Dublin Noir

Irish eyes were smiling Saturday night.

Not Sunday morning, God knows.

Somewhere between the two, I find myself alone on the streets of Dublin, bleeding Guinness. As Irish as a Galway swan.

The Celtic Tiger roars.

Tourists clutter the Temple Bar. Locals complain. Heritage lost...

From page 123, paragraph 5:

"Dublin's the same. Temple Bar, I was down there the other week, it's full of coffee shops. Theme pubs. Feckin' yanks coming over here claiming they have ancestors from the feckin' bogs. You know what I say? I say feisigh do thóin féin, that's what I say".

I stumble on, searching for James Joyce’s grave. Want a lay down. All I find is a door that used to be his house.

So I settle for a seat at a dirty, worn-out pub. I sit and watch. Engrossed. Engaged. Emerged in Irish blood.

There are no leprechauns here. No bodhrans. Nobody says, “Top o’ the mornin’”.

It’s all shite.

Instead I hear stories. One is of a man who stole a can of Fanta from his boss. For that, he came close to having his penis removed and forced down his throat. It didn’t turn out that way, lucky for him.

I hear of an art thief. A feisty lout pretending to be American. No feckin way. He ended up with a bullet in the gullet.

Another sod goes to an Irish wake to cut off someone’s balls… but finds his mark is the one in the grave. He decides to go for the brother. He’s determined. Somebody’s balls will end up in his hands before the night is through… but he’ll never make it out alive.

The stories are disgusting. Tormenting. Repulsive.

Gripping. Compelling. Astonishing.

Dark.

Gritty.

Green.

Dublin Noir.

I wish thee… May you be in heaven half an hour before the Devil knows you’re dead.