A glorious day…
Sitting on the Bull Wall eating a self made sandwich of magnificent proportions. The sun beaming down. Waves lapping against the rocks. Grasshoppers hopping. Fleet Foxes providing the rest of my soundtrack.
Old geezers swimming. The woman in the habib on the beach is jumping for joy. Even the junkies are scowling less than normal. And why not?
Toddlers toddle contentedly. The fat old man struggles to keep up. “Great day to be alive”, says he.
And he’s dead fucking right.
It sure is a glorious day to be alive.
Indignation with a Dublin accent
The self righteous lad on North Earl Street with the microphone, a chair for standing on and an abundance of anti-abortion fuelled anger needs to chill out a little. He’ll burst a blood vessel with all that fire and brimstone if he keeps it up.
And anyway, nobody is listening.
One man and his beat…
2 in the afternoon. The lad at the bus stop was dancing. Taken over by a beat, a beat unheard by the rest of us. And shaking his head like there was no tomorrow. Musta been some good shit coming through those headphones.
People looked at him like he was half cracked. He could see them look at him like that but he didn’t care. Because he was lost in the music. And I bet he didn’t give a fuck how long the bus was taking to arrive. But everyone else was staring up the road counting the seconds, worrying, fretting about this about that. I bet he doesn’t worry about much.
So keeping dancing lad. They’re the ones missing out.
The bus arrived, he bopped on and air-drummed his way into town.
And why not? He’s dead fucking right. I just wish I could’ve heard his beat.
A brief encounter…
Today I walked past a man. I’ve never met him before nor do I wish to again.
Our eyes caught just for a split second. He didn’t utter a single word nor did I but I knew, I just knew. In that moment I sensed that this man had murdered at least a dozen people. And would do so again without batting an eyelid.
I’ve no evidence to back it up bar the look in those dark eyes. They had an intensity the likes of which I’ve never seen before. If Keyser Söze was real this was the closest I’ve ever come to meeting him.
He reminded me of the Javier Bardem character in No Country For Old Men. Except in Dublin. And with a less dodgy haircut. And a wine coloured Ford Transit van. I suggest if you see him coming towards you that you cross the street at the very least. Because he’s real. Very real.
There’s no punchline. Just a telling of an encounter on a tree-lined, suburban street. And as before, that is all. But hey, let’s be careful out there.
Oi, you, NO!!!
Why oh why do young lads in Dublin city centre insist on walking around with their hands wedged down their trousers? Usually centred around the crotch region. Unfortunately I see it so often, every day really. It bugs me something terrible. It’s subhuman, it’s almost surreal, in a knackerish kinda way. And don’t get me started on how unhygienic the whole charade is.
Don’t they realise they look like complete and utter gobshites? Maybe someone should tell them?
A new view of Dublin…
Yesterday evening I had the pleasure of looking at Dublin with fresh eyes. That particular sense of being a tourist in your own city. And that doesn’t happen often enough in Dublin.
I was sitting on the deck of the floating bar and restaurant that is the MV Cill Airne looking back up the Liffey at the impressive new Beckett Bridge and the city beyond. I’d highly recommend it. A nice, breezy pint. A great view. A fantastic way to spend a Dublin evening.
Twink, is everything okay?
I love random creations in public spaces. Unglorified, underrated streams of consciousness such as these…
The above image was taken in the gents toilets in Bruxelles. The one below was taken in the gents toilets in Whelans.
They’re not the most artistic. In fact they’re not artistic at all. But it’s the randomness of it all that appeals to me. Why bother? Why not?!
And I know it’s a dangerous game to be taking photos in the gents toilets in the first place but they caught my attention so I thought fuck it. The fact that somebody thought it necessary to write such a thing on the wall of not one but two seperate gents toilets deserves wider public exposure.
Maybe their mysterious message adorns urinals elsewhere? It’s a distinct possibility.
I suppose they really just want the public to pray for Miss Adele King. Each to their own I guess.
A welcomed Dublin welcome…
Having been away for the weekend I arrived back to Dublin Airport this evening from London. And the first person I spoke to was the Garda who checked my passport. I was greeted with a warm and genuine “How’s it goin’ NaRocRoc? Welcome home.” It made me smile.
There was nothing insincere about it, nothing forced. Just a strightforward greeting. But it made me feel welcomed back, regardless of the short duration of my trip abroad. And moreover it made me proud. You just don’t get that kind of warmth, that kind of sincere greeting anywhere else in the world. You just don’t.
Also it’s one of the things that makes it clear to see why Dublin was recently voted the friendliest city in Europe for the second year running in a TripAdvisor survey. “The warm welcome that travellers receive in Dublin makes the city a great choice for holiday-makers seeking both fantastic sights and friendly locals”, said TripAdvisor spokesman Luke Fredberg. Glad to hear it Luke, I really am.
From a tourism point of view our people skills, our hospitality, our charm, they are our greatest attributes. People don’t come to Dublin for the architecture and certainly not for the weather. Other cities have both in spades. And Dublin is certainly not the cleanest or most romantic city in the world. But what other cities don’t have is our sense of humour, our friendly nature, our innate welcoming ways. Granted Dublin has its problems but I for one hope we never lose our personality.
So long may our Gardaí continue to welcome people to Ireland in such a way. It’s free, it’s warm, it’s simple. And as Leonardo da Vinci put it… “simplicity is the ultimate sophistication”. Maybe that welcome typifies our own particular brand of sophistication?!?
ps. I had a rant at the very nature of airports last week so I was glad to be reminded that humanity can exist in airports. Plus I had the best blueberry muffin ever in Stansted so some of my negative feeling towards airports has been reversed.
We’re the heirs to the glimmering world…
I’ve just cycled home from work but in a completely different direction to that which I usually do. Tonight Dublin felt different. Quiet and mine. For just a moment.
A fox ran across my path and looked as shocked as I did. A heron stood proud. Calm as calm can be. Not a bother on him.
I smiled thinking of the re-emergence of Joe Higgins. Great slogan, “the best fighter money can’t buy”. Good luck to him.
I chortled thinking of the demise of Declan Ganley. Good riddance to him and his croneys.
I thought of people I know in Setanta who are facing troubling times, people like Radge. I wish them all the luck in the world.
I thought of my own situation. There’s every chance I won’t have a job by year end.
I thought of what else I might do. I’m convincing myself the world will still turn and things will turn around eventually. They will. We’ll get away with it. We always do.
I thought of my brother who tells me it could well be the best thing that ever happens to me. I admire his optimism. I live in hope.
I cycled home. And it felt good.
Isn’t it great?
It’s approx 11:52 in the pm. And I’m still sweltering. I must have drank about 3 litres of water today. Cycling 20 odd miles and playing football for 2 hours will do that to a man. Must get me some sunblock tho.
I’ve just noticed that my stat counter’s gone through the floor. Must be due to people finding a world outside their window and deciding to go play. But that’s all good. You will all come back tho right?!?
Motivation to post is low but these halcyon summer days must surely provide inspiration on greyer days around the corner? But fuck it let us not speak of such gloom. For the sun is due to shine again tomorrow. And heaven knows we all need these glorious days. Good for the soul.
So hurray for the sun. Long may you continue to shine. You make Dublin a better place to be and that can’t be bad.
A rainy night in Dublin…
I’m just in the door. It’s a dirty aul damp night out there. But that’s okay with me.
Tonight I spent the evening with my immediate family. Nothing formal. A pleasant, unremarkable time of it. The men spoke of football, watched football and drank tea. The women spoke of cervical cancer, didn’t watch football and drank red wine.
Later we discussed the merits of Appetite For Destruction by Guns n Roses. It made my sister feel old to realise it was released in 1987.
When I got around to putting on my coat to leave my mother wished I’d take a taxi, due to the weather and the lateness of the hour. I insisted I’d prefer to get two buses and walk a bit in the rain. She even wanted to give me money for it. I couldn’t accept it even if I wanted to. I told her I have a good raincoat. Thankfully I do, for as Billy Connolly once remarked, “there’s no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing”.
So why not get a taxi? Well because sometimes I like to be out in the rain. Not for too long. And only if I know I’m on my way home and not to work or out. Plus I like the air when it rains in Dublin, and the atmosphere. It awakens the senses. Everything changes. In a good way. It clears the streets. Kinda like that “real rain” Travis Bickle spoke of.
Plus I don’t like being in taxis unless I really need to be. Least of all when I’m sober. And I don’t need to pay twenty quid to hear how the world is broken, that United got out of jail or that Fianna Fáil are cunts. I can keep my money and know that shit anyway.
So I walked up a very wet O’Connell Street with Sigur Rós in my ears, enveloping my brain, taking me home, while transporting me to another place. And that’s all good with me.
Is there anything sadder…
… or more soul destroying than seeing a young woman sitting near Connolly Station, in her pyjamas in the afternoon, with a can of Dutch Gold in one hand and a cigarette in the other?
Yes, unfortunately there is.
A heavily pregnant young woman sitting near Connolly Station, in her pyjamas in the afternoon, with a can of Dutch Gold in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
But what can you do?
Two noble hearts…
My last few posts have been a bit rantish, with a dash of doom n’ gloom thrown in for good measure. So I thought, today I’d better rectify that with a little bit of love.
I was cycling along North Strand Road the other day, near Annesley Bridge, being swept along on a breeze of cheery blossom from Fairview Park. So far, so normal. But then I saw these two trees on the side of the road…
Aren’t they cool? Romantic and mysterious all at once. And particularly in an area of Dublin that could do with some colour. I love the randomness of it all. The fact that somebody went to the bother of thinking, “those two trees there could do with some red velvet hearts tacked up on them”. And sure why not?
So hats off to whoever took their life into their own hands on such an abstract crusade. I salute you.
Q102 you burgled my bank of youth…
Last night, after some post-work pints with the intelligentia, I turned away from the dead loves that were born for me and flagged a taxi on Georges Street. Which, thankfully, these days isn’t too difficult on the monster’s back.
The driver looked like one of the Guildford Four or the Birmingham 6. Not sure which. But anyway, surprise surfuckingprise Q102 was the swinish radio station of choice. Steaming dunghills.
The first song I heard was some woe bejaysus-awful Mike & the Mechanics number. A song of cowards’ brood.
But then they played a song from my youth, my formative days. From when my stumble had the poise and stride of Apollo. It was a song I once thought was against the grain, counter culture almost. Obviously not any more.
And a little piece of me died right there and then in that taxi. Lost the long hours of pleasure. Thanks to Q102.
You flung a ditch on my vision of beauty, love and truth. The laugh from my love you thieved. And I paid €15 for the privelige.
But hey you followed it up with some Laura Izibor.
Cop yourselves on people…
Why do people from places north of Dublin say they’re going “up to Dublin”? It makes no sense at all at all, as Miley used to say.
That way they’d have to circumnavigate the globe northwards taking in both the Arctic Circle and Antartica on the way before getting “up to Dublin”. That’s a journey of some 40,000 kilometres you crazies.
Get it right is all I ask.
End of rant.
Time and tide…
This morning I cycled along the coast road to the bridge at Bull Island. A tad breezy for my liking but still a nice Spring morning all the same. I locked the rothar and walked the rest of the way towards the half tide wall.
When I got to the end of the path I saw an elderly man walking back along the rocks from the lighthouse. Something golden glimmered in his hands.
The rocks were a bit of a struggle. It’s not the easiest walk at the best of times and this man was no mountain goat but he was persistent. I took my place on an empty bench, watched him slowly scale the rocks and listened to Fake Empire by The National.
After about ten minutes he finally made it onto steadier ground under the Réalt na Mara monument. He sat down on the bench beside me to catch his breath and placed a golden urn at his side. He looked back from where he’d walked, in the direction of the lighthouse. The sea breeze made his combover dance. He looked at peace. Content.
When he caught his breath he stood up and picked up the urn. He gave me that nod that only aul fellas can give and walked on his way back towards the road. I nodded back.
As I watched him walk away I wondered who he was and where he was going. Moreso, I wondered who was in the urn. Was it a lifelong love? An old friend? A pet? Who knows? Not I.
I should’ve paused The National and said hello. I think he would’ve been only too happy to tell me his story. But now I’ll never know. And that’s a shame.
As the breeze blew across Dublin Bay I wondered if he’d ever seen The Big Lebowski? I wish I’d asked him.
Subterranean Homesick Blues…
I’ve lived on Dublin’s Northside for the majority of my life. I have no qualms about saying it. Loud. Proud.
A while back I moved from one Northside area with a relatively high ratio of guns to civilians to another, more leafy part of the Northside.
Anyway tonight I met an old mate of mine in this neck of the woods, in the new local, to watch the Everton Liverpool match. And sorry Radge but we both cheered when the mighty, and mightily unheard of, Dan Gosling deftly poxed the winning goal in extra time.
Anyway, after we had our fill of recession-busting Beamish (a wonderful €3.65 a pint) me and my old mate shook hands, went our separate ways and walked off into the night.
As I meandered home I saw a gang of about 7 or 8 lads moving shiftily. I tensed up and readied myself for, at the very least, an onslaught of abuse, and at the worst, possible violence.
It’s just what I’m used to at this stage of my life.
So my fists were clenched. I was ready.
Only then I realised… they were throwing an oval shaped ball amongst themselves. A rugby ball. On the Northside. The youth of today. At 1 o’clock in the morning. No intimidation. No unnecessary aggression. Just throwing a rugby ball.
I mean, a rugby ball? On the Northside? It made me long for the mean streets and violence of the suburb left behind. I almost felt a pang of disappointment.
Red Rum anyone?
There is a hostel at the junction of Marlborough St. and Talbot St. in Dublin 1. It’s called The Shining. Apparently it “boasts a clean, bright and friendly atmosphere”. However, they do say “Children Not Allowed”. That’s nice to know.
Still, it brings to mind all kinds of things. Namely…
Would you stay there?
Backbone and lifeblood…
This year the GAA are celebrating their 125th Anniversary and it’s a big deal for all affiliated with the organisation. As a result, on Friday night there was a Late Late Show special, devoted entirely to the occasion. Much sentimentality and nostalgia. Plenty of back slapping, and praise. And an abundance of gobshitery from Brush Shiels.
There was much talk of how the GAA is a wonderful organisation. And I agree, it is. It is uniquely Irish and has contributed so much to our history and culture.
In recent years the GAA has gone from strength to strength and it continues to play an intrinsic role in Irish society today. So much so that the GAA put their FAI and IRFU counterparts to shame when it comes to professionalism and integration.
Much comment was made on the Late Late about how the GAA is an organisation of the people for the people by the people etc. It’s core is the volunteer who marks the pitches, runs the club bar, ferries kids from parish to parish for matches on cold and wet weekend mornings etc. Grassroots involvement is, and has been the key to the success of the GAA. And amateurism has helped preserve this success and foster the community spirit inherent in the GAA. Which, of course, is all fair enough.
But, lest we forget, the GAA are big business. Sponsored by all the biggest multi-national corporations who see a huge return on piggybacking on that very community spirit. Which again is fair enough. That money makes its way to grassroots level which is all good. For the most part.
On Saturday, 31st January the centrepiece of the GAA’s 125th Anniversary celebrations is the National League Round 1 match between Dublin and Tyrone. The GAA are touting it as a “one-off event incorporating a spectacular lighting and fireworks display, live entertainment and of course, the clash of Dublin and All-Ireland Champions Tyrone”.
The floodlit game will be played to a packed Croke Park I’m sure. That’s 80,000 odd paying punters. See there’s no such thing as a free lunch where the GAA are concerned.
Surely an organisation for the people of Ireland which for 125 years has had amateurism and the parish ethos at its core could reward and entertain those very people without asking them to open their wallets yet again?
I really think the GAA should give free tickets to schools and clubs across the country and put on this “spectacle” for those who provide it with its backbone and lifeblood. But it won’t happen. And that, for me at least, is a great shame.
I need your help…
I’m trying to compile a list of decent cafés in Dublin City Centre and I’m hoping you can help?
I’m looking for cafés with ambience, character, a welcoming atmosphere. Cafés with decent, and varied, food. Cafés with a variety of teas and quality coffee. The kind of places you can sit in comfortably for ages and get lost in a good book.
If you can think of any please, please drop me a comment.
Cheers. Oh and Uncle Sam thanks you!
