Eddie Hobbs and Other Stories

Around June and July, when the sun sits slightly higher in the sky, and the deluges of rain abate to the degree that a man can go out in the yard for a sod of turf to throw on the fire without getting drenched from his receding hairline right down to his knackers, most normal folk think about getting away from it all. Be it a charter flight-jam packed with little tins of beer, large bellies redolent in Celtic jerseys, and copious amount of B.O. and screaming babies, a week in Bundoran with the Americans and four Euro pints (I'll come back to that in a bit), or dodging lady boys in Phuket, the holliers are a brief respite from the joys of nine-to-fivedom.

At chez Mooney however, ordinary is not in the vocabulary, which is why we take our leave in September, or later.

We've just returned from the UK. Exotic 'innit? A pleasant few days was spent in the company of relatives, who, despite their genetic ties to your scribe here, are a refreshingly normal bunch.

Enough of all that.

I'm sure that anyone out there who, like me, partakes of a few pints of gut-rot, smokes a few coffin nails, and has a carbon footprint the size of Alaska, is all too aware of how much these old reliables hit one in the fucking pocket. With that in mind, I'd hate to be a Brit. Those poor bastards have to pay nine Euro for a box of Mr. Players finest, and with their fuel prices, I'm surprised they're not all pootling around on Honda 50s like Bombay at rush hour.

Britain is fucking expensive, boys and girls. Yes, Mrs. Mooney found herself a nice few frocks, for reasonable money, no doubt due to the vast variety of shops, and healthy competition, but the average householder pays in a month (for "Service Charges") what we pay in a year for refuse and water. Pensioners have only had free travel for a couple of years, are not exempt from said service charges, and have miniscule state pensions. Eating out is ridiculously expensive, unless you like Chinese/Indian all-you-can-eat buffets. They were lovely.

The only upside that I could see to the whole ball of wax is that the Roundymobile did not encounter so much as a pothole the entire time, and we were introduced to a brand new concept called progress, on the roads that is. The road network in the UK, despite their whinging about it, should be the envy of the world. People over there can actually drive too, and you can anticipate the movement of other cars about you as you barrel down the outside lane of the M4 at 90 mph. Despite indignant murmurings from Uncle Gaybo( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gay_Byrne ), driving in Ireland at half that speed is a feverish activity as you attempt to gauge what the homicidal grandad in front of you is about to do next.

Eddie Hobbs ( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eddie_hobbs ), while admirable in his crusade for lower prices, doesn't know how lucky we are.

I never thought I'd say it, but, bad and all as this place is, it could be worse...