Lord Byron’s Pistol Club

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.