J1 begun: waking up in jfk after two litres of pinot noir

I suppose the first night out has happened. It wasn’t planned, most of the best and worst nights aren’t. Fun had finished his first shift and wanted a drink. Gin and I were still unemployed, and wanted a drink. The Mitty was already drunk, and wanted a drink. DooDoo has “work friends” now.

We decided to meet in another uncle’s bar in Hell’s Kitchen. Nice Irish bar, good reasonably paced pints, craic was being had. Fun gets a text that his co-workers are having a start of year house party in Jersey City and that he’s invited. By extension so are Gin, The Mitty and I, or at least we decide to turn up.

Somewhere along 8th Avenue we buy two 2 litre bottles of Pinot Noir, big enough to kill horses or at least put them into A&E. They cost $10 plus tax plus wrath of God hangover. We hop on the subway to the World Trade Centre and then the PATH to Jersey City.

We get to the apartment block but nobody will answer the buzzer, eventually we slip in behind some residents and find the place on the fifth floor. There’s about twenty-five people in the flat, some are well on, some are well on their way.

Fun introduces himself as their co-worker. He only really knows one person there already, the girl who invited him, and she’s already moved on to bread and water. The Mitty, Gin and I explain that no, we don’t work with you but we thought we’d come along anyway. This is not an excuse for crashing a party, and every person in the room asks us who we are at some point during the night. The excuse doesn’t get better but we get considerably drunker so it all works out.

Thankfully, the guy who owned the house and the rest of the collected staff were incredibly sound and made us feel welcome and not like ballsy degenerates who cross state lines for half a chance at a party. If they by some chance happen to read this you were most gracious hosts.

By about midnight we’re all pretty drunk. I start giving out to two Americans about “all this country’s dumb fucking numbers. Fucking social security, fucking zip codes, fucking…” Gin has realised he’s been chatting up a guy who’s not actually gay. Fun is trying on the girl who invited him and The Mitty is standing about a yard away, watching him and screaming “Pull you’re close enough!” and laughing maniacally.

Someone then floats the idea of going to the pool, which is closed, but the fence is hop-able. People consider this idea, then decide not. By the time they decide against it the four Irish are already stripping off on the deck chairs with two Americans, who, honestly, I think came as chaperones more than anything else.

At this point, I’m the most sober of the four of us. Gin brought the wine with him from the apartment to the pool. One of the Americans, probably the only one not to have asked us all who we are at this stage, asks The Mitty who he is to which he responds, “I’m The Mitty! First male born to Fancy Clancy and Famous Seamus, the first civil partnership to come out of the parish of Kildicken!” We all find this hilarious, especially Fun, who turned into Richie Kavanagh about a litre into his two litre bottle of Pinot Noir. His volume button is broken.

Some resident comes out, complains about the noise, calls security and we all leg it back to the flat, soaking. We’ve no towels, so we make do. That, plus wine that comes in 2 litre bottles, is my excuse. Gin finds a plastic bag and we all throw our jocks in it. He tells us that it’s a Febreeze bag so they’ll smell nice in the morning.

The trip home was never going to run smoothly. There’s nothing worse than a nice, intelligent person with nothing to say for themselves. I get stuck talking to her. I might as well be talking to a painting or a bar of soap.

“Your friends are really weird.”

“What’s weird?”

“Like, not normal.”

“What’s normal?”


“There’s no such thing as normal. Just highly narrated.”


“You’re weird.”

Fuck off.

I manage to get separated from the other three on the PATH. I get home around 3.30 AM, unscathed. Fun ends up sleeping on one of the American’s couches in Manhattan, I don’t know where The Mitty spent the night and, best of all, Gin ended up at JFK. Yeah the airport. I don’t know either.

Work bitch

Got a job. Turned down three. That’s not me bragging I just want to put it in writing so when mid-July rolls around and we start getting the statuses “Still no job! OMG Sooo expensive here” it’s clear that it’s down to laziness and private school instilled sense of entitlement and not because there aren’t any jobs. There are lots. Hustle.


I may, or may not, have done an awful thing. I may, or may not, have left a house party last night and stolen their detergent on my way out so I could wash my clothes when I woke up and not have to go to the shop first thing hungover. I am very hungover if it’s any consolation. My clothes smell like spring.

Follow D's NY debauchery here: @d_joyceahearne