A shop run by and for Irelands most despised ethnic minority. White middle class Dubliners.
Anyway a friend heard that I was going into town and asked would I do her a turn and buy a hoodie from Abercrombie for her nephew. How hard could that be? Little did I know.
I got to the shop at about 12 and made to effect an entrance. You can’t go in says some lad with a Blackrock accent and dressed like a farm hand out of Oklahoma. What, I said. There’s a queue. A queue to get into the shop.
I didn’t want to disappoint the lady, so I joined the queue and eventually made it into the shop about 12.30, by now in a black humour. The lad who had stopped me had now morphed into some class of a Californian geebag and says to me How YOU doing as I go in the door. How the fuck do you think I’m doing I said after standing out in the cold for half an hour. Then there was another geebag in the foyer with his shirt wide open showing off that he was an airhead who spends most of his time looking in the mirror.
It was pitch dark inside and it stank of cheap perfume. I felt my way round in the dark, found a hoodie and made for the cash desk. Here I encountered another half hour queue. Another female employee dressed like a farm hand brushed passed me and says in a Californian accent Whassup. I’ll tell you what’s up I said. I’m after losing an hour queuing in this god forsaken kip. It’s pitch dark, it smells like the Folies Bergere and all the staff think they are from Santa Barbara. Have a nice day says your wan.
The notion that somebody dying close to Christmas causes any more grief for a family than somebody dying at any other time of the year, or to phrase it differently, that somebody dying at any other time of the year causes less grief for a family than dying close to Christmas would.
The most important thing for some some people, clearly, is that Christmas isn’t ruined.
Well said Fagan. That place is very wrong. I was in there once about a year ago in Dundrum. It was very dark and I couldn’t really see where I was going. I seemed to be surrounded by south county Dublin types with that awful accent. It was even difficult to flee the place.
Hey faggy I think you’ll find animal bog bastards are the most hated cunts in Ireland. Anyway, why the fuck did you buy into this shit and queue? You give out about the place yet you fell into line, you became part of the problem for doing what you did. I have no sympathy for you.
My father passed away on Stephen’s Day, a good few years back now. I’m sure our grief wouldn’t have been any different at any other time of year. The fact that his anniversary was falling at Christmas and the memories it brought back probably made it harder for the following few years than it would have been had he died some other time though. There is a lot of happiness around, forced or otherwise, at Christmas and with the best will in the world people forget what you went through and that backdrop can be hard when you are still grieving. That really was only a problem for a couple of years though. The pain diminishes with time.
On the other hand, it would have been one of the very few days of the year when we were all at home together. I think it would definitely have been harder if one or more of us had to be told by phone and travel home then.
:lol: Rightly or wrongly this is definitely true. Up there with travellers anyway. It’s probably not fair as a lot of them are grand but they are straight away discriminated against and disliked because of their accent. I don’t know what all this shite about the great ‘advantages’ of going to the likes of Blackrock are either. Sure it might be an in to certain small number of jobs but most people are set negatively against someone the minute they hear what school they went to or their accent.
[quote=“Fagan ODowd, post: 102340”]Abercrombie and Fitch.
A shop run by and for Irelands most despised ethnic minority. White middle class Dubliners.
Anyway a friend heard that I was going into town and asked would I do her a turn and buy a hoodie from Abercrombie for her nephew. How hard could that be? Little did I know.
I got to the shop at about 12 and made to effect an entrance. You can’t go in says some lad with a Blackrock accent and dressed like a farm hand out of Oklahoma. What, I said. There’s a queue. A queue to get into the shop.
I didn’t want to disappoint the lady, so I joined the queue and eventually made it into the shop about 12.30, by now in a black humour. The lad who had stopped me had now morphed into some class of a Californian geebag and says to me How YOU doing as I go in the door. How the fuck do you think I’m doing I said after standing out in the cold for half an hour. Then there was another geebag in the foyer with his shirt wide open showing off that he was an airhead who spends most of his time looking in the mirror.
It was pitch dark inside and it stank of cheap perfume. I felt my way round in the dark, found a hoodie and made for the cash desk. Here I encountered another half hour queue. Another female employee dressed like a farm hand brushed passed me and says in a Californian accent Whassup. I’ll tell you what’s up I said. I’m after losing an hour queuing in this god forsaken kip. It’s pitch dark, it smells like the Folies Bergere and all the staff think they are from Santa Barbara. Have a nice day says your wan.[/quote]
Fagan, that’s a tale told with such beautiful bitterness you can only admire it. I’ve been in one of those stores unbeknownst in Liverpool One and the smell of perfume or what ever the fuck it is, is sickening. Geebags is an apt description alright.
