Planes, Pints, and Christmas Miracles

A Very Irish Homecoming

Apr 27, 2025

Author’s Note:

Something a little magical is happening here lately. We're now at 186 subscribers, and it feels almost inevitable we'll crack 200 by this time next week. (Fingers crossed)

It’s not just people from my own personal network anymore either… I’ve connected with so many creative talents from far and wide, people I’ve never even met, are jumping on board. It’s honestly blown me away. On that note, a special shout-out to Carrie and Hilde for their support and guidance this week. You’ve both been brilliant.

This week, I thought I’d lighten the mood a little.

If you’ve been following along, you’ll know I’ve been diving deep lately… into growth, resilience, connection… all the good (and sometimes heavy) stuff. But life’s not always that serious. Sometimes it’s just plain ridiculous.

So today, I’m giving you a hilarious recap and a little insight into the life and times of my chaotic existence... usually fuelled by sentiment, spontaneous planning, and a penchant for absolute madness.

I’ve broken this one into short chapters, story-style, so you can take a breather and come back if needed. But if you stick with me, I promise you’ll be rewarded with snowstorms, pub strangers, near-misses, and the most chaotic white Christmas you’ve ever heard of.

This is Planes, Pints, and Christmas Miracles: A Very Irish Homecoming. I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter 1: The Surprise

It started with an idea. A noble, wholesome, mildly deranged idea.

I was living in Australia, basking in the summer sun, while Europe and North America buckled under one of the heaviest winters in memory… the blizzard-filled season of 2010. Roads were shut, airports frozen, cities blanketed in snow. Naturally, I thought: Perfect time to surprise me Ma.

I’d show up unannounced. A knock, a smile, “Merry Christmas,” and a stunned mother bursting into tears of joy. My daughter, two at the time, would be flown over 3 days later, and we’d all spend a magical white Christmas together.

The only person in Ireland who knew was Norris… my mate and fellow musician of my stepdad, Billy. He was tasked with picking me up from Dublin Airport. My ride and my co-conspirator in this sentimental masterstroke.

I told no one else. Just me, Norris, and the gods of international travel. What could possibly go wrong?

The night before I left, we had an early Christmas dinner at our favourite local restaurant, Shuck. Crab lasagne, good wine, and great company. My sister, her husband, my nieces, and my daughter. Anna and Scotty rolled out the red carpet. It was beautiful. Sentimental, even.

Then, after my daughter was collected by her mum, I did the sensible thing…

I went for a few quiet drinks with friends. Classic rationale. I’d toast with those I wouldn’t see over Christmas, head home at a reasonable time, and pack.

Which loosely translated to: I blacked out in a whirlwind of bad decisions and barely made my flight.

Chapter 2: The Bender Before Take-Off

One drink became three. Three became, “Let’s hit the next bar.” That became, “Who are these people and why am I singing Tom Jones on karaoke?”

Not just singing. Performing.

I can’t sing to save my life but give me a mic and a stage and I’ll give you a show… of some description, anyway.

I was up there like I was on Stars in Their Eyes. “Tonight, Matthew, I’m gonna be... TOM JONES!”

Somewhere between Delilah and It’s Not Unusual, I remembered I had a flight to Dublin in five hours.

I sprinted home in a panic. Thankfully, my sister Karen, knowing me all too well, had already packed my suitcase and left my passport on top. She’s a saint. An angel. My packing saviour.

So, somewhere between hungover and still half-cut, I staggered through airport security, boarded my flight to Singapore, and promptly passed out. Twelve hours of transit sleep. I’d be just fine.

At Changi Airport, I made fast friends with a group of tourists at the bar. Over beers and belly laughs, I told them the story: surprising me Ma, flying solo for speed. “He who travels alone, travels fastest,” I told them. I was creating the ultimate Christmas tale. They were cheering me on. I felt like a festive Jason Bourne.

“Last call to Gate 144, Stephen Keating...”

Am I starting to paint the picture of your ideal travel companion yet?

I grabbed numbers, hugs, and ran.

Next stop: Frankfurt.

Chapter 3: Delays, De-Icing, and the Death of Optimism

We arrived in Frankfurt… sort of.

First, we sat on the tarmac for fifteen hours. Fifteen hours. Grounded. If you’ve ever lost the plot over a fifteen-minute delay, try fifteen hours and see how zen you feel. Delays. De-icing. Announcements in four languages saying absolutely nothing.

Eventually, we were booted off the plane and told to leg it to another terminal for a new flight. But first, we had to collect our luggage and check it back in. And… just to spice things up… we had twenty minutes to do it! Cue the Home Alone mad airport dash music, maestro.

Picture me: hungover, jet-lagged, sprinting through Frankfurt Airport like I was in The Amazing Race: Festive Edition.

My phone buzzed with texts from my new mates in Australia and Singapore. They were watching this unfold like a slow-motion car crash. I was their Christmas soap opera.

My battery? Circling the drain. Pre-usb-in-seat era. Maybe 19% left.

I messaged Norris: “Hang tight. Nearly there.” I think he was starting to think this was all a complete wind-up.

Then I switched my phone off. Had to save those precious %’s.

We finally boarded the new flight. Destination: Dublin.

Or so I thought…

Chapter 4: Wrong Country

Mid-flight, the pilot made an announcement.

“Due to ongoing weather disruptions, Dublin Airport is not currently accepting arrivals. We will now be diverting to... Birmingham.”

Birmingham. England.

I turned to the stranger beside me and muttered, “He’s having a laugh, surely?”

But no. We landed. And sat there on the tarmac. For another eight hours.

Eventually, they cobbled together a plane headed to Dublin. I had 15% battery and a flicker of hope.

“OK, I’m definitely heading to Dublin, now, be there in an hour” I text Norris.

We took off. One hour to go.

But we didn’t land.

We hovered over Dublin for what felt like forever, before another announcement:

“Dublin Airport is no longer accepting aircraft. We are diverting to Cork.”

CORK.

Still Ireland... technically. But for a Dub in a Dublin Gaelic Football jersey, it felt like a dangerous exile.

Chapter 5: Corked

We landed in a snowstorm. I stumbled off the plane in thongs/flip flops/jandals (choose your country), a Dublin jersey, and a light tracksuit. No coat. I’d dressed for a quick pick-up, not for navigating the Arctic tundra. Thankfully, I had my runners/sneakers/joggers (choose your country again)

My bag didn’t arrive. Of course it didn’t. The only thing circling the carousel was a burst football, spinning around like it was mocking me. I watched it in a daze for two hours, pleading silently for this not to be happening. “Not you too… Wilsonnnn,” I whispered, half-laughing, half-deranged. At that point, it was less Love Actually and more The Terminal meets Cast Away… and I was rapidly losing my grip on which Tom Hanks film I was starring in.

I filed a lost baggage claim. The woman behind the desk spent two painstaking hours rifling through paperwork before finally looking up and saying, “There’s a train to Dublin in about six hours. Sure you’ll be grand.” That famous Irish optimism… equal parts comforting and completely unhinged… never misses.

It was -5 degrees outside… and I looked like a lost extra from the Irish hit TV Show, Love/Hate.

Across the road, a small pub glowed like a mirage.

I staggered in, the heat from the fireplace slapping me in the face. Tracksuit top came off… Dublin jersey proudly unveiled. The room fell silent… for a split second… then…

One lad piped up, “You must be mad… or spoilin’ for a fight… comin’ in here, dressing like that, boy.”

The bartender stared at me as if I’d just asked if Cork was still part of the UK.

But once I spilled the beans about my saga, they were in absolute stitches. Drinks flowed, and I may have been unofficially adopted by a Cork family. I’ve always had a soft spot for Roy Keane and Cillian Murphy, so I threw those names around like confetti. In Cork, that’s pretty much the key to instant popularity. One old fella was still bitter about Roy’s disappearing act in the 2002 World Cup, but overall, my ploy worked. Call me Stephen the Chameleon.

I got way too festive. Nearly missed the train. But I made it, hurling myself aboard like I was storming Normandy.

“Good luck and Merry Christmas, ya mad Dub, ya.”

More sleep in transit. More mental unravelling.

Chapter 6: Home-ish

I woke up in Heuston Station. Dublin. Yep, that’s right, no typo, Texans. We’ve got our Heuston, you’ve got yours.

It was Monday night.

Not Friday night, as I’d been optimistically planning…

Which meant… my Ma wasn’t even home. She and Billy were at the Bottom of the Hill pub in Finglas. Billy’s kind of a big deal on the Dublin music scene. Known far and wide as “King Billy.” Back then, he was belting out tunes there on Mondays.

“Where to?” asked the taxi driver.

“Change of plan... straight to the Bottom of the Hill.”

He gave me a look that said, “You’ve definitely had enough, but fair play, I’ll drive you.”

I arrived just as the pub was wrapping up for the night.

Of course, the bouncer stopped me at the door. “No tracksuits tonight, buddy.”

Thankfully, my family friend and namesake, Stephen Keating, was there. He vouched for me.

The bouncer stepped aside… reluctantly, as though he was letting me through out of sheer curiosity.

I burst through the doors. Surprise!

Tears. Laughter. A stunned Ma. Hugs all round. Billy grabbed the mic. The boys from the band Streetwise, Liam and Eugene, shot me a look that clearly said, “Please don’t ask to get up and sing.” They, also, knew me too well. I didn’t. But trust me, I’d be back the following Monday to terrorise them then.

One more song from Billy, and we all piled into the car, Irish takeaway in hand, devoured in seconds. Probably advisable that I charge my phone and let Norris know that I had made it… in the end.

I was home.

Chapter 7: Timing is Everything

The next morning, I woke to egg in a cup (loads of butter!), black pudding, rashers, and the warmth of my childhood home’s kitchen.

I’d made it.

Then came the kicker…

I got a text. My daughter had just arrived.

She’d left three days after me, and still managed to arrive only seven hours behind.

She beat my bag. Of course. That only showed up just in time for me to head back to Australia. Classic timing.

We surprised my other sister, Nicola and her family that morning. It was beautiful.

The whole crew gathered at Aunty Ellen and Uncle Bimbo’s on Christmas morning.

Snow blanketed the garden, and laughter filled the house... and Bimbo’s Bar out the back. My mother was still in shock. You’d think she’d be used to me by now. Billy was still singing, and my daughter was beaming, soaking up all the attention from my ever-growing family.

It was the most perfect, chaotic, earned white Christmas of my life. Worth every delay, every moment of panic, every de-icing, every frantic sprint from terminal to terminal, and of course, the lost luggage.

It was everything I’d dreamed of.

Epilogue: And Just When I Thought It Was Over…

I still had to get back to Australia.

Via New York. (Well, that was the plan.)

And Boston. (Also the plan.)

And Texas. (Not the plan.)

And Vegas. (Definitely the plan.)

And somehow… I ended up back to Frankfurt. (Absolutely not the plan.)

But that, dear reader, is a blizzardy tale for another day.

And as for “he who travels alone, travels fastest”?

Maybe for most. But for me? I think I’ve proven that theory to be a load of bollox, haven’t I?

Stay tuned. The adventures are far from over.