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.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
The Auld Triathlon
Sport should be at the forefront of every Dub's mind. It is a conversation starter, a reason to buy the otherwise depressing papers and something to look at on the telly while herself watches the reality TV shite in the other room. It is also a good enough excuse to get you out of the house for a few pints and can provide a nice break when you feel like you'll turn into a pint if you have any more. Therefore I think it fitting that I should dedicate an entire post to Dublin sport. I think you will find it useful.
Firstly, some sports you should avoid. Any sport where the bandwagon-jumpers outnumber the real fans should be avoided. So that's rugby, cricket, Dublin GAA, and international football covered. A quick word on each of these first, though.
Rugby is a boring sport. There is very little skill required for this game. Only the fella who kicks it over the bar has the right to call himself a sportsman. The rest are just strong/fast lads who went to posh schools. Kicking the ball out for a throw-in is seen as a great move - boring. Rugby has attracted thousands of bandwagon-jumpers over the last few years, especially European "club" rugby. Our clubs weren't good enough to win anything, so they made up new super-clubs, funded by the national governing body, and to hell with the small clubs. I think I've got the jist of that. I could look it up, but I'm afraid I'd bore myself to death.
Cricket is a Brits game. We never really had much of an interest in it. Then the Irish team got to a World Cup. The usual nonsense started. I've no idea what the rules of cricket are, so I won't make much more comment on it. Then again, I doubt many of the people who followed Ireland in the World Cup knew the rules either, but a bandwagon's a bandwagon for these cunts.
Dublin GAA is a strange one. Gaelic football and hurling are bogger sports. They're played by bachelor farmers trying to get the sexual frustration out of their systems and watched by families of 27 who eat sandwiches out of the boot of their car on the way to the match. The only reason I can think of as to why Dubs watch these fights (or sports, I suppose) is to see Dublin people beating culchies at their own game. The problem is, Dublin lose more often than not. How the GAA even got permission to build an 80,000-capacity monument to inbreeding in the middle of a residential area in Dublin is anybody's guess (although if you're guess involves brown envelopes and free ministerial pints in clubhouses around the country then you're probably right. Allegedly.)
International football is an unfortunate one. Football (not soccer, that's a word only mullahs and Yanks use) is undoubtedly a fine sport. Dublin has produced some of the greatest footballers ever known. Liam Whelan, Johnny Giles, Pierce O'Leary, etc. Unfortunately, since Jack Charlton and Euro '88, international football fandom has become associated with leprechaun hats, "having the craic" and not having the first fucking clue about football. Real football fans are forced to sit among these drunken, clueless idiots if they want to cheer on their country. And that's if they're lucky enough to get a ticket. Funnily enough, there's never a problem getting a ticket for games against the weaker footballing nations. Not that I'm calling the general Irish public event-junkies or anything. Actually, that's exactly what I'm doing. And all this because the FAI and Jack Charlton decided it was better to have English-born "legends" like Terry Phelan and Eddie McGoldrick help an England B team wearing Ireland shirts scrap their way to major finals than to give the best Irish players a chance to represent their country. If you think there's nothing wrong with this then cop yourself on. How would you feel if you were the top Irish goalscorer in Europe, but you couldn't get into the national team because some cockney who'd never been to Ireland in his life decided it would be a good career move to mention he had an Irish granny?
Saying all that, football is still a perfectly acceptable sport for a Dub to have an interest in. In fact, you will come across as odd if you don't like it. The best thing you can do is start following a Dublin-based League of Ireland team. Having an interest in junior football is also recommended, and if you can slip into the conversation that you once done a bit of scouting for an English club, all the better. You are advised to keep an eye on the English game as well, as it will give you something to read in the paper and the conversation in your local on a Sunday will undoubtedly turn to the previous day's action at some point. Supporting an English team, however, should only be attempted if you have a story to back it up. I once talked to a Dub in a bar who told me he followed Chelsea because a Christian Brother who battered him around at school once brought him back a Chelsea programme from a visit to London, by way of apology. This is a perfectly acceptable reason to follow Chelsea. Admitting you like an English team because they were winning things when you were growing up will mark you out as a glory-hunter who is not to be trusted. Make sure you also tell your pals, on a regular basis, about how close you were to making it as a professional footballer. And remember, never let the truth get in the way of a good story.
You won't be able to bluff, however, when it comes to the sports every Dub should be good at. So start honing your skills on the pool table and dart board. You will end up out of pocket if you don't. Which brings me on to gambling, the main reason for a Dub's interest in sport. As well as the football, a deep knowledge of the ins and outs of racing is required. Horses and dogs. Not motor racing, that's just traffic. Some people say the bookmaker always wins. Dubs know this not to be the case. He always wins against amateurs and gobshites. So much so that he doesn't notice how much drinking money the real Dubs are taking from him. So get yourself a copy of the Racing Post and let's keep it that way.
Any sports I haven't mentioned aren't worth mentioning. I'll leave it there for now. Hit Follow and don't be annoying me, good men. Talk to yiz soon.
Firstly, some sports you should avoid. Any sport where the bandwagon-jumpers outnumber the real fans should be avoided. So that's rugby, cricket, Dublin GAA, and international football covered. A quick word on each of these first, though.
Rugby is a boring sport. There is very little skill required for this game. Only the fella who kicks it over the bar has the right to call himself a sportsman. The rest are just strong/fast lads who went to posh schools. Kicking the ball out for a throw-in is seen as a great move - boring. Rugby has attracted thousands of bandwagon-jumpers over the last few years, especially European "club" rugby. Our clubs weren't good enough to win anything, so they made up new super-clubs, funded by the national governing body, and to hell with the small clubs. I think I've got the jist of that. I could look it up, but I'm afraid I'd bore myself to death.
Cricket is a Brits game. We never really had much of an interest in it. Then the Irish team got to a World Cup. The usual nonsense started. I've no idea what the rules of cricket are, so I won't make much more comment on it. Then again, I doubt many of the people who followed Ireland in the World Cup knew the rules either, but a bandwagon's a bandwagon for these cunts.
Dublin GAA is a strange one. Gaelic football and hurling are bogger sports. They're played by bachelor farmers trying to get the sexual frustration out of their systems and watched by families of 27 who eat sandwiches out of the boot of their car on the way to the match. The only reason I can think of as to why Dubs watch these fights (or sports, I suppose) is to see Dublin people beating culchies at their own game. The problem is, Dublin lose more often than not. How the GAA even got permission to build an 80,000-capacity monument to inbreeding in the middle of a residential area in Dublin is anybody's guess (although if you're guess involves brown envelopes and free ministerial pints in clubhouses around the country then you're probably right. Allegedly.)
International football is an unfortunate one. Football (not soccer, that's a word only mullahs and Yanks use) is undoubtedly a fine sport. Dublin has produced some of the greatest footballers ever known. Liam Whelan, Johnny Giles, Pierce O'Leary, etc. Unfortunately, since Jack Charlton and Euro '88, international football fandom has become associated with leprechaun hats, "having the craic" and not having the first fucking clue about football. Real football fans are forced to sit among these drunken, clueless idiots if they want to cheer on their country. And that's if they're lucky enough to get a ticket. Funnily enough, there's never a problem getting a ticket for games against the weaker footballing nations. Not that I'm calling the general Irish public event-junkies or anything. Actually, that's exactly what I'm doing. And all this because the FAI and Jack Charlton decided it was better to have English-born "legends" like Terry Phelan and Eddie McGoldrick help an England B team wearing Ireland shirts scrap their way to major finals than to give the best Irish players a chance to represent their country. If you think there's nothing wrong with this then cop yourself on. How would you feel if you were the top Irish goalscorer in Europe, but you couldn't get into the national team because some cockney who'd never been to Ireland in his life decided it would be a good career move to mention he had an Irish granny?
Saying all that, football is still a perfectly acceptable sport for a Dub to have an interest in. In fact, you will come across as odd if you don't like it. The best thing you can do is start following a Dublin-based League of Ireland team. Having an interest in junior football is also recommended, and if you can slip into the conversation that you once done a bit of scouting for an English club, all the better. You are advised to keep an eye on the English game as well, as it will give you something to read in the paper and the conversation in your local on a Sunday will undoubtedly turn to the previous day's action at some point. Supporting an English team, however, should only be attempted if you have a story to back it up. I once talked to a Dub in a bar who told me he followed Chelsea because a Christian Brother who battered him around at school once brought him back a Chelsea programme from a visit to London, by way of apology. This is a perfectly acceptable reason to follow Chelsea. Admitting you like an English team because they were winning things when you were growing up will mark you out as a glory-hunter who is not to be trusted. Make sure you also tell your pals, on a regular basis, about how close you were to making it as a professional footballer. And remember, never let the truth get in the way of a good story.
You won't be able to bluff, however, when it comes to the sports every Dub should be good at. So start honing your skills on the pool table and dart board. You will end up out of pocket if you don't. Which brings me on to gambling, the main reason for a Dub's interest in sport. As well as the football, a deep knowledge of the ins and outs of racing is required. Horses and dogs. Not motor racing, that's just traffic. Some people say the bookmaker always wins. Dubs know this not to be the case. He always wins against amateurs and gobshites. So much so that he doesn't notice how much drinking money the real Dubs are taking from him. So get yourself a copy of the Racing Post and let's keep it that way.
Any sports I haven't mentioned aren't worth mentioning. I'll leave it there for now. Hit Follow and don't be annoying me, good men. Talk to yiz soon.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Foreign Affairs
We Dubs live in the finest little town in the world, but it may sometimes be necessary to leave the banks of the Liffey for a (hopefully) short period. In this post I will try to advise you as best I can on how to conduct yourself when abroad or down The Country without compromising your Dublin ideals. It should be pointed out, however, that this is an emergency guide only. Leaving Dublin should only be done if a) it's for work and you need money for pints, smokes and copies of the Racing Post; b) you're on the run from the Gardaí, gangsters or your bookmaker or c) if you have an interest of studying wildlife, or culchies as I will refer to them from now on. Holidays to the sun are also acceptable if you've a pain in your hole with the weather, as you inevitably will at some stage.
First, the country. Believe it or not, it is not necessary to bring your passport with you when crossing the m50. There are a couple of things I would recommend taking along however. A flask of coddle is a must. I will explain how to make it in a future post, but for now, if you are unable to concoct this magical potion, ask a friend or neighbour to help you out. If you explain you're going to The Country they will be happy to help. No Dub wants to see a fellow Dub survive on bacon and cabbage alone.
Some raw pig-meat will also be required. This is to distract any rabid locals that might come your way and threaten your well-being.
At this stage I think it would be wise to outline a culchie's appearance and habits, so that you will recognise and be better prepared to avoid them. A culchie will always be wearing a hat. It may be a flat cap or a fisherman hat, but whatever it is, it will be in rag-order. This will be his best hat, for Sundays and trips to the capital. His second-best hat will not be recognisable as a hat, it will be more like a few strands of twine on his big mutton head. The aforementioned mutton head will be massive, red and covered in dirty, white hair sticking out at odd angles. If you're leaving Dublin from the north or north-west, they will warn you of this unusual sight with their car number-plates, for example; 97-MH(MuttonHead)-2371. The last few digits indicate the number of brothers and sisters they have.
Your average mullah will be wearing a knackered tweed jacket and black trousers, shiny at the knees, held up by a bit of rope. Think a less sophisticated Worzel Gummidge and you've got the picture. He will speak in an odd series of grunts and whistles. There is no need to try and break this code, however, as he will only be talking about hurling (a strange, savage sport played only in The Country) and all things pork.
My final bit of advice on visiting The Country is to keep your windows closed and hold your breath when in the company of muck-savages. It will take you days the get the smell of shite out of your nostrils, and the fact that you will have to burn whatever clothes you were wearing when you get home will be proof of this.
Trips abroad are a bit more tricky. The only good thing I associate with foreign holidays is that you are obliged to have a pint with your breakfast as you wait for your 5.30a.m. flight in Dublin airport (for which you will need to get up two hours before you go asleep.) After that, it's all downhill I'm afraid. The flight will be full of crying babies, smelly mullahs and drunken gobshites. Your only hope will be to befriend some fellow Dubs on the flight and get rat-arsed yourself. Rest assured, the mullahs and gobshites will avoid you like the plague once you and your new pals start shouting and bawling about how much you miss proper pints, tea and batch bread, twenty minutes after you leave Dublin.
Once you get to your holiday destination, the first thing you should do is find a local. The standards that apply for your choice of pub at home should be forgotten about here. Pubs abroad are shite. The only exception to this rule is our old friends the Brits. They produce some exceptionally fine boozers, and their beer is like a nice version of Smithwicks, that doesn't make you shite rings around yourself. For the more popular, hotter holiday destinations, however, an Oirish pub will have to do. Under no circumstances should the Guinness be tried. It will ruin your memory of it. The foreigners have a thing called "lager" which will have to do you until you get home. The first proper pint back in Dublin will be all the better after making this sacrifice.
I would also advise you not to leave this pub unless absolutely necessary. It will be sunny outside and the average Dub's skin is not able for this. Your better half may also suggest day-trips organised by the travel agent or the local tourist board. This is to be given a very wide berth. They will always be to places of no interest, like a dormant volcano or the edge of a cliff, which is so important to local history and culture that they've stuck a tacky gift shop in the middle of it, selling all sorts of over-priced shite. If you do get dragged along to these places, get into the gift shop, buy your ma a fridge magnet and get the fuck back to your new local.
The day you get home, you may well overdose on Guinness, coddle and Brennan's bread. You will swear never to go away again, until the next time you get piles from sitting on damp walls waiting for the pub to open, and you will rashly book another holiday to the sun to get away from this miserable bloody weather. The whole cycle will then begin again.
I'll be back next time I get a bit of free time. I don't know what I'll be talking about but it will be worth reading. Don't forget to hit the follow button, and tell your mates. No mullahs though, thanks very much.
First, the country. Believe it or not, it is not necessary to bring your passport with you when crossing the m50. There are a couple of things I would recommend taking along however. A flask of coddle is a must. I will explain how to make it in a future post, but for now, if you are unable to concoct this magical potion, ask a friend or neighbour to help you out. If you explain you're going to The Country they will be happy to help. No Dub wants to see a fellow Dub survive on bacon and cabbage alone.
Some raw pig-meat will also be required. This is to distract any rabid locals that might come your way and threaten your well-being.
At this stage I think it would be wise to outline a culchie's appearance and habits, so that you will recognise and be better prepared to avoid them. A culchie will always be wearing a hat. It may be a flat cap or a fisherman hat, but whatever it is, it will be in rag-order. This will be his best hat, for Sundays and trips to the capital. His second-best hat will not be recognisable as a hat, it will be more like a few strands of twine on his big mutton head. The aforementioned mutton head will be massive, red and covered in dirty, white hair sticking out at odd angles. If you're leaving Dublin from the north or north-west, they will warn you of this unusual sight with their car number-plates, for example; 97-MH(MuttonHead)-2371. The last few digits indicate the number of brothers and sisters they have.
Your average mullah will be wearing a knackered tweed jacket and black trousers, shiny at the knees, held up by a bit of rope. Think a less sophisticated Worzel Gummidge and you've got the picture. He will speak in an odd series of grunts and whistles. There is no need to try and break this code, however, as he will only be talking about hurling (a strange, savage sport played only in The Country) and all things pork.
My final bit of advice on visiting The Country is to keep your windows closed and hold your breath when in the company of muck-savages. It will take you days the get the smell of shite out of your nostrils, and the fact that you will have to burn whatever clothes you were wearing when you get home will be proof of this.
Trips abroad are a bit more tricky. The only good thing I associate with foreign holidays is that you are obliged to have a pint with your breakfast as you wait for your 5.30a.m. flight in Dublin airport (for which you will need to get up two hours before you go asleep.) After that, it's all downhill I'm afraid. The flight will be full of crying babies, smelly mullahs and drunken gobshites. Your only hope will be to befriend some fellow Dubs on the flight and get rat-arsed yourself. Rest assured, the mullahs and gobshites will avoid you like the plague once you and your new pals start shouting and bawling about how much you miss proper pints, tea and batch bread, twenty minutes after you leave Dublin.
Once you get to your holiday destination, the first thing you should do is find a local. The standards that apply for your choice of pub at home should be forgotten about here. Pubs abroad are shite. The only exception to this rule is our old friends the Brits. They produce some exceptionally fine boozers, and their beer is like a nice version of Smithwicks, that doesn't make you shite rings around yourself. For the more popular, hotter holiday destinations, however, an Oirish pub will have to do. Under no circumstances should the Guinness be tried. It will ruin your memory of it. The foreigners have a thing called "lager" which will have to do you until you get home. The first proper pint back in Dublin will be all the better after making this sacrifice.
I would also advise you not to leave this pub unless absolutely necessary. It will be sunny outside and the average Dub's skin is not able for this. Your better half may also suggest day-trips organised by the travel agent or the local tourist board. This is to be given a very wide berth. They will always be to places of no interest, like a dormant volcano or the edge of a cliff, which is so important to local history and culture that they've stuck a tacky gift shop in the middle of it, selling all sorts of over-priced shite. If you do get dragged along to these places, get into the gift shop, buy your ma a fridge magnet and get the fuck back to your new local.
The day you get home, you may well overdose on Guinness, coddle and Brennan's bread. You will swear never to go away again, until the next time you get piles from sitting on damp walls waiting for the pub to open, and you will rashly book another holiday to the sun to get away from this miserable bloody weather. The whole cycle will then begin again.
I'll be back next time I get a bit of free time. I don't know what I'll be talking about but it will be worth reading. Don't forget to hit the follow button, and tell your mates. No mullahs though, thanks very much.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Churches and Boozers
There's two counties in Ireland: Dublin and The Country. No matter which one of these counties you live in, there's two places you're not going to be able to avoid; pubs and churches. Whilst I'm sure mullahs (that's dwellers of The Country for our international readers) have their own expectations of the behaviour required in both boozers and places of worship, I have no desire to find out what these are. Therefore this post will concentrate fully on how to go about yourself when the time comes, as it inevitably will, for you to step into one of these establishments as a true Dub.
The Dub-etiquette for going into churches is very simple; don't. This does not mean you have to give up your religious beliefs, nor miss out an important family christening/wedding/de-frocking (I assume they do that in front of a crowd?) Far from it. You, as a Dub, will go along to the church, but you must stand outside smoking for the entire service. Inclement weather should not stop you carrying out this centuries-old tradition. In fact, that makes it all the more satisfying. The smokes used should be unfiltered. Sweet Afton will win you the favour of your fellow church-goers, as will rollies.
If, however, you don't smoke, you have no reason to stand outside and will look like a spare prick. In this case, it is advisable to enter the church and stand up against the back wall, preferably reading a tabloid newspaper. Yes, your priest/rabbi/Star Trek Welcomittee Captain (I'm not making that up) will see you, but he will know that, as a Dub, you already know everything there is to know about religion, or anything else for that matter, and will just be pleased you have graced his building with your presence.
You do not respond to the prayers as you don't need to. The culchies up the front will be chomping at the bit to jump in and show the priest how good they are at remembering the responses and saying them as loudly as they can, so you'd only be drowned out anyway.
When the shakey-hands bit comes around, don't offer your hand first. You never know who is standing beside you. Even if it's someone you trust, leave it. You don't want people talking. However, if a hand is offered to you a quick touch will suffice, in the interest of good manners. Just get it over with quickly and remember to wipe your hands on your trousers afterwards. The last thing you want is culchie germs on the hand you feed your dog with. Rabies treatment is expensive and you'll need all your money for the pub.
Pubs are the very fabric of Dublin city and even if, for some reason, you're not a fan of them, you will end up them quite regularly. I challenge you to think of one occasion which a Dublin person doesn't think it right and proper to adjourn to the pub afterwards. Christening? Pub. Wedding? Pub. Funeral? Pub. Match? Pub. Work? Pub. Hangover? Pub. I could go on and on.
Firstly a few words about your choice of pub. It must not be in Temple Bar. It must not be a "gastro-pub." It must not be a nightclub, or anywhere that the music is so loud you can't hear Ann Doyle tell you about things you couldn't give a shite about from the television in the corner. It must not be a student pub, even if you are a student. If it does a "County Colours night" then forget it; it's a place for bogger Gardaí to meet bogger teachers and have a laugh about how fifteen men with sticks from his part of The Country could beat the shite out of fifteen men with sticks from her part of The Country, or some such shite. There are a few specific pubs I could recommend, but we'll get to that in a future post. For now, avoid the aforementioned places and you should be okay.
Now onto what to do when you enter your boozer of choice. If you are on your own, or the first of your group to arrive, head straight to the bar. There is nothing more odd than seeing somebody sitting at a table away from the bar on their own. If you're sitting at the bar, you will look like you belong there. Similarly, never wait outside for your friends to arrive. There's beer inside and you'll look like a tosser. A bit of preparation is also required for this part of proceedings. A paper should be acquired on your way there. Bury your head in this once you've got your drink and you won't be bothered by any travellers selling DVDs or mulcheros selling turnips who have snuck in when the barman wasn't looking. The paper you choose is up to you, although The Examiner should be ruled out for obvious reasons. If you're going for a few pints in the evening you won't have a choice, as unfortunately the Herald is the only evening paper currently available in the city. I do know one old Dub who reads the last ever copy of The Evening Press, which he's had laminated and bound, but the Herald will have to do for most of us.
The drink you order should always be a pint. Guinness, preferably. Chances are you haven't had your dinner/lunch/breakfast in your rush to get to the pub and stout will fill that hole. There are other stouts on the market but they're only drunk by rednecks, whose tastebuds are destroyed by years of eating bacon and cabbage three times a day every day anyway, and can't taste the difference. Large bottles of Guinness or MacArdles are also acceptable, once they're off the shelf and not out of the cooler. Freezing the taste out of beer is a cunt's trick, mostly practiced by Yanks because their beer tastes like fizzy piss.
When your friend(s) join you, you may move away from the bar if you wish, but not before buying the first round. If your pals are also proper Dubs, they will also offer to pay for it. Whoever gets it, don't get into a mock-row over it. This is a stupid yuppie thing to do and won't go unnoticed by the bar's other patrons, who will instantly lose respect for you. You're going to return the favour anyway so what's the point?
Conversation must initially revolve around sport, weather and the quality of the pint. You will eventually get onto all sorts of nonsense but these are the three starting points. When it is your round, you will order more pints when your group are about two-thirds the way through their current drinks. This gives the new pints time to settle without your friends having to wait for another sup after their glasses are empty. If at any stage you feel a bit peckish, peanuts are the only acceptable pub snack to order in Dublin. Crisps and sandwiches are only acceptable at parties, and even then I'd be careful nobody was watching. If you ever hear anybody ordering chocolate in a pub, you've obviously gotten lost and ended up in The Country. Retrace your steps until you can no longer smell cowshite and be more careful next time.
I think that just about covers churches and pubs. Thanks for reading and be sure to hit the follow button. Next time I'll be advising you on how a real Dub conducts himself on trips abroad and on those rare occasions when a visit to The Country is necessary. Good luck.
The Dub-etiquette for going into churches is very simple; don't. This does not mean you have to give up your religious beliefs, nor miss out an important family christening/wedding/de-frocking (I assume they do that in front of a crowd?) Far from it. You, as a Dub, will go along to the church, but you must stand outside smoking for the entire service. Inclement weather should not stop you carrying out this centuries-old tradition. In fact, that makes it all the more satisfying. The smokes used should be unfiltered. Sweet Afton will win you the favour of your fellow church-goers, as will rollies.
If, however, you don't smoke, you have no reason to stand outside and will look like a spare prick. In this case, it is advisable to enter the church and stand up against the back wall, preferably reading a tabloid newspaper. Yes, your priest/rabbi/Star Trek Welcomittee Captain (I'm not making that up) will see you, but he will know that, as a Dub, you already know everything there is to know about religion, or anything else for that matter, and will just be pleased you have graced his building with your presence.
You do not respond to the prayers as you don't need to. The culchies up the front will be chomping at the bit to jump in and show the priest how good they are at remembering the responses and saying them as loudly as they can, so you'd only be drowned out anyway.
When the shakey-hands bit comes around, don't offer your hand first. You never know who is standing beside you. Even if it's someone you trust, leave it. You don't want people talking. However, if a hand is offered to you a quick touch will suffice, in the interest of good manners. Just get it over with quickly and remember to wipe your hands on your trousers afterwards. The last thing you want is culchie germs on the hand you feed your dog with. Rabies treatment is expensive and you'll need all your money for the pub.
Pubs are the very fabric of Dublin city and even if, for some reason, you're not a fan of them, you will end up them quite regularly. I challenge you to think of one occasion which a Dublin person doesn't think it right and proper to adjourn to the pub afterwards. Christening? Pub. Wedding? Pub. Funeral? Pub. Match? Pub. Work? Pub. Hangover? Pub. I could go on and on.
Firstly a few words about your choice of pub. It must not be in Temple Bar. It must not be a "gastro-pub." It must not be a nightclub, or anywhere that the music is so loud you can't hear Ann Doyle tell you about things you couldn't give a shite about from the television in the corner. It must not be a student pub, even if you are a student. If it does a "County Colours night" then forget it; it's a place for bogger Gardaí to meet bogger teachers and have a laugh about how fifteen men with sticks from his part of The Country could beat the shite out of fifteen men with sticks from her part of The Country, or some such shite. There are a few specific pubs I could recommend, but we'll get to that in a future post. For now, avoid the aforementioned places and you should be okay.
Now onto what to do when you enter your boozer of choice. If you are on your own, or the first of your group to arrive, head straight to the bar. There is nothing more odd than seeing somebody sitting at a table away from the bar on their own. If you're sitting at the bar, you will look like you belong there. Similarly, never wait outside for your friends to arrive. There's beer inside and you'll look like a tosser. A bit of preparation is also required for this part of proceedings. A paper should be acquired on your way there. Bury your head in this once you've got your drink and you won't be bothered by any travellers selling DVDs or mulcheros selling turnips who have snuck in when the barman wasn't looking. The paper you choose is up to you, although The Examiner should be ruled out for obvious reasons. If you're going for a few pints in the evening you won't have a choice, as unfortunately the Herald is the only evening paper currently available in the city. I do know one old Dub who reads the last ever copy of The Evening Press, which he's had laminated and bound, but the Herald will have to do for most of us.
The drink you order should always be a pint. Guinness, preferably. Chances are you haven't had your dinner/lunch/breakfast in your rush to get to the pub and stout will fill that hole. There are other stouts on the market but they're only drunk by rednecks, whose tastebuds are destroyed by years of eating bacon and cabbage three times a day every day anyway, and can't taste the difference. Large bottles of Guinness or MacArdles are also acceptable, once they're off the shelf and not out of the cooler. Freezing the taste out of beer is a cunt's trick, mostly practiced by Yanks because their beer tastes like fizzy piss.
When your friend(s) join you, you may move away from the bar if you wish, but not before buying the first round. If your pals are also proper Dubs, they will also offer to pay for it. Whoever gets it, don't get into a mock-row over it. This is a stupid yuppie thing to do and won't go unnoticed by the bar's other patrons, who will instantly lose respect for you. You're going to return the favour anyway so what's the point?
Conversation must initially revolve around sport, weather and the quality of the pint. You will eventually get onto all sorts of nonsense but these are the three starting points. When it is your round, you will order more pints when your group are about two-thirds the way through their current drinks. This gives the new pints time to settle without your friends having to wait for another sup after their glasses are empty. If at any stage you feel a bit peckish, peanuts are the only acceptable pub snack to order in Dublin. Crisps and sandwiches are only acceptable at parties, and even then I'd be careful nobody was watching. If you ever hear anybody ordering chocolate in a pub, you've obviously gotten lost and ended up in The Country. Retrace your steps until you can no longer smell cowshite and be more careful next time.
I think that just about covers churches and pubs. Thanks for reading and be sure to hit the follow button. Next time I'll be advising you on how a real Dub conducts himself on trips abroad and on those rare occasions when a visit to The Country is necessary. Good luck.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
There yiz are now
Welcome to the blog. This is it, none of your bells and whistles. Just simple advice on how to go about your business the correct way in Dublin city. And yes, there is a correct way of doing things in this neck of the woods. Which must mean that there's an incorrect way: There is, and it's my witnessing of these faux pas (or 'making a bollix of things' as it's known in Dublin) that drives me to write this blog.
Too many times have I seen people in the pubs, restaurants, streets, etc. of this great city put their foot in it, Dub-etiquette-wise, often without even realising their mistake. And don't for a moment think that it's just the tourists and up-for-the-day bog-trotters that make these unforgivable errors. The reputation of many born, bred and buttered Dubs has been irreversibly damaged in my eyes by their failure to follow Dublin protocol.
The aim of this blog is to teach you, the reader, the many codes that must be followed if you want to get by in Dublin without making an arse of yourself. I hope it will be useful not only for Dubs, but for mullahs trying to blend in with the, let's face it, superior Dublin people while they're going about their everyday lives as Gardaí, teachers and prison officers in the capital. Tourists, I'm afraid, will need more than a blog to avoid looking like anything other than a giant traveller's cheque in a specially-printed "Andy's Stag Do" t-shirt to a real Dub. Nevertheless, I'll crack on . . .
Too many times have I seen people in the pubs, restaurants, streets, etc. of this great city put their foot in it, Dub-etiquette-wise, often without even realising their mistake. And don't for a moment think that it's just the tourists and up-for-the-day bog-trotters that make these unforgivable errors. The reputation of many born, bred and buttered Dubs has been irreversibly damaged in my eyes by their failure to follow Dublin protocol.
The aim of this blog is to teach you, the reader, the many codes that must be followed if you want to get by in Dublin without making an arse of yourself. I hope it will be useful not only for Dubs, but for mullahs trying to blend in with the, let's face it, superior Dublin people while they're going about their everyday lives as Gardaí, teachers and prison officers in the capital. Tourists, I'm afraid, will need more than a blog to avoid looking like anything other than a giant traveller's cheque in a specially-printed "Andy's Stag Do" t-shirt to a real Dub. Nevertheless, I'll crack on . . .
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