I'm going to talk to youse today about getting around our marvellous town. Gone are the days when you could walk to anywhere worth going and be back to where you started before your pint settled. The influx of culchies into Dublin (and the high proportion of Dubs being tricked into marrying them, therefore granting them visas) has resulted in our city being expanded, with some nice boozers and chippers appearing among the many new housing estates on the wrong side of the m50. If you can think of an excuse for visiting some or all of these (like research for a blog,) then you will need a way of getting there.
Cars should be avoided. Not only is drinking and driving a cunt's trick, but it is a bogger cunt's trick. They choose to live in a field in the middle of nowhere and then complain that they can't go for a pint without driving. Proving their stupidity once again. If you need your own motorised transport, and don't mind giving up a few pints, a knackered, old, white Hiace van is recommended. This must never be cleaned and should be decorated by messages like "Clean Me" and "Also available in white," written in the dust on the back by the local kids.
For shorter journeys(and again, if you're off the sauce,) a push-bike should be considered. If you are worried about what kind of bike to buy, have a look at your local window cleaner's one. This will, almost certainly, be a proper Dublin bike. It will definitely be second-hand, mono-geared and have absolutely no aerodynamic-friendly qualities whatsoever. If you get a pain in your hole repairing punctures, stuff the tyres with newspaper. Most of our roads are so shite you won't notice the difference anyway.
On to public transport. Dublin Bus will bring you most places, once you don't mind sitting in traffic for hours on end. The best thing about this particular mode of transport is the chat that can be had on it. The traffic, where you're off to and how "lovely" your conversing partner's ugly baby is are popular topics here. Unfortunately, buses can also be full of culchies, yuppies and junkies, so be careful who you sit beside. One more tip for buses: Find out the fare before you get on and have it ready. There is nothing more head-wrecking than watching someone root around in their pockets when they realise the driver can't change a 50 euro note. This is bad enough when it's a tourist or an up-for-the-day mullah. If it's a Dub, it's unforgivable.
The trains and the trams don't cover nearly as much of the city as the buses do, but if you're going somewhere on their route they can be handy. Be warned though, they contain almost nothing but yuppies and tossers. There is never any chat, just irritating noise from their personal stereos. On the trains, in particular, during rush hour it is often so hot that you might see the occasional yuppie faint. Even if you're not going anywhere interesting, this makes the trip worthwhile. Not only is it hilarious to see one of these tossers lose whatever dignity they think they have, but the reactions of the yuppies surrounding them prove they are not real Dubs. Whereas a real Dub would always help the afflicted person to their feet and make sure they are okay, even if it means missing their stop, these clowns pretend they don't notice and hide their bottle of sparkling Evian in their inside pocket. The yuppie handbook forbids thinking about anybody else but yourself, you see.
Finally, taxis. There is a very good chance you will get a real Dub as your driver, so it is important to know what to say. Much of what I told you in the Shite Talk post is applicable here. All taxi drivers also hate all politicians, so this is one of the few times you can rant away about what bastards they are without risking getting into a row. Also, without wanting to sound like Peter Kay, "Busy?" and "What time are you on until?" are perfectly acceptable ways of opening the conversation. Just be prepared for a lecture on how the taxi business has gone to shite afterwards. Also, if you're getting into a taxi on your own and are not a woman, get into the front passenger seat. Don't be a tosser.
That's about all I have to say about that. If you've any questions about which pubs are worth travelling for, feel free to ask me. I'm currently in the middle of a, ahem, research mission to find out which ones to recommend. I sacrifice my free time only for the benefit of you, the reader. If you must thank me, about seven clicks on those ads to the right equals one pint. Cheers.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Friday, April 1, 2011
Mini-yarn: Dromod
Here's a little yarn to show youse all how thick mullahs are, how thick the Gardaí are, and especially how thick the mullah Gardaí are.
A few years ago, myself and a couple of my fellow Dubs were down in a particularly redneck-infested part of The Country called Sligo, watching our local League of Ireland team assert their natural Dublin dominance over a bunch of bachelor farmers and GAA players in their off-season. We were due to go back on the supporter's club bus that night and, as such, had drank all of our money on the way down. When we explained this to a few more Dubs who were staying overnight and were trying to get us to join them, they assured us they wouldn't see us short. As good Dubs, of course, they kept their word and a good night was had by all (or so we were told.)
Their generosity though, did not extend to the rather steep train fare the next morning. We decided to chance it anyway, and were duly fucked off in Dromod, Co. Leitrim, a part of The Country that would make the North Pole look like a heaving metropolis. At this point we discovered that a few of the advance party of Dubs were risking their lives by waiting for us in Longford, the inbreeding capital of the world. They had a forged train ticket and a collection of the few bob they had left betyween them which would be enough to get us back to our fair city. All we had to do was get to Longford.
We found a good hitch-hiking spot and stuck our thumbs out. Now, Dromod is something of a one-donkey town (you should see the fights over her on Valentine's Day,) so there wasn't much in the way of traffic. So you can imagine our delight when, after hours of watching tractor after tractor pass us by, a Garda car appeared on the horizon. "They're paid to help out people like us in distress," we thought, as the car approached. We threw down our bags and waved them down like our lives depended on it.
They smiled, waved back, and drove on.
I'll be back over the weekend with a full-length post. Talk to yiz then.
A few years ago, myself and a couple of my fellow Dubs were down in a particularly redneck-infested part of The Country called Sligo, watching our local League of Ireland team assert their natural Dublin dominance over a bunch of bachelor farmers and GAA players in their off-season. We were due to go back on the supporter's club bus that night and, as such, had drank all of our money on the way down. When we explained this to a few more Dubs who were staying overnight and were trying to get us to join them, they assured us they wouldn't see us short. As good Dubs, of course, they kept their word and a good night was had by all (or so we were told.)
Their generosity though, did not extend to the rather steep train fare the next morning. We decided to chance it anyway, and were duly fucked off in Dromod, Co. Leitrim, a part of The Country that would make the North Pole look like a heaving metropolis. At this point we discovered that a few of the advance party of Dubs were risking their lives by waiting for us in Longford, the inbreeding capital of the world. They had a forged train ticket and a collection of the few bob they had left betyween them which would be enough to get us back to our fair city. All we had to do was get to Longford.
We found a good hitch-hiking spot and stuck our thumbs out. Now, Dromod is something of a one-donkey town (you should see the fights over her on Valentine's Day,) so there wasn't much in the way of traffic. So you can imagine our delight when, after hours of watching tractor after tractor pass us by, a Garda car appeared on the horizon. "They're paid to help out people like us in distress," we thought, as the car approached. We threw down our bags and waved them down like our lives depended on it.
They smiled, waved back, and drove on.
I'll be back over the weekend with a full-length post. Talk to yiz then.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
A Hungry Feelin' . . .
Eating is one of the most important things that separates Dub from beast (culchie.) Walk into any Dublin restaurant that allows mullahs in, with your eyes closed, and you will be able to tell where the boggers are sitting by sound alone. (If you hear a sound like a combine harvester chewing up a small child holding a sack of badgers, that's a muldoon having some soup.) With that in mind, I feel it is my duty to dedicate a few lines to Dublin dining.
We'll start at the start, with breakfast. A fry-up is the only acceptable Dublin breakfast. Rashers, sausages, black and white pudding, mushrooms, eggs, fried bread and toast. Washed down with copious amounts of tea. Beans are for Brits, hash browns are for Yanks, coffee is for yuppies. Cereal is for kids, porridge is for mullahs, pastries are for dessert. If you're not that hungry, a rasher sandwich or some white pudding on toast will keep you going.
Now on to lunch. Pints, if possible. If you've had the full fry you won't be that hungry anyway. You will, however, need fuel to keep you going through the afternoon. Pints will do the trick nicely. If you haven't had the full fry though, and feel like you need something to eat, your wife's sandwiches are your only man. These should be made the night before and wrapped in the end of the bread packaging. Nobody knows where they find all of this excess bread packaging. The only explanation I can think of is that they buy an extra loaf of bread every day and throw away all but two slices, which they make your lunch out of. If you are consulted on fillings by your better half (unlikely, I know) then sausages should be your number one choice. Yes, they will be cold and shrivelled up by the next afternoon, but that just adds to the attraction of such sandwiches.
A Dub's evening meal is, without doubt, the most important of the day. You will be tired from working hard/dossing all day and will have worked up an appetite in the pub after work. Stew and coddle are the main two options here. I was going to devote an entire post to the manufacture of these magical concoctions, but I soon realised that "Fuck everything in your fridge into a big pot and boil the living fuck out of it for several weeks" wouldn't really fill the space I was hoping for. Yes, mullahs eat stew too. But not the way Dubs do. A full Brennan's batch loaf should be buttered (and the packaging given to your wife) and these little slices of heaven should be used instead of cutlery. And yes, the sausages in coddle look like little willies, but the taste will be worth it, trust me.
Another option is to pay a visit to your local chipper. Fresh cod, smoked cod, long ray, batter burgers, batter sausages and spice burgers are the most Dublin of all the things on the menu here. I would also recommend a wurly burger (a.k.a. howie burger, depending on what part of the city you're in.) For those not in-the-know, this is a large batter burger in a bun with all the trimmings you would normally expect to find in a quarter pounder. Whatever you order, it is essential you get chips with it. A fresh cod without chips is like a culchie without a smell of shite.
There are, of course, many other examples of fine Dublin cuisine, but they are too numerous to mention here. If in doubt, just remember; if it's made by a Dublin mammy, or is available in Leo Burdock's in Christchurch, it's probably alright. And always give bacon and cabbage a wide berth. Some say that one bite will turn you into a full-blown mullah. I don't plan on testing that theory, and neither should you. Talk to yiz soon, good luck.
We'll start at the start, with breakfast. A fry-up is the only acceptable Dublin breakfast. Rashers, sausages, black and white pudding, mushrooms, eggs, fried bread and toast. Washed down with copious amounts of tea. Beans are for Brits, hash browns are for Yanks, coffee is for yuppies. Cereal is for kids, porridge is for mullahs, pastries are for dessert. If you're not that hungry, a rasher sandwich or some white pudding on toast will keep you going.
Now on to lunch. Pints, if possible. If you've had the full fry you won't be that hungry anyway. You will, however, need fuel to keep you going through the afternoon. Pints will do the trick nicely. If you haven't had the full fry though, and feel like you need something to eat, your wife's sandwiches are your only man. These should be made the night before and wrapped in the end of the bread packaging. Nobody knows where they find all of this excess bread packaging. The only explanation I can think of is that they buy an extra loaf of bread every day and throw away all but two slices, which they make your lunch out of. If you are consulted on fillings by your better half (unlikely, I know) then sausages should be your number one choice. Yes, they will be cold and shrivelled up by the next afternoon, but that just adds to the attraction of such sandwiches.
A Dub's evening meal is, without doubt, the most important of the day. You will be tired from working hard/dossing all day and will have worked up an appetite in the pub after work. Stew and coddle are the main two options here. I was going to devote an entire post to the manufacture of these magical concoctions, but I soon realised that "Fuck everything in your fridge into a big pot and boil the living fuck out of it for several weeks" wouldn't really fill the space I was hoping for. Yes, mullahs eat stew too. But not the way Dubs do. A full Brennan's batch loaf should be buttered (and the packaging given to your wife) and these little slices of heaven should be used instead of cutlery. And yes, the sausages in coddle look like little willies, but the taste will be worth it, trust me.
Another option is to pay a visit to your local chipper. Fresh cod, smoked cod, long ray, batter burgers, batter sausages and spice burgers are the most Dublin of all the things on the menu here. I would also recommend a wurly burger (a.k.a. howie burger, depending on what part of the city you're in.) For those not in-the-know, this is a large batter burger in a bun with all the trimmings you would normally expect to find in a quarter pounder. Whatever you order, it is essential you get chips with it. A fresh cod without chips is like a culchie without a smell of shite.
There are, of course, many other examples of fine Dublin cuisine, but they are too numerous to mention here. If in doubt, just remember; if it's made by a Dublin mammy, or is available in Leo Burdock's in Christchurch, it's probably alright. And always give bacon and cabbage a wide berth. Some say that one bite will turn you into a full-blown mullah. I don't plan on testing that theory, and neither should you. Talk to yiz soon, good luck.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Bleedin' Animal, As The Man Says
All Dubs love their animals. Whether they're pets, sporting icons or your dinner, you'd be lost without them. Of course, as with everything, there are some exceptions and a few things to look out for in your life as a Dublin animal-fancier. I will go over these now, so you can't say I didn't warn you.
The most obvious connection between Dub and beast, and one we have touched on before, is that of punter and horse/greyhound. Any animal that can win you a few bob has to be respected, with many pints being drunk all across the city in honour of a victorious animal. The love of racehorses, in particular, will even lead many Dubs to brave the savage hordes of turnip-headed culchies in order to reach the many racecourses up and down The Country. These tracks were originally built to help the mullahs forget their troubles (namely that they spend all day shovelling shite and then go home to start their nightly conundrum of trying to differentiate their wife from their donkey) but once the Dubs realised there was a few bob to be made at the expense of bog-trotting bookies, they packed their muldoon-repellent (soap) and flask of coddle and hit the road (or dirt track, in most cases.)
It should be pointed out, however, that this love of racing animals is not unconditional. All in-the-know Dubs will, as mentioned previously, make a fortune out of the bookies. But the odd time, an unreliable horse or dog may let you down. In these instances, the animal in question should be cursed as loudly as possible, so that all your pals know that this is a one-off, and that now would be a good time to get the pints in.
The love of pets, however, is most definitely unconditional. The important thing here is to get the type of pet right. A dog should be number one on your wishlist. They are loyal, caring and great company. But more importantly, they occasionally do a shite on your brand new rug. Why is this a good thing? I hear you ask. Well, it gets the missus off your case for a couple of days, and gives you plenty of opportunity to sneak off down the pub with the dog (on the pretence of getting that fucking dog out of the fucking house) while she's looking up recipes for Jack Russell curries in one of her many Korean cookbooks. The type of dog you should get is fairly straightforward. Have a look in a few of those women's glossy magazines. If you see a particular breed of dog poking its head out of some talentless blondie tramp's handbag, forget about it. Otherwise, it's up to you. However, greyhounds will get you bonus points down the pub, as will those dogs that look like they have a moustache, because they look like little Dublin aul'fellas and will blend in nicely.
If you're one of the many Dubs who divides his time evenly between his bed and his local, a cat could be more suitable for you. They'll be asleep about as long as you, be out acting the bollox with their mates about as long as you and will use the non-bedroom part of your house only long enough to gobble down a tin of food as quick as possible before going back asleep, just like you. I would recommend naming your cat Yasser Aracat or Chairman Meoiw, to make your cat-ownership seem more heroic, and less lonely lesbian-esque. If you're the sporty type, and greyhound training is out of your price-range, racing pigeons are the way forward. There's nothing more Dublin than the sight of a dozen or so gicknahs in full flight. If you can train them to shite on your flash neighbour's Volvo, all the better.
Fish, small rodents and budgies are for kids, and snakes, lizards and the more exotic types of pet will mark you out as a dullard who's trying too hard to be interesting, so unless you have a child or an accountant living with you, these things should not be allowed enter your house. Neither should their pets.
Cows, pigs, sheep, poultry etc. should only come into contact with a Dub when he is eating them. Leave it up to the mullahs to rare and kill them. It seems to be the one thing they're good at so best of luck to them. If you have a bit of land in Dublin which you didn't manage to sell for housing during the Celtic Tiger and you want a larger animal to keep on it, a donkey (pronounced like monkey, with just the first letter changed) is your only man. You'll never need your bins collected because, just like a mullah, they'll eat any auld shite.
That should tell you all you need to know about animals, so I'll leave it at that for now. I have heard some reports of culchies reading this blog, and while you can't blame them for trying to improve themselves, I would still like to finish by sending out a warning to my loyal Dublin readers. Be on the watch-out for these welly-wearers in disguise. Remember, they can never fully remove the smell of manure from their person, so a quick sniff should be enough to tell you if you've a real Dub or an incognito culchie on your hands. See yiz after.
The most obvious connection between Dub and beast, and one we have touched on before, is that of punter and horse/greyhound. Any animal that can win you a few bob has to be respected, with many pints being drunk all across the city in honour of a victorious animal. The love of racehorses, in particular, will even lead many Dubs to brave the savage hordes of turnip-headed culchies in order to reach the many racecourses up and down The Country. These tracks were originally built to help the mullahs forget their troubles (namely that they spend all day shovelling shite and then go home to start their nightly conundrum of trying to differentiate their wife from their donkey) but once the Dubs realised there was a few bob to be made at the expense of bog-trotting bookies, they packed their muldoon-repellent (soap) and flask of coddle and hit the road (or dirt track, in most cases.)
It should be pointed out, however, that this love of racing animals is not unconditional. All in-the-know Dubs will, as mentioned previously, make a fortune out of the bookies. But the odd time, an unreliable horse or dog may let you down. In these instances, the animal in question should be cursed as loudly as possible, so that all your pals know that this is a one-off, and that now would be a good time to get the pints in.
The love of pets, however, is most definitely unconditional. The important thing here is to get the type of pet right. A dog should be number one on your wishlist. They are loyal, caring and great company. But more importantly, they occasionally do a shite on your brand new rug. Why is this a good thing? I hear you ask. Well, it gets the missus off your case for a couple of days, and gives you plenty of opportunity to sneak off down the pub with the dog (on the pretence of getting that fucking dog out of the fucking house) while she's looking up recipes for Jack Russell curries in one of her many Korean cookbooks. The type of dog you should get is fairly straightforward. Have a look in a few of those women's glossy magazines. If you see a particular breed of dog poking its head out of some talentless blondie tramp's handbag, forget about it. Otherwise, it's up to you. However, greyhounds will get you bonus points down the pub, as will those dogs that look like they have a moustache, because they look like little Dublin aul'fellas and will blend in nicely.
If you're one of the many Dubs who divides his time evenly between his bed and his local, a cat could be more suitable for you. They'll be asleep about as long as you, be out acting the bollox with their mates about as long as you and will use the non-bedroom part of your house only long enough to gobble down a tin of food as quick as possible before going back asleep, just like you. I would recommend naming your cat Yasser Aracat or Chairman Meoiw, to make your cat-ownership seem more heroic, and less lonely lesbian-esque. If you're the sporty type, and greyhound training is out of your price-range, racing pigeons are the way forward. There's nothing more Dublin than the sight of a dozen or so gicknahs in full flight. If you can train them to shite on your flash neighbour's Volvo, all the better.
Fish, small rodents and budgies are for kids, and snakes, lizards and the more exotic types of pet will mark you out as a dullard who's trying too hard to be interesting, so unless you have a child or an accountant living with you, these things should not be allowed enter your house. Neither should their pets.
Cows, pigs, sheep, poultry etc. should only come into contact with a Dub when he is eating them. Leave it up to the mullahs to rare and kill them. It seems to be the one thing they're good at so best of luck to them. If you have a bit of land in Dublin which you didn't manage to sell for housing during the Celtic Tiger and you want a larger animal to keep on it, a donkey (pronounced like monkey, with just the first letter changed) is your only man. You'll never need your bins collected because, just like a mullah, they'll eat any auld shite.
That should tell you all you need to know about animals, so I'll leave it at that for now. I have heard some reports of culchies reading this blog, and while you can't blame them for trying to improve themselves, I would still like to finish by sending out a warning to my loyal Dublin readers. Be on the watch-out for these welly-wearers in disguise. Remember, they can never fully remove the smell of manure from their person, so a quick sniff should be enough to tell you if you've a real Dub or an incognito culchie on your hands. See yiz after.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Sure he was only some poxy Welshman . . .
Apologies for the length of time between the last couple of posts. I was over in Sweden trying to get a deal on some mobile phones for my charity, Dubs in Distress. As the man says; Give a Dub a fresh cod and he'll eat for a day, give him a phone and he can ring the chipper whenever he wants.
Anyway, on to the matter in hand. As you know, tomorrow is St. Patrick's Day. You may think that this would be a Dub's dream. An excuse to get baloobas in the middle of the week, loads of tourists around to con out of a few bob, the whole world telling us how great we are, etc. For any real Dubs, however, this is a nightmare. This post will explain why.
First of all, a Dub does not need an excuse to get drunk in the middle of the week. And even if we did, Cheltenham is on, which gives us the perfect excuse. And yes, we get a day off for our national holiday. But being in work would still not stop a Dub from hitting the boozer mid-week. It all comes down to who your boss is, you see. Bosses fall into two categories; Sound Men and Bollixes. Sound Men account for about 45% of Dublin bosses according to a recent survey (that was also the percentage of Dubs who were self-employed as taxi drivers and window cleaners, two fine Dublin professions, but I'm sure that was just a coincidence) and these lads would hardly begrudge a hard-working fella like yourself a drink in the middle of the week.
Bollixes, on the other hand, are there to be conned. Sneaking off early for a few pints is the most satisfying way of doing this, so you may as well.
The tourists and occasional drinkers are the next little annoyance. All your favourite pubs will be packed to the un-dusted rafters with them. Americans annoying the barman asking for a skinny latte when all he has is a Burco boiler and a box of teabags; English tossers wearing pink t-shirts and getting pissed on two bottles of lager; and worst of all, the Irish gobshites making a show of us all with their green hats, green shirts, green facepaint and green vomit. A quick message to these clowns; if you can't handle your drink the other 364 days a year, what makes you think March 17th is going to be any different?
Unless you're one of the lucky few whose local will remain "closed" on St. Patrick's Day, your best bet is to stay at home for the day and drink Guinness out of tins.
As for the attention we get from the world's media, we'd rather go without it, thanks. It's all very well having parades in Baltimore and Budapest, but if you really have nothing better to do than hold a parade in another country's honour (or in the case of the diaspora, show everybody how much you think of the country that isn't good enough for you to live in,) but keep it to yourselves. We know you think we're great. That's because we are. Or most of us are anyway. We try to keep the mullahs hidden away when we see the BBC and CNN vans approaching. They can usually be found in un-mapped and unexplored villages around the country, having "parades" consisting of the local pig-breeder (and therefore King of the Town) driving his tractor up and down some poxy pothole-ridden main road, pulling a cart with the local lovely girls (who mostly have all their own teeth) piled on top of it.
That's just about all I have to say about that. If you enjoyed it, there's no need to send cash or pints my way. If you really want to express your gratitude, fire-bomb the Leprechaun Museum for me. It's at the back of the Jervis Shopping Centre. It used to be a Fás centre. But letting tourists know we're as stupid as they thought we were is much more important than helping people find work. Happy St. Patrick's Day.
Anyway, on to the matter in hand. As you know, tomorrow is St. Patrick's Day. You may think that this would be a Dub's dream. An excuse to get baloobas in the middle of the week, loads of tourists around to con out of a few bob, the whole world telling us how great we are, etc. For any real Dubs, however, this is a nightmare. This post will explain why.
First of all, a Dub does not need an excuse to get drunk in the middle of the week. And even if we did, Cheltenham is on, which gives us the perfect excuse. And yes, we get a day off for our national holiday. But being in work would still not stop a Dub from hitting the boozer mid-week. It all comes down to who your boss is, you see. Bosses fall into two categories; Sound Men and Bollixes. Sound Men account for about 45% of Dublin bosses according to a recent survey (that was also the percentage of Dubs who were self-employed as taxi drivers and window cleaners, two fine Dublin professions, but I'm sure that was just a coincidence) and these lads would hardly begrudge a hard-working fella like yourself a drink in the middle of the week.
Bollixes, on the other hand, are there to be conned. Sneaking off early for a few pints is the most satisfying way of doing this, so you may as well.
The tourists and occasional drinkers are the next little annoyance. All your favourite pubs will be packed to the un-dusted rafters with them. Americans annoying the barman asking for a skinny latte when all he has is a Burco boiler and a box of teabags; English tossers wearing pink t-shirts and getting pissed on two bottles of lager; and worst of all, the Irish gobshites making a show of us all with their green hats, green shirts, green facepaint and green vomit. A quick message to these clowns; if you can't handle your drink the other 364 days a year, what makes you think March 17th is going to be any different?
Unless you're one of the lucky few whose local will remain "closed" on St. Patrick's Day, your best bet is to stay at home for the day and drink Guinness out of tins.
As for the attention we get from the world's media, we'd rather go without it, thanks. It's all very well having parades in Baltimore and Budapest, but if you really have nothing better to do than hold a parade in another country's honour (or in the case of the diaspora, show everybody how much you think of the country that isn't good enough for you to live in,) but keep it to yourselves. We know you think we're great. That's because we are. Or most of us are anyway. We try to keep the mullahs hidden away when we see the BBC and CNN vans approaching. They can usually be found in un-mapped and unexplored villages around the country, having "parades" consisting of the local pig-breeder (and therefore King of the Town) driving his tractor up and down some poxy pothole-ridden main road, pulling a cart with the local lovely girls (who mostly have all their own teeth) piled on top of it.
That's just about all I have to say about that. If you enjoyed it, there's no need to send cash or pints my way. If you really want to express your gratitude, fire-bomb the Leprechaun Museum for me. It's at the back of the Jervis Shopping Centre. It used to be a Fás centre. But letting tourists know we're as stupid as they thought we were is much more important than helping people find work. Happy St. Patrick's Day.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
If the Paddy Cap Fits . . .
So far in this blog I've concentrated on how to conduct yourself in a variety of Dublin situations. What I haven't advised you on is how you must appear to others as you are getting on with any of this important business. Your appearance is a vital part of fitting in and if you choose the wrong clothes, shoes or haircut you could instantly be revealed as an outsider, rendering all of my previous and future advice useless. With this in mind I shall try my best, in the next few paragraphs, to help you present yourself as a real Dub.
Firstly, a few things to be avoided. Anything that could be described as "designer," "trendy," or "fashionable." These will make you look like a wanker/tourist. Anyway, they tend to cost a few bob, and a Dub has better things to be spending his money on than wanky clothes. Tweed should also be avoided, unless you're experienced enough to know what you're doing. Some of the most heroic Dubs you will see will be wearing either tweed caps or tweed jackets (never both) but in the wrong hands it can be dangerous and may make you look like a bachelor farmer. So, just to be careful, avoid it. Runners, tracksuits, etc. are also to be given a wide berth. As mentioned previously, any sport Dubs participate in can be done without leaving the bar, so there's no need for sports gear. The wearing of denim should be kept to a minimum. Yes, it is cheap and absorbs spilt stout easily, but you don't want to look too much like John Wayne. Dubs don't need an excuse to give you a slagging, so don't give them one.
Now, onto the clothes that will earn you the respect of your family, drinking buddies and passers-by. Michael Guiney's should be your first, and only stop on your annual shopping trip. There, a large amount of shirts should be bought. Plain white, anything dark or nice checkered numbers will do the trick. Dark, preferably black, suits are the next thing on your shopping list. The jacket and corresponding trousers will only be worn together for weddings. Apart from that, feel free to wear the first jacket a non-matching trousers you find of a morning. A worn-out paisley tie and a pair of knackered brown brogues will finish this outfit off nicely.
It should also be pointed out that this is summer-wear. In the winter, a colourful but threadbare geansaí should be worn over the shirt, but under the tie. A long raincoat and a "paddy" cap can also be worn if the weather demands it, and it probably will. And remember, white socks are for cunts.
Under your cap, your hair should be smothered in Brylcreem and brushed back. Think 1930's footballer and you've got the picture. A thick, bushy moustache is recommended. As well as making you look like a real Dub, this is a handy thing to have the morning after a night on the sauce. A quick suck on your moustache will provide you with approximately one half pint of Guinness to help you on the road to recovery. At least one day's stubble on the rest of your face should also be considered, when possible. And woe betide any wannabe-Dub who invests in a male grooming kit. Your ronnie will cover up those stray nose-hairs anyway, and the ones poking out of your ears are little badges of honour, proof of your many years of experience.
If glasses are to be worn, the cheapest ones possible will suffice. If they are held together by tape and/or elastic bands, all the better. As for accessories, a copy of the Racing Post rolled up under your arm will help you look the part. Anything else is just messing about. Jewellery should be limited to your wedding ring (if you're one of the unfortunate ones,) a battered watch and a truckload of religious medals, whether you're a God-botherer or not.
I'll leave it at that for now, and I'll be back soon with loads more helpful advice. If you've any suggestions or criticism, stick it on a postcard, set it on fire and shove it up your hole. Talk to youse soon.
Firstly, a few things to be avoided. Anything that could be described as "designer," "trendy," or "fashionable." These will make you look like a wanker/tourist. Anyway, they tend to cost a few bob, and a Dub has better things to be spending his money on than wanky clothes. Tweed should also be avoided, unless you're experienced enough to know what you're doing. Some of the most heroic Dubs you will see will be wearing either tweed caps or tweed jackets (never both) but in the wrong hands it can be dangerous and may make you look like a bachelor farmer. So, just to be careful, avoid it. Runners, tracksuits, etc. are also to be given a wide berth. As mentioned previously, any sport Dubs participate in can be done without leaving the bar, so there's no need for sports gear. The wearing of denim should be kept to a minimum. Yes, it is cheap and absorbs spilt stout easily, but you don't want to look too much like John Wayne. Dubs don't need an excuse to give you a slagging, so don't give them one.
Now, onto the clothes that will earn you the respect of your family, drinking buddies and passers-by. Michael Guiney's should be your first, and only stop on your annual shopping trip. There, a large amount of shirts should be bought. Plain white, anything dark or nice checkered numbers will do the trick. Dark, preferably black, suits are the next thing on your shopping list. The jacket and corresponding trousers will only be worn together for weddings. Apart from that, feel free to wear the first jacket a non-matching trousers you find of a morning. A worn-out paisley tie and a pair of knackered brown brogues will finish this outfit off nicely.
It should also be pointed out that this is summer-wear. In the winter, a colourful but threadbare geansaí should be worn over the shirt, but under the tie. A long raincoat and a "paddy" cap can also be worn if the weather demands it, and it probably will. And remember, white socks are for cunts.
Under your cap, your hair should be smothered in Brylcreem and brushed back. Think 1930's footballer and you've got the picture. A thick, bushy moustache is recommended. As well as making you look like a real Dub, this is a handy thing to have the morning after a night on the sauce. A quick suck on your moustache will provide you with approximately one half pint of Guinness to help you on the road to recovery. At least one day's stubble on the rest of your face should also be considered, when possible. And woe betide any wannabe-Dub who invests in a male grooming kit. Your ronnie will cover up those stray nose-hairs anyway, and the ones poking out of your ears are little badges of honour, proof of your many years of experience.
If glasses are to be worn, the cheapest ones possible will suffice. If they are held together by tape and/or elastic bands, all the better. As for accessories, a copy of the Racing Post rolled up under your arm will help you look the part. Anything else is just messing about. Jewellery should be limited to your wedding ring (if you're one of the unfortunate ones,) a battered watch and a truckload of religious medals, whether you're a God-botherer or not.
I'll leave it at that for now, and I'll be back soon with loads more helpful advice. If you've any suggestions or criticism, stick it on a postcard, set it on fire and shove it up your hole. Talk to youse soon.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Small Talk and Shite Talk
There's a worrying change of culture happening in Dublin at the moment and, as usual, the yuppies and mullahs are to blame. In our wonderful little city, everybody used to talk to everybody else. No matter who you were or where you were, you could be guaranteed a chat with another Dub. Two things happened to more or less put an end to this though. Firstly, mullahs started arriving into the city to escape inbreeding and their local parish priest. This led many unsuspecting Dubs to start a conversation about the weather with an undercover muldoon and end up stuck talking about the price of cattle and how you can't get a decent pint of Murphy's (as if there is such a thing) in Dublin. This led to Dubs becoming more and more careful about who they talked to, until eventually, many stopped bothering altogether.
Secondly, the yuppies came along. With their mobile phones and personal stereos. If they're not talking shite (and I mean yuppie shite, which is far inferior to Dublin shite) into one, then they're sharing their "music" with everyone in the vicinity. While I'm on the subject, I may as well tell you the one reason why these arseholes have their music up so loud. It's not so they can hear it better, or drown everything else out. It's so other people will hear it and think "Oh, that yuppie has a wonderful taste in music, what a brilliant, intelligent person they must be." Well we don't think that, we think you're cunts, and we can't wait until you inevitably go deaf. Anyway, no chat with them, even if you wanted to.
Nevertheless, old-fashioned Dublin shite-talk still exists. This post hopes to prepare you for said shite-talk.
I'll start the same way Dublin conversations start; with the initial small-talk. Sometimes, depending on how much time you've got or how chatty your conversing partner is, this can be the entire conversation. So it's important to get it right. In most instances, the weather will be first on the agenda. You will both act very surprised at how cold/wet/warm it is outside, despite the weather having been exactly like this at this time of year, every year, for as long as you can remember. Here are a few stock phrases to get you started;
"It's not bad for (insert month.)"
"It's not as cold as it was."
"Sure once it's dry we can't complain."
"That's a hardy one."
"Ah, it's too cold to snow."
Nobody knows what any of these phrases mean, but nobody really cares. You will also notice these are for use in the winter months as, in Dublin, winter lasts from October until October, or maybe even the following November. In the unlikely event that we do get a bit of sun, pessimism is key. It won't last, it's not before bloody time and it's not as nice as the old days (even though the same moaning went on back then.) Repeating what the other person said will always work too. "Miserable day." "Yeah, miserable."
There are a few cases where the weather will not be your opener, although it will definitely still come up at some point, so keep it in mind. If you are watching sport or reading about it in a paper whilst perched at a bar, the person beside you will expect you to open with a general comment about the sport in question. Again, how much better it used to be is popular here, as is the amount of money these sportsmen are earning. How shite it is will also suffice. Even if it's the best contest you've ever seen. Actually, especially if it's the best contest you've ever seen. You can not be seen to be impressed. After all, if you yourself hadn't had the gammy leg/got into the booze/found yourself a woman, you could teach this lot a thing or two.
Standing at a bus stop is another exception to the weather rule. Your first question has to be "Are you waiting long?" After this pointless enquiry you can move on to whatever you like. Which is where the shite-talk really starts.
Where you go with the shite talk is really up to you, and it depends massively on who you're talking to, but I will try and give you a few pointers nonetheless. Politics is a great way to get people talking. However, unless you're with friends, never reveal which party you support or give away any real opinions. It will only lead to arguments with strangers, which as everyone knows, is a cunt's trick. Saying things like "They're all a shower of robbing bastards" will suffice, as you can be pretty sure this is what everybody thinks of politicians. If they don't, then it will be worth looking like a cunt to have an argument with them, as you will undoubtedly win. The Health Service is also a risk-free topic of conversation, as there can be no denying it's in shite. Other than that, keep it small. Giving out about fiscal policy is out, giving out about the plastic bag levy is in. This is particularly relevant if your partner in shite-talk has come in out of the rain wearing a plastic bag as a waterproof hat, which is quite a common occurrence in this part of the world, and should only be encouraged.
Giving out about "The Wife" is also quite a common shite-talk topic. It must remain light-hearted though, things like how she tries to keep you indoors and takes all your money. Anything more serious, save it for the marriage counsellor. Nobody wants to hear your problems. It should also be pointed out, just in case Mrs. Cobblestones and Heroin reads this blog, that this writer does not engage in this topic of conversation.
A situation may occur from time to time where, due to a person's intoxication (or how bollixed they are, in Dublinese) you can't understand a word they say. This is not a problem. Phrases like "This is it," "Ah sure, what can you do," and "I know, don't be talking," will fit into every conversation, so just throw them in every few seconds and you'll be fine.
If you're in a pub, the quality of pint in that and every other pub in Dublin will also come up, so do your research. After that, I'll leave it up to you. If you're still not getting the knack of it after a bit of practice, you'll just have to get yourself a mp3 player and pretend to be a cunt.
Enjoy the shite-talk, I hope to help you practice it some day. Mine's a pint. Don't forget to click follow, click the ads and tell your mates. Good luck.
Secondly, the yuppies came along. With their mobile phones and personal stereos. If they're not talking shite (and I mean yuppie shite, which is far inferior to Dublin shite) into one, then they're sharing their "music" with everyone in the vicinity. While I'm on the subject, I may as well tell you the one reason why these arseholes have their music up so loud. It's not so they can hear it better, or drown everything else out. It's so other people will hear it and think "Oh, that yuppie has a wonderful taste in music, what a brilliant, intelligent person they must be." Well we don't think that, we think you're cunts, and we can't wait until you inevitably go deaf. Anyway, no chat with them, even if you wanted to.
Nevertheless, old-fashioned Dublin shite-talk still exists. This post hopes to prepare you for said shite-talk.
I'll start the same way Dublin conversations start; with the initial small-talk. Sometimes, depending on how much time you've got or how chatty your conversing partner is, this can be the entire conversation. So it's important to get it right. In most instances, the weather will be first on the agenda. You will both act very surprised at how cold/wet/warm it is outside, despite the weather having been exactly like this at this time of year, every year, for as long as you can remember. Here are a few stock phrases to get you started;
"It's not bad for (insert month.)"
"It's not as cold as it was."
"Sure once it's dry we can't complain."
"That's a hardy one."
"Ah, it's too cold to snow."
Nobody knows what any of these phrases mean, but nobody really cares. You will also notice these are for use in the winter months as, in Dublin, winter lasts from October until October, or maybe even the following November. In the unlikely event that we do get a bit of sun, pessimism is key. It won't last, it's not before bloody time and it's not as nice as the old days (even though the same moaning went on back then.) Repeating what the other person said will always work too. "Miserable day." "Yeah, miserable."
There are a few cases where the weather will not be your opener, although it will definitely still come up at some point, so keep it in mind. If you are watching sport or reading about it in a paper whilst perched at a bar, the person beside you will expect you to open with a general comment about the sport in question. Again, how much better it used to be is popular here, as is the amount of money these sportsmen are earning. How shite it is will also suffice. Even if it's the best contest you've ever seen. Actually, especially if it's the best contest you've ever seen. You can not be seen to be impressed. After all, if you yourself hadn't had the gammy leg/got into the booze/found yourself a woman, you could teach this lot a thing or two.
Standing at a bus stop is another exception to the weather rule. Your first question has to be "Are you waiting long?" After this pointless enquiry you can move on to whatever you like. Which is where the shite-talk really starts.
Where you go with the shite talk is really up to you, and it depends massively on who you're talking to, but I will try and give you a few pointers nonetheless. Politics is a great way to get people talking. However, unless you're with friends, never reveal which party you support or give away any real opinions. It will only lead to arguments with strangers, which as everyone knows, is a cunt's trick. Saying things like "They're all a shower of robbing bastards" will suffice, as you can be pretty sure this is what everybody thinks of politicians. If they don't, then it will be worth looking like a cunt to have an argument with them, as you will undoubtedly win. The Health Service is also a risk-free topic of conversation, as there can be no denying it's in shite. Other than that, keep it small. Giving out about fiscal policy is out, giving out about the plastic bag levy is in. This is particularly relevant if your partner in shite-talk has come in out of the rain wearing a plastic bag as a waterproof hat, which is quite a common occurrence in this part of the world, and should only be encouraged.
Giving out about "The Wife" is also quite a common shite-talk topic. It must remain light-hearted though, things like how she tries to keep you indoors and takes all your money. Anything more serious, save it for the marriage counsellor. Nobody wants to hear your problems. It should also be pointed out, just in case Mrs. Cobblestones and Heroin reads this blog, that this writer does not engage in this topic of conversation.
A situation may occur from time to time where, due to a person's intoxication (or how bollixed they are, in Dublinese) you can't understand a word they say. This is not a problem. Phrases like "This is it," "Ah sure, what can you do," and "I know, don't be talking," will fit into every conversation, so just throw them in every few seconds and you'll be fine.
If you're in a pub, the quality of pint in that and every other pub in Dublin will also come up, so do your research. After that, I'll leave it up to you. If you're still not getting the knack of it after a bit of practice, you'll just have to get yourself a mp3 player and pretend to be a cunt.
Enjoy the shite-talk, I hope to help you practice it some day. Mine's a pint. Don't forget to click follow, click the ads and tell your mates. Good luck.
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