How's Yer Ould Wynyagog.....

It’s been a while. I’ve been in the Far East brushing up on my specialist black ops ninja training. By Far East I mean Stoke and by specialist black ops ninja training I mean working. It sounds a bit cooler if I say that way. My time is not my own these days as I’ve been somewhat promoted and I’m now surrounded by a bunch of cunts who are not content with their own time and always want some of mine. “Can I just check something with you..can you spare me five minutes…when you have a second can you explain this…” on anon ad nauseam. I was supposed to be working in Stoke all weekend and then fly from Manchester to Aberdeen this evening but to due to a spot of luck, partly brought on by in-competent staff and a sick machine, it was cancelled. So I had the joy of spending five long hours in Manchester airport Saturday afternoon waiting for a flight back to Dublin. Manchester airport is pretty big, second only to Heathrow and it was busy as fuck. The place was full of Muslims waiting for the arrival of loved ones. They all milled about in their garb and finery some carrying flowers others carrying necklaces of flowers not unlike those you see in Hawaii. Others had necklaces of Christmas style tinsel which I found confusing but amusing all the same. The females were great, all decked out head to toe in black Burqa style outfits. There were fuckin shitloads of them. It was like a Ninja convention. I sat and drank my coffee and watched as they waved and bobbed trying to catch the attention of whomever had just walked through the arrivals door. My thoughts instantly transferred to that person. I imagined walking through the door only be greeted by a vision of a throng of women lunging toward me. I mean how the fuck are you supposed to know who your family or friends are if all you can see from a distance is someone looking through a letter box. No offence like.

I was on the Luas the other night listening to two young louts having a conversation. Lout A was explaining to lout B how to get a Garda ID, “so he could buy da gargle like”. Lout A went on about having to get a birth cert and the hassle that was. “They ask you all sorts o’ bleedin questions, who yer ma’ was who yer da’ was where yer gaff was n’all.” His next sentence was priceless and it took all my strength not to laugh right into his face. “They ask ya wha’ yer ma’s maiden name was and even what yer da’s maiden name was. I don’t know me fookin da’s first name never mind his bleedin’ maiden name”. It reminded me of something I read somewhere once that in Australia your counted as royalty if you can trace your linage back to your father. So your man was no prince.