Now, it's well known that 50% of people who arrive into Ireland and travel along the Aircoach route to Dublin City Centre, request that the driver turn around and return them to the Airport. Some of the others, particularly the Germans, will have dropped a cyanide tab, and it's not unusual to hear foreign tongued squeals before ultimately, gunshots. Those that do stay on, are usually the Driver and Dubliners.
Strategically planned, the route takes in all the glories of destructed and desolate Dublin. It's a beautiful sight, to be safely sped along Dorset St as track suited grannies engage in fist fights outside the Bookies and Pubs. I can only imagine tourists mouths salivating as they press up against the glass and look on jealously at Ginos chipper or any of the 70 or so fast food joints on the route, full to the brim with Celtic jerseys and drunks.
Disgrace took this route at the weekend as he returned from his holler's. Swapping the Prado and St Peters for the Sun and the Sea, our hero had one week earlier, nervously approached his first resort holiday. Filled with images of stabbings, England jerseys and 'Ballymun in the Sun', I arrived and spend a wonderful week of relaxation and non life threatening incidents. The sun beamed down of me like a huge hot ball of light and the Beer, ice cold in nature, went down easier than a paraplegic prostitute. Put simply, it was bliss on a stick. Without the stick.
Disgrace even ventured into a bar that was showing a televised soccer event featuring England. Half joking to Mrs D that she'd better get ready 'to be glassed and savagely beaten' they enjoyed nothing but courtesy from our cross channel cousins.
So, having tasted this and being completely surprised by it, I returned home to Ireland with a spring in my step. As the Aircoach sped along Dorset St, with all the jerseys gathered around corners like a Finglas funeral, and the men urinating against passing dogs, and the girls with skirts over their heads, and the drunks walking on their elbows and head butting themselves, I finally understood irony
Strategically planned, the route takes in all the glories of destructed and desolate Dublin. It's a beautiful sight, to be safely sped along Dorset St as track suited grannies engage in fist fights outside the Bookies and Pubs. I can only imagine tourists mouths salivating as they press up against the glass and look on jealously at Ginos chipper or any of the 70 or so fast food joints on the route, full to the brim with Celtic jerseys and drunks.
Disgrace took this route at the weekend as he returned from his holler's. Swapping the Prado and St Peters for the Sun and the Sea, our hero had one week earlier, nervously approached his first resort holiday. Filled with images of stabbings, England jerseys and 'Ballymun in the Sun', I arrived and spend a wonderful week of relaxation and non life threatening incidents. The sun beamed down of me like a huge hot ball of light and the Beer, ice cold in nature, went down easier than a paraplegic prostitute. Put simply, it was bliss on a stick. Without the stick.
Disgrace even ventured into a bar that was showing a televised soccer event featuring England. Half joking to Mrs D that she'd better get ready 'to be glassed and savagely beaten' they enjoyed nothing but courtesy from our cross channel cousins.
So, having tasted this and being completely surprised by it, I returned home to Ireland with a spring in my step. As the Aircoach sped along Dorset St, with all the jerseys gathered around corners like a Finglas funeral, and the men urinating against passing dogs, and the girls with skirts over their heads, and the drunks walking on their elbows and head butting themselves, I finally understood irony
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