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If I die this year, it will be on a bus

Take note. I have whizzed around this country by car. I have slid along it also. I have caught the train, the go bus, the bog taxi. I have caught six seater planes and no hostess planes that looked like they needed a hug and a plaster. I am now getting the bus. Not any bus, the national bus. Bus Eireann I Am Not A Happy Camper.

Why? Oh, let me tell you. You alight your rip off plane trauma at Dub Airport, the one where they want to charge you 40 euro for a few dildos and shoes, and slide off into the airport like an obedient lamb. To wander, much like a lamb in spring, among numeric signs and uniformed people. I only want to go to Athlone, this should not be hard. I land at 9 and the express leaves at 10.20. All is peachy, hot tea and cold salmon await. Except...I meet the Helpful Irish Person. Who tells me of course that he drives a hopper...one to Athlone no less! And it leaves...at 9.30! I am in raptures. I am so chuffed I stow my own luggage smoke 12 cigarettes and promptly sleep for three hours. Which was no bother, as this City Hopper took three and a half hours to skirt Athlone. A funeral cortege would have been quicker. If I had left on the 10.20 I would still have got there earlier, without the profound mental scarring from happy couple tongue- tennis Americans and the various elderly pensioners in the dying throws of Emphysema or just the Plague. I would not have met Mrs Feenan and felt impelled to accompany her to her home on the bog, the one with no mobile signal and the son we dont talk about. I would not have felt the need to embrace my pseudo catholic self for the Season. I would not have to drag home the somewhat stale replica Eucharist or pay five thousand nuns for my salvation. Thank you, Bus Eireann :

And so I am safe in Dublin. I also wouldn't mind being ravished, if you don't mind

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