I’m lucky enough to work in Dublin City Centre. It’s a fabulous place, powered by a charm and wit seldom seen in most modern cities.
I commute to work on public transport and am regularly exposed to a copious amount of interesting sights, hear all types of sounds (a ringtone playing a panpipe version of a Coldplay song, which is surely a contravention of the Geneva Convention) and smells on the bus.
One incident occurred a few years ago. I was on the bus when a young kid of about ten boarded. His arm was in a temporary sling and he was obviously in some pain. I kept a watching brief to ensure he was ok, but kept a distance. This distance was broached rather quickly by the distinctive smell of an impressive volume of vomit. Junior had managed to hurl an entire breakfast (Coco Pops, I believe) a considerable distance across the bus.
I went downstairs to point this out to the driver and he was very helpful, giving me cleaning papers and radioing base. I asked Sir Hurls-a-Lot if he was ok. His response made me shiver.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Sometimes I’m bad!”, he said tearfully. “Oh, fuck”, I thought. “I’m going to end up on a tv programme about battered children.”.
What Pukey Luke actually meant was that he occasionally suffered from travel sickness. He’d fallen down the stairs the previous evening. His mother, a nurse, had brought him to hospital the previous night. She was in work already and he was going to meet her to have the full injury assessed by a consultant.
It didn’t stop me nearly shitting myself.
I’m actually telling you this story in order to tell you another. I once witnessed a high speed Segway cop/Skanger pursuit.
That sentence needs to sit with you a bit. Re-read it. Yes, it does say that.
How did this occur? I’ll tell you, but you may be wondering what a skanger is.
Most cities have a version of this type. In the UK, they’re referred to as chavs. In the US they may have various names. Romantically, they could be classed as a 21st Century Artful Dodger. Ne’er do wells. Petty thieves, pickpockets and general gurriers (a great Dublin word, that). They tend to wear a uniform of very expensive trainers, tracksuits and baseball cap. Their movements tend to be of a jerky, furtive nature, not unlike a pigeon. As a matter of fact, hooking several up to a power grid could power small communities. They refer to people as “bud” or “pal”. Fair warning, they are neither your bud nor your pal. Conversations tend to be about “de Dubs” (Dublin’s gaelic football team), “gear” (drugs), “me oul wan” (mother), “yer man” (someone who isn’t them) or “dat cunt” (someone in who isn’t them whom they don’t like). They’re normally harmless, except during rutting season or on days that have any letter in them.
Anyway, as I said earlier, I commute by bus. In order to make this commute tolerable, I bring an iPod. This is to avoid other peoples taste in music. You know that tinny, high end sound? The one that sounds like a Mexican marching band being launched into a blender? That bugs me. As does people speaking into their mobile phones at a volume that is only acceptable whilst under fire in the Korean War while yelling into a radio that is not far removed from two cans and a piece of string.
“Romeo Foxtrot! This is Charlie Company! Say again! I repeat, say again! What did you think of the game last night?”
The use of an iPod allows me to use my imagination to fill in narratives and dialogue that I can’t hear.
Now for the story…
Recently, the Irish police, an Garda Síochána (Guardians of theGalaxy Peace) acquired Segways to patrol some pedestrianised areas around the main shopping street. These are about as effective as a steel wool vibrator - not comfortable and laughable when turned on. The poor Gardaí on them always seem embarrassed. “Shite”, they think, “I’m going to go on me fuckin’ ear on this piece of shite. It happened to George Bush. And the dozy bollox who owned the company drove one over a cliff. Hope me mates don’t see me. Or me oul wan.”.
Anyway, I’m walking down Grafton Street on the way to work. Approaching me, in a tweaky, furtive manner, is a skanger who has obviously been up to no good. Behind him, a store security guard has called over Robo-Segway Cop and is gesticulating frantically.
At this point, my imagination kicks in. I guess that Tristan (a name I’ll randomly give the ruffian) has pilfered something from the store. The cop sees a moment of heroism in his future. “Stand aside citizen!”, he says, “I am the law!”. He puts his hand/foot down. Tires squeal and smoke somewhere, but not here. Within minutes, the cop has reached half the speed of smell. The stealth pursuit is on.
The cop approaches Tristan, silently, like a ninja.
Exactly like a ninja….
but on a Segway…
and in Farah slacks.
He leans in to the wrongdoer and says something.
In my mind, and to this day, I hope he said “Pull over!”.
Tristan, disturbed from his nefarious ways, tries to put his foot down to get away. He realises he is not in a car. He darts right. He darts left. The cop sticks to his tail in a way only a person on a motorised vehicle following someone on foot can. Tristan pictures himself as Luke Skywalker trying to shake Darth Vader in the Death Star trench.
Unfortunately, he’s actually Biggs.
The cop makes “bee-baw” noises with his mouth, all the while rehearsing his telling of the story in a bar later. In a cloud of panic, Tristan veers left. He is astonished when his escape route is blocked by the sudden appearance of a 160 year old granite building.
The cop has him now. He pins our scallywag up against the building by reversing and and shooting forward the Segway, presumably making “vroom-vroom” noises.
Real police now appear. They remove the criminal mastermind. The cop trundles off, the theme tune from “Shaft” in his head.
He turns the corner. The music swells.
He drives into fresh hoseshit.
Another tale from the Naked City.
I commute to work on public transport and am regularly exposed to a copious amount of interesting sights, hear all types of sounds (a ringtone playing a panpipe version of a Coldplay song, which is surely a contravention of the Geneva Convention) and smells on the bus.
One incident occurred a few years ago. I was on the bus when a young kid of about ten boarded. His arm was in a temporary sling and he was obviously in some pain. I kept a watching brief to ensure he was ok, but kept a distance. This distance was broached rather quickly by the distinctive smell of an impressive volume of vomit. Junior had managed to hurl an entire breakfast (Coco Pops, I believe) a considerable distance across the bus.
I went downstairs to point this out to the driver and he was very helpful, giving me cleaning papers and radioing base. I asked Sir Hurls-a-Lot if he was ok. His response made me shiver.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Sometimes I’m bad!”, he said tearfully. “Oh, fuck”, I thought. “I’m going to end up on a tv programme about battered children.”.
What Pukey Luke actually meant was that he occasionally suffered from travel sickness. He’d fallen down the stairs the previous evening. His mother, a nurse, had brought him to hospital the previous night. She was in work already and he was going to meet her to have the full injury assessed by a consultant.
It didn’t stop me nearly shitting myself.
I’m actually telling you this story in order to tell you another. I once witnessed a high speed Segway cop/Skanger pursuit.
That sentence needs to sit with you a bit. Re-read it. Yes, it does say that.
How did this occur? I’ll tell you, but you may be wondering what a skanger is.
Most cities have a version of this type. In the UK, they’re referred to as chavs. In the US they may have various names. Romantically, they could be classed as a 21st Century Artful Dodger. Ne’er do wells. Petty thieves, pickpockets and general gurriers (a great Dublin word, that). They tend to wear a uniform of very expensive trainers, tracksuits and baseball cap. Their movements tend to be of a jerky, furtive nature, not unlike a pigeon. As a matter of fact, hooking several up to a power grid could power small communities. They refer to people as “bud” or “pal”. Fair warning, they are neither your bud nor your pal. Conversations tend to be about “de Dubs” (Dublin’s gaelic football team), “gear” (drugs), “me oul wan” (mother), “yer man” (someone who isn’t them) or “dat cunt” (someone in who isn’t them whom they don’t like). They’re normally harmless, except during rutting season or on days that have any letter in them.
Anyway, as I said earlier, I commute by bus. In order to make this commute tolerable, I bring an iPod. This is to avoid other peoples taste in music. You know that tinny, high end sound? The one that sounds like a Mexican marching band being launched into a blender? That bugs me. As does people speaking into their mobile phones at a volume that is only acceptable whilst under fire in the Korean War while yelling into a radio that is not far removed from two cans and a piece of string.
“Romeo Foxtrot! This is Charlie Company! Say again! I repeat, say again! What did you think of the game last night?”
The use of an iPod allows me to use my imagination to fill in narratives and dialogue that I can’t hear.
Now for the story…
Recently, the Irish police, an Garda Síochána (Guardians of the
Anyway, I’m walking down Grafton Street on the way to work. Approaching me, in a tweaky, furtive manner, is a skanger who has obviously been up to no good. Behind him, a store security guard has called over Robo-Segway Cop and is gesticulating frantically.
At this point, my imagination kicks in. I guess that Tristan (a name I’ll randomly give the ruffian) has pilfered something from the store. The cop sees a moment of heroism in his future. “Stand aside citizen!”, he says, “I am the law!”. He puts his hand/foot down. Tires squeal and smoke somewhere, but not here. Within minutes, the cop has reached half the speed of smell. The stealth pursuit is on.
The cop approaches Tristan, silently, like a ninja.
Exactly like a ninja….
but on a Segway…
and in Farah slacks.
He leans in to the wrongdoer and says something.
In my mind, and to this day, I hope he said “Pull over!”.
Tristan, disturbed from his nefarious ways, tries to put his foot down to get away. He realises he is not in a car. He darts right. He darts left. The cop sticks to his tail in a way only a person on a motorised vehicle following someone on foot can. Tristan pictures himself as Luke Skywalker trying to shake Darth Vader in the Death Star trench.
Unfortunately, he’s actually Biggs.
The cop makes “bee-baw” noises with his mouth, all the while rehearsing his telling of the story in a bar later. In a cloud of panic, Tristan veers left. He is astonished when his escape route is blocked by the sudden appearance of a 160 year old granite building.
The cop has him now. He pins our scallywag up against the building by reversing and and shooting forward the Segway, presumably making “vroom-vroom” noises.
Real police now appear. They remove the criminal mastermind. The cop trundles off, the theme tune from “Shaft” in his head.
He turns the corner. The music swells.
He drives into fresh hoseshit.
Another tale from the Naked City.
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