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.