Whenever there is sun in Dublin, there is a lot of traffic and activity, and generally people look absolutely miserable until they get to their destination, at which point they realise the only way they know how to have fun is to drink.
I live on the northside of Dublin, but I usually trek down to Dun Laoghaire on Saturdays for sailing, so I see all parts of the city.
For some reason I noticed a number of things last weekend that I hadn’t noticed before – and I believe this is because so many weekends passed in such gloom and torpor and pain this summer that the sunlight had me in a state of shock, similar to how I might feel if I suddenly found myself in Somalia – except a largely peaceful Somalia.
I hardly ever see bumper stickers for radio stations in Dublin, except for the odd buffoon who puts a Phantom FM sticker on his laptop. On Saturday and Sunday, as myself and the family were out searching for beaches and patches of green grass to have picnics in order to pretend that we lived in France, I saw dozens.
They were all for Q102. I have therefore concluded that Q102 – a station I knew nothing about – plays music that appeals to w*^kers.
Another thing I noticed is that nobody in Europe, especially the Irish, but especially especially the Europeans that populate my housing estate near Portmarnock (it is closer to Darndale), have no idea how to dress in warm weather.
Actually, I’ve jumped ahead. First I was in the city, travelling from Inchicore to the city centre where it seems a sort of hysterical reaction to semi-warmth occurred and crowds of young Irish men who were overweight and had manboobs decided to go around topless.
Back in my estate, the fashion choice for men was very long, baggy shorts and very tight vests, and runners. The women wore white trousers. Everyone looked like they had walked into a costume room at a theatre set in Germany in the mid-1980s and come out with the first things they put on.
Another observation was the totally fraudulent friendship and fake polite behaviour I maintain with bus drivers. Why do I persist in saying things like, ‘Hello!’ and ‘Two twenty, please!’ and ‘Thanks!’ as I get off the bus. These people hate me. On days I don’t take the motorcycle to work, I always seem to miss the bus by twenty seconds. I wave them down and they drive right by. Well, f*^k you, Mr Bus Driver.
And yet, my rage is doubly painful, since I can’t do anything in life that will enact revenge – except I have recently started to pay exactly five cent below the amount I say I have. How do you get a bus driver back for the disdain he unleashes on the world? What possible recourse does one have? There is nothing. — G.B.
About Greg Baxter
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