Red Lines (Don't Do It)

A trip on the Luas Red Line - Cert 18 - 41 minutes - Horror/Scat

There is a shocking scene in 'National Disgraces guide to the Red Line Luas' (essentially a summary of his many journeys on said public transport system since his extradition to Suburbia 6 months ago, written as a pretend movie review) where two ‘ladies’ of the skobie persuasion take the romantic lead, in a warts and all (literally) display of human debasement, for all fellow passengers to see. It was a lunch moving scene, where our two ‘heroins’ tongue wrestle each other, becoming one, and in turn cause every other passenger to question their own existences. This vomit riser sums up the Red Line Luas; Disgusting, and not at all sexy.

But it’s not like you’ve been lulled into a false sense of security though. The opening credits are barely over when the journey delivers its first sick twist. With obvious reference to George A Romero, passengers are seen as a blur trying to negotiate a minefield of the Undead and risking life, limb and handbag as they attempt to get off the ‘Square’ Luas platform to the relative safety of the tram itself. Romero’s Zombies have been given a modern makeover here, decked in leisure clothing and carrying strange urine coloured liquids in what were once Coca Cola Bottles, the Luas ‘Undead’ move quicker and can actually eject something resembling language. It’s terrifying, and you can sense the fear of each passenger as they pray the automatic doors nearest to them doesn’t open before it takes off. And so the scene has been set. If you thought this was going to be a pleasant travelogue, you’re wrong. Every time the tram speeds up, you share the relief of the passengers. But with sickening regularity, it begins to dawn on them that rather than getting away from danger as fast as they can, they’re actually hurtling towards it. Stop after stop, Skobie after skobie. Even the pre-recorded voice informing us of the next destination has an unnerving quiver in her voice. At one stage she says "Next stop", screams quite piercingly, goes a bit silent, and finishes with a whispering, paranoid "Fatima.." and all that can be heard when the tram makes its arrival at Four Courts is the sound of someone running away very, very fast.

It’s not a subtle journey, or an enjoyable one. But there are moments of comic relief. A group of girls arrive on at Kylemore, and in whatever confusion their life has brought (house being raided perhaps) they actually came out in their pyjamas. This raises a smile on the passengers faces, albeit only temporarily, as our ‘sleeping beauties’ are clearly not to be messed with. The dialogue shifts, like the scenery, to something more grey and industrial. There’s not so much poetry of the words as a total absence of any warmth. A full scale to and fro about thrush and the vital differences between STD and STI’s are ping-ponged around the carriages at astonishing volume. Some people are banging at the windows, trying franticly to get the attention of drivers, others bless themselves beneath showers of tears. The tram passes a church, which somehow even manages to look away sadly, in that way that a large church does

It’s only in the final quarter that they turn the horror up to 11. The arrival at ‘James Hospital’ signals the beginning of the trips frightening final stages. Like in many chilling classics, when day becomes night and good gives way to evil, the last stop before we enter the North Side is teased at us agonisingly. A last shot at freedom, those brave enough to take leave now, know that they’ll be spared ‘the crossing of the Liffey’ but in reality they’re only swapping one kind of horror for another. The evil ensemble is replenished here, for the journeys last acts, and the really big scares are introduced. Semi-bandaged, still connected to drips and some even in theatre gowns, one imagines the hospital of the damned has opened its doors and a mass evacuation has occurred. Clever sound effects add to the claustrophobic drama. Groans float above your head, sorrowful and heavy. What sounds like a chainsaw turns out to be two eyeless Skangers engaged in a noisy altercation. It’s a masterstroke of tension as the tram fills up. Once you see the water of the river pass underneath all hell breaks loose. I won’t spoil the ending, but what happens at the ‘Four Courts’ is so shocking that this writer was left thinking about ending it all with a fistful of popcorn. And the infamous lesbian scene. Much will be written of it. Was it a step too far to see two deathly thin women, each sporting a variety of lesions and bruises (as if to say beauty is more than skin deep) embrace so passionately? As their saliva stuck to their battered skin, forming little glistening pools on their faces, do we see ourselves in the reflection?

I certainly didn’t, as I was too busy vomiting.

3/10

Stuff I Hate

Social Networking - People who call photo albums on Facebook and Bebo ‘London Baby!’ or ‘it’s all about me’. Firstly, ‘It’s all about me’ is like the morning worship call of a pervert, and 'London Baby’ could more imaginatively be substituted with ‘A trip to the Capital of England’ or ‘Photos of me and my friends in London’.

Tralee – It’s a bona-fide shithole. Don’t think so? Ask the two can wielding teenage girls that tried to kill the newly crowned Rose of Tralee the other night.

The Rose of Tralee – If only those girls hadn’t got cans, they might have been sober enough to do some damage.

The Red Sauce/Tomato Ketchup debate - It’s a particularly vulgar person that refers to tomato ketchup as ‘red sauce’. It’s a bit like calling Dutch Gold ‘fizzy piss’, technically correct, but lazy. In fact, the only thing more vulgar is consuming either.

Skobie Oul Ones – If I had a penny for every time I’ve heard a deep manly voice ask a shopkeeper for ‘20 blue and a packet of papers’, only look up to realise that it’s a woman, I’d be in the company of a lot of useless currency.

Motorways – I’ve just returned from Achill, in the time it takes to watch about 8 episodes of Coronation Street. Motorways, like exploding airplanes, take the fun out of traveling. Gone is the joy of finding yourself stuck in a bog in a place that even the maps shy away from. Gone is the chance to break down on a boreen, and after trekking to the nearest house, find yourself tied up and repeatedly violated in a farmhouse. Instead, miles and miles of straight road, flanked on either side by bored trees, with little chance of a lively collision with a tractor.

Instant Noodles – If falling down the stairs, or a shotgun blast to the chest had the same preparation time as these so called quick snacks, there’d be a lot less tragic stairs related shootings in this country. If bring to the boil, simmer, allow to cool, and take a leisurely walk before serving equals instant, then I’m a Chinese farmer with relationship issues.

Jenny Huston on 2fm – A glorified Oreo advert. Not one minute goes by without her mentioning how great Oreos are, or her reading out texts that someone supposedly sent in proclaiming their love for these biscuits. Oreos, are possibly the worst thing to come out of America since ‘Little Boy’ and the Black Eyed Peas. Plus, where’s the fun in a biscuit which you can’t run your finger along the middle and end up with a jam topped digit that simply screams decadence. No Mikado's are Oreo indeed.

There are 9 million Skobies in Dublin

My Dad calls them Gurriers. My Sister calls them Knackbags. A friend likes to refer to them as Skobies. I'm sure even the Pope has a name for them. Anyway, whatever you want to call them, Northsiders are pretty dodgy human beings.

Last night I was in the dropzone for a screening of 'In Bruges's (which is an excellent movie by the way). On my way to the cinema, there was the usual compliment of skangers on Henry St, all dancing their little jigs and rattling cups of change in peoples faces. The smell of heroin hung in the air as limped yokels in buttoned up shirts urinated against passing shoppers. Old women, whistled to each other like weird unemployed birds and the soft lilt of 'Johno!! JOHNOO!!!' floated in and out of the early evening sky. I caught snatches of conversation as I briskly passed little groups of them as they sat around warming their hands on a can of Dutch Gold. "Celtic" "Christy Dignams a bleedin' ledge" "D'ya wanta buy a three legged dog?" "I fookin jabbed the screwdriver into both their mutton heads". All manner of topics, nothing off limits.

Anyway, I eventually arrived safely and watched the movie. I had met a mate who decided to cycle to the cinema. I remarked that he was mad to bring his bike over to this side of town, but he just winked in that 'I've got a plan that will end up with a skobie losing his front teeth' way so I left him to it. Sure enough, after we left the cinema, the bike was gone. No surprise as he didn't even lock it (seriously) but this was all part of the plan. The bike itself was a truly remarkable concoction. It was at least 30 years old. It was missing a number of vital components that you would normally expect of a bike. It had no brakes. The saddle looked like it had been knawed at by a tiger. The axel was broken and you had to stand up on one leg, and sit down on the other to ride it. The handlebars were completely separated from the rest of the bike and you had to lean on them in a certain way or they'd come off in your hands. It had one and a half peddles. The bell also didn't work. Yet, it was still stolen.

And it was then, that the evil and cunning of my friends plan was revealed. As we sat back and scoffed and chortled to the image of a hoodied skobatron lying on the M50 with his teeth scattered all over the road and one of his arms where his leg should be and a handlebar up his arse, he simply turned to me and said "one down, 2 or so million to go"...

We're gonna need a lot more bicycles


*You do GET the title, right?