Archive for the 'Tourists' Category

The Silence of the Lambs

April 20th, 2010

I had a very surreal experience today.

I had to go down to the village.  There was nothing surreal about that, and Sandy drove beautifully, as she always does.

I dropped into the pub to buy some tobacco, and to have a chat with Pullit, as one does.  We stood and batted the breeze and looked out the window.

It was then I saw them.

There was a group of about six in front of the grocery shop.  They were obviously tourists, as they all had massive cameras around their necks.  But they were just standing there, like sheep.  Every now and then, one would raise a camera and photograph nothing in particular.

After I left the pub, I realised there were a whole lot more.  I would say there were around two dozen in all, and they were all just standing silently and photographing nothing.  Have you ever seen “Children of the Damned”?  It was a bit like that, only more hair raising.

I stood near a group to hear the accents, but no one said a word.  They looked like your typical Americans – over fed and over here, but they were too quiet.  Eerie.

I waited until another raised his camera, and I stood right in front of him to block his view.  He never batted an eyelid, and just carried on staring through the viewfinder, with a glazed expression.  There was a woman beside him who was very busy photographing the sky.  Maybe they were Americans who had been trapped here by the airlines’ inability to fly through imaginary dust, and were just going through the motions until they could get home again?  Who knows?

It was really scaring me at this stage, so I shot one just to see what the reaction would be.  There was a reaction all right – they all came over and clustered around the body and photographed it, in total silence.

I admit I was really scared it this stage.

I got home as fast as the dog could drive me.

Ending it all

March 17th, 2010

An horrendous thing happened to me the other night, and I haven’t slept much since.

It has depressed me beyond your wildest imagination.

It started with a simple visit to the coffee shop.  There were some tourists who pissed me off so I decided to send them to meet their ancestors.  I nipped back to the car, and then it happened.  I realised that I had left all my hunting equipment at home.  I drove home as fast as I could but by the time I got back to the village the feckers had gone.

This has never happened to me before.  My quarry has always ended in the quarry, and the vision of those bastards who got away will haunt me to my dying day.

I have decided it’s because I am getting old.

I knew this day would come eventually, and have already made the appropriate arrangements.  I am already a member of Dignitas and have informed my solicitor that I am quite prepared to make my own choice about the date and manner of my exit from this life.  The one thing I refuse to even contemplate is the vision of myself sitting in the corner of some Old Folk’s Home, dribbling, pissing and shitting myself and mumbling incoherently about the good old days.  And if anyone says that is the way I am now, you can go fuck off.

My arrangement are quite comprehensive.

I already have my open ended one way tickets to Switzerland.  I need two tickets, because I have to be accompanied, apparently.  I have arranged a surprise trip for Herself here.  She has always said she wanted to visit Switzerland.  There is no point in her returning to Ireland as, in the old Celtic tradition, I shall be burning my house to the ground before I leave, so I will be booking Herself into Dignitas at the same time.  Actually, rather than burning the house down, I shall be using Semtex and Nitro Glycerine as I intend to go with a bang.  I had better warn the neighbours to start looking for alternative accommodation beforehand?

So there you have it.

I shall be winding this site up shortly and shall be taking my one way trip.

…..

But there again, I have just remembered that trip to the coffee shop was after forty eight hours without sleep……

Maybe on second thoughts, I’ll postpone Switzerland for a while.

I’m off out now.

Today is the biggest day in the sporting calendar.

Vows are made to be broken

March 10th, 2010

I had to go down to the village yesterday.

As I have said here before, I was somewhat erring on the tired side, so I thought that while I was there I would have a mug of strong coffee.

It was very pleasant outside the coffee shop.  The sun was shining, the birds were singing and the ice was nearly melting on the footpaths.  There was a feeling of Spring in the air.

As I was leaving, I found my way blocked by two elderly women.  I know I am getting on in years, but these two were old.  One stood firmly in my way and glowered at me.

“Are you Low Cal?” she asked in that terrible accent that sends shivers down my spine. Forget your swallows or your cuckoos – the Americans have arrived!

“They call me Polly Unsaturated” says I as pleasantly as possible while wondering what the fuck she was on about.

“Do you live around here, Polly?” she asked without missing a beat, and in a voice that started dogs barking a quarter of a mile away.

Ah!  She was asking if I was local.  Fucking Americans.

“I do,” I replied.

“Is this it?” she asked sweeping her hand around to indicate the village.  “Are there no more shops than this?”

It was the way she said that last bit that did it.  I can take a lot, and had even silently vowed to be nicer to tourists this year, but what the fuck did she expect in a country village?  A fucking Walmart on every corner and the gaps filled in with drive through McDonalds?

“That’s all there is,” I said in a take it or leave it kind of way.  “It’s just a country village, and that’s the way we like it.”

“I know it’s just a country village!” she barked in unison with the dogs in the distance.  “I just expected a bit more.”

Well, fuck her.  I bet she comes from Hicksville, Arizona too.  She was really pissing me off at this stage.

“Is there any WahDur around here?” she said as if accusing me of murdering someone.

“Water?” I said.  I was about to suggest she ask for a glass of the stuff when she ordered her coffee, but realised she meant more than that.  “There’s a river under the bridge over there,” I said helpfully.

“I mean real WahDur” she snarled.  Fuck me but she was a prime example of womanhood at its worst.

“Go a few miles that way and you’ll come to the sea?”

“Would that be the Addalantic?” she asked suspiciously.

“No.  The Irish Sea.  It’s smaller but just as wet.  If you sail across it you’ll come to Wales.”

“What would I want to go to Wales for?  We’ve just come from there.”

I sighed. 

“Would you like some real shopping?” I asked.  “Somewhere you can buy real, authentic Aran sweaters, and CDs of Riverdance?”

“That would be good,” she muttered, but I could see she was hooked. 

I gave her the directions, and left her to turn her coffee sour.  Not a fucking word of thanks, or a farewell, or even a ’have a nice day’.

Later they drove past me, following the directions I had given.  I waved to them, but they ignored me.

I hope they enjoyed their drive.  It’s a beautiful road with incredible scenery.  There are no shops or tourist attractions ruining the distant vistas, just endless miles of bogland.

No American has ever come back alive from The Bogs.

I felt good.  Summer really is coming.

Hunting

December 16th, 2009

I have never made any secret of the fact that I love animals.

I love them all, with the possible exception of Jedward and guinea pigs that twang the bars of their cages.

I was delighted to hear then that they are banning deer hunting in Ireland.  Not that it makes much difference as most people ignore the law anyway.

I was a bit puzzled when I heard the Ward Hunt in North Dublin were complaining about this though.  I thought they were similar to the Moorhouse Hunt in Bray and the McDonagh Hunt in Mullingar, and confined themselves purely to two legged animals, but I must be mistaken.

I love deer in particular, and am at a loss as to how people can hunt them.  They are majestic beasts and are kings of the mountains.

I would ask you to look at the following two pictures.

Tourists and Deer

Now answer me this.

Which of these is the most majestic?

Which of these is a positive addition to the scenery?

Which of these is gentle, quiet and unobtrusive?

Which of these should be eradicated from the mountain tops?

There is no doubt about it.

The War on Tourism must continue.  It was the only good thing that Dubya ever started.  I’m all behind Obama sending in more troops.  Tourists must be eradicated from the face of the earth.  They are a scourge on mankind.

I am stepping up my campaign.

And I’m adding deer hunters [officially] to my list.

To the people of Tver

March 17th, 2009

Do you live in Tver?

Never heard of it?  Nor had I until today.

It is a city in Russia with a population of around half a million.

I am interested in Tver, because there is a street in it called Sovetskaya.  And the reason I am interested in Sovetskaya is because there is a sneaky fucking bollix by the name of Alexander Goganov living there.

Alexander Goganov is dead meat.  He has about thirty nine minutes left to live before a 28 Megaton eBay special eradicates him, and all who live around him.

I am sorry for the other people of Tver.  I mean them no harm but as the old cliché goes: you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.

You see, I have just wasted that last twenty four hours repairing a few of my sites.  That little fucker managed to hack a little file on my server that caused Google to think it was spidering my site, when it was in fact spidering that little fuckers site.  And his site is full of warez and shit like that, so Google now thinks my site is full of warez and shit like that.

I had plans for today.

I was going to celebrate the official opening of the Tourist Season by going on a little rampage with the lads, and then end up in the pub and get hammered.  They have gone off without me now because I was too busy to go.  I can hear the sound of distant gunfire, and I really resent being stuck here undoing all Alexander Goganov’s handywork.

You now have around thirty two minutes left, Alexander.  Say your prayers to try to redeem your sad little life.

I’m off to the pub now.

At least all the day won’t be wasted.

I will raise a glass to the other 499,999 people of Tver and say a silent apology.

But shit happens.

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