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Well, all the drama of the Australian election fail for rational thinking has me in a terrible state, so terrible that I’ve decamped for the land of Saints and Scholars. Why? Well surely I can find an answer here as to why we(the Australian public) felt the need to vote in a budgie smuggling, climate denying misogynist. I am in shock at what I have read in the limited national press but I don’t need to worry about that anymore because….well I reckon he’ll be smashing the presses and banning boycotts and Abbott only knows what else.

So here I am in the depressed Emerald Isle which is currently shrouded in a comforting cloak of myopic mist and determined drizzle. I took a walk down the main street of my old home town yesterday afternoon after cooking meself up a feed of fortifying sausages, black and white pudding, smokey cured bacon, perfectly fried eggs, toasted and hot buttered batch loaf and a few spears of asparagus just for good measure because you never know where your next meal is coming from in the rare old town of Dubh Linn:

Fortifications.

Fortifications.

So, after Wolftoning down the lot I was off on my merry Joycean way and this is what I saw:

St Michael's Church, Marine rd, Dun Laoghaire.

St Michael’s Church, Marine rd, Dun Laoghaire.

What a majestic sight! Tickling God’s arse through the fog.

A poor soul a bit the worse for wear across the road from the church.

A poor soul a bit the worse for wear across the road from the church.

At least nobody stole his crutch! I was wondering how long it was going to be before I came across a victim of the national pastime.

A few minutes later I was on the DART(Dublin Area Rapid Transit) speeding up the coast and off to the City of Dublin. Unfortunately for my camera there wasn’t much to see through the mist but the memories came flooding back all the same as the train passed through the stations of my youth like rosary beads through fingers.

Booterstown station  heralded its approach with the usual sulphuric stench of tidal seaweed, somethings never change. Methinks something is rotten round here.

Upon arrival in Baile Átha Cliath I chose Tara street station as my point of disembarkation  just so that I could take in the quays and a bit of the infamous northside. I was justly rewarded with the following vistas:

The verdant River Liffey in all it's stagnant glory.

The verdant River Liffey in all it’s stagnant glory.

Such a beautiful combination of claustrophobic grey skies and glassy green water all towered over by the usually eye-sorish Liberty Hall.

Liberty Hall. One of the ugliest buildings in Ireland

Liberty Hall. One of the ugliest buildings in Ireland

I wasn’t expecting such a fine example of illustration and graphic design. The CFMEU should try and emulate this.

After picking my jaw up from the expectedly dirty footpath I continued my amble down memory lane wearing my tweed cap’n’ jacket combination and thought to myself I must look quite the Irish gent. My opinion was seconded as I was accosted by a track-suited gurrier with a look of mild insanity on his pasty mug. I knew I was had because I stupidly made eye contact with his feverish orbs and was then asked in a fine piercing brogue ‘Are you from Dublin?’  I feared for my wallet, dignity, moustache and whatever else I had on me and immediately retorted ‘Fuck yeah’ and sped on by making sure not hang around for his next probing question.

I decided I’d better head to safer streets and crossed the slumbering aromatic river at O’Connell Bridge under the shadow of the Millennium Spire, more commonly referred to as ‘just another prick on the northside’ by the witty southsiders of the city. As I made my way to Ireland’s Mecca of tourism and English stag parties I found this lovely shop sign on the edge of Temple Bar:

William Butler Yeats, maker of icons.

William Butler Yeats, bespoke maker of icons.

Good to see old speccy four eyes keeping watch over the streets of Temple Bar.

The next hour or so was spent wiping nostalgic tears from my inner eye as I strolled along streets filled with memories of youthful indiscretions, wet afternoons and exploitative workplaces. I kept my camera in my pocket for fear of being mistaken for a Scandinavian tourist but couldn’t help myself upon reaching the sanctuary of Grogan’s Castle Lounge. A pub full of artists, writers, dossers and sun dodgers where I used to hide out and do the cryptic crossword accompanied by a brace of pints, an Irish coffee or two and one of their mythic toasted ham and cheese sandwiches with a cheeky pot of hot english mustard as my condiment of choice.

Today I settled on just the pint o’plain as I my put upon innards were still combatting the asparagus spears and pudding from breakfast:

As the Argentinians say 'Perfecto!'

As the Argentinians say ‘Perfecto!’

The funny thing is there’s more substance in the creamy head of a pint of stout than between the pages of the once venerable Irish Times.

A selfie portrait of the artist as a not so young man partaking in the national pastime of imbibing the black stuff whilst observing the fine folk of Dublin on their odyssean perambulations  of an otherwise unremark-worthy afternoon in September punctuated by nothing more than the occasional squeeling of peripatetic porcine patrons prattling on their portable phones.

A selfie portrait of the artist as a not so young man partaking in the national pastime of imbibing the black stuff whilst observing the fine folk of Dublin on their odyssean perambulations of an otherwise unremark-worthy afternoon in September punctuated by nothing more than the occasional squeeling of peripatetic porter pulling porcine patrons prattling on their portable phones who are by no means potophobic.

I shall endeavour to furnish these virtual pages with more photographic observances but I make no promises, only idle threats.

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