The Dukes Guide To Ireland Part One
Please Note - The Following Has Been Compiled With The Help And Guidance Of Several Intelligent Persons, Some Of Whom Have Very Long Names, And One Who Has Outlandish Facial Hair. Also, They Sometimes Smoke Pipes.
It happens every summer. The Duke takes a walk down the street, maybe to pick up some obscure horror shenanigans with which to assault mine taste-glands and also to serve as weaponry for my verbal assaults on the world of Filmic Affairs, and there, standing in the pouring rain, clutching maps and little books that tell of the lineage of McKillop or Greer or O'Donaghan, stand soaked and disgruntled tourists, pointing at the site where their Great Uncle Garret once lived, a site now inhabited by a lingerie store. And then, just as I walk past, they look at me, and their eyes tell horrific tales of transatlantic voyages and hours spent surfing Mormon websites in hunt of their ancestry, and this is the result. The spot which once held their Great Uncle Garret's marble collection is now replaced by some attractive underwear, sometimes with bits cut out the front so as you can get all horny and such.
They look at me, and without speaking, they say, "Why, Duke? Why have you let this happen?" As if it was The Duke's fault that their Great Uncle was raised on a shitty street in the arse-end of nowhere. As if it was my fault, like I travelled back in time and impregnated their Great Great Granny Beth, just so they would end up trekking around the globe in order to stand knee-deep in puddles looking at a mannequin decked out in red pants.
It's not The Duke's fault, man. Don't unload your genealogical angst on me, motherfucker.
But The Duke has never been one to just let things pass by without offering a solution of some kind. You may recall my efforts to end apartheid, or this time when I pulled a few walls down in Berlin. So here, then, is my guide to Ireland, so that you might not be torn apart with the force of your hopes deflating, upon setting foot on mine street.
Ireland, contrary to popular belief, isn't all leprechauns and terrorists and rainbows what have golden nuggets at the end of them. Chase rainbows all you want, be you in Killkenny or Kilraughts, but all you're gonna end up with is shit all over your over-priced Wellingtons. Once The Duke trekked across four mountain tops in order to lay his digits upon such a shimmering reward. Did I get it? No, I got piles on account of falling on my arse in the middle of a slurry-drenched field.
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