I’m standing by Stephen’s Green, right? There’s one of them open-topped double-deckers lying idle by the traffic lights. The poxy thing has broken down and there’s a gang of bleedin tourists getting pissed on, wet and shaggin’ miserable they are. Serves them right. Welcome to the Irish summer, you bunch of knobheads. While you’re here though, I’ll show you around. Let you take in the culture of the place, experience the real Dublin.
First off. See that shower over there? The clowns wearing the bright red football shirts with O2 on the front. They’re from Cork. They’re up here because their poxy county are playing us Dubs in the GAA. What’s the GAA, I hear you ask? It’s a sport we Irish play every summer. We tear bleedin’ lumps out of each other on a pitch. We gouge, stamp, thump, break, fight, swear and head-butt. If we manage to do all that to someone on the opposing team, all the bleedin’ better. It’s all so we can lift up Sam at the end of September. Sam is a trophy, the Sam Maguire Cup. The winning team gets to drink cheap cider from it and have bragging rights for a year. The Dubs haven’t won it since 1995. That’s because we’ve had a bunch of feckin’ muppets leading us on onto Croke Park. Couldn’t manage a fart, those wasters. Anyway, we’ll send them Cork heads home on Sunday evening, crying for their mammies, looking for the nearest A&E department. There will be blood. You mark my words.
Down there is Grafton Street. We’ve a Captain America’s restaurant on the right. It’s a burger place. There’s also McDonald’s, Burger King, Wimpy’s and Abrakebabra. You Yanks will feel right at home. You and your fat arses. Bet you only got your passports last week and came to Ireland to see lush green fields, full of freckled-face, red-haired maidens and oul lads in flat caps saying, “Soft day, thank God.” Well, bollocks to that. The maidens you’re looking for are down in ‘Copperface Jack’s’ getting bleedin’ hammered on your credit cards and traveller’s cheques.
Over there is ‘Bewley’s Oriental Cafe’. It’s called that because there’s a load of poxy Chinese working there. I dare you to go in and ask for a pot of Irish Breakfast. You’ll get a blank stare and a smell of curry. And that’s if you’re lucky.
Outside Bewley’s, there are the street performers. Or losers, as I call them. For those of you who’ve seen “Once”, they don’t all look like Glen Hansard. Half of the feckers think they should be on X-Factor. Simon bleedin’ Cowell would eat their livers with his melba toast.
Are yez having a good time over here? Anyone had their wallets stolen yet? I see some hands up there in the back. I bet you it was the Romanians that took them. They’re a class above the other scum-bags that have come over here. At least they dress colourfully. And some of the women you’d do yourself. Better than them feckin’ Pakis. You talk to one of them, you listen for a ticking clock. Sorry love, didn’t see you there. You must be one of the nice Pakis. You can sit down now.
At the end of Grafton Street you’ll find Trinity College. Those yokes with rich mammies and daddies go there to study Socio-Anthromorphological Sciences or other such muck. I haven’t a bog’s notion what it is either. If you ask me, anyone that goes there is a shirt-lifter. Pansies and lezzers. Fuckin’ half-wits. I went to tech, meself. Learned a decent craft. I’m a plumber. I earn thousands every week. I do loads of nixers while I claim the dole. Hey, I paid my taxes, so I’m entitled, aren’t I.
Where are you from? Germany? Don’t mention the war, right? Ve haff vays off making you tock! You don’t like that, do you? Well, fuck off back to Berlin then. And take Richard Kleidemann with you. Poxy foreigners. If you can’t take a bit of slagging, get back on your boat.
Yeah, what? Right, I’m off. Your tour guide is here. Don’t listen to a bleedin’ word she says. Full of shite, she’ll be. They’re all yours, love. Rather you than me. I’d have more fun at a bleedin’ cemetery. That’s where you should take them. Glasnevin Cemetery. It’s the dead centre of Dublin. Enjoy the rain, muppets.