8:10am, touched down in Cork airport and waited to clear off the cramped easyjet airbus A319 in a hurried yet orderly fashion. Stood around a stationary baggage carousel(sp?) for 15 minutes or so until it sprang into life and my bag appeared. Home & sleep for a few hours before travelling to Gort to pick up & bring home Trilo, the faithful mutt (that only snaps/growls at me a few times a week nowadays).
Ahh England. Or at least the England I know. The land of freshly baked pies in the morning, a pint of cool vimto over lunch and perhaps, if you’re feeling saucy, fish & chips for dinner. Real fish with real batter. Not that cardboard, stamped out crap we get over here. Also, it would seem, the land of hideously ugly inbreeds (or maybe that’s just down south). Obviously that hateful remark doesn’t stand for everyone, but it would seem that the chronically ratfaced among the community seem to like their multiplication. Despite this alarming statistic, I continued to walk my feet off during the course of the stay.
I visited a ‘historic dockyard’ and although it may sound frighteningly boring, spent the best part of 6 hours there, walking around it’s 80 acres, climbing aboard different ships, a submarine and even getting to grips with a wartime experience in a bona-fide bomb shelter. Down to Brighton and a stroll along the peer, dodging suspicious looking cross-dressers that seemed as if they were straight out of a “Little Britain” sketch. A bit of a seedy location to be sure.
Next to a Zoo of sorts. It was more like a maximum security version of Fota Wildlife Park, a big field with a few more fences than Fota itself. Suitably impressed with the Meerkats, Ring tailed lemurs and other such hairy beasts. Note; that doesn’t include the punters who were equally as hairy.
Now I find myself having to sort through some 1600 photos, hopefully from which I’ll derive at least 300 which are anyway decent to look at. I’ll probably end up posting most of them anyway, simply because they’re cool. Like the submarine ones, that was bitchin’. Anywho, I’m back and indeed, back at work. Time to put on the coffee and load up picassa.
Power Surges or Terrorism? I’m no electrician but power surges that can cause this kind of mayhem are few and far between.
Ireland may, but I sure as hell don’t believe in a mentally ill, dillusional, twisted freak of a celebrity. Now that he has been cleared, will we have yet more touchy feely Micheal Jackson songs rammed down our throats? Go back to the leather jacket, permed hair and oh yeah, being black.
After almost 80 years of campaigning to ban hunting with dogs, a ban has finally been put into effect as of 12 o’clock last night. Stiff lipped toffs have vowed to fight on to keep their gruesome hobby but it looks like it’s curtains for them and their horns. Even if it stops gobshites like the following for a week it’ll be a week of pure bliss for wildlife everywhere.
Graeme Worsley, 37 – joint master of the 250-year-old Old Surrey Burstow and West Kent Hunt – said: “We’re angry and upset. I had a knot in my throat, but it’s not the end. We killed four foxes today, a lot of fun.”
In a predictable turn of events, relieved foxes everywhere are finally returning to their normal lives and in fact have begun plotting hugely ironic revenge on the toffee-nosed gits that for 300 years brutally murdered their kind..
“Hey ma look… a cute little fox with a rabid badger on a lead.”
Rock on Foxy! Full story in The Mirror of all places