It's a long way to Tipperary

“Just shut up! Shut the fuck up!”


Excuse me? Shut up, eh? Shut up? I’m going for a walk!


Slam the door shut and I hear shouting from the other side.


There are plenty of bars around here. I’m walking to the nearest bar!


Belatedly, I realize no bar is open after midnight on a Sunday. I walk more and slowly begin to circle back. I sing to myself, choking back tears as I sing. Each step on the concrete pounding in my head, feeling like a march.


It's a long way to Tipperary,

It's a long way to go.

It's a long way to Tipperary

To the sweetest girl I know!

Goodbye, Piccadilly,

Farewell, Leicester Square!

It's a long long way to Tipperary,

But my heart's right there.


Tears well as I sing and march.


Where is Tipperary anyhow? I don’t know. But, it sounds like a nice place, doesn’t it? Yeah. I wish I was in Tipperary right now.


I watch a bunny hop across the street and I smile. I think of nice bunnies and Tipperary.


I still want to drink and Circle K is the only option. I just need a small beer, just something to help calm my nerves. I grab the first small beer I see, 16 ounces.


“Are you alright?” the cashier asks.


I realize I must look like shit. It’s probably obvious that I’ve been crying.


“Yeah, I’m fine.” I force a smile.


He points at the beer. “Hope you’re not drinking that just because of the commercials.”


I realize I grabbed Dos Equis. I grabbed the first small beer I saw, the name meant nothing to me.


I force another smile. “Hey, it might make me more interesting.” I say and laugh.


Transaction completed and I continue marching along with my beer and fresh pack of cigarettes.

I slink off into a dark alley. I need the quiet and the darkness.


We’re not really doing this, are we? Drinking in an alley? Seriously?


Well, do you want to go home?


No.


And you don’t want to come back and face it again sober, do you?


No, I guess I don’t.


So shut up. We’re doing this.


The sound of the can opening shatters the calm night air. Wrapping the can in the grocery bag I plod on, looking for a good spot. I settle behind a white building and begin to drink. I look at the darkened houses. Decent people are tucked away and sleeping peacefully at this time of night. AC/DC’s “Night Prowler” begins running through my head.


Much like the song, I hear a dog barking in the distance. I deposit my nearly finished beer and grocery bag into a nearby bucket and I continue my trek home.


Sometime later I decide to read about the song I was singing. It was a popular song in WWI and it was recorded by John McCormack in November of 1914.


My grandpa briefly served in WWII. My grandpa’s parents probably knew of the song. I don’t even think I can class this as old school. It was recorded 100 years ago. It’s just fucking old.


Hurting and walking all alone at night, the only song that brings me any comfort is a World War One marching song.


I’m so goddamn weird.



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