On the offchance the US is freaking you out then,
Consider how every bloody country has their arseholes e.g. Marine “plus mauvais que Papa” Le Pen.
As fun as it is to draw the correlation curve between the invention of baconaise and the rise of fascism in the land of the free(-dom fries), pretty much every country is one lunatic away from getting flushed into flag humping immigrant-bashing frenzy. The U.K., my adopted home is genuinely fomenting panic about STD-riddled foreign ladybugs, which I really thought would’ve only been an issue if you were trying to crack into an arthropod in the Biblical sense. So now we know.
Above: an image that would give the Daily Mail writing staff a ferocious pant-corn. As they say.
No more on that guff festival. Now to matters of substance. Matters like cake.
Meg and I were in the aul sod this weekend to get down to some of the more enjoyable parts of wedding planning. Wedding trivia- this my AND Megs first wedding. Hashtag meant-to-be right?
And no, no one uses # to mean hashtag anymore. I read it in Coolguy Weekly. There was also a useful guide to help your tailor hide your pant-corn with strategic deployment of a belt and handkerchief. Confession time, I’m the editor, graphic designer and target market for Coolguy Weekly. Mommy said it would make people be my friend.
Why did you lie to me Mommy?!
We got up on Saturday morning and hauled our sleepy bones to Gatwick (of Londons five international airports, it is by some margin the one that is most in Gatwick). As we shuffled along like cattle with coffee breath we noticed some auld lass who was chatting up these 5 surfer brahs on the moving walkway.
From the looks of things it was a heartwarming scene where some golden locked young bucks showed a little bit of chivalric attention to a lady who was getting on in years but was entertained by their youthful japery and even perhaps flirtatious tone. Hey. You know how on every one of those moving walkways there’s a recorded voice saying something like “hey, watch out turkeys, in 3 feet this thing turns into normal stationary ground so keep your head on a swivel.”
You can see where this is going.
As I looked at the lady’s face and wondered about the passing of time and how it changes us as people her face suddenly dropped out of view behind the shoulder of surfer brah number 3.
Cue pandemonium and exclamations more akin to the sinking of some ocean-going vessel “SHES GOING DOWN!” and the like. After it was clear she wasn’t going to leap up like some 11 year old Olympic gymnast (probably fed up on… monkey glands and midget pills) someone at the front screamed “push the button, where’s the button!” I stabbed at the emergency stop panel to stop any more holiday goers from stomping on her like wet boots on a welcome mat. I know guys, I’m a hero.
Hey Gandhi, ever stop a moving walkway to save a clumsy old woman? Course not. What an arsehole.
He was a saucy looking fecker though
She survived, with a mere grating of red scratches down her face and with a retinue of gawkers and well wishers providing her such vital advice as “I saw you fall” Meg and sidestepped the crowd and went for our plane.
We had cakes to taste.
After arriving and checking in we boarded the red line of the LUAS and headed for the appointment. For background, the LUAS is the tram system in Dublin and is divided into the green and red lines and because we are a sham of a country, these lines do not intersect at all. As the red line takes in a few of the more salty areas of the city (and I’m talking bacon in brine salty) it is known uncharitably as the “Bread Line.”
After wandering about a little we were ushered into an apartment on the outer edges of the city where for twenty minutes we proceeded to eat about three birthdays worth of cake. With each gooey morsel more intoxicating than the last we struggled to keep it together in at least moderating our critiques to nonsense like “maybe it’s too… obvious as a cake.” The winner was never a doubt as once I took my first bite my expression changed and I immediately looked over at Meg with sugar-fueled intensity.
Her expression was neutral like some kind of confectionary-obsessed assassin and I decided she must not share my burgeoning pant-corn that was forming for the cake in question. Indeed she simply hadn’t gotten to it yet, as when she took a bite she immediately looked at me, pant-corn in situ and decision made.
We had our cake, ate it, had your cake and ate that too. We also ate some macaroons that could have been anyone’s.
In other news the other big wedding move was our meal tasting at the venue, where we sat down and drank every single wine that we could choose for the menu and tasted every single option available for the food.
This was the starter. It was almost the bloody finisher too.
The night was very pleasant as we had all our positive memories of the venue and staff affirmed and massaged by a free wine list 16 bottles deep. We stayed nearby in Slane in the only hotel in that insanely small village and decided to taxi over and back so we could really cut loose. Two small issues emerged from this.
One was we realized we were slightly tight on cash as there is no ATM in Slane. Barely any frigging people either. 2 butcher shops. Weird place.
The second was we got utterly gouged by our taxi driver on the way to the venue. The git charged us for his journey from his house and kept rabbiting on about how he was “doing a favor” for the hotel.
These two issues meant we were slightly tight on cash for our taxi from the venue back to the hotel. I mentioned this to the co-ordinator who had agreed to call us a cab that we only had so much in Merkel-bucks on us.
Meg left for the toilet and she came up to me again just to reconfirm our limitation and then walked off to sort our transport.
Meg sat back down and we were approached a third time. “So if you just wait a few minutes, John (the general manager) will drive you home, you’re on his way.”
Megs mouth dropped open like an overhead luggage bin full of rocks. “Mark! What did you say! <grabs the co-ordinator> We’re not poor, we can afford it!”
She apologized for the suggestion and assured us it was an easy fix and not trouble for us to take the lift. Meg was, to use a Dublin phrasing – “scarleh” like a bride-to-be shaped raspberry.
All I know is I saved myself a sum in the low 10’s of Merkel-bucks. In other words… result.
Maccaroner of Leek