I’ve always thought that Gorf was a bit of a mentaller, it’s part of his charm, but last night didn’t just confirm that, it rammed it home sideways with a pick axe that the guy is without a doubt, a complete certifiable, lock him up in a rubber room in a straight jacket, nut job.
We were in McFool’s having our usual Thursday evening beverages, Giblets was also present and Gorf was telling me about how he noticed that something was wrong with his fish, for the last couple of days they were swimming up at the surface and looked as if they were gasping for air.
‘It’s your water quality’, sez I, knowing a thing or two about fishes,’ you’ll need to change about a third of it, the level of nitrate has increased.’
‘It’s OK’, sez he, ‘I fixed them.’
‘What did you do?’ I asked, expecting him to say that he added a nitrogen remover media to his filter.
‘I took them out and gave each of them a squeeze.’
‘Ye Whah?!’
‘I thought that they had a bit of trapped wind that was stopping them from swimming to the bottom so I winded them. It worked, they don’t swim at the top anymore.’
‘I’m not fuckin surprised’, sez I, ‘coz the last time they were up there, a huge fucking hand reached in, pulled them out and squeezed the shite out of them!!’
This man has children! I don’t know whether to call the I.S.P.C.F or Social Services to warn them of an impending disaster!
Friday 29 June 2007
Thursday 28 June 2007
Bertie can dance!
Last night I had to finally bite the bullet, bury the hatchet, wear the wellies and whatever else you do and I fulfilled an age old promise to Mrs B3N and went to Salsa dancing lessons. It’s become a bone of contention between us lately, especially at social functions where she loves to dance and I don’t. It’s not that I have the, Salsa dancing is gay and I’m just going to sit here and drink fifty pints, manly male response to everything other than sitting there and drinking fifty pints, and it’s not that I don’t have rhythm or don’t like the music, I can play several musical instruments and have a huge appreciation for all music (except Country), it’s just that what I see as dancing, other people see as the maniacal gyrations of a mentally traumatised baboon, on crack. And so it was that at a recent wedding were all she had to make do with was the dance floor antics of a drunken uncle and so that she would not hassle me to dance for the rest of the night, I made a promise to her that I would go to Salsa Lessons.
I fought it right up to the point where we went upstairs in one of my locals (where the lessons were being held), hoping that none of the lads were going to be at the bar, with teenage tantrums of ‘I’m Not Going!’. The first thing I noticed in the class was the severe lack of men, I made up one hundred percent of the paying male clientele. This, I later heard is endemic of salsa lessons throughout the country. I felt like the Sultan of Borneo with his harem, loads of lovely ladies queuing up to dance with ME! Finally, I thought, Karma has seen a way to pay me back for all of those rejections in the No-Name Club when I was a spotty teenager. It didn’t matter that I had just started, only knew two steps, had more left feet than Lefty the Left Footed Leftipede and spent all of the dance looking at my feet, the ladies were just delighted that they didn’t have to be men (in the Salsa sense) for the night. YES, I was a Dancing GOD!!! This has got to be one of Irelands best kept secrets so lads, forget I said anything, Salsa IS gay, ladies, I’ll see you next week!
I fought it right up to the point where we went upstairs in one of my locals (where the lessons were being held), hoping that none of the lads were going to be at the bar, with teenage tantrums of ‘I’m Not Going!’. The first thing I noticed in the class was the severe lack of men, I made up one hundred percent of the paying male clientele. This, I later heard is endemic of salsa lessons throughout the country. I felt like the Sultan of Borneo with his harem, loads of lovely ladies queuing up to dance with ME! Finally, I thought, Karma has seen a way to pay me back for all of those rejections in the No-Name Club when I was a spotty teenager. It didn’t matter that I had just started, only knew two steps, had more left feet than Lefty the Left Footed Leftipede and spent all of the dance looking at my feet, the ladies were just delighted that they didn’t have to be men (in the Salsa sense) for the night. YES, I was a Dancing GOD!!! This has got to be one of Irelands best kept secrets so lads, forget I said anything, Salsa IS gay, ladies, I’ll see you next week!
Wednesday 27 June 2007
The Horror
Two days now in the shit and filth, crawling on our bellies like the worms we are. It’s dark and eerily quiet. It hasn’t been this quiet for so long now. What are they up to? The rain beats down and drenches us in our water sodden coffins. There are only two of us left.
Giblets was the first to go, he lost his mind, said he’d had enough and made the dash out into no-mans land. Gorf tried to restrain him but it was no good, he was gone before we could do anything. I don’t expect we’ll see him again.
Man Donkey’s demise was the hardest to take. There we were, the three of us laughing for the first time in days when suddenly he took four hits and toppled like a giant oak tree felled by a foresters axe. All attempts to revive him failed. That leaves Gorf and me, we’ve been like this for hours, waiting, afraid to move.
Suddenly, there’s a WHOOOSH off to our left then a huge explosion. The sky lights up. This is followed by more explosions, the noise is deafening. Among the explosions we can hear the screams of what sounds like thousands of people hysterically crying out. This must be it! They’re coming. In the light of one of the explosions I look over at Gorf, he looks pale, almost dead. This is it! Footsteps approaching and a voice crying out over the din;
‘Bertie, Bertie!!!’
Thank fuck, it’s Giblets!
‘Over here!’ I cry, ‘Over here!’
‘Oh man, I found yiz, Quick c’mon The Killers are coming on to the stage’
‘Right so, I’ll get me wellies!’
I lash out and give Man Donkey an unmerciful boot in the hole.
‘GET UP YOU STONEY BASTARD!!’
Giblets was the first to go, he lost his mind, said he’d had enough and made the dash out into no-mans land. Gorf tried to restrain him but it was no good, he was gone before we could do anything. I don’t expect we’ll see him again.
Man Donkey’s demise was the hardest to take. There we were, the three of us laughing for the first time in days when suddenly he took four hits and toppled like a giant oak tree felled by a foresters axe. All attempts to revive him failed. That leaves Gorf and me, we’ve been like this for hours, waiting, afraid to move.
Suddenly, there’s a WHOOOSH off to our left then a huge explosion. The sky lights up. This is followed by more explosions, the noise is deafening. Among the explosions we can hear the screams of what sounds like thousands of people hysterically crying out. This must be it! They’re coming. In the light of one of the explosions I look over at Gorf, he looks pale, almost dead. This is it! Footsteps approaching and a voice crying out over the din;
‘Bertie, Bertie!!!’
Thank fuck, it’s Giblets!
‘Over here!’ I cry, ‘Over here!’
‘Oh man, I found yiz, Quick c’mon The Killers are coming on to the stage’
‘Right so, I’ll get me wellies!’
I lash out and give Man Donkey an unmerciful boot in the hole.
‘GET UP YOU STONEY BASTARD!!’
Tuesday 26 June 2007
Shitney's new album - can you help?
Shitney Spears is seeking help from her most die hard fans for her new album, according to her website. She is apparently stuck for a name and as we all know, her talent well dried up about 5 mins after she was born. Oh the poor baldy dear whose more famous now for flashing her ladybits than singing.
Top of the list is:
OMG is like Lindsay Lohan like OK like
I've got a few. How about'
Fuck off and Die, Britney
Poxy
I'm one troubled, whinging bitch
and
I've got a minge like a Wizard's Sleeve.
Tell you what love, I'll come up with a name if you give me half your fucking money you tight fisted talentless twat!
Top of the list is:
OMG is like Lindsay Lohan like OK like
I've got a few. How about'
Fuck off and Die, Britney
Poxy
I'm one troubled, whinging bitch
and
I've got a minge like a Wizard's Sleeve.
Tell you what love, I'll come up with a name if you give me half your fucking money you tight fisted talentless twat!
Thursday 21 June 2007
Longest Day
'Get UP Bertie!!'
'zzz... wha ....huh ...??!'
'Get UP!'
Mrs B3N is rousing me from my recurring dream of being Master of the Universe.
'Yaaawwwn.... wha time is it?'
'It's four o clock'
'In the furghin mawnin??'
'Yeah, you're not forgetting, are you?'.
With great difficulty I prise my eyelids apart and gaze in to her eyes. I see the expectant and excited look and then I remember. Of course, it's the 21st June, the solstice, she's been waiting for this for 5 years. I happen to know one of the curators in Newgrange and it's taken me 5 years to get a place in the chamber for the sunrise.
Mrs B3N is already dressed and and chattering away excitedly. It takes me a couple of more minutes to wake up properly. I turn on the light, sit up and get out of bed.
Then, I look out the window. It's lashing rain.
'I can't wait...... are you excited....?', sez she.
'Am I fuck!', sez I, 'Now go back to bed!'
'zzz... wha ....huh ...??!'
'Get UP!'
Mrs B3N is rousing me from my recurring dream of being Master of the Universe.
'Yaaawwwn.... wha time is it?'
'It's four o clock'
'In the furghin mawnin??'
'Yeah, you're not forgetting, are you?'.
With great difficulty I prise my eyelids apart and gaze in to her eyes. I see the expectant and excited look and then I remember. Of course, it's the 21st June, the solstice, she's been waiting for this for 5 years. I happen to know one of the curators in Newgrange and it's taken me 5 years to get a place in the chamber for the sunrise.
Mrs B3N is already dressed and and chattering away excitedly. It takes me a couple of more minutes to wake up properly. I turn on the light, sit up and get out of bed.
Then, I look out the window. It's lashing rain.
'I can't wait...... are you excited....?', sez she.
'Am I fuck!', sez I, 'Now go back to bed!'
Wednesday 20 June 2007
How not to be a clever DICK!!
Looks like someone at Sky Handling partners is in for some big doo doo! The technofool thought he was being a clever dick by signing an irate customer up to some gay dating sites. NAIL 'EM TO THE FUCKIN WALL I SAY, THE BAG LOOSING CUNTS!!!!!!
Grafton Street's got talent
Took a stroll up Grafton street and the amount of talent there would put any ITV/TV3 bollox to shame. And no, I’m not talking about the ladies. At BT there was the string quartet and the guy that plays the dulcimer, further up, a group of kids playing trad, the Romanian accordion/trumpet Polka combo and the guy that dances with the shop dummy, all excellent and talented people but the further up Grafton St you go, alas sadly, the talent dimishes.
There’s any amount of students who’ll stand there and play their one or two good songs on the guitar over and over again (I was that soldier once), then we have the lowest form of entertainment on the planet, the mime.
Fuckers who don’t even bother to do anything to entertain you, they just stand there, on a box, and when you give them money they do a half arsed ‘80s Robotica dance for a couple of seconds and then stop. Four years in uni and a degree in performing arts and this is the best you can come up with? And the tourists go mad for them!!
Then it hit me!! Why the fuck haven’t the Simon community latched on to this. Instead of passing out sandwiches and blankets, hand out sparkly costumes and bucket loads of face paints, clean up the image of the optionally residential, put them on boxes and give them a career doing what they do best, tapping money!!
There’s any amount of students who’ll stand there and play their one or two good songs on the guitar over and over again (I was that soldier once), then we have the lowest form of entertainment on the planet, the mime.
Fuckers who don’t even bother to do anything to entertain you, they just stand there, on a box, and when you give them money they do a half arsed ‘80s Robotica dance for a couple of seconds and then stop. Four years in uni and a degree in performing arts and this is the best you can come up with? And the tourists go mad for them!!
Then it hit me!! Why the fuck haven’t the Simon community latched on to this. Instead of passing out sandwiches and blankets, hand out sparkly costumes and bucket loads of face paints, clean up the image of the optionally residential, put them on boxes and give them a career doing what they do best, tapping money!!
Tuesday 19 June 2007
The foreign question
I'm all on for cultural diversity and I have great respect for any foreign person, where ever they're from who are willing to uproot from their homes and come to this shithole to try to earn a living, but what I can't stand and am finding increasingly frustrating is the amount of foreign workers being employed in customer service roles when they can't communicate effectively in English.
I've just got off the phone to the G.P.O (Gormless Pillocks Office) trying to trace a parcel that was posted to me. The conversation went thus:
Me: Hello?
Him: Unintelligble grunt, men zor de po.
Me: Oh, sorry I must have rang the wrong number....... click
Ring ring..
Him: Unintelligble grunt, men zor de po.
Me: Hello is this the G.P.O?
Him: yiieehh, gee pee ohhh men zor de po.
Me: Ahh OK..... DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH?
Him: eeY'amm speekin eeglish
Me: WHERE ARE YOU FROM?
Him: I'm from Moolin Gyar.
Me: Oh good fuck, put me through to Peggy will you?
I've just got off the phone to the G.P.O (Gormless Pillocks Office) trying to trace a parcel that was posted to me. The conversation went thus:
Me: Hello?
Him: Unintelligble grunt, men zor de po.
Me: Oh, sorry I must have rang the wrong number....... click
Ring ring..
Him: Unintelligble grunt, men zor de po.
Me: Hello is this the G.P.O?
Him: yiieehh, gee pee ohhh men zor de po.
Me: Ahh OK..... DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH?
Him: eeY'amm speekin eeglish
Me: WHERE ARE YOU FROM?
Him: I'm from Moolin Gyar.
Me: Oh good fuck, put me through to Peggy will you?
Sunday 17 June 2007
Saggy Trousers Madness
Dunno if you've read this? Which is more disturbing, the fact that they have a guy in charge called Carol or the fact that he wants everybody to wear dresses?
Six months in Jail?? What's quite ironic is that the lowrider jeans buzz was born in American jails. Prisoner's belts were removed to stop them from hanging themselves, then it caught on with the young black population, presumably because there is some connection or other between young black people and jail in America.
Added 11.51:
Overheard on the way in this morning. A young woman with two very young children, one of which was obviously hers.
"No Julian, you're from Malahide, Craig, is from Dublin"
What a cunt!
Six months in Jail?? What's quite ironic is that the lowrider jeans buzz was born in American jails. Prisoner's belts were removed to stop them from hanging themselves, then it caught on with the young black population, presumably because there is some connection or other between young black people and jail in America.
Added 11.51:
Overheard on the way in this morning. A young woman with two very young children, one of which was obviously hers.
"No Julian, you're from Malahide, Craig, is from Dublin"
What a cunt!
Saturday 16 June 2007
Some of me mates....
Here's a short list of some of me mates, in no particular order:
ManDonkey
ManDonkey is a beast of burden. With hands the size of shovels and feet that will only fit into shoe boxes, ManDonkey once carried his then 5 yr old daughter on his shoulders, a rucksack on his back, a rucksack on his chest and a rolled up 4st Tibetan carpet on his head whilst trekking through the Himalayas for a month. Many Yak, at the spectacle of such a feat, died of shame.
Gorf
Gorf is a very talented chef whose signature dishes include, 'Sausage a la Botulism' which he fed to the extremely yappy neighbours' dog and 'Pan Fried chicken with stuffing a la Gentleman's Relish' which was served up to restaurant staff that pissed him off once. One fucker you don't want to be stuck on a desert island with as he's just waiting for the opportunity to cook up and eat some 'Long Pig'. Once gave himself a dose of salmonella just to get 6 months off work.
Giblets
Giblets is ......well..... just giblets.
ManDonkey
ManDonkey is a beast of burden. With hands the size of shovels and feet that will only fit into shoe boxes, ManDonkey once carried his then 5 yr old daughter on his shoulders, a rucksack on his back, a rucksack on his chest and a rolled up 4st Tibetan carpet on his head whilst trekking through the Himalayas for a month. Many Yak, at the spectacle of such a feat, died of shame.
Gorf
Gorf is a very talented chef whose signature dishes include, 'Sausage a la Botulism' which he fed to the extremely yappy neighbours' dog and 'Pan Fried chicken with stuffing a la Gentleman's Relish' which was served up to restaurant staff that pissed him off once. One fucker you don't want to be stuck on a desert island with as he's just waiting for the opportunity to cook up and eat some 'Long Pig'. Once gave himself a dose of salmonella just to get 6 months off work.
Giblets
Giblets is ......well..... just giblets.
Friday 15 June 2007
It's MY fucking seat!!!
Now...... there's times when I like being a creature of habit. There's certain things that just have to be the same for me. I'm not saying that I don't like being spontaneous, at times I have been known to go completely mad and do crazy things like ............. put salad cream on me toasted cheese sandwich instead of mayonnaise, but there are some things that just have to be the same for me every day, especially early in the morning when, as most of ye who know me will vouch for my early morning cheery dispostion and gentle, caring nature.
Call it routine. I get up at the same time each day, I put my various items of clothing on in the same order (although logic rather than routine should dictate in what order you put your clothes on), I go to the train station via the same route, I stand in the exact same position on the platform, I board the train by the same door, and until quite recently, I sit in the exact same seat.
There are many reasons for this, but the main one is that during the course of my 1hr 10min train journey I like to read for a bit and then sleep for approx 20 mins. While I'm sleeping I like to rest my head on that little red box that contains the emergency hammer, it's my, sort of pillow if you will.
In the last couple of weeks however my routine has been severly disrupted by one of those goons that you see walking around everywhere, you know the type, just learned to walk upright a couple of days ago, knuckles trailing along the ground, is usually found attached to the other end of enormous power tools or swinging out of scaffolding on building sites wearing illuminous vests, although judging by the size of this fucker I'm amazed that anyone would fail to see him.
He practically stands on top of me waiting for the train, when it arrives we both do the sideways platform shuffle, elbows flying, trying be at the door when the train stops. When the door opens we both make a beeline for the same seat. It's all out war!
So far it's 50/50, but what I can't understand is ........ we are the only two people in the fucking station at that fucking hour of the fucking morning and the only two fucking people getting onto that fucking train, why can't he fuck the way away to some other fucking carraige and sit in another fucking seat because that fucking seat, yes THAT seat is MY.. FUCKING.. SEAT!!!!!!
Call it routine. I get up at the same time each day, I put my various items of clothing on in the same order (although logic rather than routine should dictate in what order you put your clothes on), I go to the train station via the same route, I stand in the exact same position on the platform, I board the train by the same door, and until quite recently, I sit in the exact same seat.
There are many reasons for this, but the main one is that during the course of my 1hr 10min train journey I like to read for a bit and then sleep for approx 20 mins. While I'm sleeping I like to rest my head on that little red box that contains the emergency hammer, it's my, sort of pillow if you will.
In the last couple of weeks however my routine has been severly disrupted by one of those goons that you see walking around everywhere, you know the type, just learned to walk upright a couple of days ago, knuckles trailing along the ground, is usually found attached to the other end of enormous power tools or swinging out of scaffolding on building sites wearing illuminous vests, although judging by the size of this fucker I'm amazed that anyone would fail to see him.
He practically stands on top of me waiting for the train, when it arrives we both do the sideways platform shuffle, elbows flying, trying be at the door when the train stops. When the door opens we both make a beeline for the same seat. It's all out war!
So far it's 50/50, but what I can't understand is ........ we are the only two people in the fucking station at that fucking hour of the fucking morning and the only two fucking people getting onto that fucking train, why can't he fuck the way away to some other fucking carraige and sit in another fucking seat because that fucking seat, yes THAT seat is MY.. FUCKING.. SEAT!!!!!!
Thursday 14 June 2007
A taste of ....... me hole
The Taste of Dublin kicks off today which acccording to some, is the most significant food event in Dublin. A 4 day celebration of fine food and drink in Iveagh Gardens. What a load of wank.
Wannabe Posh bints (Real posh bints can actually afford to eat full portions in the restaurants that are showcasing their signature dishes without having to mix with the neuveautarts in the middle of a field) wanderin around going:
"Jurry, hey Jurry, did you taste the cilantro in this? Isn't it absolutely fontawstic?"
Celebrity chefs that think that they are rock gods, so what, I mean, good lad you can cook but Jesus, get off the fuckin stage! If being able to cook is today's equivalent of Jimi Hendrix at Woodstock, my grandmother should release a Top Ten recipe book, do a world tour, end each gig by setting fire to the food processor and then choke in her sleep coz she drank too much Horlicks before going to bed and forgot to take her false teeth out.
And the prices? The standard ticket is €25(entrance only). Twenty five fuckin euro just to wander around what you can wander around at any other time of year for free. Still I suppose they have to keep the Iveagh Gardens' regulars (wineos and junkies) away just for this weekend. Platinum tickets are €134, with that you get to lick the bowls and spatulas clean of the celebrity chefs at the end of each demonstration.
Anyway, as is usual with any outdoor event in this country, it looks as if it's going to piss down upon their posh heads for the weekend. Good enough for the cunts.
Wannabe Posh bints (Real posh bints can actually afford to eat full portions in the restaurants that are showcasing their signature dishes without having to mix with the neuveautarts in the middle of a field) wanderin around going:
"Jurry, hey Jurry, did you taste the cilantro in this? Isn't it absolutely fontawstic?"
Celebrity chefs that think that they are rock gods, so what, I mean, good lad you can cook but Jesus, get off the fuckin stage! If being able to cook is today's equivalent of Jimi Hendrix at Woodstock, my grandmother should release a Top Ten recipe book, do a world tour, end each gig by setting fire to the food processor and then choke in her sleep coz she drank too much Horlicks before going to bed and forgot to take her false teeth out.
And the prices? The standard ticket is €25(entrance only). Twenty five fuckin euro just to wander around what you can wander around at any other time of year for free. Still I suppose they have to keep the Iveagh Gardens' regulars (wineos and junkies) away just for this weekend. Platinum tickets are €134, with that you get to lick the bowls and spatulas clean of the celebrity chefs at the end of each demonstration.
Anyway, as is usual with any outdoor event in this country, it looks as if it's going to piss down upon their posh heads for the weekend. Good enough for the cunts.
Wednesday 13 June 2007
Death nell for the Greens
Well, this morning it looks like the Green Party will help the Fianna Failures form the next Irish Government. What a bunch of tossers. Do they really think that they can solve the country's problems by getting involved with that shower of robbing, lying wankers. I feel sorry for them having been duped by the fuckers who always fuck things up and manage to come out on top smelling of roses whilst their coalition partners smell of shite.
Fianna Fail won the election on the promise that the economy was strong and was only going to get stronger and yet not 2 weeks after the election, that Bertie cunt was in the media saying that there will be tough times ahead for the Irish people and that we need to tighten our belts. All of us peasant Irish people that is, and none of his fuckin fat loan shark business mates!!!!!
I really did try to like the Greens, but I'm sorry lads it looks like you got involved in Government a bit too soon and with the wrong people. I hope that this isn't the end of yiz.
Fianna Fail won the election on the promise that the economy was strong and was only going to get stronger and yet not 2 weeks after the election, that Bertie cunt was in the media saying that there will be tough times ahead for the Irish people and that we need to tighten our belts. All of us peasant Irish people that is, and none of his fuckin fat loan shark business mates!!!!!
I really did try to like the Greens, but I'm sorry lads it looks like you got involved in Government a bit too soon and with the wrong people. I hope that this isn't the end of yiz.
Tuesday 12 June 2007
Letter to Customer Services
I don't know if any of you travel by public transport in Ireland. I do and it's shite. Every day delays, train failures. This one's the latest.
Dear Sir/Madam,
It's great to see that the summer has finally arrived. But all of this beautiful weather has it's draw backs, namely travelling to and from work with Iarnroid Eireann.
Yesterday, 11.06.07, I took the 6.** train from D******* to Dublin Pearse. At that time, the dawn chill was still in the air and I was very surprised to find that the aircon was up full, generating what could only be described as near Arctic conditions on the train. This wasn't too bad as I had a fleece and was able to keep warm by flapping my arms vigorously by my side and running up and down the carriage making penguin noises.
The really big issue I had was on the way home, I took the 16.** train from Pearse to D*******. When the train arrived, I got on and stepped into what could only be described as a smelting furnnace. There was NO aircon on in this one and I nearly melted on the spot. This was also one of those cleverly designed trains, you know the ones, airtight with no windows that could double up as gas chambers should the need arise. The journey was one of the most uncomfortable journeys I have ever undertaken, and I've done a few, including a 28 hour bus journey through mountain dirt roads in China.
This ranks as one of the worst. I'd say I lost approx 5 Kg in sweat and the air was so stifling that it almost brought on several Asthma attacks (luckily I had my inhaler with me)*.
Now, it doesn't take the logic of Einstein to figure this one out so I'm not going to go into what the solution would be, but I would be very grateful if you could please advise the drivers to switch on the air conditioning at the appropriate times.
Thanks and best regards,
Berties 3rd Nipple
*I'm not joking about the Asthma attacks. The little emergency hammer was nearly used to break open a window to let some air in.
Can't wait to see if the cunts reply, although given their previous track record they probably won't.
Dear Sir/Madam,
It's great to see that the summer has finally arrived. But all of this beautiful weather has it's draw backs, namely travelling to and from work with Iarnroid Eireann.
Yesterday, 11.06.07, I took the 6.** train from D******* to Dublin Pearse. At that time, the dawn chill was still in the air and I was very surprised to find that the aircon was up full, generating what could only be described as near Arctic conditions on the train. This wasn't too bad as I had a fleece and was able to keep warm by flapping my arms vigorously by my side and running up and down the carriage making penguin noises.
The really big issue I had was on the way home, I took the 16.** train from Pearse to D*******. When the train arrived, I got on and stepped into what could only be described as a smelting furnnace. There was NO aircon on in this one and I nearly melted on the spot. This was also one of those cleverly designed trains, you know the ones, airtight with no windows that could double up as gas chambers should the need arise. The journey was one of the most uncomfortable journeys I have ever undertaken, and I've done a few, including a 28 hour bus journey through mountain dirt roads in China.
This ranks as one of the worst. I'd say I lost approx 5 Kg in sweat and the air was so stifling that it almost brought on several Asthma attacks (luckily I had my inhaler with me)*.
Now, it doesn't take the logic of Einstein to figure this one out so I'm not going to go into what the solution would be, but I would be very grateful if you could please advise the drivers to switch on the air conditioning at the appropriate times.
Thanks and best regards,
Berties 3rd Nipple
*I'm not joking about the Asthma attacks. The little emergency hammer was nearly used to break open a window to let some air in.
Can't wait to see if the cunts reply, although given their previous track record they probably won't.
Monday 11 June 2007
How are yiz?
How are yiz? I'm Bertie's 3rd Nipple from Ireland and I'm pissed off. Too much shite going on in this wee country so I'm going to write about some of it. I hope you like it, please comment on it or don't, I couldn't give a fuck.
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