Chapter 3. In which nothing happens… more than twice.

So having successfully navigated the autostrada of death we finally arrived in our Trullo del Ulivo nestled deep in the ancient olive groves just outside Locorotundo.

We’re home.

Basking in the gentle embrace of a Puglian summer evening on our secluded patio, listening to the sounds of the countryside and indulging in rich red wine, this is what holidays are meant to be.

Not for us adrenaline fueled thrill seeking, early morning workouts or even sanctimonious sun salutes. Nope. Holiday time Mac-style is about doing nothing. With style.

We like to call it extreme lounging. And this destination permitted us to refine the concept to new-found depths.

The extent of our exigencies consisted of the daily 50 metre trek to our almost-private pool carrying as much beer, prosecco and fags as possible in order to obviate a return trip. We also exerted ourselves for an occasional vineyard tour, a sunset view in Cisternino – one of the many picture-perfect white washed hill towns in the region – and a convivial reunion lunch with local friends we met on a previous visit.

Puglia, with its laid back, laissez-faire attitude, its simple but sumptuous gastronomy,  its reluctance to pander to package-holiday-picture-on-the-menu profit is the perfect destination for us.

And for anyone with a sense of adventure (without extreme physical exertion), anyone who appreciates great food and wine (without the attitude) accompanied by breathtaking sunsets, anyone willing to put in the effort to get to know locals despite language barriers and of course anyone willing to take their lives in their hands on the Italian motorways.

Go soon, before some celebrity or self-styled “travel influencer” discovers it and ruins it for the rest of us…

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“I remember every little thing as if it happened yesterday … “

Frustration.

Frustration of living in a country where the sun is a hot commodity (pun intended), and those days are taken advantage of by the entire Irish population. Everyone emerges, to find a nice piece of grass or make a pilgrimage to the nearest coastline in order to soak up every bit of that vital vitamin D.

We book a holiday where those rays are more of a guarantee than wishful thinking.

***

Resentment, unable to take advantage of the warmth at home when you’ll be stuck traveling and at the airport most of the day.

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Arriving extra early, so the Yankee can get her visa checked, as if she isn’t enough of a pain in the ass … this means extra time at the International Hub of Travellers. To our luck, if you will, there’s an outdoor beer garden; which goes without saying – race to the deck.

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Eat up every sunray we can get our bodies on.

***

Anticipation.

We’ve had this holiday booked since March, and the day has finally come to jet set down south, where the sun is a little warmer, the beer a little colder, and the time a little slower. We’ve waited four months, so why does a three-hour plane ride seem so grueling? Oh, yeah … that hour drive from the airport down to our trulli amongst those pazzo Italian drivers late at night.

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 We land and the nervous driving ensues …

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In the wrong direction …

Add an extra 15 minutes …

PSA: Don’t let men navigate. It’s not one of their strengths.

In the right direction, we finally arrive… relief. 

It’s officially holiday time.

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“i once wanted to become an atheist, but i gave up, they have no holidays”

itz nice to holiday and itz nice to leave your country and itz especially nice to leave Ireland come July. The weather here can be ‘iffy’ and come the summer one is bored with the cultural war waged on our past through the medium of print, radio, television and social media …

itzza drag, man …

so … itz nice to get away

and we got away …

to Itlee, we went Puglia …

again …

and ittwaz wonderful …

again …

***

… leaving onna Monday with weather so fine, we felt cheated, as we’d paid RyanAir & Airb’n’b for a guaranteed week of sunnie days and clear nights, but listening to Ireland’s Own Radio Moscow earlie that morning, our forecaster told us of two days of warmth and blue skies in Dublin, days where one could see the yellow disc of comfort cross our translucent ceiling of heaven and we were …

DAMN! we shuddah flown Wednesday!

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… but we cuddint as thanks to our Low Fares Airline we had to fly that day and it was gonna be one long journey travelling to Southern Itlee …

so it was …

 

 

 

 

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“Death was in the atmosphere. Only the yellow weeds in the meadow were excited by living.”

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“Oh to be in Doonaree, with the sweetheart I once knew
To stroll in the shade of the leafy glade where the rhododendrons grew
To sit with my love on the bridge above, the rippling waterfall
To go back home, never more to roam, is my dearest wish of all”

Eilish Boland

the day awakes early this time of year with birdsong and the sound of what we once called lorries slowly turning left toward Dublin, the rev of their engines increase as they pass our bungalow at the top of the town and we hear the morning alarm, aware its either time to get up or stay in bed a little longer.

Some of us decide to make covfefe and others dream of the lottery and their truth that someone else will prepare it.

looking out the window of the good room, opposite the old church, itz clear the town is quiet this time of now. It’s empty. The business houses lie vacant, and nobody walks the streets. Cars approach the red hall and turn south toward Metropolis, and the news of election goes unnoticed in the background and the town takes itz time to rise as the BIG clouds of Cavan pass by.

by nine nothing mutch has changed. The HGVs continue to rumble south on the left hand side offa wide church street and the country cars of Enniskeen maintain their exodus and i’d like to think i’m happy i live in Dublin but the truth is i’d rather be at home.

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March Madness

womens-march

It’s been hailed as a triumph of democracy, but we have to wonder how worldwide demonstrations against a democratically elected President, who has just taken office can indeed be deemed anything but sour grapes by a bunch of sore losers.

And further why, if they felt so strongly on the matter,they didn’t express their views at, that ultimate embodiment of democracy, the ballot box?

One could also question the endgame of these high profile protest marches.

Are they an indictment of an elected official who has yet to do anything substantive?

Or are they just the tiresome bleetings of the perennially offended?

Their tendentious rhetoric about unity belies the sinister purpose behind these marches, which is to undermine the democratic process and perpetuate division in a society that has already made its choice.

The reality is that the marches were instigated by a concatenation of self-righteous interest groups as diverse as Pro-Abortion, Amnesty, Socialism, Anti-Water Charges, Gay Rights, Hollywood elites, Militant Feminism and common-or-garden Anarchism.

Get over it guys. You lost. And your priggish, sanctimonious and ultimately fatuous protesting just goes to illustrate precisely why that happened.

 

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Alt right now, baby it’s alt right now.

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Yesterday the world tipped on its axis.

The Irish Times, the self-styled paper of record, the propaganda machine of the liberal compassionati in Ireland, strayed from the party line and had the audacity to publish a relatively anodyne article from an unknown contributor Nicholas Pell, a lexicon of the Alt-Right.

This piece was ostensibly intended to elucidate the sinister subterranean phenomenon behind Brexit and the ascension of Donald Trump.

Instead it provoked a tsunami of outrage and much wringing of hands on the part of the Liberal plutocracy.

They felt betrayed. They felt threatened. They felt righteous anger. They threatened to boycott the paper. Ironically, if the numbers who claimed they would no longer purchase the paper in print or digital form were actually doing so, the publication would not now be facing extinction!

Immediately, the backtracking commenced. The paper issued half-hearted justifications for the article and offered up a hapless opinion editor to try and explain their rationale. Una Mulally, their trenchant attack dog (and a perennial favourite of this blog) broke ranks and vehemently condemned the piece (somehow entirely distancing herself from the publication that pays her generous wages).

This was closely followed by Amnesty International’s Man for all Causes, Colm O’Gorman who appeared on national radio spewing righteous indignation and more outrage. Amusingly his biggest concern was that the article’s definition of “snowflake” was inaccurate.

So what did we learn from this shit-storm in a champagne flute?

Firstly, the Liberal Left’s dominance of Irish media is so absolute that even such a minor deviation from the prevailing narrative is unconscionable.

Secondly, it’s clear that there is no appetite for meaningful debate in Irish life. O’Gorman conceded that he would welcome an informed opinion piece on the Alt-Right but only if it was scripted by a bona-fide Liberal who painted them as the villains they manifestly are.

Thirdly,  nothing is funnier than watching the mouthpiece of the Liberal Left having to defend against accusations of fascism, racism and hate crimes.

The Indo’s Ian O’Doherty put it best “Let’s be honest, the idea of @IrishTimes being boycotted because of its racist alt-right pieces is, by any measure, fucking hilarious”.

 

 

 

 

 

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“. . . but! i don’t want comfort! I WANT GOD! i want poetry, i want danger, i want freedom, i want goodness, i want sin . . .”

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I remember the day Nelson Mandela was released from prison, I think it was the weekend and for sure I was in my Grand Uncle’s house just two minutes from where I lived.  It was a sunnie day in Cavan and it was a sunnie day in South Africa, and Monsignor Mackin told me to recognise the day that was initt; a wronged man was free.

I loved that old uncle of mine and to this day eyve never forgotten him, a man’s man, which was something to be back then, but nothing to be proud of today.  Two weeks after he died in the Autumn of 1991 I hadda dream where he was alive and it was so real and convincing eyve never doubted the existence of an afterlife since.

* * *

What stuck with me from that day; was that justice will always win, that the wronged will (eventually) be righted, and that time always finds a balance; a proposition I wholeheartedly agree with and yet eyem troubled by the case of Geert Wilders who went on trial, last Friday for allegedly inciting hatred against the Dutch Moroccan minority.  This is a man who fights legally against the orthodoxy of his day and now finds himself in the position of possible imprisonment and I just don’t think this is fair or just, as I believed we had laws favouring freedom of speech, statutes facilitating flexibility of speculation and I see that this is not the case; we only have punishment for those with heretical views toward the beliefs of the modern state.

And what gets me is that no NGO’s stand with him, helping to defend his viewpoint, “itz obviously wrong” and thatz whatz annoying, if you hold the wrong convictions; you’re on your own.

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The Chain of Wedlock is so Heavy that it takes Two to Carry it – Sometimes Three

i woke up slightly hungover on the day i was to marry, and was nervous as my life would change that Thursday, either for the good or for the bad and eyem happie to type that it turned out just fine.

Happie Anniversarie Moo Moo x x x

 

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It is harder to fight against pleasure than against anger.

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“. . . There’s a battle outside and it’s ragin’,

it’ll soon shake your windows and rattle your walls, For the Times they are a’Changin . . . ”

. . . wrote Blind Boy Grunt sometime in Autumn sixtie three, and it seems that the timez are a’changin once more, and as this time comes to pass, how soon wilitt bee that they change anew? For as long the sun sets, everything changes and nothing stands still.

Our times today belong to those who shout the loudest, for liberté, égalité et solidarité, words and ideas no-one can argue against, however the meaning and objectivity these sentiments profess have moved to encompass that of anything the warriors of justice pretend it to mean.

Their perception of freedom is anything goes so long as we say.

They own the idea of equality.

Solidarity is; FUCK YOU . . .

. . . and this is the basis of bliss?

The dismal imaginary place of yesteryear made flesh in the now is the goal of those who feel oppressed; the white male shall be slaughtered as the sperm whale is saved, the indigenous are obliged to feel misplaced as the alien arrives, the indoctrination of young will cease until we have our day! One (supposedly) dictatorial regime will fall only to be replaced by another more grim.

* * *

Three years to go and the wait continues for the one to sing the battle hymn of the new revolution, and the generation that worshipped at the altar of F.U.N.N. will be replaced by the one that finds offence in everything, helped by the atomised young whose distorted views, fuel the fires of separation that progressives profess to detest.

“ . . . The line it is drawn, the curse it is cast, The slow one now will later be fast, as the present now will later be past, The Order is rapidly fadin’. And the first one now will later be last,

For the Times they are a’Changin’ . . . “

 

 

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Lion Eyes

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I used to like Leo Varadkar. Back in the day when he challenged received wisdom, showed little tolerance for the flagrant excess of the public sector and gave away free Lion Bars when canvassing on the door steps of Dublin West.

But now he’s out of the closet, taking part in triathlons (boxers, not speedos in case anyone’s interested) and making a political career for himself by taking all the fun out of life.

First for the chop was tasty grub – I’m talking fast food, sweet treats, creamy desserts – the good stuff (I’m guessing that includes Lion Bars).

Now, he’s gone too far. He’s messing with our booze.

Goddamit, it’s an Irishman’s inalienable right to gorge himself on reasonably priced cheap plonk if he so desires. But no, says our saviour Leo. You shall only do so at exorbitant expense. A minimum of €9 for a bottle of vino, and €2 per can of Dutch Gold. Perish the thought. That’s a rite of passage for an entire generation obliterated in one fell swoop.

During the summer, myself and J Mac took a little trip to the Costa del Retired Irish Drug Dealers and were excessively diverted by the fact we could buy a bottle of Los Molinos for €2.40. The same bottle in our local SuperValu costs over €10.

So the Irish government is already ripping us off to the tune of around €7 per bottle, which also makes a mockery of their argument about over-consumption being indexed to price.

We have posted many times before on the terrifying spectre of the nanny state in this country but this really takes the biscuit. It won’t be long until all forms of alcohol consumption will carry a severe social stigma and the lycra-clad, Irish Times reading, tri-athlon running, quinoa eating masses will condemn anyone who engages in such a boorish, destructive past-time.

Since we love to hold Scandinavia up as a shining beacon of civility and justice, it won’t be long before our beloved booze is displayed behind glass counters with rigid purchase quotas.

But don’t you know it’s for our own good. We’re just too stupid (or intoxicated) to realise it.

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