My Misadventures in Ireland: Edge's House
by Brenda Clemons, U2 Station Staff Writer
Bono's security guard told us where Edge lived. The throbbing in my head made the up hill walk long and torturous. We stopped long enough to watch the sun rise over the Irish Sea. The changing hues of pink and purple only added to the vision of the dolphins playing; the purple hues of the sky being reflected off the splashes the dolphins made while jumping and singing.
When we arrived at the house that was supposed to be the home of Edge; I immediately thought that we had been on the receiving end of a practical joke. There was nothing about this place that looked like it belonged to a world famous rock star. There were no gates, no security systems, I didn't see any guards. In fact, the property looked very ordinary as if it belonged to the average family. The house would not have stood out at all if it weren't for the color--pink. Yes, dear U2 fans, The Edge lives in a pink house.
Bridget immediately went about inspecting the property. She walked around and found a few things that would seem ordinary if this were an ordinary house -- but it wasn't an ordinary house. This was the house that was supposed to belong to a legendary guitarist, therefore, a toilet sitting in the backyard was a remarkable object of interest. "Look", she exclaimed, "it's The Edge's toilet! He has a toilet sitting in his back yard." I am not as impressed as Bridget and I simply shrug my shoulders and say, "So? He is probably having his bathroom renovated."
Bridget started looking into the windows. I sat on a tire swing, realizing that this woman had no clue about Westerners and our need for privacy. I was wondering how to explain it to her when she yells at me, "I see trophies and I think one is an American Grammy." This statement gets my interest and I leave the swing to join her at the window. To my surprise there were very little curtains in this house. I peeked through the window and saw several Grammy's and MTV awards sitting on a high shelf. This is when reality hit me. I was really peeking in the window of Edge's home. Oh! My God! Edge lives in a pink house with a toilet sitting in the back yard. After the shock and the hysteria left me I was able to concentrate on what I was seeing. The Grammy awards looked very stylish, but the MTV awards looked like something that my son would make in first grade art class. This made me laugh and I thought that if I were Edge I would be keeping the MTV awards in an attic or basement. I was pondering this when Bridget announces that she was going to ring the door bell.
"Oh! No!" , I exclaimed. I was not going to have any part of just ringing Edge's door bell at 7:00 am. I tried to explain to Bridget that we were trespassing, we were intruding on his privacy and that we should have more respect. When this argument failed I tried to explain to her that Edge had probably stayed up very late and would not appreciate being awakened by fans so early in the morning. Bridget stood firm in her conviction, "I have come to Ireland to meet U2."
She rang the doorbell and a young girl answered the door. This child looked almost exactly like Edge. It was in her eyes the most. Her eyes had a look about them that made you think that her soul kept millions of secrets. Bridget told the girl that she wished to speak to the Edge. "Oh!", said the girl, "I will go get my Dad." She left us standing at the door and went to get her father. I stood there thinking that the poor child must be too naive to think that she had to obey the commands of two strange fans lurking at her front door. A woman came to the door dressed in a silk gown and robe. I immediately recognized her as being Morleigh. Bridget does not wait for Morleigh to speak, but instead jumps quickly into, "I wish to speak to the Edge,". Morleigh apologized and said, "Edge is not receiving company today," before shutting the door.
We walked back with our heads hung low. My head was hung low because it was throbbing with pain. Bridget's head was hung low because she did not meet U2. I walked the entire trip back listening to Bridget complain about how spoiled Westerners are. I was too tired to be on the defensive and just let her ramble on. I promised myself that I would never drink in Ireland again. I wouldn't; at least not for several years.