You'll never see what I believe till it's sunny in England...

Dublin Saturday

A late start today, which is no surprise considering the mayhem and fun we had last night.

We walked out about 9:30 into the burning bright sunlight of a dublin summers day. I swear this city doesn't know how to cope with anything other than dismal grey rain. Its beatuiful in the sunshine though. We walked for a bit grabbing a coffee from a random bakery and headed to a church where they exhibit the mummies held in the crypt.

Bizarre I know. It gets bizzarer. So the crypt keeper turns up and hes an odd blend of Irish-showman and RADA reject. His emphasis is totally off and he speaks like every word he says is total revalation to his audience.

I suppose he has to make sure the tourists for whom English is a second third or fourth language don't miss every point. His description of being hung drawn and quartered will stay will me for a long time though.

Everywhere in the crypt there are clear signs saying "These are sacred remains. Please do not take photos" however at the 'climax' of the tour you are given the oppourtunity to touch the mummified remains of an eight hundred year old corpse.

This dicotamy surprised me.

You're not allowed to take a photo which is generally a non-invasive proceedure, but you are allowed to stroke the hand of an actual corpse beacause it's considered lucky?

Are we still in the eighteenth century? because it bloody feels like it sometimes.

ANYWAY... we moved on from the dry crpyts into the still burning sunshine and walked across to the Jamesons factory wherefor 13.50 you too can be harded like cattle around the various brewing distilling and maturing processes that go into making, what is at best, a reasonable whiskey. Note for all you pedants out there, Scottish whisky is spelt without the e, Irish Whiskey is spelt with the e and Welsh Whisky is best avoided.

By this time, having skipped breakfast, it was a quarter past lunch so we headed to one of the only Brew-pubs in Dublin, The Porterhouse. I've been to their sister pub in Covent Garden in London but this was my chance to see the original.

It would have been rude not to sample their homebrew beers with lunch so we all got a different pint and tried them all out with our ample lunch orders.

Fod and beer are expensive in Dublin but only because the pound has fallen heavily against the Euro recently. So you'd expect to pay about 5 quid a pint and 10-15 Euros for a meal. Which is by no means outrageous for a weekend break but if you were here for a singificant time I think it could become prohibitily expensive.

From there we walked through town to McDaid's which was both a morgue and a Chapel before becoming a pub. It was nice but nothing special considering its unusal heritage althought the loos were up three flights of narrow winding stairs and they did have the cricket on.

We walked on after the obligatory pint of the black stuff to St Stephens green which was swarming with people and not the haven from the busy madness of Dublin that the guidebooks had promised. We didn't stay for long.

We walked back to the hotel via the Stags head which we had scouted the previous night and found an extra room at the back which technically would count as the snug. Very comfy and good good beer. Back at the Hotel we had our customary siesta and then headed out into temple bar on a saturday night on a summers eve.

The place was rammed. We had heard that it would be busy but not on this scale. The pubs were literally oveflowing with loud rawcous people when we were mpore in the mood for pints and chat.

We headed away from temple bar and found ourselves in a pub called the long stone which had an enmous sheltered outdoor area (almost empty) and a massive oaken fireplace carved in the shape of a bearded viking type God. V.Good.

Then we headed to what is probably my new favourite pub in Dublin, Mulligans.

It has low ceilings, locals and what is the best pint of guiness I've ever had.

Through carefulll and dilligent tasting we four of us , no strangers to sampling the alchol have come to this conclusion. The guinness DOES taste different in Dublin, but not in all the pubs. Let me explain; In the UK I find guinness has a metallic aftertaste buried deep amgonst the base notes that it simply does not have in most of the pubs over here. McDaids, mentioned above, serves a very UK style pint whereas Mulligans serves something so smooth and creamy and rich its almost a differnt drink.

So I solidly recommend trying many diffent pubs in Ireland , You'll be spolit for choice, before discovering whether you don't really enjoy guinness in Dublin.

In mulligans behind the bar, just down from their Irish Whiskey shelf was a collection of round metal containers which were about an inch and a half across. It turns out this was snuff. Well, we HAD to buy some, i've never seen snuff for sale behind a bar in my life so we had to try some.

Cue much hilarity as the four of us spill some on the table trying to get the darn thing open and take a little pinch each and shove it up one nostill like Kerry Katona at a christening.

Its like inhale vics vapour rub and tickles the inside of our nostils all the way up. When Caroline let out and enourmous sneeze the barmans face was a picture.

From tehir we moved on Finding 'davey Byrnes' too poncy and 'Kehoes' rammed to the rafters we went into 'The Hairy Lemon' (No, I haven't get a clue) And had a reasonable pint before heading home. All in all a very statisfctory day.

Dublin Friday:

How do you know you're on a boat to Ireland? Because there's two nuns talking to a man with a pint of stout.

That's not a joke, two tables away from us on the not-so-gently rocking superferry from Holyhead to Dublin (christened the Vomit Rocket) the man and the two Brides of Christ were having what can only be described as an indepth heated discussion. Whether it was about saving the mans immortal soul or if Ireland can retain the Six Nations Grand slam they won last year with the front three they've got, only God knows but it is a sign that you're approaching the country where they take most things a little less seriously than the rest of us and some things a hell of a lot more seriously.

We were up early for the ferry, as were the rest of the passengers surrounding us. It was weird, like all the waiting around you'd associate with a domestic/international flight without the cathartic moment of release that is take off and landing. It was all a bit sedate until we hit the middle of the channel and the boat did its best bucking bronco impression.

We 'landed' on time and then it was only a suspiciously cheerful border guard and a half hour train journey to the centre of town.

The train station at Dun Loarie (CHK) is like train stations used to be in mainland Britain. Dirty, overcrowded and confusing. Why would they need signs up showing people which service is departing from which platform? If you don't know you're probably scum, sorry, a tourist.

However it has to be said I've yet to meet a genuine Dub all the bar staff so far seem to be from estonia. So EVERYONE is a tourist.

Anyways once checked into our blessedly quiet hotel we ventured out towards the guinness museum type thing. A walk broken up rather pleasantly by soup and a sandwich lunch and our first pint of the black stuff.

I know that the Guinness, scientifically speaking is no different to that which you can order in Holyhead or Hoxton but for some reason, probably psycological, to me it tastes a lot better. Much richer and yet much more easily drinkable.

Refreshed and well fed we headed up to the Guinness Store House to find it a teeming hotbed of twatty touroids all intent on capturing a geniue piece of 'Oriland for themselves. Of the five automatic tickets booths one was working. I say was because, in a move that will shock no-one, I managed to break the only remaining working one; "But I would like the four already broken machines to be taken into account, your honour!"

Deciding digression was the better part of valour , we merrily disappeared not before stopping at the tat shop to get some much needed Guinness branded supplies.

We stopped at the Brazen Head, allegedly the oldest pub in Ireland for a second pint and found it not quite as heavenly as the first. But I was prepared to forgive this as the third was quite admerable.

Then it was the slow walk back through the tourists to the hotel for a quick hour nap before heading back out to one of my favourite Irish pubs even if it is a tourist trap. The Oliver St. John Gogarty. Crazy name, crazy place! Well not really, the guinness is good the people are warm and friendly. We were greeted from the stage " Ah, the Welsh! The celts that couldn't swim!"
They were playing the traditional Irish Music hich is great when you are actually here surrounded by the music and the noise and such, but back home on CD it just doesn't feel the same.

Suitabtly refreshed we headed out to The Stags Head (Exsiquite Victorian Features) and The Long Hall (Not so long as they'd have you belive. The Hanover in Liverpool is a long bar this is more a medium bar. These felt more for the locals than the tourist places we'd been previously.

I have noticed a different dynamic when theres a group of four rather than two. When I came here before we couldn't go more than a pint without getting into a conversation with somebody. With the four of us we seem a more contained unit and so the craic has been fun but not on the same scale as last time. Admittedly last time my liver was five years younger, we stayed out till 2 in the morning, I had hair and ladies would swoon at five hundred paces at my friend (Good looking Bass player whos also a crackingly nice guy. Damn him. :) )

After that we stopped for a late night snack (About 10pm) Em got a burger and I had a fallaffal which was delicious I think! Then it wasa time to roll into the hotel for a well earned rest.

Caroline makes friends with the locals.

"Wheres my Effing jetpack?"

That's a cry I hear a lot from people these days. As I get older and optimism for the future turns into wearying acceptance of the present followed by morbid dread of ANYTHING changing, I have heard people talking about how this isn't the future we were promised.

By now, nearly a decade into the 21st century surely, we should be zooming around in jet cars, eating protein pills and spending our holidays on the moon? The world of Buck Rogers is only four hundred years away, which is not a huge length of time for us to have a nuclear war, recover from it and then try and defeat the aliens intent on invading earth whilst wearing too tight spandex.

But I say the future is here and it's not the futures' fault we can't live up to it's promise. We have the ability to communicate with anyone, anywhere in the planet nestled in our pocket. And what do we choose to use it for? Updating the entire world with our current status in 140 characters or less. The whole world is listening and there are a plethora of beautiful languages to use each with a array of emotions of expressions which they can elegantly convey and what do we choose? Text-speak.

"LOL 4GOT BOUT THT! C U L8TER!!!!!!!!!"

(By the way, is it just me, or is text speak worryingly close the the 'Newspeak' doubletalk in George Orwells 1984? Double plus good!)

Is it any wonder that Gods abandoned us? In the old days he used to appear to moses in a burning bush now he'd have to have a website, line of merchandising and eight million followers on Twitter.



THE BIG CHEESE: Quite angry about everything. Which part of 'Thou shalt not kill' did you misunderstand? Thinking about sending another flood.












The future is all around us. From the Colombian free-range fair-trade roasted hazelnut coffee you're sipping to the Chinese sweat shop produced Spongebob Squarepants pajamas you're currently lounging in. Your wardrobe and beverage have traversed more of the globe than you have.

I'm told we get the future we deserve, but I think the future got the raw deal here.

This, is how we roll.

Notice:

The new Doritos flavour is 'AWESOME'. That is all.

Football, bloody football.

It's the beginning of the football season today, soccer to our American Friends, and The premiership is now the most watched and richest football league in the world. Great. Another 260 days of bloody soccer, unable to join in any conversation with starts with the words; "Did you see the football at the weekend?"

I don't know, I just find it very hard to care passionately about a game I love to play when its populated with overpaid winging crybabies.

It's also the strangest thing I find that the fans are so besotted with the idea of 'their' team that they don't acknowledge that most of their players couldn't even find the town they're playing for on a map.

I could understand it if the players were mostly local or even from the same country! But when you look at your Chelsea's and your Liverpool's and you can hardly pronounce half of the names of the back of the overpriced shirts you have to ask 'how involved with the club I love are they?'

I have a good friend that has been a Manchester City fan all his life. Season ticket, away games the whole lot. He always used to deride their local rivals Manchester United for their spending sprees and lack of local talent. Well now his beloved city have an Arab owner and are buying up pricey players like a fat man at an ice bun sale. He did the only honourable thing and stopped supporting city.

He now put his whole-hearted support behind Rhyl football club which is I suppose as grass roots as it gets. Half of the players use the local gym I go to and all live or come from this area.

Now I'm not a football fan, I used to enjoy it more because my friends in Liverpool were passionate about it but now, having moved on from that circle I just fail to see the point to be honest with you. It doesn't move me the way a line break or a sweeping back line does in Rugby. It doesn't seem physical enough to roll around on the floor in agony to play on the sympathies of the ref.

But those are just my own opinions which I fully accept I am in the minority. It is weird though whenever you meet a new bloke and you explain you're not really into football they look at you like you've got two heads.

Big pimping- the return!

Weekend

Started the weekend in fine style with poker, Mexican food and beer at Caroline and Robs. It took a round or two to get back into the idea of the game and then it was all about the big blind raising holding and ultimately, in my case, losing. I didn't win but I didn't bow out first either which I feel is important.

No money exchanged hands but we all had a great laugh and some lovely chili.

Then the next morning we headed out and walked from Our house in Rhyl to the Train station in Colwyn Bay along the coast. There's a proper coastal path running all the way from Prestatyn to Llandudno but our route was a respectable 11-ish miles which I think will do for a first time out!

Sunday we went to a medieval festival in Bodelwyddan castle which was ace. the best thing were the different groups of archers they had doing longbow exhibitions. everyone was really approachable and it was great to have a bit of a chat with everyone.

Highly satisfactory.

Breakfast!

Llion likes poker.

Bunker

In the basement beneath where I work there is a nuclear bunker.

It feels odd even typing this, as the nuclear threat has moved on from total global catastrophe to localised single explosion worries. North Korea, Iran etc we are all told that these are where the new nuclear threat comes from not the great Russian bear.

But back when men were real men and they had bushy moustaches and briar pipes, the Nuclear Holocaust was viewed as almost inevitable and we had to make plans for it. The wine cellars in the old mansion house where I work were re-enforced and had a binding coating over the interior surface to hold the brickwork together from any concussive force.

You open a door that looks almost identical to any other in the office and this leads to a narrow set of stairs which ends in a foot thick blast door. This immense portal swings easily open thanks to a counterweight mechanism but you still can't help noticing the enormous steel bolts and latches which would hold out the unwanted plebs once the bombs had started to fall.

This little corner of North Wales certainly wouldn't be on any ones primary nuclear strike lists and it's doubtful we would have made the secondary or tertiary lists either unless the Russians really considered Conwys Mussel farming as vital to the UKs Economy. So we be hit much by the radiation which would be spreading out from places like Liverpool and Manchester to the east and probably from RAF Valley on Anglesey to the west.

So the number of dying but not yet dead would be massive they would be on the outside of the door banging and wailing to be let in and you'd be stuck inside afraid to open the door for what they or the radiation would do to you.

Past the first door there is a small shower area, I imagine to wash off radiation suits rather than actual skin, and then there is a second slightly larger door. This gateway to the inner sanctum, like all the doors down there is outlined with fluorescent tape so when the lights go off you can see the after images of the doorways for a great deal of time. Of course the glowing fades after a day or so with no new light to recharge it so its not a long term solution for when the power goes off. Once into the bunker proper you can see the three large water tanks that can be filled and then sealed from the mains supply in a mater of minutes and the air filtration system that pumps and filters clean air in and old air out. These things are expensive though so there's no backups so you'd better pray that this one has been well maintained.

Then there's a series of rooms about the size of a small three bedroom flat, hardly the sort of place where you'd want to spend the rest of your years waiting the twenty odd years it would take the radiation to die down. I don't imagine the diet of dehydrated meals and vitamin pills would do much for you either.

Weekend of fun.

Friday was much fun, the boys came around and it was time for a Chinese takeaway and movie (Watchmen). Great food and the film was interesting rather than good. Its based very closely on the book to the point where if you haven't read the book I don't think you've got much of a hope of following what's going on. You'll just have to look at the pretty pictures and it certainly is very well shot. Although THAT scene in the Airship was a little too realistic for comfortable viewing with family members.

Saturday was all about Chris and Dave's BBQ (The mother and father in law)they hold a BBQ in the summer and a new years eve party every year. This one was especially important as it was a goodbye BBQ for Vicky who's off halfway around the world to new Zealand for 9 months. Coals were lit, beers were consumed, steaks were cooked and consumed with relish. It was great to see everyone, including my nephews and niece. Jake, the youngest, has grown up so much since I last saw him, hes certainly a runner, scurrying around everywhere. He also likes waltzing around the garden with his uncle which was so cute. Broody? Me? Never! ;)

Sunday has been spent paying for Saturday night. Someone handed me a drink called a Jager-bomb which I later found out is a shot of jagermeister in an energy drink. Yes, I should really have stuck to the beer.