Tales Of The Gurrier

Well holy God. You spend years writing about dirty bollixes and fucking bastards and gutting Ben Affleck with fish knives and devouring his kidneys, and not a peep from anyone. About dragging Michael Flatley through the streets and Samantha Mumba’s knickers. Vin Diesels wall of pants admittedly caused a bit of a stir, collecting the publicans of Dublin and boiling them in oil I don’t think anyone much cared about that. Killing yuppies with silage machines, whoortraps, bumferrets, Panamanian peg houses, horse steroids, clockwork houris, devil trees, phone sex and carnivorous squirrels? No one cared.

But one opinion about the possible socio-economic factors at work behind the causes of a riot and everyone takes it personally,well I did blame everyone perhaps that was my first mistake. Very well it is done, I can’t take it back.

Many people stopped by here yesterday to take a look. Some commented here and elsewhere. Many thought I was in the words of one commentator ‘a bolshie apologist.’ Well to those people I would say, READ THE FUCKING THING and also cheers, a good kick in the arse can do one a power of good. There I have vented. Also I am putting you all on the list.

Dublin is my city. Mine. I love this place, every filthy dirty stinking inch of it. I have lived here forever. And yes I hate it too. I hate it’s stinking streets and its poverty. Its horrible guts and garters on display for all to see. For me it will always be ‘The Filthy City’ not ‘Dear Auld Dirty Dublin’. An unsentimental view, a view with everything on display. Dublin speaks to me, she tells me things. Holds me close in that familiar fetid embrace, all rancid sweat and hairy armpits. All broken veins and rotten teeth, so close you can smell the whiskey and vinegar chips on her breath. She hugs me close and whispers secret things, terrible things and shows me things awful, awful things. Deadly things, visions of broken lives and fevered dreams.

Abroad on the streets of Dublin I have seen all manner of grotesquery, dead dogs and cats and birds and rats and a horse or two. Smack heads shooting heroin into their toes on Wicklow street, Corpses pulled yellow and stinking from the Grand canal, skangers riding each other on the forty acres as families strolled by, cars torched on Chancery street by twelve year olds, tramps fucking on Ormond quay, mental patients flashing their fannys on the Navan road, prostitutes and rent boys peddling their arses and their humanity, women robbed and men beaten, children begging and people dead in car parks. I’ve been spat on and cursed and hit and abused, I’ve seen blood and puke and shit and death and now flames on the streets of my city. But I will not fucking hate them do you hear me, I will not fucking hate.

And when stupid moronic gobshites give vent to their petty fucking rage, vent to their pitiful fucking lives. I gaze in terrified craven fear and I think I’m glad that’s not me. I’m glad I’m not one of those fucked up pricks who spend their wasted lives sucking dumbly on aerosols and glue, sloshing rancid cider into their slack jawed mouths until their livers grow swollen and burst. Pitiful fuckwits who cover their bodies in pathetic tattoos and cheap gold. Who have brutal joyless sex with Jacintas and Michelles in Tescos carpark and spawn yet more snot faced, mewling whelps with nothing but the same desperate pathetic futures in front of them. Who flee unheeding through the endless vacuous nothing of their lives through crime and casual violence ending it in the Joy, or crippled with drug or alcohol addiction or become grandparents at twenty five or spend a lifetime on the dole, or whatever drudgery awaits. That is the sum of their lives but I will not hate them. That is their lot and their responsibility but I will not fucking hate them do you hear me.

I will laugh at them, I will lampoon them, I will poke fun and I will satirise them but I will not hate them. Hate is reserved for the truly deserving. The true scumbags who walk amongst us. The mealy mouthed politician who shucks and jives and dances a jig and changes nothing, and does nothing and wastes and wastes and wastes every opportunity for change, the greed maddened purveyors of culture who would denegrate our lives with their lies and useless vapid consumerism. Give them a voice and I will hate them, give them a spokeperson and I will hate them, give them a political party and I will hate every last drop of stupidity in them.

I cannot hate a man for being dumb.

P.S. I will take your collective silence to mean you approve of the Affleck plan. Very well I shall proceed.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, February 28th, 2006 at 8:12 pm and is filed under Bloggery, Dublin. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.