Spud's Mother-Lovin' Stag in NY, NY

Ok. Where to start?

Right. It's like this.

My cousin, for the purposes of this blog let's call him "Spud", is getting married. And what better place to hold his Stag (that's bachelor party, NY readers!) than NY, NY?

And who better to do the organisin' than Yours Truly, Neville Rourke, the man with his finger on the NY pulse?

So I emailed Spud a list of the latest and greatest alt. ent. hotspots: Mama Lafayette's Vodou Lounge, the Sceance Parlor on 57th and 3rd (talking to dead NY relatives is so IN right now -- "Shimmy, where did Bumpke leave the keppel?"), the Regeneration Station, etcetera etcetera. Spud nixed the lot of 'em. Seems his crew aren't into the occult as I am and Spud, in his Buffy-obsessed youth, used to be. Really pissed, to tell the truth, but I keep that to myself and go with the flow. It's Spud's big day after all -- let it be HIS funeral.



So I meet them in, of all places, the Apple Store on 5th. Salivatin' over the iPods are Spud, Alec, Garth, J.T., Phillo and Davy Ryan. They've been shopping all afternoon and Spud has bought this ridiculous 4 foot high resin replica of the Empire State. I let it pass. They've already booked tickets for a Broadway show. How swishy is that? But I suppose you gotta remember that the nearest you get to a Broadway show in Dublin is an elderly woman called Twink croaking out numbers from Annie, "To-MAH-row, To-MAW-row, Rose Violet." So I can't ride them too hard over that.

Next: Karaoke at the Pegasus, which actually ain't too bad, as the Peg only does punk, 80s and the Pixies. Spud's obviously been a busy boy on the net.

Then, and this is MY call, dinner in a kosher deli famous for its pastrami sambos and an orgasm scene in a Hollywood flick. Tasty. Just don't ask for extra mayo.

And after that, Spud's piece de resistance, a "Masqued Burlesque" show at a place I hadn't heard of called the Stiletto Club. Now, I wasn't too crazy about this -- I know it's in at the moment, but I always thought burlesque for for people who were too middle class for a real strip club.

The Stiletto Club is on Clarkson Street and looks like a complete dive from the outside, and once you get past the bouncers and pay your eight bucks, it looks like a dive from the inside as well -- and it STANK. It was busy. We took a table near the back, set up Spud's 4 foot Empire State on the floor beside us, and the lads ordered a couple of pitchers.

The MC for the night was a guy who glorified in the name of Corky the Red Rabbit. He was dressed head to heels in a one piece shiny spandex red rabbit outfit, complete with bunny ears and a cute 'lil tail. He stood 6 foot 5 in a pair of sparkly platforms and was FABULOUS in every sense of the word. Although he never mentioned it as part of his patter, you could tell he was a gentleman of the jewish persuasion -- the lycra bunny suit was very VERY tight.



So he'd introduce the acts -- Madame Fifi La Rue, Kozi Kartell, Miss Pantie Staines, etc, and they'd come on and do their 3 minutes of miming to Leader Of The Pack or a number by the Smashing Pumpkins or whatever. All were dressed in a combination of large hair, fishnets, basque, garter and pasties, and as advertised, some sort of masque covering their face. We assumed this was to keep their identities secret. Hah! Then they'd strip (a bit), swing their pasties, chuck their garter at you and feck off. We weren't paying them much notice, mind you.



We also didn't notice a peculiar thing that was happening as the night went on. Punters would get up to go to the bar, and never return. Their friends would get up to see what had happened to them, and they'd never come back either. Someone would go to the restroom and never come back -- the search party ditto. Our little group didn't notice this because of the argument. You see, Spud and his mates, being from the 'auld sod, are fond of a drink. (Some stereotypes are actually pretty true.) But unlike 99.9% of other Dubliners, they're all as tight as a gnat's chuff and no-one would buy another round. We argued while the place was cleared out of patrons.

In fact, we only noticed we were the only table left when Corky the Red Rabbit got up to announce the finalé, and addressed us directly.



"We have a party here from Dublin, Ireland. Davy Ryan whistled and went "Yo!" The prick.

"Poor little Irish boys can't afford a Guinness," He pronounced it GUY-ness.

He was joined on the small stage by the girls: Pantie, Kozi, Fifi, the whole shebang.

That's when we noticed the smell. "If that's the kitchen, I'm glad we didn't eat here!" That was Alec, a joker to the last.

The girls took off their masks.

To reveal eyes, eyeballs hanging, flaps of rotten skin, maggots glistening in open bloody wounds. And the smell. The stench. Putrescence.

Christ of a feckin' souped-up rocket-powered quad bike.

Brain eating zombies.

Well, at least this explains where the rest of the clientelle disappeared to.

And so they attacked. Alec, god love him, got it first: a quick bite to the jugular by Kozi, who had surprisingly sharp teeth. Korky finished him off. Then Garth bought it. Then Phillo, J.T. and Davy. The prick.

One of them grabbed my leg, Spud lashed out with his 4 foot Empire State and he and I made a break. We smashed a window with the model and legged it. We left the carnage, the gore, our friends behind.


They chased us for a bit, and although they were fast moving 28-Days-Later zombies rather than the shambling Dawn Of The Dead model, we had the edge as we weren't the ones tottering on high heels.

We ran like the clappers for 28 blocks, hailed a cab and hyperventilated our way back to Spud's hotel room. I put him on a flight home the next day.

Five empty seats behind him, five less mouths to feed at the wedding reception.

He never asked, so I didn't mention. Still in shock, I guess.

And that was that.

That was 3 hours ago.


11 hours since I saw my cousin's friends bitten, eaten alive by flesh devouring burlesque zombies.

And me?

Remarkably, I'm fine. After all, I did come to NY, NY with the express aim of ticklin' the weird and wacky underbelly of the rotten-to-the-core Big A. What it says on the tin, basically.

And in that respect, I suppose I'm doing well.

Not everybody tussles with the burlesque undead and lives to tell the tale.

My left leg is a bit iffy where they grabbed me though. Kind of itchy and sore and-- maybe a bit of Sudocreme will sort it out. Can you get that here?

Let's have a look. Feck, that lamp is bright. It's red and puffy, just a bit of blood to wipe away, and-- teethmarks...?

Teethmarks.

Ah, bollix.