No talk of Liverpool. No talk of getting destroyed. No talk of celebrities. No talk of a rat race. No talk of film premieres. No talk of grand schemes. No talk of James fucking Blunt. No talk of Q Bar.
It's still my week off, let me see it through undistracted by inanities. Plenty of time for that craic come Wednesday.
Have spent the last few days 'away from it all,' a concept which is surely to become the copyright of Time Warner before the year is complete. There I go again. Pretty fucked off with corporate husbandry if you hadn't guessed. Why?
Because I've been in Dingle, a Mecca for those left spiritually bereft by the goings-on of Noughties Ireland. 5X asked me for a full report. Well, when the air is clear, save for rainwater spray and waftings from the many fish purveyors, and there isn't a luminous yellow raincoat for miles around (affixed to some gormless American tourist looking for some bird called Anne Dangen) you're in a happy place.
Myself and the matriarch took ourselves down on Saturday afternoon.
She rested on arrival, I went off wandering the by-ways and in-roads of my ancestors. No.6, Grey's Lane, to any future biographers.
It was into Hannie Agnes' for a swift stout and then likewise to the unfortunately named Dingle Pub. Black gold indeed.
The food in Lord Baker's pub and restaurent was pricey but better than any I've tested on this isle bar one, Blair's Cove in West Cork. I had steaming crab claws followed by the loin of lamb if you please. Delicious. I can say the same about the sole. Bring plenty of cash though.
Then to O'Flaherty's, a disarming place if a little diddly-aye on the night. I went there in the hope that Fergus, the proprietor, would sing, but it was later divulged that it was instrumental and low-key due to a "sad funeral". I liked that.
Back then to Benner's Hotel and slumber, well oiled. We drove around Slea Head on Sunday morning, reinvigorated by a sturdy breakfast in the hotel dining room interrupted only by some rugby tosser called Lorcan with golf balls in his mouth, going on about how he was "so gonna take out the trash with 'torf next weekend". Tossbag.
I wanted to take more time but there was stuff that needed attention back here in Limerick, so our stay ended before it had truly begun. Really it was a reconnaisance mission, before I hand pick some willing associates for my next jaunt.
Did I mention there's a pub every second step? Oh. I forgot. No talk of getting destroyed.
Post scriptum: I fully expect to hear "yeah, your latest entry was ok, but once again I didn't get a mention. I only like the ones where I'm mentioned." You know who you are, but I refuse to say. I'm a fucker like that.