Polar of Leek

He blinked out of existence after Dawsons Creek,


It’s talent-free, overly Caucasian, James Van Der “Least successful of the four” Beek

Well aren’t you a saucy fellow? All sitting there, reading my blog and such.

The past few days have been really busy and are only getting more so. Last weekend Meg and I wandered  over to Dublin for super-early Christmas dinner with the family. They’re all doing their own thing on the day this year, partially because Meg and myself will be ladelling scoops of maple syrup onto a moose-shin as goes the traditional Canuck Christmas. We hit all the standard Boyle-Dublin classics: wandering the shops in a merciless rain-blizzard; taking an unnecessarily circuitous route to Powerscourt garden centre (buying nothing, crucially) and straining our bladder walls with pot after pot of scalding tea.

It was nice.

In the week I had to pop into London for work. The crowd I work for are keen to buy a premises instead of renting any more, so I have been viewing offices for them. Some were in better shape than others.


It’s a real fixer upper. The smell? That would be turds.

The one I saw Wednesday used to be a nursing home up until two years ago when it was boarded up and they re-purposed it as the world’s premier destination for damp toilet-stank.

As I was led in, there were buckets everywhere collecting water sopping down from the ceiling.

“Umm, I don’t remember it raining recently. Where is all this water coming from? Is it coming from… inside?”

It was. It had also collapsed a lot of the ceiling. As we journeyed deeper there was a lot of sweary and confusing graffiti scrawled on the walls.

Some innocent enough of the sort: “Sharon luv Darren 4eva.”

Some less so with a rather more piquant and combative tone: “fooking Prime Shitister givin han-shandies to that Subsway Jard bassterd.”

After hiking up to the second floor and being enveloped by whiffiness of redoubled intensity, I noticed a bike through a doorway and a bottle of red wine on a table. Walking up to the doorway, there was a man sitting on an unmade bed wearing a crumpled suit and watching a huge flatscreen TV. He did not turn to look at me.

Turning to the team of real-estate turkeys that accompanied us, their memory was jogged “Oh yeah, that’s Thomas, he’s the guardian.”

A new one on me but it’s apparently a common, if resolutely depressing thing in London. Instead of paying a security company, let some destitute Phd. student live in your crumbling cack-magnet of a property so that if anyone does break in, they run the risk of extending their prison stay by being forced to murder the defenceless tenant. Think squatters with consent from the landlord and malevolent squeezing of value out of the inequality that is eating this country alive. Woo! <slumps>

As well as taking advantage of the overqualified and underpaid to add to and protect it’s horrifying stink, this hell-hole that people definitely died in was a grim reminder that humans, are not allowed to live in London. As the price for this was 4 million pounds.


That’s not to say that Saudi Princes aren’t human. Look at this loveable bastard.

At the end of the week we welcomed newlyweds Colleen and Steve to London for booze and food and booze. A fine time was had by all and we scooted home on the second last train like absolute mad yolks.

Once we were on the train, I popped to the bathroom to widdle out my piddle spout. As I returned to Meg I saw that someone had sat into our six-seat section facing her. Her head shot up, eyes meeting mine with panic akin to being chased by a polar bear with a machete. Clumsy image perhaps, but I’m watching a David Attenbourough thing as I write this and a bear is turning a seal inside out with her hands and it’s hard to conjure an image to compete with that. Unless of course the bear was heavily armed. Maybe a red bandana.

Anyway some local goober had sat down opposite her and engaged her in conversation on the recent massacres in Paris in the context of Northern Ireland.

I smiled and nodded  while he patronised me (Meg went immediately into a fake and subsequently real nap) with a proviso that of course I was too young to know anything about it and that there was nothing like it where I was from. Wherever the feck that was meant to be.

I mean, yes he could assume I was Canadian as my accent makes it sound like I was raised in the wild by a families of geeses mooses and hell even meeses (a secret Canadian insiders only animal). And probably a BBC cameraman or two on the evidence in front of me.


I would be 100% more badass, but 100% more used as bait.

But this goob was really bad at guessing where people were from. A young couple sat into our section after a minute or so, him white as a Van Der Beek, her obviously with some South-Asian heritage. The tool turned to her:

“Whoa! Are we in Jamaica or something?”

“I’m from London mate.”

She was also bombed and kept trying to pat her fellas private area and  when he blocked her a few times she just pawed his face. But was still a lot more with it than Goobs. As we approached our time of departure the announcement went out that “We shall soon be leaving London Waterloo.”

“What the fuck!? When did we get back here?”

“We never left.”

He finally asked me where I was from and was obviously taken aback to find out that despite being “Irish in his heart” his level of Irishness wasn’t really worth anything in the blue book of being a Paddy. He then waffled  on about France, not really making much sense at all.

“Man they’ve like decided a path. And when the hammer comes. It says  once, twice three times a Commie.”

Dumbass crap like that.

He also asked me:

“Do you have what it takes man, to hold the fire in your hand?”

To which my response was, now frowning at him “Well it depends on lots of stuff, like are you covered in petrol? Are you in a childrens home?”

“I’ve written shit man, shit that fucking terrifies me” <leans back nodding and staring>

Eventually after everyone stopped responding to him he got grousy and wandered off muttering: “I guess I’ll go sit down on the floor.”

Typical Jamaican… or something.

In other news, I’m off on the road this week. Hong Kong and mainland China via Istanbul. Anyone for some knock-off Kindle covers? Wait no, it’s too close to Christmas. I’ll save it till then. Buy a Kindle. Don’t make me a bad present giver.

Polar of Leek

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