If You've Had Your Fill Of Porter . . .

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.

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.