A Tale of Two Grads - Part Wan

30th Sep 2010

A Tale of Two Grads

If the lads tasked with organising your grads this year haven't legged it to Australia with everyone's dough you can look forward to the night where you transform from boy to man. At least that's the idea.

Everyone has different hopes and aspirations for how they'd like their grads to go so here's part 'wan' of our double guide for you Shams and Poshies to keep you on the straight and narrow in the run up to the big night….

Who's been to chartbusters then?

Choosin' The Beour

Shammy: Beours who aren't afraid to colour their heads and arms in with orange crayons in a desperate attempt to not be the one who is the whitest at your grads are what you're after.

They are also the ones who are happy to wear little more than half a metre square of material around their entire body giving your mam a minor stroke when she sees the photos.

It doesn't matter if it looks like she's been eating nothing but pizzas since her communion - the more flesh that leaks out the more respect from the biys!

Poshy: Morally there are only a handful of city centre schools you can choose a 'chick' from without drawing looks of derision from the entire rugby squad. You can tell the acceptable schools quiet easily without us needing to mention them here. Basically all the ones where sailing shoes have been the unwritten fashion rule for decades and whose students have been to elocution lessons to make them more annoying.

Getting' the Tucks

Shammy: Having strolled into town whilst executing a proper gatch to loosen out the body your main concern will be some clothes shop feen getting uncomfortably close to you with a measuring tape. Does he really have to measure the 'inside leg'? Plain black is boring. Orange, pink and red tucks are all the rage - anything that matches your old doll's skin tone.

Poshy: Because you will have been to at least two rugby victory dinners and several annual knees-ups at your favourite yacht club you won't need to rent a tucks because you already own several. Choosing a monkey suit from your wardrobe will be the toughest this task will get. The one you 'pulled' in last is the obvious choice. If it ain't broke (and it don't smell too bad) don't fix it.

Black tuxedoes are so southside

Meetin' Her Old Pair

Shammy: We should have mentioned earlier that having a good relationship with your chosen wan's 'wrinklies' is vital. She might be all Beyoncé thinking she's an independent woman but she ain't holdin' the purse strings yet so it's in your own financial interests to plamás the pants off the family for the five minutes your invited in before taking off with their daughter.

Smile (without revealing missing teeth lost in fights), shake hands firmly, don't go to the toilet while you're in their house as it'll put the family on edge, don't ever talk about how much you love cars and be aware of where her old man is from before you start banging on about sport: exiled Kerrymen often sound Corkonian especially if you've had a few nips in the cab on the way out.

Poshy: unlike the scobe's encounter, when you meet your date's parents at their luxury Southside/Montenotte pad you'll be expected to show some sort of coherent life plan, an outline knowledge of the scandal on your local yacht club's committee and above all respectable orthodontics.


Don't be overly jovial and definitely don't ball hop her dad - jokes about the size of his car in relation to his height should remain inside your own head. Play this part of the evening well and daddy will slip her an extra twenty going out the door - that'll save you having to pay for her cab home in the morning. The job.

Posh

Rollin' Up to De Hotel

Shammy: What most Corkonians think is tacky you think is the bee's knees but tonight you're amongst your own so the tackometer is up to ninety. Grab yourself a pink stretch limo with the biys hanging out of the sunroof and the old dolls doing drive-by-screamings out the windows. #

Large sea mammals near the Fastnet rock should be able to hear the bass from the elongated taxi's sound system and there should hardly be breathing room with all the spangly fluffy teddybears the biys have bought for their beours.

Poshy: The vehicle you choose to arrive to the hotel in is similarly ludicrous but more from an environmentalists point of view than that of a cynical fashionista irked by crass tat. Mummy's five litre SUV that requires a fuel top up half way along the two mile journey is the only way to arrive in style - herself suitably impressed with your authoritative actions in the 'command position' as you look down on other drivers and their inferior rust buckets below.

Park it up in the hotel car park and toss the keys to the hotel security man telling him to look after it while tucking a five euro note into his bulging shirt pocket. Daddy will pick it up tomorrow.

Meetin' The Boys

Pent up hetrosexual 'dry ride' grappling and rugby songs kick the night off

Shammy: The spring-lamb excitement of meeting up with the biys at the hotel usually means car doors are opened by hyperactive young fellas too early and before the event even begins someone has to update their facebook status from an ambulance with "so wrecked didn't even make into the hotel LOL".

Chest bumping, fist thumping, dead arms, sliding tackles, cheezers, bear hugs, closelines and grundies may seem like some sort of pre-arranged gang fight to onlooking old dolls so its best to warn them about the way you display affection for each other in advance - just in case they dial 999 and the law show up unhelpfully early.

Poshy: after you've done your initial round of rugby chants and mock-lineouts with the waitresses it's time to decide who's sitting with who and to grab a drink. With the excitement of so much hot totty in one place and their hyper-protective alpha-male rugby chaperones orbiting them like guard dogs be careful where your eyes end up.

At all costs keep your line of vision above shoulder level when looking at, speaking to or falling in love with someone else's date. Otherwise it's the tar macadam in the car park via an orderly dispensing of the Queensbury rules for your wandering eye. At least you'll have tipped the security guard - he'll pick you up.