I woke up last Sunday morning and just thought, ‘I can’t leave’. So I stayed. I decided to give myself the week off.”

This impulse decision had led to certain problems in the wardrobe department. Despite his image consultant, Andy looked liked he’d been wearing the same clothes all week (mainly because he had been wearing the same clothes all week). “The only problem is that I’ve got this jumper, a T-shirt, one other shirt, a pair of combats and another pair of shoes – and that’s it,” he laughed, pulling his sweater away from his chest to illustrate its malodorous stench. “I’ve been trying to swap the combinations around all week. So clothes have been a major problem.”

Clothing problems aside, Andy was having the time of his life. “Everyone’s got on so well,” he said. “Nobody really cares who wins. At the end of the day, everyone’s having the crack. I think if anyone was down here actually trying to win, we’d all be going, ‘What a wanker!’ I mean, like, someone’s gotta win and fair play to them, they win it – they win it. Hopefully it’ll be me ‘cos I want the £1,000. But really the whole thing’s just a great, great laugh. I mean, I’ve got a couple of addresses and phone numbers to ring next week. And that’s really what I came here for.”

While I interviewed the various bachelors, Cathal busied himself taking photographs. Thankfully, his mood seemed to have lightened somewhat. Despite this, he was still planning on splitting directly after the awards ceremony that night. “The moment it’s all over I’m out of here,” he declared with grim determination. “But how will I get home tomorrow?” I pleaded. “Get a train!” “But there are no trains!” “Get a bus to Tralee and you’ll get a train from there,” he replied, mercilessly.

I wasn’t having this. There was bound to be a decent party after the award ceremony and there was no way I was missing that. Equally, there was no way I was going to be in any condition to make my own way home. Something was going to have to be done. Something was. I made an excuse, nipped back to the hotel room and stole the keys to his Volvo.

* * * * *

Despite the obvious camaraderie and good vibes that existed between the competing bachelors, this year’s Festival hadn’t been without its hassles and hiccups. When local bachelor Maurice Delaney was told that he wasn’t being allowed participate in the event, he threw a wobbler of the “tabloid-front-page” variety. Much meat was made of the fact that Maurice was, allegedly, too much meat. Simply put, Maurice felt that he wasn’t being allowed enter because he was too fat. He told his story to The Star and posed on its front cover, making no real attempt to disguise the fact that he was, well, too fat.

Frank Quilter, the colourful owner of the Atlantic Hotel and chief publicist of the Festival, sees it all somewhat differently, however, putting it all down to a misunderstanding between Delaney and the committee. At the same time, he’s not a major Delaney-fan.

“Delaney will be forgotten about,” he snorted. “The other fellas were better quality than him anyway. Did you see him? I don’t think the judges would take too kindly to him.”

The Delaney controversy aside, Frank was delighted with the coverage the event had received. “We got a rake of publicity this year,” he said. “We had Short Circuit, the radio programme, down the other day. Derek Davis was here. We’ve had all the newspapers, we’ve had all the local radio stations. We’ve had good coverage – twas a bit controversial, like, but all pub licity is good publicity.”

As it happens, Frank is no stranger to controversy himself. Outside of his Bachelor Festival responsibilities, his superhuman attempts to have a local beach – the Nun’s Strand – designated as a naturist bathing area have already attracted the attentions of the international media. To date, he has been the subject of over 100 articles in publications worldwide.

Despite his efforts to bring Ireland’s first nudist beach to Ballybunion, Frank isn’t actually a naturist himself. “No, actually I don’t even swim,” he explained. “I simply came up with the idea because there’s about thirty million of them worldwide – I think there’s about ten million in Germany. They’re everywhere! I think there’s about 5,000 of them in Ireland. Tis a big market if its developed right. And we have four beaches in Ballybunion – the other three will do for the families and everyone else.”

Frank actually drove me down to the beach he had in mind. It’s known as the Nun’s Strand because there’s a Sisters of Mercy convent overlooking it. In fairness though, the beach is well sheltered and quite difficult to access, so the nuns wouldn’t actually be exposed to the sight of any naked flesh if Frank’s plans get the go ahead. Set deep within a small bay, the water by Nun’s Strand is dominated by a huge standing stone in the centre, locally known as the Virgin Rock.

“Why do they call it the Virgin Rock?” I asked.

“Well, I think it’s because it’s about the only thing in Ballybunion nobody’s ever been up on!” he replied.

* * * * *

By the time I got back to the hotel, Cathal was freaking out completely. “Have you seen my car keys?” he asked frantically. “Why would I have seen your car keys?” I replied innocently.

“Ah shite!” he swore. “You’ll have to give us a hand looking for them. I’ve gotta get out of here tonight!”

“Sorry, man,” I said. “But I’ve got work to do.”

As it happens, I did have work to do – seafood tasting. Frank Quilter had just gone to fetch me some periwinkles. The small black shellfish aren’t exactly unique to Ballybunion but the town’s unique take on them certainly is. “They’re Ballybunion’s answer to Viagra,” Frank declared when he returned, emptying a bag of the things onto the table. “We’re convinced now that they work, because the Tourism Minister Jim McDaid, who’s also a medical doctor, stated at our press conference in Dublin that he had it from scientific people and people who had research done, that they work instead of Viagra down in this neck of the woods. There’ll be no sales of Viagra down here because any of the fellas who eat periwinkles won’t need them! We were always wondering about it along the coast because there’s a lot of elderly men around here – men of 60 years of age – who get married to young ones and have 12 or 15 children. So we reckon it must be the periwinkles.”

He then expertly picked the flesh out of a periwinkle shell with a small pin and handed it to me. It tasted quite salty, like a poor man’s oysters.

“How would you describe the taste, Frank?” I asked.

He went a little red. “Er, well . . . they taste like . . . like . . .” he stammered.

“Like what, Frank?” I was enjoying this.

“Ah well, they’ve a fishy kind of taste,” he said uncomfortably. “Like a girl’s . . . a girl’s . . . ah, you know what I mean.”

I spotted one of the bachelors coming out from his interview and so decided to stop torturing Frank and instead ask the interviewee how it had gone. His name was Howard Flannery, the Limerick bachelor who had overseen the Mock Wedding the previous night. “They were mostly fairly predictable questions,” he told me. “Are you happy with your profession and what would your ideal profession be. Your ideal woman. What chat-up lines do you use. What you thought of the week in Ballybunion. What you thought of the other contestants. How would you treat women. If you had to break it off with a woman, how would you do it. They got a bit close to the bone at times actually.”

“And how do you think you did?” I probed.

“Well, I ended up kissing one of the committee members during the interview,” he admitted. “To be honest, I don’t think she was too impressed.”

I spotted Laura coming out for a coffee break. “How’s it going in there?” I asked her.

“Ugh!” she shuddered.

* * * * *

At 8pm that evening, the bachelors – now tuxedoed – set off en masse towards the Cliff House Hotel, chanting their “We’re horny – horny, horny, horny” anthem as they marched. Cars beeped as they passed and locals waved out of their windows at this impressive display of well-groomed masculinity (except for one old woman who shouted “Wankers!”). Cathal and I kept our distance. I decided it was my turn to start moaning. “How far away is this place?” I groaned. “We should have driven!” He just glared at me. I think that, by that stage, he had his suspicions.

Upon arrival, I ran into two young girls from the committee – Catriona Walsh and Kelly Moore – who attempted to convince me of the Festival’s successful record in the matchmaking department. “My sister married a guy who represented Laois one year,” Catriona told me. “He’s actually from Offaly but they got married two years ago. She was his driver while he was here.”

Not to be outdone, Kelly pointed out that her uncle had also married a local woman.

“That hardly counts,” I said. “If she was local they probably already knew each other.”

“No,” she insisted. “He was actually representing Ballybunion at the time that he met her!”

* * * * *

Following a dinner, the awards ceremony was compered by none other than Maxi of RTE fame. It quickly transpired that, in many ways, the Ballybunion Bachelor Festival is the polar opposite of something like the Rose Of Tralee. At the Tralee Festival, a series of beautiful women are interviewed by a lecherous and patronising drunk. In Ballybunion, a series of lecherous drunks are interviewed by a beautiful, patronising woman.

Each bachelor was brought up on stage to be interviewed individually. The interviews were the usual predictable guff you get at these kind of affairs (“So John, what do you do for a living?”), a little like Cilla Black’s Blind Date patter. The amusing bits came when the various bachelors performed their party pieces. These ranged from telling jokes and singing songs to, erm, singing songs and telling jokes. Just about everybody made complete idiots of themselves.

In fairness, however, I made a bit of an idiot of myself as well – lying on the floor in front of the stage in protest at the backing band’s awfulness. I was convinced that they were the same crowd from the lorry stage the previous day (although Cathal reckons they weren’t – and he should know!). Eventually, the bouncers picked me up and carried me back to my table. Then I did it again. “You can’t touch me,” I told them. “I’m a journalist.”

“No – you’re a drunken, fucking eejit,” one of them corrected me.

Looking back on the whole incident, I realise that he was probably right. Anyway, ten minutes after I’d made a complete spectacle of myself, it was announced that Benny Mulhern – a shaven-headed chipshop owner from Longford – had won the title. He was picked up by his fellow bachelors and jubilantly carried around the room. At around the same time as this was happening, I was being picked up by Cathal and carried out of the room.

I was so grateful I very nearly gave him his car keys back.

* * * * *

A few hours later, myself and Benny from Longford sat in his hotel room (which looked as if it had just been vacated by Liam Gallagher) at the Greenmount, sharing what was left of a bottle of tequila. Despite his win, the 1998 Ballybunion Bachelor of the Year, was in fairly melancholic form. “It actually still hasn’t sunk in yet,” he said with a heavy sigh. “But to be honest, I feel a bit upset about it. I mean, I’m so close to all the lads and I was there – ready to applaud the winner – and then suddenly it was me.”

“Were you surprised?” I asked.

“Yeah, bigtime,” he nodded. “To be straight about it though, what Ballybunion has done for me is that I’ve met the greatest bunch of guys ever – guys I’m not gonna lose contact with. We’ve already made plans for a reunion and that sort of thing. The whole experience has been wonderful. Really I’ve had the time of my life.”

By then it was about 4am. We sat there in silence for what seemed like an eternity, staring into our drinks and pondering the vagaries of bachelor life. After a while, I asked him what he was planning on doing with his prize-money. It was at that moment that Benny Mulhern said the two sentences that made me realise that the judges had been absolutely spot-on in their decision to award the Longford man his prestigious title.

“I’m gonna go and put it behind the bar downstairs and nobody’s leaving till it’s all drunk,” he drunkenly declared. “Now come on – let’s go have another drink and see if we can find two birds to shag.”

* * * * *

At around 9.30am the following morning, I staggered into my hotel room and kicked Cathal Dawson’s bed until he woke up. Actually, I just began with the bed. Eventually I had to kick him. After a while, the photographer finally sat up, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

“Cathal – guess what?” I announced cheerfully. “I’ve found your car keys!”

We didn’t talk the whole way home. Well, to be honest, we didn’t talk because I spent the entire journey crashed out on the back seat of his car. Still, had I been awake, I somehow doubt that he would have been talking to me.