I've raised many an eyebrow in my time

I hate it when he's right

My dad once gave me some advice...

I hope to one day pass these gems of knowledge on to the next generation...

There's always room...

Every time...

Everything's better in 3D

My dad is 81 today. Bask in his greatness...

I love this man

A tale of two trams

Among the many attractions Dublin has to offer is one of the worlds most expensive transport systems – the Luas. When I first heard of an alternative to my arch nemesis Dublin Bus, I was pretty excited. Especially when I read that €1 billion was spent on 34 kilometres of track, I was expecting an awesome lightspeed space rocket-style thing, with comfy beanbag seats, gentle classical music provided by an orchestra and a Willy Wonka-esque conductor to keep your champagne topped up. I was a little disappointed, I must admit - until I realised that the bulk of the money must surely have been spent importing the worlds most cheerful people to hand out free newspapers every morning - no mean feat in 6am drizzle.

Fantasy Luas - Twice as decadent as the Titanic, half the chance of drowning

Actual Luas, gauntlet of weird people, weird smells and hepatitis

 

For those unfamiliar with contemporary Dublin transport, there are two Luas tramlines, the green line (aka the Daniel Day) and the red line (aka the Jerry Lee or the bread line). The red line runs from the north city centre to Tallaght (turbo deadly), while the green line services Dublin’s more affluent south – currently from St. Stephens Green to Cherrywood (via, loike Dundrum ya?). The two couldn’t be more different, particularly in terms of clientele. A friend of mine once summed it up by saying that on a journey on the green line, there was a guy next to him eating sushi, while on the red line, the guy next to him was dealing heroin.

The red line is my, well, local I suppose you’d call it. The red line is largely populated by persons of various stages of inebriation and (at night) burly Dolph Lundgren-esque security guys. Its main exports are drunken pre-teens and wide-eyed country folk attending sports matches where people beat each other with sticks (as is my understanding). Journeys on the red line often result in police investigation, so much so that I reckon An Garda Siochana (aka the fuzz, 5-0, bobbies, depending on where you’re from) would do well to set up a dedicated police station carriage to save time.  On my daily commute I’ve witnessed everything from child abuse (who calls a child Talita?), domestic violence (woman shoving a guy, shouting in his face “I told ye I can’t ride ye, I’m HAVIN’ ME FLOWERS!”), sexual harassment (13 year old girl not letting an older teenage guy off the tram until he gave his phone number to either her or her friend, “’Cos I tink you’re real sexy”). I’ve also been reacquainted with such Dublinese idioms as “diddies” (referring to breasts, in that particular case, those of a gentleman), “in a jock” (in reference to state of the aforementioned diddies), “in flitters”, “scarlet for your ma for having ya” and the lesser heard ultimate burn “scarlet for your granny for having your ma”, terms that were at risk of dying out.

Some of these journeys can be hilarious, many tragically depressing, but they’re always eventful. I believe it was Oscar Wilde who first observed “Anyone who has not witnessed two inebriated men pretend to slap each other in the face while holding a normal conversation, truly hasn’t lived”. I like to think of it as avant-garde theatre, each Luas journey as a snapshot of modern day Dublin. I do feel sorry for tourists and people unused to the ways of us Dublinfolk though, as we can be a brash lot. Indeed I’m often bewildered by Luas events myself, particularly the content of overheard phone conversations. There was the girl discussing loudly whether or not she still had to get her dad a Father’s Day gift since she recently found out he wasn’t her biological dad. Then the guy having a proper heartfelt phone discussion about the state of his relationship “Ah I was mad about you I was, then you did the dirt on me with Anto and I still took ye back. And then you were riding Stee, he’s me best mate and I took ye back in anyways. They told me you were a dirtbird but I didn’t listen. Even your ma said it to me, about getting DNA tests on the baba and all. Ah but I still love ye.” This went on for 40 minutes in the presence of his child/very younger brother.

FORTY MINUTES.

A recent adventure took place during a routine stop while we waited for the Gardai to sort out some messing. The guy next to me started to make small talk. I answered him politely, but didn’t say much as I was engrossed in the book I was reading. But he persevered, asking me “Why don’t people talk to each other on the Luas?”  (He was Indian and evidently hadn’t been in Dublin very long). I felt a little guilty so I took my headphones out for a minute, closed over my book slightly, set my pepper spray can on standby, and decided to humour him. He asked me where I lived and worked, and though I was as vague as a night in McGowan’s, it still came out that we worked in the same place.

In the same building.

On the same floor.

At this point the guy realised the years of awkward small talk situations he’d just condemned himself to, and began to see the error of his friendly ways. THIS, I told him, was why no one makes small talk on the Luas. It’s also why Ireland could never do a Big Brother style show - put 12 random Irish people in a room, odds are at least half will be related or otherwise know each other. I can tell you it makes the dating scene more than a little disconcerting.

But favourite ever Luas journey happened most recently, when the Luas went renegade and took on the 5-0. My friend and I had just made the last tram after a night out, but shortly after we got on, the Luas was stopped by a barricade of various police vehicles. In true Irish style, everyone immediately bonded through incessant grumbling at the delay. Eventually the cars moved just enough to let the Luas out - or so we thought. As we eased past the last squad car, there was a hideous scraping noise, then crunching as the wing mirror snapped backwards. This was the cue for the entire Luas to erupt in whoops and cheers, the likes of which haven’t been heard since Italia ’90. We were again united, this time in malicious glee, we were renegades, we were part of sticking it to the man, we were invincible, we were… screwed. As a Garda approached the driver and asked him to step outside, we all went quiet and held our collective breaths like naughty children as the doors slid open and the driver stepped out to be reprimanded by a grim-faced Garda. Suddenly the floor/adverts/distant objects seemed fascinating as we all tried to look away. From where I was standing I could catch snatches of the conversation, which comprised mostly of the Garda saying “Ah now…” in the tone of a disappointed parent, and finished with him saying “Do you have the time on ye? My watch is broken.” The driver finally got back on board, and as the doors closed and we eased off, he received one last resounding cheer from the whole tram, a hero’s welcome, a true céad míle fáilte.

 

The difference between Dublin and Hollywood

Once, I was early for something.  Wouldn’t happen these days, I have learned the error of my ways, and now go to great lengths to be perfectly on time. I fail a lot. Anyway, I was meant to be going to the cinema with a friend, who was also early, so we decided to hang out in the café/bar/garish nightclub bit common to many cinemas. Where we found this.

The holy grail - a free bar

 

A bar filled with glasses of free (we assumed) wine.

Being students at the time, we were both poor yet had a penchant for what we perceived to be the finer things in life (read: booze).  There weren’t many people around, but a couple had sauntered over and helped themselves so, in a moment of uncharacteristic brazenness, we decided to do the same.  

 

We found a dim corner and nonchalantly sat, covertly sipping our spoils, when a guy wearing an ID badge appeared and made a beeline for our table. I was suddenly gripped with the feeling I usually get every time I pass through airport security checks – sheer and utter panic. Seriously, I’ve never attempted to even smuggle so much as a tweezers, or carry on a single millilitre over the 100ml allowed, but every time I hear a metal detector beep, I break into a cold sweat. This is a direct result of an overactive imagination fuelled by a childhood of “inspirational” movies about people who somehow overcome gross injustices, like being inexplicably framed for crimes they didn’t commit. Unfortunately, I ain’t no Hurricane. (Though I do hope to one day become Champion of the World).

Anyway, the guy introduces himself as a reporter for a well-known newspaper and proceeds to ask us what we thought of the movie. The movie we’d just seen. The movie we’d evidently crashed the after-party for. We looked about. The only people there were a handful of 40-somethings and their under-5 kids. This didn’t look like any kind of movie premiere I could ever have imagined (have I mentioned it was about 6pm on a rainy Tuesday? And that I’m a twotime silver medallist in the Imagination Olympics? True story.) Though sure enough there, standing in the corner, was the star of the movie, trying to convince his kids to stop swinging out of the plastic chairs.

My friend and I, having known each other sufficient years to hone such skills, quickly had a telepathic conversation. Both realising what a tough job this reporter guy would have in making this movie "premiere" seem like a sufficiently trendy social event that might convince the public to go see the movie, we agreed to play along with the “interview” as it were, charitably lending the considerable weight of our collective coolness (read: marketable target youth demographic). To anyone who may interpret our charity as a blatant soul-for-booze exchange, please don’t pretend like you haven’t done the same thing at one time or another.  At least we gave the guy our real names.

The interview went something like this:

Reporter: “So, what did you think of the movie?”

Me: “Eh, great. Really, eh…”

Friend: “Gripping”

Me: “Yeah, gripping. You’d have to say it was gripping alright”

Reporter: “Great. What parts did you find particularly gripping?”

Realising that we knew neither the plotline nor even the title of the movie in question, we decided to come clean and admit to the guy that we had no idea what was going on, we hadn’t seen any movie, we meant no disrespect to its venerable star or the Irish film industry at large, that we could probably scrape together the cash to pay for our ill-gotten gains but if not it was ok because we could wash dishes, work the tills or definitely give popcorn-slinging a go, and I could possibly even clean their milkshake machine, if they had a Phillips-head screwdriver handy.

As a policy, honesty has seldom worked in my favour, but this time, inexplicably, it did. The dude just chuckled, took our picture and the following week we were featured in the What’s Hot section.

This is how I always look in photos. My face is allergic to cameras.

Sometimes the world makes very little sense to me.

The Dad archives

Due to popular demand, I've been attempting to construct some sort of blog about my dad. But properly construing his many hilariously brilliant foibles is proving difficult. He's the human equivalent of a "you had to be there" joke - you just have to know him. And getting to know him isn't an easy task as my dad is a man of few words. Not including rants. In fact my whole family has a tendancy towards pointless ranting that leaves little time or energy to talk about anything real or important. Aha, our veil of waffles. Delicious waffles...

Anyway, I decided to do an ongoing series cartoon shorts on actual conversations I've had with my dad (often verbatim - his comments really need no exaggeration or filler), entitled 'The Dad archive'.
Enjoy.

Yes, this actually happened