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.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
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.
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