Can you not read you fucking idiot? I’ve to go into town to pick up my phone.
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Ah… Lovely… You didn’t let the forum down
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God speed
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DNH
Had six cans and a whiskey to wash it down last night. Fucked off to bed at 1/2 10. I’m as fresh as a daisy this morning. Mass got an all. Will head out to lunch with the family around 1ish. Herself driving so I can have a few.
It’s the simple things
Were you in town?
No.
Get the Fuck out of here.
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Are you having a nice day? I hope you have a nice day
Are you an alcoholic?
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Thanks for your concern but I’m fine
All I see from that photo is you’re drink driving
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You’re on the wrong side of the road, you lunatic
That’s the lengths I’ll go to to win an argument on the internet.
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I’m reminded of this piece by Neil Francis
It is a few weeks before the start of a Five Nations Championship and I am stuck at a red light at the junction of Alfie Byrne Road and Clontarf Road.
It is after 1.0 in the morning and my then girlfriend, now wife, is in the passenger seat. She is asleep - proof positive that I am not riveting company all of the time. Traffic stops on Clontarf Road and my missus’ head rolls to the side just as I am about to get into gear. I crunch the gearbox and the engine stalls. It takes about three seconds to re-engage and restart the car. My last ever thought could have been, ‘will someone beep me for stalling the car?’ There was no one behind me. Small mercies, I thought.
Turning right, I was half-way across the road when the four horsemen of the apocalypse ghosted by. It was hard to gauge, but they must have been doing over 130mph on the wrong side of the road through a red light. The three-second delay on the clutch was the only thing between us and a collision you would have heard all the way to the Liffey.
No-one could have survived what would have been a catastrophic head-on collision. As a rugby international at the time, the deaths would have been front page news, although some of my friends in the press may have taken their own angle on the event, ‘Francis responsible for deaths of joy riders!’
The car missed us by half a metre. Proximity to violence sometimes plays tricks on your mind, so my eyes told me that there were four people in the car, but the colour of the car, its make and model, eluded me.
I pulled in a few hundred metres up the road and I’m pretty sure I saw John F Kennedy’s Dallas motorcade following the boys. It was as close as I have come to a violent death . . . that I know of.
All the way home I speculated: Who were they? What had they been doing and how could they hold lives so cheaply? Joyriders . . . drunk or drug addled? Hardened criminals stealing a car or coming from a hit? My thoughts wavered as the sound of wailing sirens echoed through the city. Unarmed Garda Síochána in pursuit. You wonder how do they chase these mutants down? How do they apprehend them without loss of life or serious injury? What happens if the occupants are heavily armed? What would the collateral damage be? If apprehended, how long before they get out again?
Called it
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That night out/phone retrieval saga was the most boring ive read on tfk for a while
I’ve a good reply in my back pocket and I don’t give a fuck what you think. Giddy up!
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He didn’t. He fucked up royally. While I feel the tale belongs in the TNH section @Juhniallio appears to belong in the people not to be trusted sector. Despicable in the circumstances.