I sat there with a pounding head, a dry throat and a serious sense of impending doom.
The morning after the night before, very few people have completely avoided it. I pondered on all of life’s questions. Why am I locked out of both of my ATM cards? Where is my new student card? How can I produce this much laundry in three days? How long more is it socially acceptable for me to be on the tear as much as I am now?
It’s my first two weeks in Dublin and you could probably say that I’m acting like someone with a death wish but after a Summer spent of working two jobs, I feel that I deserve to let my hair down. I didn’t know what to do with myself, there was no college on and the thought of walking, cycling or even looking at daylight was too much to bear. Not to mention the fact that I had to walk fifty minutes home that morning. Details as to why can wait.
So I sat and I pondered and I ate a pot of pasta that was supposed to feed me for the next four days. Then, luckily for me, I came across a review on a new Irish television show titled Can’t Cope, Won’t Cope. It promised not to glamorize drinking, it promised a bit of honesty for once. As Stefanie Preissner, writer of the series said herself too many forms of media portray the party lifestyle as
‘going out for the night, having sex with people, then dissecting it the next day over avocados’
She couldn’t have hit the nail harder on the head. Sex and the City was where I found out what sex was. Skins made me think smoking was cool and I longed to be skinny and grumpy like Effy Stonem, who never seemed to be that hungover despite the constant drinking and drug abuse. The fact is, there’s no such thing as hooking up with a guy for cocktails, having wild Samantha Jones sex and meeting the girls for Eggs Benedict the next day. In reality, these situations arise from the very likes of Coppers, end in mediocre sex and see you running from a stranger’s house in the morning with a taste of regret. You then may or may not leave your home for the day because the fear is hanging off you like your shadow. Best case scenario is a chicken roll and a diet coke in your best-friend’s car while you fill them in on what a monster you are.
Preissner has done it. She has created something that is both hilarious and hard-hitting in it’s handling of themes that surround the excessive Irish palette for binge drinking. The reality does not involve trotting off after a session looking as fresh as a daisy. It includes power walking home while Nana’s look at you disapprovingly and you being disappointed in yourself for not saving enough money for a taxi, no mind a bus.
I sat there eating enough pasta for four days both surprised and pleased by the gritty honesty of the lives of these ‘sesh moths’. Getting sick at work, getting into ridiculous drunken arguments, sleeping with the wrong people, embarrassing yourself, the morning after pill, self loathing. It’s all there and it’s all excellent, so thank you Ireland for allowing it to air, once you repeal the eighth amendment I will be even more grateful.
And thank you Stefanie for telling it as it is.