On Friday, I decided I’d had it. Must everything be better here?
That the Guinness would be better, I expected. I knew that.
The chat and the music: they’re always better here, and that’s why I’ve been continuing to come to Ireland at least once a year since 1991. Not to mention the men, but my preferences in that regard are obvious by now.
I could handle the fact that the bread is fresher, more fluffy, less sugary, and never tastes like plastic-laced cardboard.
I’ve even been getting used to the fact that the coffee is delicious just about everywhere you go.
The cream buns at Quigley‘s in Nenagh--so good I can’t even talk about them.
And I did accept, albeit with a great measure of resent, that the Special K With Red Berries has not one, but three, varieties of berries, and there are many more of them per bowl, and they’re all huge.
But here’s the one that took the camel down: Even the HAIRDRYERS ARE BETTER.They work faster. Listen, I'm the kind of person who goes to bed with their clothes on to save time getting dressed the next morning. With my American hairdryer, it takes about 20 minutes to dry my hair. So I don't bother. Here, it took five minutes. That just killed me.
I complained to Granda Pat. Why do Americans put up with such terrible quality?
Granda Pat, who is fond of metaphor (to put it mildly), said it’s like the man who trained the dog. Wipe that look off your face. I’ll explain this to you.
The man trained his dog by giving him a pound of beef the first day. The second day, the dog got 15 oz. The third day, down an ounce again to 14, until at two and a half weeks, he could replace the meat with shite and the dog didn’t even notice. Problem is, Pat adds, once he got the dog trained, he died.
Folks, our collective Special K is berry-less. And why the lack of public outcry? I always wonder.
Competition, Pat says. Hm. American competition: See who can provide absolutely no quality at all at such a low price that we don’t even notice its absence.
Alas. That’s the way it is. We’re back in Dublin after three days in Tipperary, which included a visit to the Rock of Cashel, a stop in an old stomping ground for me (Thurles… more on that in a subsequent entry…), a night out with a raucous session that mixed blues, Bob Dylan, The Cure, Cameo (Oh, yes… remember “Word Up” from the ’80s… and imagine it on acoustic guitar, in a pub in Ireland…), rather large hangover, and a long drive back to Dublin.
Which is where we are now. At the moment, there’s a going-away party getting into gear downstairs….Bags are packed and we’re leaving tomorrow. Must enjoy the night!