Archive for August, 2009

A recharge and two sugars

August 31st, 2009

I love the way technology works when it’s not supposed to and doesn’t when it does, if you know what I mean.

I needed to bring my mobile phone with me on holidays because I had to make some calls during my trip.  I suppose I could make them from a phone box or somewhere, but it is handier to just bring my mobile.

About an hour before we were due to leave, I remembered my phone and checked it.

Dead.

Dead as a fucking Dodo.

Not a peep out of it.

I tried everything but it resolutely refused to switch on.  I tried removing the battery and jiggling it.  Nothing.  The screen was as blank as Mary Harney’s face when she’s asked about the future of the health service.

I was a little worried about this, as I had a lot of girlfriends’ important numbers stored.  I phoned our K8 and she managed to rob TAT’s phone as he was asleep, and said I could borrow it.  This was grand, so I swapped the little bit of plastic inside, deleted all TAT’s stored numbers and I was finally ready to go.

I haven’t the faintest idea why, but I decided to pack my dud phone as well.  Maybe I thought I could get it fixed in France, or maybe it was just a drop of dementia.  Who knows?

On our second morning after a hotel overnight stop, Herself was sleeping off her hangover having a little lie in, so I sat out at the car, checking a few things.  I came across my useless mobile phone, so I idly started poking it and prodding it.  It was still as dead as Cowen’s last brain cell.

I sat there wondering what I was going to do with it when it slipped out of my hand and fell……….. straight into my mug of tea which I had placed on the ground.

I cursed because it was a nice mug full and I had only had one sip out of it.  I watched the phone sink beneath the golden liquid and waited while one last little bubble broke the surface.

I took another swig out of the mug, as I don’t believe in wasting good tea even if it is a little Nokia flavoured.  I then realised I could see the end of the phone just below the surface, so I fished it out.  Not wanting to waste any of the precious liquid, I took the back off and poured the contents into my mug.

The phone of course was finished.  Even I could see that.  The screen had gone all milky and the circuits would be shot.

Just for old times sake, more than anything else I pressed the power switch, maybe in the hope that there would be one last spectacular little shower of sparks, befitting the end of a faithful phone.

But the fucking thing worked perfectly!

I slammed the little bit of plastic in, and fired it up properly.  It dripped a few times, but everything seem in full working order, if a little wet.

It just goes to prove the restorative power of a good mug of tea?

How driving should be done

August 30th, 2009

Driving in France takes a lot of getting used to.

In the last three days, I have driven a smidgen short of 1,000 kilometres.  By non-Irish standards, that may not be much, but when you think in terms of driving from Dublin to Galway nearly five times, it’s quite a lot.

I think I have finally worked out why driving in France is such a pleasure.  It’s all down to who owns the road.

In Ireland, if you drive a flash car, you own the road.  If you are a local, you own the road.  If you have a fast car you own the overtaking lane.  If you have a tractor, you own the road.  If you have a four wheel drive you own fucking everything.  Driving in Ireland is a constant battle of oneupmanship. The car behind you has to get in front of you at any cost.  If it means overtaking on a bend on the brow of a hill, then so be it.  Every driver in Ireland seems hell bent on proving that they are faster than you, and that they can get to the next village thirty seconds faster than you can.

In France, it is equal ownership and the difference is staggering.  For a start, nearly everyone drives at the speed limit.  So, if the limit is 110, then everyone will drive at or close to 110.  This means there are few hold ups and no impatience.  Overtaking here has to be seen to be believed.  It is a simple process – check your mirror, indicate, pull into the overtaking lane and overtake, indicate and get back into the normal lane again.  Everyone does this, almost without exception.  Unless traffic is very heavy, the overtaking lane will always be empty.

Another aspect of French drivers is their patience.  If you are driving at the speed limit of 70 through a village [yes – they have very sensible limits here] and you have a car behind you, he will never flash his lights or hoot at you.  He will stick with your speed until it is clear to overtake.  In the tree days of driving I never once saw a car being flashed at.  I heard a car horn a few times, but that was usually just someone waving at a pal on the pavement.

Throughout that 1,000 kilometres, I don’t think my pulse rate once rose above normal.  My adrenaline levels stayed exactly where they were supposed to stay. 

Try driving a single mile in Ireland and the pulse goes into near heart attack mode and the adrenaline flows by the gallon.

French drivers are great.

Irish drivers are fucking wankers.

Never trust a woman

August 29th, 2009

I decided to give Roger a holiday.

For those of you who may not be familiar with my ramblings, Roger is the bloke who lives on a satellite and gives me directions through my SatNav.

I don’t know why I thought he needed a holiday.  Maybe it was the way that he could no longer pronounce the simple word “road”.  He had taken to introducing a glottal stop in the middle, so it sort of sounded like “ro.  Oad”.

I decided to hire Molly instead.

Molly was nice.

She had a nice gentle sexy voice, and when it came to matters like avoiding Gorey, it was a pleasure to follow her instructions.

Then we arrived in France.

Oh fuck!

The very first town we came to, there was a clatter of roundabouts in quick succession, and Molly got utterly confused.  Of course I ended up in the wrong place.  I had to stop the car for a bit while she calmed her nerves.

Eventually she muttered something about “women’s problems” and got me back on the straight [and it was very straight] and narrow [actually it was quite wide].

I let the matter slide until we got to the next town.

The fucking bitch got us lost again, and I had to feed her three Valium to calm her nerves.

That calmed her a bit and we managed to reach Rennes before the cow sent us off to Paris, when I’m trying to get to Poitiers.  Now there is a ninety degree difference in the directions – Paris is North East, and Poitiers is South East – so that even a five year old should have found the right road.

I gave out to Molly.

She burst into tears and gave me a load of shit about the problems she is having with her boyfriend and crap like that.

I fired her.

Roger is back.

His deep manly voice of authority guided us without a flaw to our destination.

Never trust a woman.

Priorities?

August 28th, 2009

We arrived a little late for the ferry.

They waited for us partly because my fame had spread before me and partly because frankly, they were fucking glad of the trade.

We drove straight on without any of those irritating queues which was nice.  Fame has its up side.

Shortly before we left, there was the usual cheerful announcement from the captain welcoming us aboard.  He told us how we were probably going to arrive ahead of time because of a following wind.

He then spent about ten minutes haranguing all the evil, disgusting smokers on board, telling us how we were NOT allowed smoke anywhere except outside.  He went to great lengths to drum this home.  He ended up by warning of dire consequences if there were any filthy cigarette butts left lying around.

He wasn’t kidding about the wind.

It wasn’t so much the effect on the ship as on the sea.

It was a roller.

I like rolling seas, but some peoples stomachs just can’t seem to take it.  There was very strong evidence of this at frequent intervals around the outside deck, and even in a couple of cases, on the inside.

Now, it may just be me.  Maybe I am becoming intolerant in my old age?

But frankly, I would rather wade around a deck that is ankle deep in fag ends, than slosh around in peoples discarded dinner.

But the captain never mentioned vomit in his little speech.

Is he a little misguided in his priorities?

Or is a cigarette butt that much worse than a gallon of puke?

Good riddence

August 27th, 2009

I have had enough of this Godforsaken shit hole of a country.

I quit.

I’m off to a place where the sun shines.

I’m off to a place where laws are applied sensibly.

I’m off to a place where you can eat out and get a great meal for a twenty spot, and still have change.

I’m off to a place where the roads aren’t crowded with lunatics.

I’m off to a place where if you smoke indoors they don’t give a shite, unless the cops come poking in [which they don’t].

You can comment on this if you want. but it’s unlikely I will reply, as I shall be on the bar, swilling pints on the ferry to France.

It’s unlikely I will write anything tomorrow, as I shall be driving on roads that are designed to be driven on, at sensible speeds of 140 kmph or so through the French countryside.

If I write anything, it will be on Saturday when I arrive at my wee house by the Dordogne river.

There again, I probably will just relax, sit out and watch the sun go down and then sip wine to the sound of the crickets.

Beynac e Dordogna
My nearest village
[click to embiggen]

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