A TINKIN' MOIN PART 1

I don't understand a word in Irish. I'm not talking about the Gaillic language, I'm actually talking about my inability to understand what is being said to me in this accent, oh to be sure to be sure.

I have just spent 24 hours in the capital, Dublin, which, for all intent and purposes was a very pleasant experience, despite missing my flight, getting on a wrong bus in the rain that didn't let me off where I wanted to, and being 3 hours late for my meeting. It would have totally wrong of me to have gotten into a pickle at these small hiccups, no, I was in another country and on my own, and with so much mischief to get up to, I felt I had to embrace my inner leprechaun, fill my pockets from my pot o gold, and riverdance my way out for a night on the town.

After getting myself into a nice little guesthouse run by a middle aged, greying Thai fella naturally called Frankie, I decided that at half past four, and after my exhausting half hour meeting, it was time to head out to one of the 567 pubs that lined Wexford street between my hotel and the city (a 5 minute walk). Along the way, I couldn't help but notice that every shopfront that wasn't a bar, was a barber; the street lit up like Regent street at Christmas but with twirling barbers poles.

So I tought to meselff, I tought "Eddie boy, maybe a haircut might be the way to kill a few minutes before your dinner.." and after losing 13 Euro for 5 minutes in the chair which didn't even involve the use of the razor, I felt suitably groomed, a little ripped off, but nonetheless, I felt like I had participated in what was obviously a cultural panacea that suitably deserved at least a beverage or 6.

So with my fresh stubble glistening in the frosty moonlight, I headed into a brightly lit corner bar, promising Guiness by the bucket load, and an interior fresher than inside a Scandinavian Norsca bottle hanging in a Scandinavian bathroom in Scandinavia.

Such is the curse of the smoking ban. You see, they banned smoking in all work places in Ireland about 2 years ago, and whilst I agree in principle with this move, it does kind of take the enjoyment out of the whole experience of going down to the pub.

So now, instead of sitting in a death pall whilst you have your guinness, your fluffy duck, or even your slow screw against the wall, you get 50 people hanging around the door, madly chuffing away, scaring off patrons who have to walk through a pall of death to get to their guinness et al, after stepping through a mountian of butts littering the street.

Nice one. At least SOMEONE is thinking about the children!

To be sure, to be sure........