I am not one of those countrywomen who feel the need to return to the Old Country on an almost constant basis. Quite simply, it is not a very interesting place. However, I am not immune to bouts of nostalgia. I have discovered that even the unremarkable and mild hills of the Midlands can pull on the heartstrings. Heuston Station on a Saturday is a far more benign place than its Friday incarnation. Fewer shivering, endless queues. My journey into the heart of dullness was pleasant, in that not only did I get a seat, I got the seat in front as well; so I could prop up my feet. Also, no one decided to watch ‘Too Fast, Too Furious: Tokyo Drift’ on their laptop at full volume. CIE-luxe.
Oh, what a sense of security I had been lulled into.
I had forgotten that CIE is an evil company run by bad people, and the weekend Westport-Dublin train service is its sadistic triumph. The idea of a seat is somewhat ridiculous once the locomotive leaves Claremorris, and once it reached me, the carriages are weighed down with the mentally unsound – public transport’s most loyal patrons – and Commerce students from Ballina. As I stood in the aisle for the remaining two hours of the journey, I had the good fortune to have most of these fine citizens grind against me as they fought their way to the shop. Seriously, Eileen, the carriages are full of people; the piss-stinking spaces between the carriages are full of people, do you really need a packet of cheese and onion Tayto that much?
€37 to stand for two hours in deeply uncomfortable heat, with culchies pushing past me looking for crap tea. Iarnród Éireann – what a pack of cunts.
I spent an evening in with two friends and some cheap red wine. They had just had been reunited with an old school friend the night before, who had gone to London to study dance, and, naturally become a Born Again Christian (or similar, my friends were somewhat fuzzy as to the exact branch of Christianity. A ’silly’ one, apparently.) Here’s the question we’ve all wondered. What does an attractive dance student Christian, preserving herself for marriage, do when she goes out with a fellow attractive church member? Why, one introduces a Rule. A strong, firm and clear Rule, to keep one on the right side of Jesus – never a fan of that kind of fiddling. A Rule that is to last one until holy matrimony. So, what does one get? ‘Let’s Not Have Sex Then’? ‘Excuse Me, Stay Away From That Vagina’? Oh no. You need a catchphrase.
You need ‘Don’t Touch What You Don’t Have’.
Genius.
Filed under: television
Along with the Sunday Independent, Joe Duffy’s Live Line, I feel that it is in the best interests of my health to avoid The Late Late Show when possible. The bleeding hearts, David McWilliams, the agonising close-ups of the bleeding hearts on the verge of tears, unnecessary references to the shitty health service, the agonising close-ups of the bleeding hearts as they refer to the shitty health service, etc. It always happens though, doesn’t it? It’s Friday, there’s one good programme on all night (The IT Crowd, wasn’t it great?), and you don’t go out because going out at the weekend is beyond hellish. You Chance The Late Late.
That three minutes of television could instil so much disgust into me is somewhat impressive. We had what appeared to be a Social Issues Expert, who believed that more chill out music in nightclubs was the solution to drunken violence on Saturday nights. I’ll admit, I did not bring myself to watch this illuminating interview in full, but unsurprisingly not once did I hear this chap mention personal responsibility or practical options like staggering closing times. The health service was probably held responsible at some stage. To add to the wisdom of this argument, we had a running banner of viewer’s texts. The highlight of these texts was Veroncia, who claimed that ‘The Irish Justice system is a joke. This would not be tolerated in America’. Veroncia, I hate you.
Then I turned over to Jonathan Ross, and when I ventured back, Pat Pointy Fingers was interrogating a female Ultimate Fighter.
Is Paddy Casey fucking in the ass that has lead to his fat pixie face getting quite so much coverage everywhere? He’s selling phones!
Mundy must be sickened.
