Skip to main content

On Becoming A Racist

I've decided to become a racist and it has nothing to do with the fact that I'm sitting in an internet cafe a few yards up from Checkpoint Charlie. After all, what could you dislike about the Germans? They're peaceful and organised and despite their reputation there are some who have a sense of humour. Using public transport is a dream; there's just not going to be a flaming arguement or a traveller family with the father praying out loud while the daughter listens to music blaring from her mobile phone. There are no hungover scangers bringing chips and burgers on board to smell out the carraige and it's quite uncommon for a bunch of youngsters to start their drinking binge on the train. So no, Germans are fine. I also couldn't fault the Africans. I recently took the bus from Galway to Dublin where I had to move seats to get away from the drunk Irishman beside me as he pissed his pants and it started to run across to my seat. I ended up beside a guy from the Congo. I got his life story and half his lunch. Then I realised a woman who I know from Cameroon was two seats behind me. She introduced me to another Camaroon guy who lives in Westport. He told me about what a wonderful place it was and what a great view he has from the window of the tiny room he shares with four other asylum seekers. I have a thing for positive people and he oozed it. His girlfriend was from the West Indies. She didn't talk much but I decided not to be racist against people from there purely on the basis of how pretty she was.
Somewhere between arriving in Dublin and getting to the airport, a strung out scanger tried to rob my bag, deterred only by me giving him a proper kick in the balls and then hitting his head with said bag.
So after a series of bad experiences with the Irish, ranging from the above mentioned to the pathetic hen and stag parties that have destroyed Galway, the politicians who told us lies bigger than an ageing prostitutes cunt and the poor builders wives who have to trade in their SUV's for Toyota Carollas.
The Irish are a ridiculous shower of  drunk freeloading wannabe anythings who turned their crock-a-gold into piss that doesn't even have a pot to piss in. All of them, and to be a proper racist I'll end this blog with the mandatory line of every racist I've ever come across:

I'm not a racist, but...

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

A Packet of Solpadeine and a Lecture Please

Years ago I was a respectable lady married to a nice German doctor, and it was he who brought to my attention that in Germany you can only buy pain killers in a chemist and not in a petrol station, pub or supermarket and that there was not a chance in hell that you could ever buy a pain killer with codeine in it directly from a pharmacy, which in Ireland, you can - Solpadeine.
Then a friend of mine who is a pharmacist told me that Solpadeine was her best seller. So lucrative were the sales that she did not have enough room to store the stuff in her pharmacy. But that was also back in the time when I was respectable, and in the meantime the Solpadeine police seem to be out on patrol.
Now if you ask me, I think it's pure madness to sell substances with codeine in them over the counter at a pharmacy, and I'm also a bit iffy about buying paracetemol in the supermarket, given that any 13 year old can go in and stock up on a drug that is lethal in relatively small doses. But there a…

The MoMa, a Beggar and my Limp

There’s a woman who walks up and down the streets around West 82nd and Amsterdam Avenue asking people if they’ll give her a dollar. I’d put her around 80. Small, wiry, bent, wispy hair. Brittle bird legs in black tights, but still a follower of fashion in a knit skirt with a tartan pattern, more the kind of skirt you might see on a 20-year-old Asian student. Pale pink lipstick, and a crimson red blouse topped with a cream overcoat despite the muggy August New York heat. I wonder what she does with the money she collects. She doesn’t look like she eats anything, can’t tell if she drinks. She’s sober when she pushes her trolley bag up and down 82nd, asking ‘do you have a dollar for me?’ I don’t give her one. I keep my dollars for the MoMa. My feet are killing me after walking into the city, but I’m scared of the subway. I did make a weak attempt, but have no idea what they mean by uptown and downtown. Both of these expressions mean the same thing where I come from: Uptown – as in, I’m…

The Now or the Nervous Breakdown?

There’s a thin line between reaching a state of inner peace comparable to that of a Buddhist monk and being bang on in the middle of a nervous breakdown. Thing is, I’m never sure which state I currently find myself in. It’s true that one feeds the other at times. You need to have a proper meltdown to let the storm settle and find your peace. And peace wouldn’t be peace if you didn’t allow the true tempest of this life to enter your accepting and non-judgemental state of whatever you want to call not letting stuff get to you.
The buzz word nowadays is ‘Mindfulness’. If I understand it correctly, it means that you should mind your mind, like think of it as a place where you set yourself up for feeling good or bad, and as with all of these pop psychology hits, it’s about living in the now. Like Buddhism it involves meditation and sitting cross legged on a straight-backed chair, and then you have to focus, focus, focus…
So far, I’m pretty good at not sweating the small stuff. I don’t worry…