When the divorce was finalised all she left him was his famous clump,
It’s the first first Mrs TheDonald wife of the apocalypse, Ivana “Humpalot” Trump!
She’s looking pretty got-her-shit-together right now ain’t she? He’s very divorceable.
This past week we were largely in Ireland, bothering my family and travelling the west coast.
We flew into Shannon Airport on Wednesday morning, a site of some controversy in Ireland as the US military has been flying secret prisoners through there since the Noughties. Flying AerLingus is marginally better than flying Air-CIA where you do get to have food if you have some spare change on you but you miss out on the physical abuse and sexual degradation. Which I guess could be seen as a bad thing.
Pictured: A real Saucy Sue
Incidentally, a big hello to the CIA assuming you’re reading, your romantic other-halfs are all deeply unfulfilled (FYI).
We travelled from the airport in our trusty steed. Sorry. Autocorrect.
We travelled from the airport in our crusty turd.
It was (and maybe still is) a Seat Mii. Mii oh my it was a bad car. Bare metal on the inside of the doors (can a brother get some plastic panelling?), unelectrified windows, unelectrified sidemirrors (there was like a weird button that if you worked it like a prom date you could make them wobble a bit), no park setting in the automatic gearbox (you just had to utter “stay put you bitch” under your breath) and a 95 year old Filipina woman under the bonnet, organs failing en masse if it hit 35 miles an hour.
First on the trail was County Clare. The Banner County. The County between… nicer and objectively better counties. To quote top chum of mine Ladies Love Cool Ivan (as Meg refers to him) “all Clare has is hurling and limestone.”
Hurling form comes and goes, but the limestone. Lads, the limestone’ll keep.
Meg was driving as we climbed the coast, my full and blemishless licence is apparently not good enough for Thrifty. Gits. Anyway, Meg was readily frustrated with the surprises that Irish rural driving had in store. The roundabouts that she swerved wildly through, provoking hoots and beeps from the normally docile fellow road users. There was an auld fella hiding behind a a corner who was leaning his head so far into the road it looked like he was trying to get a high risk but low cost haircut. There was a small hatchback with two bales of hay that almost pushed Meg into the ditch. Finally, a guy just pulled out into oncoming traffic and gave Meg a rare earful, for one must assume, the funzies.
It’s pretty high-octane stuff out on the Clare roads. One guy was towing a dinghy.
Something else that struck us both while we crawled up amongst the static monoliths and swervy tractors was the interminable nature of Irish radio. The DJ’s are allergic to music. You will average maybe one song per 14 minutes, the rest of the time is filled up with inane waffle, intros for other, better songs that you won’t get to hear and adverts for low-key local businesses.
“Welcome to the Wick Hut, for all your candle-making supplies and paraphenalia. We’ve got candle wicks. A DVD of the Witches of Eastwick. T-shirts in extra small and extra large with the words “It’s wick to be square” and three other items. While stocks last.”
So some things that actually happened while we were listening to the radio.
A guy spent several minutes discussing the background of the recording of Gloria Gaynor’s classic, I Will Survive. “She was literally recording with a back brace on. It was completely make or break for her.” Then he played a completely unrelated song.
In the most long-winded way possible a DJ excruciatingly discussed a keynote work of MeatLoaf.
“Do you remember that song. I’ll be doing anything for love, but I wouldn’t be doin’ that meself. Ya see, the thing is about it like and this is always what got me thinking. He never did, in a clear way like, come out and say what the that was. It coulda been anything. Maybe one day we’ll spend a bit more time on it and try and get a clear answer to this one. Always wondered.”
While a DJ was chatting about a local festival someone on the line in another part of the country interjected loudly to tell about a fight that erupted between a bunch of militant vegans and German circus carnies.
“There’s three of them. They’re hitting her with a broom.”
“Uh… is she okay?”
“There’s three of them… they’ve got brooms!”
It went back and forth like this for ten minutes, while the chickenhead on the scene kept repeating the same information in a different order. “There’s 2+1 of them, they have a brush.” And so on.
“We know your nightmares. We find them… unimaginative.” Don’t mess with carnies.
Once we were done we shifted back to Kerry and had a couple of days with my side of the family. Ingrid’s work was quite high tempo so she wasn’t as relaxed as she might be at other times of the year. She sent us into the supermarket to buy ten bottles of gravy browning for work (“and no fucking about!”). As we came out after a long search (no one knew they stocked it) she swerved up to us, blocking a wheelchair access spot and honking furiously. Later I innocently commented on the stereotypically Scandinavian-sounding design brand she had purchased a new piece of furniture from.
“<under her breath>… fuck you”
I’m also pretty sure she may have referred to a GAA player as a “bullshit pony.”
In other news, my aforementioned dear mother was in Belgium last week and missed being in Brussels during the attack by hours.My vexation on this was increased by the fact that I go to Belgium pretty frequently (like 5-6 time last year) and I have colleagues there. Belgium is quite dull. The weather is no better than the UK. They don’t produce any wine as far as I know. It’s like a 5.5/10. But to do what they did (or as was done in Lahore, Paris, Beirut…) they are dummies. They are pricks.
Also, independent of that, don’t bomb my Mom. Cause I’ll run for office and make Pol Pot look like Trump. Or the other way around. I dunno. You’ve met me. It’ll be bad.
The Easter Rising though and all the civilians they shot. That’s obviously all great.
Tractoner of Leek