Everything Else

I found myself ordering Guinness for the last two nights in London. I like Guinness but I don’t drink it as a rule. This has taught me two things. Firstly, Guinness in London is potentially just as good as Guinness in Dublin. A pub near where I am right now, in Kensington, had better Guinness than many places back home.

The second thing I’ve learned is more disturbing. It seems I drink Guinness more in London than I would in Dublin as some desperate statement of identity. My current programme is very multi-cultural and I guess it sort of makes being Irish seem less of a burden. It’s really interesting how even the least nationalist or patriotic person can still feel conscious of their birthplace like this once they no longer live there.

It’s blatantly clear that soon I’ll be at every one of Christy Moore’s London gigs in an aran sweater, all the while munching on blight infested potatoes.

Here are some things I’ve noted about London and since I moved there.

1. Queuing: You have to queue for everything, there are more people here than you could possibly imagine.
2. Yuppie Shame Redux: I now have a Muji bedsheet, mirror, and hand towel.
3. London has gloriously resisted the cancer of Centra and Spar that has spread throughout Dublin. It’s a joy to have choice.
4. Pub closing times are annoyingly early.
5. Nu-rave still very big, judging by people you see around.
6. I have zero idea what I want to do for a living anymore, even if I know I want to be a journalist.
7. Living in a hotel is intensely boring.
8. Moving from the city you grew up in after 25 years is a pretty euphoric experience.

If you have listened to Irish radio, ever, then the name “BRENDA” will be instantly familiar.

BRENDA was on 2FM, maybe she still is. BRENDA is often on RTE Radio 1. BRENDA’s voice is possibly the worst thing about her. I actually imagine her mouth to be two filthy ashtrays, one on top of the other, belching forth smoke and fag butts as she speaks. Today, on air, BRENDA said “can’t a woman get a tan-job in peace”. BRENDA must be orange.

BRENDA never has her own show, instead she attaches herself to the body of healthy, living shows, and survives on their biological excess of vacuous banter. Nobody has any idea what BRENDA actually is for. Nobody asked for BRENDA and nobody would say “where has BRENDA gone” if she was fired. What is the point of BRENDA?

I think I would like it if I never heard BRENDA on the radio again! Thankfully in London BRENDA will not be on the radio.

What the hell has happened to the Nitelink?

It is so boring and menacing and devoid of fun these days that I might even consider sitting downstairs on future trips. That’s right, downstairs, where everyone has seemingly had a lobotomy!I must warn Dublin Bus: if the grand old lady of nocturnal transport gets any worse there are simple puns on the word “Nitelink” just waiting to be given their chance!

Back in olden times, say 2001 or 2002, the Nitelink was a magical place. You’d pay your few shillings, grinning from ear to ear as you marched up the stairs. Invariably it would be full of delightful Irish rogues, drinking, joking, and singing traditional Oasis songs. Every journey was like going on a journey. You never knew what kind of character you’d meet. Take this lad here, a genuine blues musician from the 1800s. Or this guy, who randomly abuses an innocent passenger. Salt of the earth.

Nowadays though, things are different. You trudge onto the Nitelink, making sure your headphones are blocking out all external sound. You know in your heart that “banter” no longer comes with the 4 euro ticket fee. People eat sandwiches and burgers and other crap, and they smoke like chimneys. Sharp faces reflect each other like knives. If you open a window to breathe an instant “CLOIZDA” rises up from behind you. So, thinking “what would Gandhi do?”, you pretend not to hear until your verbal assailant gets up and closes it themselves. At least I made them get up, you say to yourself passive aggressively.

The problem is clear. Nobody on the Nitelink is on drugs anymore! Could this be a time thing? I haven’t got the 4.30 Nitelink in ages. Is that one more fun? I mean, I can remember the days when you would sit upstairs on the Nitelink precisely because it was a laugh. Either I’ve changed or it has. Or maybe both.

What are we going to do about this? Traditional Irish heritage has been thrown in the bin. Caitlín Ní Houlihán has been mauled and left for dead by the rabid cubs of the Celtic Tiger. Now it seems the greatest institution of all, the Nitelink, is little more than a Quintuple Cinnamon Brie Skimmed Latté on wheels. It’s enough to make you want to vomit.

Except you’d probably be kicked off.

(Photo above from here)