Hissy fit
Grandad October 1st, 2008
I hate cities.
When I was a kid, I used to love taking a trip into Dublin.
I used to love wandering around Grafton Street basking in the smell of freshly roast coffee beans from Bewleys. Invariably there was that unique smell of roasting hops wafting down from St James’ Gate where they were brewing the Guinness. That smell epitomised Dublin for me. Maybe that’s where I got the taste for the stuff?
Another place I used to haunt was the quays. I loved watching the cranes at work unloading the ships and barges. There were always coal ships being unloaded so everything got covered in a fine layer of black dust. There were the massive Guinness kegs [Guinness again!] being loaded for export. There was always a bustle on the quays; a sense of foreign intrigue and mystery.
All that is gone now.
I had to go into the city yesterday. Apart from the Blog Awards last year [which don’t count because they were a night time affair] it’s about six years since I was there. I would have been happy to leave it for another twenty years, but I was overtaken by circumstances.
First of all, I had to get the DART in.
The DART is a train full of clichés.
They were all there.
Firstly there was the tosser who insisted on sitting beside me as if it was the last seat. He was a tosser because he had one of those fucking music things that went ‘tiss tiss tiss’ all the way.
Then there was the Mobile Phone User. This was a woman across from me who had her ring tone on full volume. The phone rang three times. Each time she yelled ‘HELLO HELLO HELLO’ into the phone before cutting off the caller. She then called the caller back and gave her a running commentary at the top of her voice for the rest of the journey.
There was of course the DORT user. This is the person with the D4 accent who thinks she is God’s gift to men. In fact she was a right slapper. She made the mandatory phone call to her pal to tell her she was on the DORT and would be soooo late, and could they meet in Ornotts?
We arrived more or less on time, and I then had to walk.
I noticed several things straight away.
Is it a rule that everyone has to carry a paper cup of coffee? It seems to be.
Is it a law that everyone has to have earphones?
Where the hell did all the beggars come from? They too were collecting in paper coffee cups. Whoever makes those cups is laughing all the way to the bank [assuming it hasn’t gone bankrupt]. Actually, don’t answer that last question. I know the answer – Eastern Europe. Every lamppost seemed to have its own resident, slumped at the bottom, holding out a dirty cup.
The city is dirty, noisy and so full of traffic that it’s damned dangerous trying to cross any road.
I hate it with a passion.
Next time I have to go into the city, I’m going to throw a hissy fit. I’m going to grab onto the door frame and refuse to let go.
From now on, I’m keeping to the mountains.
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