Driving through the gates of University College Dublin (UCD) brings back one or two memories. Not that I spent much time in the place when I did the Sports Man Dip course back in the day. I passed most of my college year playing pool and drinking Jager bombs with ag science girls, who were all called Una or Bernadette, while waiting for Declan Kidney to call me up to the Ireland under-19 team, a temptation that he managed to somehow resist.
I ask Oisinn if he’s nervous and he says a bit. Yeah, no, it’s, like, Freshers’ Week and he’s been invited back, as a former Iron Stomach Contest winner, to compere this year’s competition.
He goes, “Twenty-three years, Ross.”
I’m there, “Is that how long it’s been?”
Sorcha is standing at the island with a boning knife in one hand and an espresso in the other, grinning at us like a serial killer
The old dear goes, ‘I don’t want my vital work on the campaign Move Funderland to the Northside to die with me’
‘I remember Past Ross thinking, you need to stort being nicer to Future Ross. He’s a genuinely good bloke’
‘Sorcha, I’m wondering is climate justice maybe a bit above Santa’s pay grade?’
He’s like, “Twenty-three years,” and he clicks his fingers, “gone like that. Sometimes, I wish – ”
“What do you wish?”
“I wish I’d enjoyed it more at the time.”
That’s Oisinn. He’s a deep thinker – very much like me in that regord?
I’m there, “Dude, we did enjoy it. Jesus, we went through that Orts block like gossip through Greystones.”
He goes, “I suppose.”
I’m like, “What’s up with you?” because he’s been a bit down since he arrived home from Borbados.
He goes, “Ah, don’t mind me. I have to have two hip replacements and a hernia operation. Think I’m just feeling my age.”
“Dude, you’re only, like, 44.”
“And what have I got to show for it?”
“Er, you’re married to a great goy – Magnus, for fock’s sake!”
“Yeah, I know that.”
“And you’ve got little, what’s his name, Paavo?”
“Like I said, don’t listen to me. I just feel very old all of a sudden. And being back here isn’t helping.”
The crowd are suddenly all cheering him on – giving it, “Le-gend! Le-gend! Le-gend!” – and he has no choice but to pork his orse on the sixth stool
I throw the cor into the corpork and we make our way towards the lake. There’s a humungous crowd gathered there and I think how nice it is that traditions like this one haven’t been lost.
The dude from the students’ union is called Conor and he looks about 15. He thanks Oisinn for coming today and tells him, “You’re an absolute legend” although it turns out he’s never heard of me and suddenly I’m the one feeling my age?
There’s, like, six high stools set up, but only five of them are filled and Conor explains that they had a late withdrawal. And that’s when I suddenly ask the question. I go, “Can Oisinn take the last place?”
Conor looks at the other five entrants – four dudes and one bird – and they all nod their heads eagerly. They’ve clearly heard the stories about the Big O and they’re in, like, awe of him?
Oisinn goes, “I can’t. I’m too – ”
But I’m there, “Dude, I don’t want to hear ‘too old’,” and neither does the crowd because they’re suddenly all cheering him on – giving it, “Le-gend! Le-gend! Le-gend!” – and he has no choice but to pork his orse on the sixth stool.
The competition gets under way. The entrants are each told to remove one of their socks and put it in the pint glass in front of them. The glasses are topped up with beer that’s a year past its sell-by date. They’re then told to swap glasses with each other and knock back the beer in one go. My stomach is doing somersaults just thinking about it, and we straight away have our first faller – Graham (commerce), who throws up all over his chinos the second that lukewarm, sweat-infused beer hits his stomach.
Then the first course is served – we’re talking raw fish fingers smothered in ketchup. No one looks happy, except for Oisinn, who horses into them like a freed hostage, much to the delight of the crowd.
Before that’s allowed to even settle, the second course arrives. They’re each handed a half-pound block of butter, which they have to eat like it’s a bor of chocolate. The dude to Oisinn’s right – we’re talking Danny (Veterinary) – turns literally green while he’s eating his and just as he’s about to swallow the final bite, up come the contents of his stomach, an ugly mix of ketchup, breadcrumbs, raw cod and Kerrygold, cascading from his mouth and splashing the Dubes of the entire front row.
Mortin is suddenly sweating like a spin class and I can tell he’s close to spewing. Halfway through, it proves too much for him and he ends up painting the pavement the proverbial 50 shades of upchuck
The third course has been a staple of the UCD Iron Stomach Contest going back to my old man’s time here – a bowl of Pedigree Chum with a tube of Bonjella squeezed into it. Oisinn storts shoving big fistfuls of it into his mouth while the other three eat theirs slowly, all of them looking like they’re about to vom any second. Suddenly, Gary (orts) decides to tap out and Oisinn – this is unbelievable – finishes his dog food for him? And from that point on, there’s no doubt who the crowd favourite is.
They’re all going, “Ois-inn! Ois-inn! Ois-inn!” as the fourth course is presented – a pint glass filled with dry fish food, which they have to eat with a dessert spoon. It takes a good, like, 15 minutes to get through this course, all of them choking on it like they’re eating sawdust, and Nuala (ag science, naturally) is the next to go, chucking her guts into the lake, while Oisinn – and this is a lovely touch – holds back her hair and tells her that she has nothing to be ashamed of.
And now it’s only Oisinn and a dude called Mortin (engineering) left as the fifth course arrives under two silver cloches. When the cloches are lifted, everyone in the crowd, including me, turns away in disgust. It’s, like, a sheep’s brain, smothered in salted caramel ice cream. One or two people in the actual crowd lose their lunch when they see it and I can barely watch as Oisinn tucks into his like it’s one of John Shanahan’s New York sirloin strips.
Mortin is suddenly sweating like a spin class and I can tell he’s close to spewing. He chews on gamely – I can only imagine the texture – but halfway through, it proves too much for him and he ends up painting the pavement the proverbial 50 shades of upchuck.
The crowd rushes forward and swarms around Oisinn. They lift him from his stool on to their shoulders and they carry him around, chanting, “Le-gend! Le-gend! Le-gend!” and I’m about to tell them to watch his hips when I see the smile on his face – the happiest I’ve seen him since we were students here – and in that moment the time falls away and 23 years suddenly feels like nothing at all.
