“Get tae fuck.” It was an hour from Edinburgh to Dublin, all cramped up in the belly of a Ryanair with attendants who didn’t bother to show us the escape doors. One of ’em had the pure blarney shite running free from his puss. I could tell he was a poof, likes. Graham Norton type, y’ken? Then the cunt of a cab driver, same old shite. A leprechaun with fuckin’ eyebrows on his cheeks. He skinned us out of most of my funny money and dropped us off on O’Connell Street. Best Western, the Dublin Royal. I wondered how royal a three-star could be, got my answer when I saw my room: not fuckin’ very. I dumped the Head bag and switched on the telly. Couple of channels, they wasn’t even speaking fuckin’ English. I lit a Bensons and cracked open the bottle of duty free. Jack Daniel’s. Took a swallie and put the bottle on the bedside cabinet. Looked out of the window, felt sick. Call this culture? Princes Street, that’s culture.
