Dirty old Dublin town

This blog post will not be new to anyone sees my Facebook updates.

However seeing as it concerns my bus journey to work, I want to store it in a more permanent and accessible location than Zuckerberg’s platform – I have vague notions of turning these accounts of my daily trek to the wastelands into a musical (called ‘Why Me?’ – the theme song will be a voiceover, by the angelic Linda Martin – aged 39.)

That last paragraph is not remotely true, except for wanting to compile stories of my bus journeys in a central location. People seem to enjoy these journeys far more than I do. And I can smell potential.

On Thursday morning I had a dental appointment. Afterwards feeling all tender, I made my way to the top of O’Connell Street, to reach the bus, to whisk me away to the nothingness of my work location. I turned left onto Parnell Street.

The gathered crowd and the wailing shrieks on the pavement outside the electronics store Cash Encounters, drew my attention.

What I witnessed was two security guards holding down a portly gentleman, who was lying prone, on the ground. How this had come to pass I have no idea.

He appeared to be in a terrible condition. Physically at least. There was nothing wrong with his voice though. Screaming blue murder about how he was unable to move thanks to injuries sustained during the unprovoked assault by the security staff. I was horrified. Surely if one was simply browsing electronic displays, one should be left to do so in peace?

His account was corroborated by an entourage of like-minded people (who possessed the same vacant stare and glassy eyes that he did. Unlike him however, they all appeared slightly malnourished.) They were all roaring about compensation, along with accusations that the security guards would have injured a baby – were it not for the grace of God that the baby wasn’t with her. Thank heavens for small mercies.

Then I got to thinking about where that baby actually was?

I quickly wiped that thought from my mind.

Their reaction was clearly justified.

Because otherwise the only explanation was that the security guards were in the right – that this group travelled in a pack, were caught shoplifting by the security (who they spoke to with a casual dusting of xenophobia), were dosed up on blueys, and in the mood for some compo for being apprehended, by claiming imaginary injuries.

The police arrived. For some reason they arrested the gent on the ground.

Jessica Fletcher needs to investigate. If what he was claiming about the security guards was true then this would be an egregious miscarriage of justice.

Call me cynical maybe, but I suspect he was lying.

I made my way to my bus, pursing my lips, clutching my pearls and tutting in disapproval.

I was rather pleased to see the new tramline in operation for the first time. It is still only being tested, but considering the state of the city centre while it was being constructed, it’s good to see it’s almost ready.

After work, on the journey home that evening, I was resting my eyes. Having left my book at home, and with the battery on my phone close to expiration I thought this was the  most pleasant course of action.

I heard the voice of a young man behind me, talking to his friend. I discreetly turned my head to see who was speaking. It was a Dublin gentleman in his 20s, in a workman’s outfit. He looked rather sturdy. I think I may have had feelings for him. I settled back into my seat and pretended to be asleep.

So our hero was out last weekend. As he is from the Northside of Dublin, I suspect the venue he attended was not the legendary Copperface Jacks – the Southside ‘nite klub’ that for decades has been uniting –  in passion-  rural nurses and policemen living in the big smoke. Well, he was so locked that while he can remember being intimate in the club with that chick, he can’t remember the specifics of how they met. They certainly kissed. Of this he is certain. She followed him on Instagram. A Snapchat of the kiss was recorded (these modern apps sound awful).

The next day our studmuffin receives a phone call from the boyfriend of his fleeting amour. Said boyfriend is threatening to ‘slice’ our hero, for snogging his bird. It turns out his phone is synced with that of his girlfriend for photos and social media updates. This all sounds so sinister.

As our hero rightly pointed out in his True Blue Dub accent ‘How da fuk was I ta know dat she had a fella?’

I disembarked from the bus shaking my head. That tale will end in tears. Mark my words.

4 thoughts on “Dirty old Dublin town

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