The IFTAS afterparty. Loose talk, (Dathi O Se -- Chairman of the Board Of How To Turn The Air Blue As You Compliment a Woman), a cupla loose women -- well sure there's no rings on any of the Xpose girls' fingers, and plenty of indecorous behaviour.
There were people there young enough to use the word 'party' as a verb, and people there old enough to use it as a noun. They screamed for Prince William at the BAFTAs and West Dublin's royalty, Colin, at the IFTAS.
There were bids to get Michael Fassbender to notice; women lying without skipping a beat, 'your dress is goooorrrrrrgeous'; carefully rehearsed 'I can't believe we won' speeches and top-notch investigative journalism: 'I found a free bar.'
The day after the afterparty, women were committing mass carbicide as blood sugar levels did a loop the loop. That's what happens when you crash diet to pour yourself into a dress, drink two bottles of wine and play with your food. Multi-tasking at the IFTAs doesn't stretch to going on stage with a food baby. It's hard enough to suck in your stomach with only a protein shake inside you, smile, breath and talk, not to mind actually eating your dinner.
It's nerve wracking presenting awards. Please God, let me get across the stage without toppling over in these ridiculous heels. You may as well just YouTube me right now if I fall over on live television.
Vincent Browne didn't collect his award; he's not a habitue of award ceremonies. We can't mention it to him though; he'll only get embarrassed and irritated. Pumping the 'congratulations and celebrations' music into the studio before he went live last Monday went down like a Green party politician. Does the award mean he's part of the Establishment?
What is the collective noun for a group of IFTA winners?
An ego of IFTA winners? A smug?
There was no one first over the line in the Frocky Horror Show for the fashion columnists to get their perfectly manicured claws into. The real celebrities like Juliette Binoche were dressed down. The Irish posse were like peacocks; every plunging neckline, primary colour and sequin counts in the preening and posing stakes. Who am I wearing? Not what? It's a dress. And in the small hours of Sunday morning it looked like army fatigues got at by Edward Scissorhands.
Looking back, my earrings were a serious contender for worst accessory on the night. 'Statement earrings' they call them; the statement being 'there should be a by law against wearing anything on your ear that's bigger than it.'
No Xpose girls were harmed in the writing of this column. But neither they nor I would have been able to operate heavy machinery by the end of the night. And no Daithi, not the machinery you're thinking of ...
IF you don't know who I'm talking about, google 'Dimitri The Stud voicemail'. This charmer became an instant internet hit because of the voicemails he left for a girl called Olga that he'd just met. It included modest observations like "women approach me six or seven times a day. But I'm extremely particular about what I like. You're an extremely elegant woman. I couldn't take my eyes off you, and your friends were very jealous -- even if they say they weren't".
You say 'catch' Dimitri; we say 'stalker'.
In his second message, he tells her he's not interested if she's got psychological issues, but adds "if you're psychologically normal, and you haven't called me because there's been some horrible thing that's happened in your life that's prevented you from returning my calls, that's fine. But otherwise, don't call me". Well, nothing wows the ladies like a Dr Phil-style psychoanalysis. Olga, you need to get your act together.
We're really not sure whether Dimitri is real or an internet hoax but the anti-metrosexual organisation, The Toronto Real Men, is claiming him. Its purpose in life? To rid the world of feminism, once and for all. Nice.