There Are No Cats in Catalonia

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I was severely disappointed to discover that the region of Spain known as Catalonia is in fact run solely by Human beings.

I was hoping that Catalonia would, as the name would suggest, be a Kingdom governed by Cats. A nation of Felines- a Catopia, if you will.

I used to have cats. One of my earliest memories was of my Mother and Sister taking me to the garage (btw my garage is a two story house) we open up the hatch to the attic and I pop my head in.

Right in front of me is a Black and Brown Cat we referred to as “Blacky” she always seemed unamused, like if a cat suffered from resting bitch face. She was lying down, there were about three or four kittens nuzzling at her belly.

Have you ever seen a new born kitten? It’s fascinating. They’re so small, so delicate. Their eyes can’t quite open yet so they’re blind for the first few days. All they can do is cry out for their mother with an incessant “mew” that sounds adorable.

My next memory was of them, a few weeks later, walking out of the garage. Their little legs shaking. We weren’t allowed to play with them when they were younger because they were too weak. It’s common sense that you can’t play with a creature that is newly born. That’s why all those movie scenes with a baby being born are generally bullshit as they’re using kids that are at least six months old, because no Mother is dumb enough to let a stranger fondle her newly born baby.

There was this Ginger cat that we called “Furry” who was my sister’s favourite. He wandered in a field one day and got ran over by a tractor, he died. We were quite sad about it. My mother told us that she’d buried him in the forest beside the House. I learned many years later that was a lie, I think she just tossed him in a ditch.

We’d later call every single Ginger cat we owned “Furry” which we should have realised sooner was a cursed name, kind of like how it’s bad luck to say “MacBeth” out loud. Every single cat called Furry died or ran away. We got up to “Furry VI” before we took the hint.

One time we had kittens and my dad gave them a saucer of milk. They drowned in it. It was a sad day, made worse by the fact we had to go to Mass. I’d later learn that Cats are lactose intolerant, they can’t digest milk that doesn’t come from their mother. So we essentially poisoned them by accident.

So since her children kept dying and it was usually our fault, Blacky hid her children away from us. Somewhere down by the river next to my house. I’d see her carrying dead mice towards the forest during the day. I think she hated us. If we didn’t feed her there was a good chance she would have left.

We had a lot of strays show up too. It was like a person randomly showed up at your house and you became friends, but you wouldn’t let them in the house and sooner or later- they’re gone.

I remember this brown and ginger kitten, I believe I called him “Jigsaw” due to his stripes looking like Jigsaw pieces. He had this tendency to climb in under the car and hold on to the exhaust pipes as it drove away. I remember one day my mother picked me up at Primary school and the cat had stowed away underneath. Fuck, one time we went to see the fireworks in Derry and when we returned to the car we found the cat right underneath. It clinged on for 14 miles, a forty five minute trip.

This other stray we had was a snow white cat that we called “Bubbles” but I called him “Engine Oil” because during the winter we had him the cat would climb up under the car and rest on the wheels to keep himself out of the cold, my parents wouldn’t let him into the house so he and the other cats had to do a lot of desperate things in the Winter. Sometimes he’d even make it into the engine and get blotches of oil on his fur, hence the name “Bubbles” because Oil bubbles. He would climb on top of my head while I was waiting for my bus for Primary school.

He was a great cat. He’s gone now.

But the household always had cats, mainly because Blacky got around. I mean she was shitting out kittens annually. It was truly fascinating.

Though often times it was a little dodgy. I was having breakfast a few years back. I watched Blacky get pinned down and humped aggressively by a ginger cat. The most fucked up thing? That cat was her son.

Yep, nothing like a bit of weetabix and incestuous rape to get your morning off to a good start.

The cats weren’t necessarily pets. They were pretty much just a bunch of strays that stayed around because we fed them. They were good though. But of course we eventually got a dog, which made things a little bit more difficult.

One day my Dad put the cats in the car, dropped them off in Dungiven and drove away. He never told us he’d do that. I only found that out last year. I was surprised by that, honestly. I never expected him to be such a cunt.

I remember one time I was really young and I heard a few cats under my front door. There was an open pipe underneath the concrete. Two cats were inside. I think they were stuck. I didn’t do anything.

Some nights, if it’s perfectly still. I can hear them, outside. Still stuck in there. I don’t know why.

There are no Cats in Catalonia, or at least there’s none that I have seen. I’ve been in Barcelona for a few days now (Editors Note: I wrote this article over the course of two weeks, so some things may be a little jarring). I’ll be staying till about early February.

I’m on this weird thing, kind of like ERASMUS but you stay in a hostel instead of staying in a randomer’s house. I took part in ERASMUS back in Secondary school, housed a few foreigners. I can’t remember anything. I didn’t tell anyone at tech about doing ERASMUS before, mainly because I was afraid that they’d kick me out. Honestly I was just here for the free holiday like everyone else.

I’m not gonna lie, I’m having fun. Which isn’t saying much since I had the lowest expectations for this trip. People were all like “Are you excited Des?” And…I’m not. I’m a goddamn emotional void. That’s why you should never ever do A-levels. They just hollow you out as a person.

I’m having some issues dealing with the Euros. I was born and raised in Northern Ireland so the pound is the only currency I’ve ever known.

Ok, so you have Euros and you have Cents and they’re just…so poorly designed. They’re just so confusing to me. It’s a real travesty.

I left Ireland around last Sunday. We were told to meet up at the Sainsbury’s car park on the Strand road at half ten in the morning to get the bus. I arrived half an hour earlier. I told my Dad that the bus was at ten (mainly because I didn’t want to miss it) he got nervous, thinking we were in the wrong car park. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I lied cause he would have probably just said “Fuck sake Des” and then follow it up with something that’d just ruin the day for me.

So I pretended that I got this text that told us the bus was running late, just to calm him down. I needed to piss badly and for some fucking reason Sainsbury’s was closed so we had to drive down to the bus depot just to go to the toilet. Nearly missed the bus as well.

It was snowing when I left, cold as a crystal fuck. I have this icon on my phone that tells me immediately the weather and temperature of my current location and Maghera, for some reason.

I always get irked at the fact that the icon claims that the temperature in Maghera is colder than Feeny. That is objectively bullshit. Maghera is down in the valley, I live up by the mountains where all the cold fucking air is. I’ve waited for the bus in the middle of a winter night, I can stand outside for hours in Maghera. I can barely make it through five minutes in Dungiven.

It’s currently Winter in Spain so it’s a lot colder than it would be during the summer. I came to Barcelona previously in 2015 and I just got hit straight with the humidity. Temperatures got as high as thirty-five degrees (Celsius) so for an Irishman it was Hell.

Now it’s usually around the low teens, occasionally can get up to nineteen degrees which is basically a Summer for us. I’m coping well with the heat but the other students seem to be struggling.

In my travels I’ve noticed that every nation has their own unique stench. Barcelona smells hot, spicy, slightly effeminate- it’s probably just a mixture of the temperature and the exhaust fumes. Up in the mountain areas, specifically by the Castle the air is a lot clearer. Smells of salt from from the sea.

I was in an Airport in the Philippines. The whole thing smelt like humid shit with a hint of sweat. Then again that may have just been the airport, I’d hate to think an entire nation smells like shit.

Ireland probably smells like shit. I can’t really tell since I was raised there. I live in the countryside where the stench of shit is ever present. I’d say that the odour of the nation is probably a concoction of damp, cold piss and/or shit. Derry smells more like piss than shit. I don’t like Derry.

The first day was interesting. I got the plane to Barcelona from Dublin airport. Arrived at around half seven in the evening, so it was already dark when we arrived. I don’t know if it’s the humidity or the architecture, but for some reason the street lights made the entire place seem hotter than it actually was. It established the tone of the place. It was weird.

We got to the hostel at around eight o’clock. It’s a very nice place, certainly better than the shitty three star hotel I stayed in previously. Fuck, I had to share a room with this guy- and there was no lock on the toilet.

… What? How the fuck could you have a toilet without a lock on it?! That’s like an integral part of what a toilet is supposed to be. I didn’t shit for an entire week.

On this holiday I’m having a much easier time shitting. I took my first shit on the second day I’ve been here. Which is a big step up from Australia where it took me five days to take my first shit.

I’m very nervous about taking a shit in public toilets due to something that happened in primary school. You see, when I was like seven I was this chubby little fuck who didn’t eat fruit or vegetables- so obviously I’d have a lot of issues with constipation. So one day in Primary school I needed to take a shit, so I went to the toilet and took this gargantuan shit.

I ended up blocking the toilet- but it wasn’t my fucking fault because the shit-hole in the toilet was too god damn small. You could barely fit your hand in it, never mind a gargantuan shit that’d put a giraffe to shame.

Of course the other kids found out and they were like “Sir, someone blocked the toilet with this massive, rock hard shit…was it you, Desmond?” And I started panicking like “What- no! No-I don’t even take shits…shut up” kids are stupid.

I should have just owned up to it. Sure I might have gotten a stupid nick name but I wouldn’t be scared of taking a shit in public ever again. But you don’t think logically when you’re a kid. I mean if someone said to me “Haha you took a shit” I’d be like…yeah, I did. Everyone takes a shit.

I wish I had this understanding when I was a lot younger because I wouldn’t care if someone said “Haha look at Des. He wanks. What a Gay” I’d be like…yeah, I do wank. Every guy does it. What’s wrong with that? There’s nothing wrong with me.

Kids are assholes.

I don’t shit in the room though. In fact, most of the guys I’m staying with use different toilets because they don’t want to stink out the room. I mean, there’s nothing worse than being known as the guy who took this gargantuan smelly shit that stank out the room for everyone else.

Honestly the only issues I’m having with taking a shit is the fact I have to remain clothed when I’m on the can. Let me elaborate, when I take a shit in my home I lock the bathroom door (obviously) and then remove all of my clothes. I shit naked. As God intended.

It’s incredibly relaxing. Which makes shitting with your clothes on a lot more uncomfortable. I mean I have my trousers down to my ankles which just feels weird and I have this constant worry that I’ll accidentally get shit on the back of my t-shirt. Now that may sound incredibly silly to you, but keep in mind I never had to worry about this when I could just shit naked.

Now of course there are going to be those who feel uncomfortable or even grossed out around the topic of excretion, I imagine it’s the same kind of cunts who got grossed out by that vivid description I wrote about Jacob Rees-Mogg eating out Margaret Thatcher. To which I say, maybe this blog is not for you and you should stop reading.

But before you go I will leave you with an argument about why you shouldn’t be uncomfortable when talking about shit. Do you know who this is?

NPG x646; Sir Joseph William Bazalgette

This is Joseph Bazalgette, a London Civil Engineer who basically ensured that the city would not become inhabitable. You see, in the late 1850’s London was suffering from something known as “The Great Stink” aptly named because during July and August of 1858 the River Thames smelt of shit. This was due to the fact that teh sewers of London emptied all the sewage into the river, when the summer came the heat made the shit stink even worse.

It was so bad that three outbreaks of Cholera occurred, a water born bacteria that literally makes you shit yourself to death. Over 30,000 people died before a Physician called John Snow discovered the relation to shitty water and the cholera outbreak (it was previously thought that Cholera was spread through the air) he published a paper but it took a while for him to get noticed.

Eventually the City of London hired Joseph Bazalgette to refurbish the City’s sewage system (which hadn’t been updated since the early 1700’s) he changed the pipes from being made of wood to being made of Iron and he made sure that the shit wouldn’t go into the River or get into people’s drinking water.

By building a new sewage system, Joseph saved the lives of millions of innocent people. And you’ve never heard of him, because you don’t like talking about shit.

Cholera is still a massive problem in the world. I believe I talked about it slightly in my Bees aren’t scary article. It’s a messy and disturbing topic, but the things we feel uncomfortable talking about are usually the things we should talk about the most.

I actually had a very in depth discussion with a Friend of mine (let’s refer to him as “A Big Fat Liar with a Poor Sense of Humour” shall we?) about how we use toilet paper. See he believes thee are two main ways to use toilet paper; the first is to scrunch it up into a ball and then wipe. The second is to fold it and then wipe. We both agreed that scrunching toilet paper into a ball was a barbaric practice and that those who scrunched (whom we referred to as “Scrunchers“) were significantly inferior to those who folded, like us.

I myself am quite conservative with my toilet paper usage. I rips two squares off of the roll and then place one on top of the other to ensure a stronger structure, thus preventing it from ripping mid wipe. After the first wipe I will fold it over to get a clean side so that I may go in for another wipe. Depending on the surface are of the toilet paper, I can get three or four wipes with each handful. But of course I only use at most three handfuls before flushing, anything more would clog up the toilet.

I don’t understand scrunching. I mean sure, maybe you can get a lot of shit with it but it’s only good for one wipe- hardly economical. Do you scrunch or do you fold? Let me know in the comments down below.

I was annoyed at the fact that the room had bunk beds, and that I had to take the top bunk. Now you’d think “Oh Des, the top bunk is the best- every kid knows that” that’s true. The top bunk is the best- if you’re sober.

When you’re drunk the last thing you need to be dealing with is a fucking ladder.

I didn’t even plan on getting drunk the first night. Just one pint and I’d be off to bed. What actually happened was I drank six pints of some really bitter and strong Spanish lager. The stuff was rotten, but it was the cheapest drink they sold so of course I drank till I boked, then I drank some more.

Admittedly the night was a bit of a blur. I was hanging out with the other students, we had segregated ourselves into two groups. The Business Studies class and the Media Studies class, I was in the latter.

The group consisted of four guys and two girls, both of whom were Lesbians. After a few drinks I loosened up from my typical stoic nature and I played a game with them. It started out with a simple query, I was on Facebook and I scrolled past this picture of another Lesbian I knew from Maghera. I showed them the photo and asked “Here, would you fuck her?” They said “Oh aye” every body laughed like “Oh my God Des, I can’t believe you said that!” I never understood that reaction, it seemed like a reasonable question to ask at the time.

I would then go through most of the women I had on Facebook, showed her their photo and said “What about her?” I found that they weren’t very picky. The first girl they said they wouldn’t fuck came as a massive shock to me. I mean, this girl would be what my friend (the Chinless Wonder) would refer to as a “Big tiddy Goth GF” an apt description because she was infact a Goth, she did indeed have large breasts and she seemed polite so I imagine she would make a semi-decent girlfriend.

One of the lads nearly pissed himself laughing when I said “Big tiddy Goth GF” because my stoic nature didn’t present me as such a vulgar bastard. I laughed too.

Now I found this girl to be extremely attractive but they didn’t, citing her makeup skills as a turn off; “I canny fuck a girl with bad eyebrows” I was baffled. I mean, I certainly wasn’t looking at her eyebrows.

There were a few other women they turned down. Most of them due to poor haircuts or because they were crazy. I think they can tell just by a glance at how crazy a woman is. It sounds like a handy skill, might even be profitable.

We got drunk even more. I went up to the bar to get another pint and started chatting to this pretty Mexican lady. She spoke very good English, I’ve found that almost every Hispanic person I’ve ever met speaks somewhat decent English.

It just goes to show how much Britain and America have fucked the world. You don’t hear many people in Spain speaking Finnish, do you?

I talked to her for a little while. I made the mistake of bringing up the Earthquake in Mexico City (where she’s from, also- who names a City after their Country? You don’t see “England City” now do you?) Which was a little awkward because it was very loud and she could barely hear me. So I had to shake my hand so she could say “Oh, Earthquake- yeah. That happened” I felt like a dumbfuck, especially since something like 10,000 people died.

She was quite solemn about it. I think she came to Barcelona just to get away from it all. I said I was glad that she was alive, she smiled. Then I went to the toilet and threw up.

Which brings me to this:

Ok, so on two of the Urinals you could play this game in which you get to direct the movements of the Skier with your piss and oh my God, it’s so fun.

Like, can you imagine discovering this when you’re drunk?? It’s Fucking Mind-blowing!

Immediately after my piss I ran out to the bar and told the lads about my discovery. They didn’t believe me at first but they eventually went to check it out. You’ve never seen a such a wonderful sight like a few drunk men getting excited about a game you could play with your piss. It was beautiful.

I feel sorry for Women. You’ll never know the thrill of being able to aim your piss. I know they give guys a lot of shit for having “Poor aim” but you’d understand if you had a Penis.

I mean sometimes you need to pee really bad so you whip your dick out but you start peeing too soon and it goes everywhere. Other times the piss is going on too long and your attention drifts away which causes a spillage. You’ll often underestimate the strength of the stream, like you may feel like it’ll flow gently like a water fountain but instead it rushes out like a hose. Then of course you almost always forget about the dripping effect, because when the stream dies down it’ll start dripping at a far slower rate than the stream so your previous aiming form is now useless- so you have to gradually lean forward so that you don’t get piss on the seat.

The reason many guys (myself included) typically don’t lift the seat when we take a piss is mostly due to the fact that Women would then yell at us to put the seat back down. I mean I grew up with three Older sisters, it was literally beaten into me to make sure I lowered the seat after a piss. But I found that I was too lazy to lift the seat in the first place so…yeah. It’s catch twenty two, pee edition.

If you are a Woman reading this blog (…I’m so Sorry) I hope that one day you’ll wake up with a Penis that’ll disappear after a day. Just drink a few litres of water and spend the whole day peeing. It’ll be class.

You might even be able to beat my high score. You never know.

The rest of the night is kind of a blur. I had a few more pints and then I danced with the pretty Mexican lady. I think I said or did something incredibly stupid as well, but for the life of me I can’t remember it.

It was three o’clock in the morning and I was still dancing with the Mexican lady and her friend. Then someone from my Business Studies group came up to me, a ginger guy who looks like a Wallace and Gromit film with the voice of Josh Widdecombe.

Are you still up?

He asked me. I gestured to him to come dance with us (which I certainly wouldn’t do now) and then I danced with the Mexican lady some more. The ginger guy was heading up to bed, we chatted for a few seconds. He grabbed me by the shoulders, leaned in and said; “Be a Father“.

That is singlehandedly the most Pathetic thing I’ve ever heard in my life.

You may be confused about what that exactly means (Especially if you’re not White) so I’ll explain it now. A Ginger person is considered to be the most physically repulsive type of White person imaginable. Because we’re pasty and extremely pale poor skin (which means we can get sun-burt very easily) also some people find the Orange colour of our hair disgusting. There’s also the bullshit about Gingers not having souls and…yeah, that’s actually true.

So as you can imagine Ginger guys may have a hard time getting laid. Though I’ve met plenty of Women who Fucking love my hair, almost to the point of it being considered a fetish. My main issue is self confidence.

I grew up both Fat and Ginger, a double entendre of Ugly. I never had the luxury of a self esteem. Dave Chappelle has this Joke about how ugly people don’t know they’re ugly, they have to figure it out on their own. I disagree with that. I was told from day Fucking one I was ugly, as I said before, kids are assholes.

Don’t get me wrong, getting shit for being Ginger is no where near as bad as getting shit for being physically disabled or mentally disabled- or even the kind of shit you’d get for being an Ethnic minority. Like no one has scratched racial slurs into my car or vandalized my home. The worst shit I’d get nowadays is some cunt yelling “Ginger” from a passing car.

It turned out it was a mistake to talk to the other Ginger guy because when I turned around the Mexican lady was gone. Which really sucked. I mean I didn’t expect anything to happen since I was far too drunk (girls don’t like drunk guys) but still, I’d have liked to keep dancing with her.

So I went up to my room, accidentally woke everyone up. I tried to go to the toilet but when I opened the door I found one of the guys taking a shit, buck naked. I climbed up that Goddamn ladder and collapsed onto the bed. I dreamt of sobriety.

That morning was a real bitch to work with. For starters it was a Monday and I woke up hungover and fully clothed. I skipped breakfast (which I would do everyday after) and then I rushed to get ready for the class. We have to walk a mile to the building that the class is at. Each morning is somehow worse than the last. You’re somehow more tired than the day before, the sun glares at you like a judgemental prick as you carry out your walk of shame and for some Godforsaken reason the walk seems to feel longer every single day.

Some of us got lost on the first day so we were late to class. The guy who was running the place seemed irked. He was a Sassy Spaniard. Initially I liked him because I thought “Oh that sass is just your way of bonding” but after two weeks it does get on your nerves. He was actually very nice on the final day, we got cake. It was great- especially considering I was severely hungover.

The class was probably the least enjoyable part of the trip. I mean don’t get me wrong, the people were nice enough but it was a complete and utter bitch to walk up their every morning. Everyone was always super tired and grumpy. Almost everyone there (including myself) only came for a free holiday, which the the guy running it was very aware of- he even joked about it.

The other students were alright. Almost none of them got on my nerves, except for two- which included the Ginger guy and this hairy guy I had to share the room with- they were fucking annoying. There were two lesbians who were quite nice, three gay guys (a Twink, a Bear and a Stoner) that were OK for the most part, three other girls that all had names starting with “L” and there was a guy who was a Lifeguard- he was very dead on. There was another stoner that reminded me of a Guy I went to Primary School with. There was a guy who had really bad asthma and he breathed really heavily, he was alright. Then there was this guy from Dungiven who had really long hair, he was pretty quiet so we got on well and there was this guy who bought a Monster’s INC scooter (inside joke) he was dead on as well.

I usually just hung around with the Lesbians-one was tall with short hair and the other was extremely short, like Ewok short, the bear- picture like a Gay James Corden. (Well, he’s actually Bisexual but “Bi-James Corden” doesn’t have the same ring to it) the quiet man, Scooter boy and the Hairy guy. It was either that or I just hung around by myself, which I was oft to do.

There were two Vloggers out of all the students. One of them was the tall Lesbian and the other was the Gay Stoner. They’d just be filming random shit all the time. I never got the appeal of vlogging, I mean I guess considering the success of Youtube there definitely is a secure market for talking about dull shite but I just don’t find out at all appealing. Granted I am a little hypocritical here since I own a blog, but you won’t see either of those vloggers randomly name drop Joseph Balzegette now would you?


Spain could be a little weird sometimes. There’s a lot of massive differences from Barcelona and Northern Ireland. For starters there’s no buttons on the Traffic Lights which is just barbaric. Like, you have you have to wait until there’s either no cars or the scanners are like “yeah these people have been here for a while, we’ll put the wee green man on now” but there’s no button- the button is there so you can press it so that the scanners can go “Oh yeah, there’s people here- hold on we’ll put the green man up in like two or so minutes” but Spain is just like “Nah, no button for you. You stand and wait like the Whore you are” it’s astounding.

I mean I should have expected this since Trevor Noah made a Joke about the Traffic Lights but I legitimately just thought he was kidding. Why the fuck doesn’t everyone else have a button? If any of our readers are from Countries outside of the Ireland, please let us know whether or not you have a button at your traffic lights for pedestrians in the Comment section below.

The Spanish and Europeans in general are far more laid back about sex than the British or the Irish. Granted maybe if you head up North or East of Europe you’ll encounter a lot of closed minded societies (I blame the Cold to be honest) but from what I see they’re far more relaxed about the topic of Sex than we are.

This was on my block.


We don’t have those in Ireland. And if we do, they’re a lot more subtle about it.

Granted this shop is probably just a tourist trap to bring in easily impressed foreigners from the hostel down the road who are like “Oooh, that’s weird” in fact on one night the Ginger guy, Scooter boy and the Small Lesbian went in there to look around. The next day she told me; “I’ve seen things that I can never un-see” which is always a nice thing to hear when you’re on Holiday.

I never went in of course, I’ve got too much sense in me. But there are a lot of Hookers in Barcelona. In fact Scooter Boy told me that Spain is the World Capital of Prostitution. Which I find incredibly uncomfortable, I don’t like prostitution. It’s a dirty job and it consists of women that have been broken down and abused by men in order to fulfill the desires of Sex in the Market Place- that’s why Human Trafficking is a huge problem in the Sex Industry, both in Prostitution and in Porn.

Personally I try to avoid both, it fucks you up. Like you could make the argument that “Oh, Prostitution and Porn are good because it alleviates men of Stress so there will be less Angry guys on the streets who’d commit crimes or Rape women” which is an interesting argument, but again it’s focused around the desires and behavior of men. I mean we’re not children, surely we can behave ourselves like rational Adults? Like, just use your imagination to Wank instead of Raping a person or systematically destroying a woman’s mental health so that she’ll let you fuck her for the right price.

I don’t know, I just don’t like it. If you’re a hooker and you want to share your experiences in please write a comment down below.

I met a Hooker in Barcelona. Or at least a Woman I thought was a Hooker. I don’t know, because Scooter Boy told me that weird fact about Prostitution in Spain I now assume that any Woman wearing a Mini Skirt is a Hooker- especially if they’re in their 40’s. It’s a perspective I’m trying to shake off now when I’m back in Northern Ireland because these women are probably not Hookers since there’s only like twenty in Derry and most sex workers in Northern Ireland operate online. The whole Province is a lot less sexually agile than Spain would be, I mean 17,000 people out of a general population of million and a half actually use Prostitution every year in Northern Ireland. We’re a little more shy about that sort of thing.

Anyway, I met a Hooker on the street when I ditched the group to buy a Cornetto (we’re not supposed to wander about alone, but I do whatever the fuck I want) and I was on my way back to the hostel. I was walking by a School and at the end of the block there was a hooker walking in my direction. I tried desperately not to stare at her so I tried to focus on the getting rid of the wrapping around the cornetto (It was the Original flavour in case you were wondering, I’m a bit of a Traditionalist when it comes to Ice Cream). But of course I kept looking up because I’m a goddamn moron and when we were about to pass she stopped, smiled, gestured at the Cornetto and said “El Rico, eh?” and laughed. I awkwardly nodded and was like “Heh, yeah…” and walked on.

I believe “El Rico, eh?” means “The Rich One, eh?” referring to the original Cornetto in my hand. It may have been a small gesture, or she may have tried to spark up a conversation that would have inevitably ended with “I’ll let you fuck me for Twenty Euros” which I would have of course declined, I mean I don’t know where she’s been- she could be crazy for all I know.

Dave Chappelle had a recent comedy special on Netflix, he spent ten or twenty minutes talking about this book called “Pimp” which was written by a guy called Iceberg Slim, an actual Pimp in America. Chapppelle talks about this thing that Pimps refer to as “Ho Mileage” which equates to how many sexual encounters a Woman can endure before she has a Nervous Breakdown. A good Pimp can look at a woman and tell what her mileage would be “She’s good for five hundred Fucks” but if she goes over five hundred she’ll be driven insane- probably due to the fact that she’s ridden with Sexually Transmitted Infections- like Al Capone went crazy because he never got treatment for his Syphilis. But there’s also the fact that Prostitutes suffer a lot of abuse in their life, so a mental breakdown is almost inevitable.

I’ll give you one thing about that Hooker in Barcelona, she has impeccable taste in Cornetto’s.


Speaking of Cornettos, I just want to reiterate how fucking amazing they are.

I mean unlike other Multi National Ice Cream Conglomerates they don’t bend to the will of their consumers needs. Like they could easily sell more cornettos by getting rid of the peanuts but they’re like “No, we don’t care if we could make more money- eat the Peanuts you little bitch” and unlike other Ice Creams they don’t melt in your hands, like those 99’s you can get from Ice Cream vans down at the beach.

Also they’re not Magnums so they don’t crumble when you take one bite. You don’t need a spoon to eat it, unlike Ben & Jerry’s and that wee chocolate bit at the end of each cornetto is a literal Godsend. A cornetto teaches you a valuable lesson as well. The peanuts make you question yourself in the beginning like “Ugh, do I really want to eat this?” but you power through and before you know it you’re half way through. Eating the cone makes you worry about the structure, so you have to be careful with your bites in case you let the ice cream fall out. Finally there’s the wee chocolate bit at the end which is just delightful purely due to the fact you had to work for it.

A cornetto teaches you that although something may look difficult or unappealing at the beginning, it’s worth carrying out simply for the satisfaction of achievement.

Also it’s fantastic for a Hangover. Edgar Wright made a trilogy of movies called “the cornetto trilogy” which are basically films starring Simon Pegg and Nick Frost but they’re linked to the fact that at one point or another a character will have ate or simply mentioned a cornetto.

They’re pretty great.


For some reason we weren’t allowed to drink the tap water in Spain because apparently it would make us sick. The whole thing about “oh you can’t drink the Water in Spain” is largely just a myth. I didn’t know that when I was in Barcelona so I spent money on bottled water. It wasn’t too bad, there was a twenty four hour shop across the street operated by a Pakistani guy who was really dead on. I got two one liter bottles of water for sixty cents, not too bad but they were room temperature. I found that cold water was seen as quite luxurious in Spain, like in the Fab Cafe where we got our lunch after class they’d ask whether we wanted “Cold or room temperature” which…is just the dumbest question I’ve ever heard.


The Little Lesbian (great title for a book btw, that or a Childrens book called “Dyke the Duck” which would reclaim the Homophobic slur for comedic purposes- thus defanging it) told me she had to spend up to €15 just for a glass of cold water in a restaurant and she was really pissed about that. She was also weirded out by the Pakistani guy at the shop.

Which I was really disappointed to hear. He seemed like a nice guy but apparently he asked her for her Instagram and now he comments under her stuff with really creepy remarks. Which I imagine isn’t nice to be on the receiving end. He also gave her wolf whistles and shit which is just dodgy as fuck.

Guys are weird. I mean no one, and I mean no one, has every successfully seduced a woman via social media- so you might as well not even try. Just leave a like- don’t bother with a comment. You’re wasting your time and nobody appreciates it- unless of course it’s really funny then by all means go right ahead.

Oh, and people in Spain mop the streets. Like they don’t whip out a house, spray off all the shits and call it a day- they literally get a mop and bucket and mop the streets in front of their stores. It’s the most bizarre shite I’ve ever witnessed in my entire life. It’s such a waste of resources, people just mopping the streets and then going around with a boom.

It makes me think about that Joke Al Murray had about people from Hot Countries being unable to think because it’s so fucking hot so they do a lot of dumb stuff. Like I walked by two men who were supposed to be delivering mattresses, but instead they were sleeping on top of the mattresses. Inside of their truck. With the door wide open. In the middle of the day- in the Pickpocketing capital of Europe.

But of course there was a lot that reminded me of home. For starters; Flags.


That’s a protest I saw on the second week. The Catalonian flag is on the right, underneath it is the St.George’s flag- because England and Spain have the same Patron Saint. But of course you’ll see that yellow ribbon on the star. The ribbon has a similar shape of one of those black ribbons you’ll see on Google whenever a lot of people die- that’s a symbol of remembrance and mourning.

The yellow ribbon is a symbol of solidarity Catalonians have with their politicians that have been arrested and imprisoned due to their involvement with the independence campaign that the Spanish Government had deemed illegal. I’m very ignorant on the subject matter so I’m going to do my best to avoid talking about it.

I usually don’t like flags, because I’m from Northern Ireland and you can’t go ten miles without seeing a Union Jack because some cunt is insecure with their heritage and identity. You’ll see Unionist communities have at least a dozen Union Jacks or even flags that support Loyalist Paramilitaries flying about. To be fair some Nationalist communities have a lot of flags and murals but it’s nowhere near as bad at the Unionist Communities. Plus these Nationalist communities that have a lot of flags are mostly in the cities where most of the violence in the troubles were held, so it’s a much harsher environment than in the countryside where I’m from.

Ireland has that weird phenomenon in which the more rural you are, the less Racist you will become. Usually it’s the other way about.

You’ll see the Catalonian flag hanging from several balconies on almost every building. That yellow ribbon will be spray painted on the streets- specifically on the crosswalks by the traffic lights. There’s a massive yellow ribbon made of paper on a building opposite the Sagrada Família. There’s also flags with speech bubbles that say “” which of course is the Spanish for “Yes” presumably for “Vote yes for Independence“. That word is also spray painted on the cross walks. Though some people have went out of their way to spray a red line through it, representing “No” so obviously not everyone in Catalonia agrees with each other.

We didn’t talk at all about politics in or outside the class for the most part. The only real exceptions were me and Gay James Corden talking shite about Donald Trump (which gets easier to do every single day) and a brief talk about how the US Government had shutdown for like three days, but I made a point that it was hypocritical of us to talk shite about that considering or government has been shutdown for well over a year- 2hich is a bad fucking thing because unless we pass legislation that’ll set the annual budget Northern Ireland won’t be able to afford power in two years so there will be blackouts all over the place. Now you may be asking “But Des, do you really think that people are so cuntish that there will be no government even two years later?” the answer is yes- yes I sincerely believe that.

So in that rare instance, we gave America a break.

We never talked about Sectarianism or any of that shite. Apparently the Little Lesbian started singing “Come out ye Black and Tans” one night but sadly I wasn’t there to see/take part in the sing song. I think we briefly talked about the IRA because I made a joke about how there was a squadron in the IRA called “The Nutting Squad” the humour of course derives from the fact that “Nutting” or “Nut” is internet lingo for “Ejaculation” they didn’t get it immediately- because they’re from Derry and Derry people are…well, they’re something Special. The worst part was that I had to explain what Nutting was to a Gay Guy.

In the second week we had new tutors that flew over from Derry (we had two tutors from the tech that supervised us throughout the week, however they could only stay one week so two different tutors came over to supervise us. So in total we were supervised by four tutors in a time span of two weeks) on the second week one of the female tutors went up to hug the Sassy Spaniard (or perhaps he’d prefer the Sassy Catalonian? …Nah, doesn’t have the same ring to it) and showed her solidarity.

She went on to say that we’re from Northern Ireland; “We’re from a war-zone” so she understood his struggle. Now I didn’t grow up in a war-zone, thank Christ. I was born in 1999, two years after the Good Friday Agreement was passed into law and I grew up in the countryside oblivious to everything. I didn’t know who Osama Bin Ladin was until he was killed, I didn’t know what 9/11 was until my first year of secondary school- fuck, I didn’t even know what a Protestant was until I was in third year.

Can you imagine how confusing watching the Simpsons was for me? I was like “Why do they keep calling that priest a Reverend?” it was fucking weird.

Things aren’t as bad as they were in the 70’s or 80’s. There’s no car bombs going off left, right and centre. The IRA and the Loyalist Paramilitaries are still around but they mostly go after drug dealers- or even sell drugs themselves. You’ll get the occasional bomb scare but it usually ends up being “someone left a bag lying around” or something stupid like that. Northern Ireland is a tough place to terrorize, everyone’s already used to things blowing up- so Jihadists would have a hard time doing much damage.

My friend whom I will refer to as “Luke-the-Duke” because his name is infact Luke and Duke sounds funny, is a Protestant that grew up in Drumahoe. One of the most Unionist/Loyalist communities in County Derry. He told me this story about this one time he was wandering around with his friends in the only Catholic estate in the entire village. He was wandering and he ran into another group of lads, he didn’t know whether or not they were Catholic or Protestant. So one of the lads from this group went up to Luke and started to engage in a bit of chit chat, Luke was visibly nervous so the lad quickly caught on and asked “Here, what side you on?” to which Luke replied “Sure, I don’t even believe in God” to which the lad replied “Aye, neither do I-but what side you on?” that’s fucking hilarious.

Like that just proves that sectarianism isn’t just about Religion (despite starting out that way) it’s about Culture. Or rather simple tribalism, a great way of Otherism. It’s all bullshit. So Luke didn’t answer so him and his friends ran like hell- but they didn’t know if they were being chased by Crazy Catholics or their Fellow Protestants- it was fucking hilarious.

The story lead to an inside joke with my friends at the time. We’d name an ethnic group or a certain individual and say “Aye, but what side they on?” an example would be Pope Francis “Aye, but what side he on? Is he a Catholic Pope or a Protestant Pope?” it’s a great joke you can do for many groups of people; “Aye, but what side he on? Is he a Catholic Muslim or a Protestant Muslim?” well, at least I find it funny.

So yeah, whenever the Tutors started chatting to a resident of Barcelona about the Catalonian independence movement (which we did with a lovely man during that protest above) they always added “Sure, we’re from Northern Ireland so we’re used to this” which is true. There’s people protesting outside of Belfast city hall like every weekend.

Ok, from this point forward I’m not going to bring up Catalonian politics, but I will leave you with this. Spain, stop being a Cunt. Let Catalonia do what they want. Also Catalonia, as much as I respect your desire to be independent I can’t help but implore you to remian with Spain.

For no reason other than to maintain that aesthetic square shape that your country has, or at least would have if Portugal would wise up and reunite with Spain. I don’t recognize Portugal as a State simply because they ruin the aesthetic potential of a country that looks like a square- instead they decided to bite off a chunk and now Spain looks Ridiculous.


Now you may be saying “Aye, but by that logic Des that means you support Scotland, England and Wales being United because they live on the same stretch of land” which no. I don’t. For the simple reason that England is a complete and utter cunt.

I mean, have you ever had to share anything with England??? Christ, they were in the European Union for thirty fucking years and they never stopped whining about it- even though they got their way like eighty percent of the time! Can you imagine sharing an island with these cunts- fuck, Ireland isn’t even n the same fucking Island but they’re like “No, you’re with us now” like some abusive fucking stepdad. Fortunately most of the country eventually slithered out of England’s grasp, but six counties remain purely due to Stockholm syndrome.

England is the Piers Morgan of Countries.

Anyway, back to Barcelona.



As I said above, Barcelona is like the Pick-pocketing capital in Barcelona. The area called Las Ramblas is particularly bad because it’s a large stretch of land with a very busy street, lots of market places and distractions so some cunt could walk up and bump into you. You wouldn’t realise you’d been robbed till you got back hostel.

Fortunately none of us got mugged, although the Hairy Guy did lose his wallet. It’s unclear if he simply misplaced it or a cleaner grabbed it when we were all out of the room. I hope it’s not the latter because the staff at the hostel were quite nice. The hostel was great, far superior to the living standards at hostels in Derry.

Sleeping in a room with eight other guys was weird though. Like I grew up with sisters so I knew what it was like to share a room- but nothing could prepare me for this. By God it stank like hell. Like you opened that door and the stench hit’s you like a literal brick shit-house. It stank so bad that the staff fucking complained about it, we were told off by one of our tutors that we had to like open a window or spray some fucking febreeze- something to quell the smell.

We had the window open all day- as wide as fucking possible but the room still stank of shit. We showered regularly, at least once every two days. We all wore deodorant. However none of us washed our clothes. This didn’t mean that we couldn’t wash our clothes- we all just unilaterally decided not to. I didn’t wash my towel for two weeks- it…it felt manky after a while.

Fuck, one of the guys literally stank of shit. Now let me reinforce that point, he didn’t “smell bad” or “smell sweaty” no- he literally stank of shit. Like he took a big, slimy shit in the morning and fucking rubbed it up and down his person. He also gargled phlegm in the morning which was, and I can’t believe that I- a fellow guy is saying this, absolutely disgusting.

One of the guys had to say “Dude, can you do that up at the sink?” it was gross. I’m still baffled at that smell. I mean, out of everyone it was the Gay Guy who had the worst personal hygiene. Don’t get me wrong- he’s a lovely guy, very funny and very polite- but he just so happened to stink of shit. I mean he smelt ok during the day when you were out and about. But when you were in the room with him, the stench was nearly intolerable.

I had a discussion with Scooter Boy about this exact topic and we discovered that we could only really measure the stench of the room with the metric of Whores. Ok, so one Whore- especially a really Dirty Stinky Whore who thinks “Ah fuck it, why even bother?” she could smell as bad as One and a Half guys, maybe two if she put in the effort. So two whores could smell as bad as maybe three or four guys. Six whores could smell as bad as eight- but again that’s such a high level of stink that it’s nearly incalculable.

Also it’s kind of a flawed metric because, as we all know, Whores are Women and for the most part Women smell quite nice (the exception of course being old woman, specifically the ones you have to sit beside in Mass) how do they smell so nice? It’s almost as if they wash and change their clothes on a regular basis.

They also remember to change their bedding regularly which is just bizarre to me. Like the Quiet guy slept in the bottom bunk below me and he was always saying stuff like “Oh man we better get our bedding changed by the end of the week” and I was like “…yeah, gross right?…” while in reality I don’t change my bedding for like four or six months at a time- it’s like sleeping in a bag of sweat. Girls and Women in general are a lot less disgusting than men.

But I do realise that this article may have a theme of being Pro-Woman and Anti-Man, which I hope is not the case because I hate both groups of people equally. So in a ploy to prevent criticism I will start talking about the many things about Women that annoy me. Particularly their dress-code.

They ought to wear more trousers. Skirts and Dresses are stupid because it exposes the legs so if you trip and fall it’s easier to skin your knees- also it’s cold, why would you wear something that makes you feel cold? One of the things that I liked about the pair of Lesbians that I hung around with is that they dressed rationally. They understood that trousers are great because they provide warmth and most of all because they have pockets. The other girls were wearing Yoga Pants or some dumb shit like that- great for comfort and warmth but NO FUCKING POCKETS.

The Lesbians also understood the importance of  a good shirt or at the very least a good t-shirt. You have a problem with Dresses and Overalls- going to the bathroom. When you’re wearing a dress you- actually I don’t even know what you do with a dress when you take a piss. Like, do you lift it up and hold it under your chin when you take a piss? Do you take it off? I know that if you’re wearing overalls pissing is a real nightmare, especially in a public bathroom because you literally have to take everything off and you’re sitting down naked. You’re also paranoid about the structural integrity of the lock so you either put your hand or leg forward to hold the door shut which makes the pissing process far more stressful than it really should be.

Also I’m always seeing those girls wearing like a jumper or something and they always have these moody faces walking around with their arms crossed- because they’re thinking “I should have worn something with pockets” Like, Oh My God- YES YOU FUCKING MORON! Jesus Christ, the only reason Jackets and Coats have pockets have pockets in the first place was just so that you could put your hands somewhere when you’re walking or standing about.

I mean, what the fuck do you do with your hands when you’re not using them? If you’re carrying something or holding something it’s fine because you’re like “Oh, they’re doing things so it’s OK” but when you’re walking or standing about what the fuck do you do with your hands? You can’t keep them by your things because it feels weird, you can’t swing them up and down when you’re walking cause you’ll look like a fucking idiot, you can’t put them in your trouser pockets because it looks like you’re touching yourself- what do you do?

Jacket or Coast pocket. That’s the only solution. It’s far away from the genitals so you don’t look like a pervert, it’s difficult to make it look weird and best of all it keeps your hands warm and busy.

I also dislike makeup. It’s a waste of money for the most part. Like, does any guy actually give a shit about what a girls eyebrows look like? No. We don’t. But I know what you’d say “Jesus Christ Des, you fucking idiot. I don’t wear makeup to impress guys- I do it for myself” and I get that, I like to look at myself sometimes when I finish (poorly) styling my hair and think to myself “Huh, I look nice” an I feel nice- but do you really need a fucking layer of paint to make you feel nice?

I kind of noticed that when I was over in Spain. The women there for the most part wore very little makeup. Sure, they wore like mascara to bring out their eyes or lipstick to…I don’t fucking know, make their lips seem more fuckable or something like that- but not much else. The Irish girls had an inch of shit they put on their face and I made a kind of stupid realization. They all wanted to look Mediterranean, to be more tanned, to focus up their eyes and their cheekbones- they wanted to look like these Spanish women.

It kind of puts a hole in that whole White Supremacy bullshit, since nearly everyone wants to look more tanned.

There was this funny moment during lunch on like the second final day. The little lesbian was talking to one of the girls named “L“- the girl was wearing a flannel shirt and the little Lesbian remarked that it was a “Gay Shirt” the other Lesbian agreed. So the girl said “It would be pretty Gay if I took it off” and then smiled and winked. It was pretty funny. Maybe you it was one of those “You had to be there” moments, like most jokes. It was especially funny since the Little Lesbian told me that she would like the fuck her, but that’s not exactly saying much since she’d fuck any woman that had decent eyebrows.

That Little Lesbian was probably one of the funniest women I’ve met in my entire life. She’s also one of the most well adjusted as well which I found to be surprising because she was Gay and Gay people get a lot of shit- usually people who get a lot of shit are super fucked up. Hell, I got barely got an inch of the amount of shit a Gay guy would have gotten in my school and I’m pretty fucked up.

There’s also truth in the phrase that the funniest people are usually the saddest, that’s why you see so many Great comedians either end up killing themselves or going insane. But she doesn’t seem like a sad person to me but then again anyone can seem content for a few minutes. I don’t know what’s going in her head, just like she doesn’t know what’s going on in mine.

She had a lot of game though- she was like the Lesbian Barney Stinson, a true player. On the first night out we had a sesh (a drinking session, shortened to “sesh” it may also involve getting high) apparently she went with this really fucking hot British girl. On the second night out she pointed her out to me and by god she was hot. Dumb as a sack of shit, but hot none the less.

She ended up going with her again but she needed some help to do it. Specifically because the Ginger Cunt kept trying to hang out with the Little Lesbian, it got so fucking bad hat I had to tell Scooter Boy to drag him away (politely) and make it like you really wanted to hang out him- even though literally everyone despised him. Well, not everyone. The Hairy Man thought he was a good guy, but then again he has an abhorrent sense of character and he generally knows fuck all.

The second night out was shite. The others spent most of their time outside smoking and left me and the quiet man to guard their drinks. Which, if you’re a smoke I have one fucking to tell you- finish your fucking drinks before you go out to smoke. Like, don’t even do it to be polite to cunts like me who have to guard it- finish your drinks because if you leave it unattended someone could spike it. There’s always a cunt in a bar that’s looking to rape someone.

Third night was pretty uneventful but it was pretty fun. I remember heading down two blocks to find a cash machine. Then I came back up and the crew were standing outside smoking (or as it’s known in Northern Ireland “Taking a Bine“) they were like “Where were you?” and I explained it and they laughed for some fucking reason. That Ginger cunt was there and he told me that on the previous sesh he “pulled” two women, I immediately bellowed “No you fucking didn’t” and for the most part I believed it.

The quiet man would later tell me that he didn’t pull (fuck) anyone but he did in fact curt (kiss) two women, but they were so drunk that they could barely stand- let alone see- or consent for the matter. That Ginger guy thought that was something to be proud about.


He drank near every fucking night too, I only went on like four or five seshes during those two weeks (anymore would kill a man) even Gay James Corden, a self proclaimed Alcoholic, thought that he drank too much. The wee asthamatic boy never drank in his life, his first time was on this trip and on his first night out drinking the Ginger guy made him drink the most vile shite. Like, he was so sick that he could barely come to class the following morning. This cunt was drinking fucking whiskey as well. The lad was a self proclaimed alcoholic. Then again if I looked like him, I’d be an alcoholic as well.

Anyway that night I got drunk, had a few laughs- especially at the part in which the Little Lesbian declared that she would reinstate Stormont- her manifesto simply stated “Up the Gays” and “Fuck Arlene Foster” which is a very good message in my opinion. Anyway, I drank some more. I think I danced or some shit, maybe even threw up. I went back up to bed at like three in the fucking morning. Said some fucked up shit that made the other lads laugh like crazy, shouted about something and then fell asleep in my clothes.

It was an utter bitch to climb up that fucking ladder. Especially if you have to climb down to go to the toilet to throw up- which I did a lot. Went to class the next day hungover as fuck, it was raining too. I didn’t even put my hood up- I let the rain soak me to the bone and cleanse me of all that shit. Straight up ruined my hair for the day. Honestly I’m surprised I didn’t get a cold.

I believe I went on five seshes. The first sesh was on the Sunday that we arrived. The next one was on the Tuesday of the first week, the next was the thursday of the first week. The next was the Saturday of the first week. Followed up by the sesh on the Tuesday of the second week and finally the thursday of the second week. I didn’t go on the sesh on the final day, I believe none of us did. We had too much sense for it. We all knew we’d have to get up for the airport at six am so why even bother?

I didn’t go on the sesh on the Friday. mainly because the bar was waayyyy too busy. Something called Tapas was going on and the room was packed- I didn’t bother with it so instead I spent the bulk of the night typing up and Publishing the Acne Ridden Manlet’s article about Star Trek which you can read here. I was also recovering from the previous sesh, so I felt like a toilet bowl that had just been flushed.

The next day we got up early because we had to do this trip on the metro that was mandatory. I skipped breakfast again and started walking with the guys to the metro as soon as I got out of the pigsty we called a room. It was a Saturday morning and I was very fucking tired. One of my Media Tutors back at the tech told me how great the metro in Barcelona was, it was alright. Underground trains are pretty inoffensive to me. We’d been told again and again about how pickpockets get around in Barcelona- especially on the metro.

It was a plight that the Hairy Man would never fucking shut up about. We’d be walking through the street and he’d be like “Oh, check your gear…theses guys are professional…what they do was-” and he’d just ramble on about shit that I ALREADY FUCKING KNOW and he did it in such a smug dumbfuck way…it was just really annoying. Especially since he’d take like a twenty second gap in between each of his points- so he’d say something and you’d assume he was done, like he finally realised he should shut the fuck up because you’re tired- but then he’d make a follow up that contained very little new information and was just a regurgitation of the sam efucking bullshit- you thought to yourself “Oh, you’re not done? Fuck…” and I just walked in silence until he’d get he fucking hint and he never got the fucking hint.

The irony is this is the same guy who lost his fucking wallet. Not stolen, Not Taken- Lost.

I understand I sound very petty by saying that shite but I am a petty person so it’s completely in character. Very Passive Aggressive as well since I never call anyone out by name and just give vague descriptions of people. However these descriptions are fairly apt, especially since many of my readers have no idea who I’m talking about. If I were to call someone say “Conn McCloskey” the vast majority of you would know next to nothing about him.

You could make a few deductions. The “McCloskey” surname is Irish and by your previous knowledge collected from this article and previous articles you would know that I am Irish, so we probably know each other since I call him out by name. However you have next to no idea how he looks like, all you have to go by is “Conn” which is a peculiar name to say the least. I mean, what the fuck does a Conn look like? You have an idea of what a Jim or a Shaun would look like, but a Conn? If you were familiar with your names you’d understand that there’s a name called Conor, perhaps Conn is a descendant of Connor- or an abridged version of it. Hell, maybe it refers to a man from Connacht- like “Those dirty Conns are up to no good” however it’s a short name, almost as if it had been cut off. You immediately presume that this man Conn has a very low stature. Yes, Half a Name for Half a Man, that makes sense to you- but you still have next to no idea who he is.

Now, if I were to say “The Acne Ridden Manlet” you have an abundance of information. You understand that this man is not necessarily a man, but rather a Creature like a Goblin or a Dwarfish Troll. You would understand that he’s absolutely hideous, with red splotches all over his grey skin- most of which is bleeding. The blood is deadly to those who touch it, you will become like him- most would rather die. He is a sordid creature and by my encounters with him you would think me a man of great empathy, of pity, of caution, of wisdom- a great adventurer if you will that deals with these beastly underlings on a regular basis. You would have no idea I was such a petty little bitch.

Anyway, we went to this place called Montjuïc Castle and I have to say- the view was fucking amazing.


I didn’t take that photo, in case you were wondering. I can’t fly.

I spent the majority of the time wandering around the castle by myself because I’m a Loner. Ugh, that sounds too cool- I’m not that cool. That’s like Wolverine level of coolness. I guess I can’t say “Lone Wolf” either because it is both too cool and has been appropriated to describe terrorists. Fuck, what kind of description can I use for myself?

…Male Hyenas wander about on their own. Hyenas have a Matriarchal society so the women kick the guys out of their pack and wander about by themselves, they only use the guys for reproductive purposes.

Yeah, so I’m more like a Male Hyena. I have a weird laugh and I wander about by myself.

I got some photographs of some Seagulls standing on the barrel of a canon but they were facing the sun so the photos were overexposed. I got one of a seagull standing on a lamppost. I though that was pretty funny.


I don’t take a lot of pictures or videos of places that I visit. At least not anymore. I prefer to just look at things and think “Oh, that’s nice” and then move on. I don’t think anyone would be interested in a photo album of shitty images I got on holiday. Instead I tend to focus on stuff that I find funny and am positive other people will find funny.

I’m very proud of my Facebook. Like, I cannot tell you how many people have come up to me and said that they find my Facebook posts fucking hilarious. A guy described my facebook posts as like some kind of satire on Facebook profiles. Because other people just post up random photos and shit and nobody really gives a shit about it. It’s simply a platform to produce a highlight reel of your life and it makes people depressed because they will compare their own life to your highlight reel. But by saying dumb shit and making a few weird jokes I can change someones viewing habits for the better. I’ve been told that I can make a persons day with one of my posts- like finding a Diamond in a pile of shite.

I’m humbled by it, y’know? Like most of these people don’t even leave a like but they still find it funny. I kind of wish they’d leave a like just so I’d know that at the very least I made that person smile. It’s a nice feeling you get when you learn that you’ve made a person smile.

I posted a lot during the last two weeks, averaging to about two or three posts a day. Most of them got good reactions like this one.


That’s a good post. It opens up with a clear fact; what time is it. But it adds an emotion to it exhibited by a capital F in “Fucking” implying frustration or even anger- the context of course being I am upset that I’m still awake at such an ungodly hour. That’s the introduction. The information follows; I give a description of where I am by simply referring to “The Bedroom” I also give an issue that I cannot resolve, in this case the window will not close so I am exposed to the sound of the outdoors, I specify that my displeasure illuminates from a Spanish couple arguing loudly which I can hear perfectly despite being high up above them. The situation is now quite pitiable, but the total unreasonableness is added by the inclusion of the man singing the catchy tune- a man that I dislike intensely since I refer to him as “Some Cunt” which is deliberate- saying “Some Man” doesn’t have the same ferocity.

The situation is less than ideal but the punchline is the image at the bottom, it’s a photo of Ted Mosby, a character from the sitcom How I met Your Mother. The image is a screenshot from an episode with a flashback to his college days, in which he shared a bunk bed with his best friend Marshall. The scene details how Marshall lost his virginity in that bunk bed while Ted was still in the same room trying to sleep- he’s obviously discomforted at this ordeal and when Marshall suggests to his girlfriend that they go again we cut to a closeup of Ted saying “Please Don’t” that’s the comedic punchline of that flashback.

It’s a great punchline for this post because it has an intertextuality to it- it cross references to cultural milestones or more specifically something beloved in the medium of Pop Culture, people who have watched the TV Series will think to themselves “Oh I watched that episode” and they’ll experience a pleasant sense of nostalgia. But everyone who hasn’t watched it will also enjoy it thanks to Josh Radnor’s perfect reaction face. The face that suggests “I’m both tired and in agony and I want to fucking sleep” which is a face we can relate to because we have all at one point or another had to share a room or at the very least had some issue sleeping. The quote at the end; “Please No” adds a desperation to it, something pitiable that we can all relate to.

Dave Chappelle says that “Sometimes to be Funny you have to be mean. And everything is funny- till it happens to you” which is true. They’re laughing at my misery. A misery that each and every one of them have experienced in their lives, but since it’s not happening to them it’s fucking hilarious.

The structure of the words is on point as well. Those gaps in between each sentence? Deliberate. If the text is all grouped together it looks block like, it appears like more of a hassle with reading so people won’t read it. If it looks like that then the words flow naturally, as if I’m speaking to you directly. It’s more of an experience than anything else.

Each word in that post is vital, each space is calculated down to the tee. The length of each sentence is integral to the success of a post. Because if the post is too long it’ll be cut off halfway through by a “see more” option. The “see more” option is my enemy. If any of my posts have a “see more” option than that post is a structural failure. People are lazy, they can’t be bothered to click that button to finish reading. As soon as they see that “see more” option they lose interest and scroll down. Maybe if it’s the first thing they see and they have a full attention span they could will themselves to press that godforsaken “See More” button but for the most part I’m lucky to be the hundredth thing they see. I’m lucky that they don’t immediately scroll past me. So I got to keep it both brief and to the point. That means having a good structure and thinking a lot about what you say. Your words count.

Though less words don’t necessarily mean that the post is better. This is probably one of the most disappointing posts that had in the past two weeks:


I’m very disappointed with this post. For starters I genuinely thought it was going to get more likes since it was a joke about how weird it the piece of art was, but also a play on words of the lyrics from “Modern Love” by David Bowie (one of his greatest songs btw) which stated “Never Gonna Fall for Modern Love” in the chorus. I just swapped out Love for Art, it was amusing. I was sure that the intertextuality would have gotten some likes- especially since a lot of my Facebook friends are David Bowie fans.

However there’s a lot of reasons this post failed. Although the joke was amusing it alienated a lot of people who don’t listen to David Bowie, it would seem to read that I’m literally never going to fall for Modern Art. Like I was just another cunt that disliked Art or even I was a cunt that thought that the art world had this great conspiracy that has duped everyone and I thought myself special and was thus undupeable. That’s not funny, it’s just weird.

Also the timing is incredibly poor. Most of my audience are from Northern Ireland and we’re currently in the Winter. Meaning it gets dark earlier, sunset is at around five o’clock. So they’d see this, an image that that was clearly taken in the middle of the day, then they’d see that it was posted at around half six- well after it had gone dark so they’d think “Nah, this was taken hours ago. It’s dark now” they’d be immediately put off by this. Perhaps if I had posted this at around three o;clock maybe it would have gotten more traction.

And if you’re wondering if people are really so petty that they would be put off by an photo due to the varying time difference from whence it was originally taken and posted, the answer is yes. Yes they are really that petty. A joke depends entirely on timing. It needs to have relevance and it needs to be understandable. You ever laugh at a joke you don’t understand? No. Nobody does. If they do they do it due t peer pressure.

The only post that got zero likes was a song that I shared, which was expected because I didn’t say anything funny. I was just like “Oh, it rained today and I thought of this song” it’s kind of out of character for my typical content. It was doomed to fail, mainly because  there was no wit and because providing a link is dodgy because often times the link doesn’t work or people are just too lazy and they’d rather waste three minutes scrolling through shitty memes than listen to beautiful music. The song was Brooklyn by Woodkid, in case you were wondering. I’d recommend checking out his album, it’s phenomenal.

The most popular post I made was just a collection of screenshot I had taken from some guys Twitter account. It was thread that explained all the horrible shit that Winston Churchill did. I was inspired to create the post because Nigel Farage was talking some shite about these students who protested a Churchill themed Cafe because they believed (accurately) that he was a White Supremacist and a Colonialist mass murderer. I was pissed off at Nigel dismissing the entire thing as a bunch of Leftie Hogwash so I searched the twitter feed of LAD, a Political Satire Page in Northern Ireland- highly recommend it since it’s undoubtedly the best satire page in the North- though the competition doesn’t exactly raise a high bar. I found the original thread, took around twenty one screenshots. Churned out a quick little paragraph and posted it.

The fucking thing went Viral.

IMG_20180204_160422I took that screenshot this morning. I haven’t checked it in a day so it’s probably double. Keep in mind I have just over a one hundred friends on Facebook so this like and share ratio is fucking phenomenal. There is some issues with the screenshots though. The guy’s name isn’t Ian, it’s actually a Guy called David Kelly.

I know that because someone was nice enough to tell me and gave some of his info in the comment section. Somehow David found the post and made a comment saying that he was the guy who made the original thread. So I edited the original post to say “David” instead of “Ian” I hope he’d notice. There’s nothing I could do with he screenshots since they were taken well after David stopped operating Ireland’s twitter account.

I’m still getting notifications for this motherfucker. Most of it is from people who like each individual photo which is extremely frustrating. Most of it is people tagging other people in the comment section, some of them comment stuff like “oh my god I never knew he was such a cunt” then we get some self Loathing Americans going “Wow, we really took after our Mother Country” which if you’re one of those people- stop that shit. It’s pathetic. I appreciate the fact that you admit that your people have done fucked up shit, believe me it’s nice you have some self awareness about history, but simply apologize or atone or at the very least learn not to repeat it. Don’t beat yourself up over that shit because we all know you don’t really care, you just want to make people think that you’re edgy and that you’re more liberal than they are- but you’re not. You’re just a self aggrandizing cunt and everyone hates you.

Granted I’ll take a self aggrandizing cunt that hates their own nation over an ignorant cunt that thinks their country shits fucking rainbows and who thinks kneeling for a flag automatically makes you a Traitor any day of the fucking week.

Of course we’ll get those cunts that say “This is not true, Churchill was great. PC Culture gone mad. Bleh” which will undoubtedly start an argument in the comment section that I’m going to get a shit ton of notifications for. Worst part is I’m not invested in this argument, it’s just a bunch of invisible people screaming at each other- I don’t give a shit. I do not have an invisible dog in this invisible fight.

Then there’s going to be the people I have more respect for, the people who are like “Can you provide references to these claims?” these are the people that are wise enough not to believe everything on the internet. I would have been more than happy to look up the facts about the thread to verify them, but I genuinely can’t be bothered plus that’s going to start another argument about references and history and…I just can’t deal with that shit.

I feel like a pretty girl that just posted a selfie. I’m still getting notifications and weird comments like a week after I posted it. It’s annoying…but I like the attention.

Y’know what guys? This is another really long article. You’ve read nearly 15,000 words- that’s equivalent to thirty pages. That’s like a first chapter of a book plus half of the second chapter, which means this is a really long article. It’s currently just past 3am for me. Why don’t we take a break? You get something to eat. I’m going to get a slice of soda bread. Meet back in ten to fifteen minutes, sound good? Great.


So I was wandering around the castle by myself like a Lone Male Hyena when I came across an Asian woman crouching on the path a few meters in front of me. I initially thought she was tying her shoes but she was facing the direction of the garden a few feet below the footpath. She was looking at something. What in hell could she be looking at? shrubbery?

I moved closer to see what she was looking at and I was surprised. It was a Cat. A Cat in Catalonia. This…This title is redundant. FUCK. I had this title in my head ever since I decided to join the bloody Earsmus trip to Barcelona. This fucking discovery singlehandedly ruined this entire fucking article.FUCK- FUCKITY FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK.

…Y’know what? I’m gonna keep this fucking title. I worked too god damn hard to turn back now. There’s no fucking wit to “There was a Cat in Catalonia” NO- EVERYONE FUCKING KNOWS THAT. That’s why I had to fucking say “There are no Cats in Catalonia” because at the very least people would laugh at that FUCKING TITLE- AND IT’S NOT EVEN TRUE. I FUCKING WASTED THE GODDAMN INTRO TALKING ABOUT MY CHILDHOOD CATS FOR NO FUCKING REASON OTHER THAN TO SHOW YOU HOW INNOCENT I USED TO FUCKING BE TO AND MAKE ME A SYMPATHETIC CHARACTER- FUCK, FUCKING HELL, FUCK.

So of course I realised “That’s a Cat…I’ve never seen a Cat in Spain before” as if the fucking nation made it special. God I can be a moron sometimes. I started following it. The cat was pretty chill at the start, though it had a resting bitch face. It caught on soon that I was following it. The cat would stop every fifty meters just to look back at me, I halted and stared at it until it started walking again. After two hundred meters the Cat went in a tunnel and realised it could make a break for it so I started running after it like a goddamn idiot. I chased it up these steps and across this wee garden. It jumped over a wall that I couldn’t climb because it lead to a cliff edge that would have killed me if I fell.

I fucking ruined my boots chasing that cat. Tore half the sole straight off of my right foot. I had to limp like a fucking moron for the rest of the day. I found the media group, told Gay James Corden about the cat. He aptly made a joke about pussy, it was quite funny. Though I was disappointed that neither of the Lesbians made a joke- it really would have made the day for me.

We left the Castle a little later than we planned, the Gay Stoner and his disciples got lost and we legitimately considered abandoning him. The Lifeguard did a really funny impression of him; “Hey guys, so we’ve been abandoned in Spain” it was funny. But keep in mind these fuckers spend almost every night just walking about filming shit so they would have been more than comfortable walking a solid ten miles to the hostel. It would have only took them like four hours if they kept up a good pace.

We split up on the metro, some of us head back to the hostel while some of head off to this shopping centre by the port (it’s going to be washed off into the sea in fifty odd years) we were told to stay in groups but again, I do whatever I want, so I go off on my own. I need a good pair of boots that go with my outfit (yes, it is important) and I couldn’t find anything decent that was under €100. So I had to google how to say Shoes (Zapatos) and Boots (Botas) didn’t bother with learning the word size. I just had to google the European equivalent to size eight which is like forty two or something.

So I go in the shop and say something like “Zapatos ehhhhh Cuarento y dos?” and miraculously she understood what I was talking about. She spoke decent English though but I tried to avoid speaking English because I didn’t want to come off as just another dumb fuck tourist- I wanted to look like I was actually trying. People say that they don’t care about what people think of them, that’s horseshit. We constantly give a fuck about what people think of us. I care about how I smell, how I look, how I sound to other people- that’s what matters to me. I don’t want to walk up to a girl smelling like ball sweat. I have pride.

So I bought them for €100- that god damn Cat cost me a fortune. I threw the old shoes in the bin and walked around in those new shoes, which I soon realised was a mistake because you shouldn’t walk too far in new boots unless you want to tear the skin off your heels. John fucking Steinbeck warned me about that in the Grapes of Wrath. I should have listened to him.

I found the crew again and they were weirdly cool about me wandering off by myself, as if they didn’t even realise I was gone. I imagine they were cool about it because I established early on that I was a very independent person with a lot of common sense. in fact on the second or third day we got lost so I took out my phone, put on 4G and put up Google maps to find our way back. The students and the tutor followed me like a bunch of sick puppies. They thought I was a goddamn genius because I used google fucking maps. I’m telling you, these Derry ones are special.

I did Spanish in secondary School. you have to do two languages for three years before GCSE and then you can pick what subjects you want to do (for the most part at least) my two languages were Spanish and Irish. I liked Irish in first year because I liked the teacher, but we got a new teacher in second and third year and the subject kind of just sucked from then on.

I had the same teacher for Spanish for all three years, when I first met him he falsely accused me of bullying my friend. Pretty much roasted me in front of the entire class. However as time went by I realised he was a great guy. Horrible teacher, but a great guy- certainly one of the best things to come to of Derry city. He had a bad leg so he was grumpy and tired all the time, but he had a great sense of humour and told a lot of cool stories. He was like Frankie Boyle but a hell of a lot less vulgar. He barely taught us a lick of Spanish. Didn’t even tell us about the Spanish alphabet. For the most part he was just like “Yeah, do whatever the fuck you want- I’m too tired today” so we’d just fuck about. Sometimes he’d do a wee quiz, like a pub quiz. They were always fun. I remember one time one of the lads wrote down something stupid for one of the answers and he called them up and read out the answer, I can’t remember the question but the answer was; “Because he’s black” the boys tried their best to hold back their giggles and the teacher accused them of racism.

Personally I don’t think these kids were racist. I think they were a bunch of dumb fuck kids trying to be edgy and didn’t believe what they were saying. but then again they were from Dungiven, so I wouldn’t put it past them.

I did Spanish at GCSE, it was easily one of the stupidest things I had ever done. I mean I was appallingly underprepared for the subject. I didn’t know the alphabet, I didn’t understand Spanish adjectives or nouns or all that dumb shit that languages have. The teacher was great though, although he had a lot of issue teaching kids that were significantly dumber than he was. I kind of mentioned him in one of Dubliners review. He talked about a lot of interesting stuff. Specifically about the history of Spain and the culture.

Apparently there’s this thing called a “Un Bottleon” which is pronounced like “Bottle” and “Leon” but minus the L. The whole things is basically like a Sesh on the street. Like, hundreds of teenagers and young adults would come together at a park or something like that and they’d bring alcohol so they’d get super drunk and then fuck about. It sounds class, but there’s a lot of issues with it. Specifically with the fact that these drunk teenagers cause a lot of property damage and there’s a lot of cases of girls getting raped. It’s fucked up.

One of the most interesting facts I found about Spain was he fact for like five hundred year the population of Spain largely consisted of Jews, Muslims and Christians- and for the most part they lived in peace. Everyone just left each other in peace. That is up until a King in the 1500’s was just a complete and utter bastard and carried out an Ethnic cleansing. that’s why a lot of buildings in Barcelona have dome shaped roofs, because they used to be Mosques and Synagogues.

I regurgitated that whole thing to one of the tutors when we were on the castle, looking over the city. He found to fascinating. We talked a wee bit about timezones (which I know a lot about because I wrote an article about Time) and Bullfighting. We agreed that it was stupid but then we realise that the sun was getting too hot while we stood still (like for some reason you will get hotter when you’re standing still in the sun than when you’re moving. I know, it’s weird) so we decided to fuck off to the shade.

But anyway, back to the shopping mall. Christ, there is nothing more soul crushing than a shopping centre. Like for starters the whole thing appears sterile and devoid of life, it’s kind of like an alien society trying to replicate a human society. It’s just off putting. Tommy Tiernan had this bit about how disappointing travelling around the world is because you keep seeing the sam damn thing; White people Shopping. granted in Spain the people weren’t white, they were really really tanned. but the whole shopping ordeal still sucked to high heaven.

I hadn’t ate breakfast that day so I was absolutely starving. I’m a fussy eater so I have a hard time eating out in public, specifically in restaurants and fast food places I’m not aware of because I don’t know what the cuisine is like. I usually stick to the same foods but I was so hungry that I would literally eat anything.

So I went to Subway and ordered a meatball Sub and by God it was Phenomenal.


I never had meatballs before in my life and holly fuck have I been missing out on a marvellous thing. Whoever thought it was a great idea to get a pile of meat and scrunch it up into a ball needs a goddamn statue. The staff also spoke English too, fucking everybody speaks English. Like it’s he go to language. I watched a French woman order her meal in English. It was eye opening, Britain and America really have fucked the world.

The meatball sub is my go to Hangover food. That or a cornetto. Or ideally, both.

we were stuck in the shopping mall for like two or three hours and after a while there’s fuck all to do. it got so bad that even the Women got bored. So we decided to sit out by the pier. I sat on this thing called a bollard. It’s a thing on the dock that you use to tie a rope around to keep a boat from wandering off. it was a big one. Looked somewhat like this.


When I sat on it I was right next to the edge, so Gay James Corden got nervous for like a second because he thought I’d fall in. That man is the most easily startled person I have ever met. Like I’d come down from my bunk while he’s in his bed and he’d say “Oh my God you scared me” even though he knew I was there but apparently he just forgot or something. He told me he had anxiety or something but I’ve met people with anxiety and they are nowhere near as bad as he could get, startle wise. Personally I believe all that heavy drinking fucked up his nervous system so he’s very unaware of his surroundings, hence why he’s easily startled.

The water form afar looked very clear and pretty, but on a closer look it seemed to be just as murky as any river you’d get in Ireland. It was just a hell of a lot bluer. I think Gay James Corden made. remark about how clear it was and stated that it was far clearer than the River Foyle in Derry; “the Foyle looks like someone died in it” I told him that people have died in it. Like a hundred a year, from my last count. I talked about it in another article.

As I looked across the water I remember a similar experience I had up in Belfast. It was late July of 2017 and my projects of getting into Queens were still likely. I hadn’t slept that day, my sleeping pattern was fucked and I had to go to a meeting up in Belfast at around 9am. After the meeting I was tired as fuck but I didn’t want to go home just yet. So I walked around and found myself by the Titanic Quarter.

I sat on  one of the bollards and listened to James O’Brien’s show on LBC. He spent a solid hour talking about Brexit and answering phonically by dumbfuck Leave voters, which is aways fun to hear. But then he changed the topic to Halal meat because at that time Germany or somewhere like that had banned Halal meat being produced because of Animal cruelty. Then he talked about veganism and he had this wonderful call from this Vegan lady who had recently become a widow, so he cleared out like half an hour of his show just to talk to this woman and listen to her talk about her Husband. It was lovely.

I watched some ducks float on the water. I noticed that they used the water to clean themselves. They’d scrub their heads down with their wings and then shake the water out with their feathers. Then they’d plunge down into the river a few feet to soak themselves all over again or maybe just hunt for food. I calculated that they could hold their breath for up to forty five seconds. I watched until each and every duck eventually few away down to the mouth of the sea. It was a beautiful day.

1 credit Titanic Belfast

We got back to the hostel and I got some shut eye. We ate dinner, fucked about. Nothing much really happened. I think I just caught up on the Philip DeFranco Show, watched the latest Monologue from Stephen Colbert and streamed to recent of episode of real time with Bill Maher- it was an ok episode. The only real thing that happened that day was the sesh.

The sesh on that Saturday was…interesting, to say the least. It started out like any other sesh, I was drinking one of those God Awful lagers from the bar that’ll fuck you up really bad and I was hanging out with the media ones. I spot this pretty girl standing alone on the opposite side of the room, she looked really bored and lonely and I wanted to go talk to her.

I wanted to go up and talk to her but there was several issues I had to deal with. For starters I had to deal with the possibility that she couldn’t speak a lick of English, that would have been quite the hurdle. Second issue would be the problem of whether or not she wanted to talk to me in the first place, and if she did- what could I say?

There’s a lot of issues with chatting up a woman. For starters you have to be able to speak and I’ve always had issues speaking vocally. That’s why I like writing, that’s why I have a blog- because it’s the only way I can say what I’m thinking. The other is you have to have a basic awareness of your attractiveness. Like there’s no point going up to Keira Knightly if you look and sound like Chris O’Dowd (the most unbelievable thing about Thor: The Dark World was that Natalie Portman’s character would ever go out with Chris O’Dowd. No, you don’t fuck down– unless they’re rich) so you have to understand what kind of bar you can hit. The final issue is the most difficult, you have to believe in yourself. Like you have to genuinely believe with all your heart that you can get this woman to agree to at the very least kiss you. That’s a hard thing to do if you have little to no self esteem and tend to overthink the most basic of shit, like me. To attract a woman you have to appeal to her, offer her something that she may want (preferably not money) like physical attractiveness is great but it’ll only get you so far. You have to offer a personality that she likes, an attitude she doesn’t find repulsive, you can be funny- women like guys who are funny because they want to be around people that make them laugh and they can have fun with, you have to avoid saying fucked up shit- so don’t bring up your weird kinks or your cult or your Klan– just the basics to get her interested. You have to offer her a good time that she’ll enjoy and then she’ll like you enough that she warrants a kiss.

Or y’know, get her black out drunk till she can barely stand so you can cheat. Like that Ginger Cunt.

I finished two pints before I asked the Little Lesbian about the girl on the other side of the room. She told me that she spoke very good English but she said “She’s mine” citing her flannel shirt as a red flag. I shrugged it off and said something along the lines of “I do whatever the fuck I want” and she was like “Alright” then we danced because there was a sick beat playing, but also I wanted to show the girl that I had friends and I wasn’t a creepy date rapist staring at her. Like I said, I overthink some stupid shit.

I eventually got the nerve to go up and talk to her. To my surprise she was actually interested in talking to me. We chatted for like five minutes before I was like “It’s too loud in here, want to go outside?” she agreed and we went outside. We chatted for like a solid forty five minutes. She was a nice girl, very pretty, I can’t remember what she looks like.

I learned a lot about her. Her name was Christina, she’s from the Canary Islands. She goes to a University in Madrid but she came up to Barcelona because she likes the city. She’s friends with the DJ, hence why she was there that night and why she was alone. She’s a writer, hoping to become a journalist but she also rites poetry. Her last poem was written in English, she was pretty fluent in English sine she’d been learning t since she was in school.

We mostly just talked bout her. I’ve found that women for the most part like to talk about themselves, even if they consider themselves to be particularly shy. Guys for the most part have nothing to say and women don’t really give a shit about us, so they’d rather talk about what they care about- themselves. A guy who can never shut up and listen will have a hard time getting laid.

She was very nice. I told her that I was Irish but I don’t think she recognised the accent or she forgot because twenty minutes later she referred to me as “English“.

I’ve never been more offended in my life. Like…I couldn’t think of a worse thing you could say to an Irish man. You can call us Paddies, you can call us Micks, you can call us Bogg-Trotters and Taigs- but don’t you DARE call us English. The fucking English don’t even like being called English. That’s way they insist on referring to themselves as British. It’s a horrible thing to call someone. Winston Fucking Churchill said “We have aways found the Irish to be odd. they refuse to be English” like…yeah?! Fucking christ. Y’know what? I’m done with this rant. If you want some context read this article. I’m fucking done.

I swear to fuck, I would have punched her in the face if she weren’t so goddamn pretty.

We talked a while and then she said that she wanted to go back inside so that she could check on her friend. So we did. I fond my beer where I left it, it hadn’t been spiked. Apparently Northern Ireland is a lot more rapey than Spain. I checked on the crew, told the Little Lesbian about my progress. She was quite pleased. I think the Ginger Cunt said something stupid but for the life of me I can’t remember what it was.

I waited for her for about ten minutes, then I went up to check on her. She took me aside and told me that she wasn’t interested in me and that she didn’t want to waste my time. I think I she said she was gay or something but it was so loud. She said she’d lie to talk but that’s about it and to be honest I didn’t even care if nothing else was going to happen. I didn’t even want to get drunk. I just wanted to stand outside and listen to her for hours, I was just in that type of mood. But she said that she wanted to hang out with her friend now so we parted ways.

I went back to the crew and updated them. scooter boy consoled me by saying “It happened to me twice” so he was very sympathetic. The little Lesbian was disappointed but I told her that she was all hers. She grabbed my arm and asked “Are you sure that she wasn’t lying?” and that fucking hit me really really fucking hard. I’m not gonna lie. Like the idea that she’d lie to me like that was devastating. But I realised that the reason she probably felt that she had to lie was because some guys don’t take “I’m not interested” as an answer. They’d only fuck off she’d say “I have a boyfriend” or at the very least “I’m Gay” because there’s nothing more they could do then- there would be no reason t get upset. It just fuelled my misanthropy, because other people that I haven’t even fucking met are such cunts that they have managed to cock block me without even being in the same fucking room.

The crew moved on to other topics quickly, but I couldn’t shrug it off. Like I head to believe in myself and it was so difficult, I tight it was going so well and she seemed like she did infect like me and…it just blindsided me. The best way I can describe his sensation is that moment in How I met Your Mother when Barney and Robin have a drunken one night stand and they had a dilemma because they were both in a relationship with other people. But Barney positioned that they break up with their partners and start seeing each other again, they agree to it (though Robin was a little reluctant) so Barney breaks up with his girlfriend and waits for Robin in the bar. But as soon as she shows up he quickly realises that she didn’t break up with her boyfriend. He put everything on the line for her and in the end she rejects him.

In that rejection he experiences something called “the everlasting second” in which a second feels like it lasts a year. You’re just stuck in that moment and you’re bombarded with that sheer and utter heartbreak and you almost fall apart. It was kind of like that for me. I couldn’t stay there, so I wandered off down the streets of Barcelona.

What followed was quite odd, I’m not gonna lie. I walked down twelve blocks for like maybe half an hour but it felt like six. I kept thinking about the girl and what she said. I started to doubt hat she actually said she as a lesbian, I think she just said she wasn’t interested. but she was wearing flannel and the Lesbian did warn me about her so…fuck. Fuck indeed.

I was heartbroken. It was stupid, how the hell could a woman I just met do this to me? Surely my self esteem wasn’t this fragile? Fuck, if a woman you just met could accidentally tear apart your self esteem then you do not have a self esteem. You’re just a talking bag of juice that can march up and down he street like a fucking moron.

I thought about the kind of person who could shrug this type of thing off. Like maybe if she’d outright said to “I’m not interested” in the first thirty seconds I’d have been fine but we went on for like an hour and she seemed into me and…I don’t know. I couldn’t just shrug it off, I placed all my bets on her and she rejected me. I thought about Barney Stinson, this kind of thing would never happen to him. He was a funny guy and a great character- but he was a hardcore misogynist, suffering from abandonment issues and a previous broken heart- he was a self proclaimed monster. An empty husk of a man that felt nothing despite doing the most horrid things.

I wondered about the type of man I would have to become to not let things like this bother me. But before I saw him I started to think about my day.

I thought about that cat in the castle. How I’d chased after it like a goddamn moron and ruined my boots, only for it to narrowly get away. I thought about that new pair of boot I was wearing that looked and did in fact cost €100 and they were currently tearing the skin off my heels. I then thought about that girl a the bar again, I felt like an idiot. I realised the joke then. About the Cat and the Girl, in both cases I was chasing pussy that narrowly got out of reach.

I started to laugh hysterically. Like a continuous, crazy laugh that went on for well over twenty minutes- passers by tried desperately not to look at me. I drifted into insanity for a moment. I let go of the steering wheel and let the car direct itself- it just so happened that he car had drifted off the road straight towards the edge of a cliff- and all I could do was sway back and forth- smiling like a madman with vacant eyes.

I thought about the kind of man I’d have to become to not feel anything like that. This empty vessel, more dead than alive. Heart frozen over or rather clogged up with oil. Filled with all that hate and anger, lashing out like a caged animal. I’d no longer be a man, I’d be a beats- a Monster. Creatures like me hunger for Power and I would find it just like they always do. I’d hurt so many people just for the hell of it, that little sparkle in my eye would emerge when I saw a fellow human being in agony by my hand. In a few hundred years Children could learn about me in history books, a kid could look down and see my photograph. He’ll be fascinated by it, by the eyes of raw fucking evil. I could cast a shadow that’ll haunt man for the rest of their days- all  have to do is give into the evil thoughts that were already in my head.

I thought about that for a little bit, then a quote popped up in my head; “There are no Evil men, only evil thoughts” Terry Crews said that after the Paris Attacks in 2015, where like 150 people were murdered by Jihadists. That quote always confused me, because by that logic there are no Good men- only good thoughts. So a person’s moral integrity doesn’t rely on who they are as a person, but rather what they think- or rather what they do. Yes, I think that’s right.

The mark of a good man is not that he doesn’t think evil thoughts, but rather that he chooses not to carry them out. So you could think about the most fucked up shit in your head but so long as you don’t turn those thoughts into actions, you are a good person- or at the very least you are not an evil one. I started to think about that. How easy it would have been to just go Darkside and become a husk of my former self, but that would be easy. Things that are easy are often not important- things that are hard are almost always. Peace is hard, Love is hard, Life is hard- everything that’s a worth anything in this world is hard.

You should realise that everyone has a darkside but that doesn’t necessarily make them bad people, so long as they can accept it and control it. You should define yourself by what you do, not who you do. What you do, what you say, how you look- all of that is important because people cannot understand what is going on in your head. So you have to try, try to understand, try to act, try to overcome, try to accomplish, try to be better- just try.

I stopped by this lamppost and rested beside it. I touched it with my hand, the metal was not smooth like it was on the factory floor. The rain had gotten to it- created some small ridges as it tore away layers with erosion. I thought about the person who made it. Then I thought about God, or rather the person that may be operating all of reality as we know it. The idea that God is “All knowing, All powerful and All Loving” is infantilistic drivel. That’s not God, God is a mediocre writer who has an appalling recollection of continuity. God has struggles, he has writers block. He struggles to get by, to pay the bills, to get laid- God is just a Guy like you and me (even if you’re a woman, you’re a guy…yeah) we’re all just characters in this world he’s created. As a writer (though a poor one at that) I can appreciate God’s use of imagery for poetic irony- especially with the Girl and the Cat- that was fucking hilarious.

So if we were to believe that God almighty is not as we previously thought he was, but rather he was just a B-List writer then that shakes it up a bit. The question is no longer why are we here, but rather what is the story? Who is the main character? Am I the main Character? I thought about that, but it seems a little arrogant to presume the entire world revolves around you. f anything I believe I’m a non playable character with no speaking role that get’s killed in a car crash that the protagonist witnesses, or I buy a doughnut off of them, or I bump into them on the street and awkwardly say “Sorry” as they walk on. Yes, that seems plausible.

Of course the other theory I have is that all of reality is just a simulation. Some people like to think it’s something like “Oh, we’re a simulation created by future humans to see what would have happened if America lost in Vietnam” or something like that. Personally I’m a lot less hopeful in mankind’s curiosities. I believe we’re living in a simulation created by Burger King to see whether or not the “Meatatarian” burger would be financially successful. After they collect the data the simulation will shut down, the shut down process will look very different to us. Things don’t just suddenly turn black and that’s it. No, weird stuff starts going down in what I call a “toilet flush effect” in which the length of time feels either really long or really short. Everything will get weirder and weirder and weirder as we swirl around until finally we are eventually flushed away in Armageddon.

I moved away from that lamppost feeling significantly better than I did when I went towards it. I kept walking down the streets. There was a straight row of lampposts that seemed to go on for miles and miles. I wanted to find the ending because they’re had to be an ending. But I stopped, I thought about the little lesbian and the rest of the crew and realised I’d just randomly disappeared and they were probably really worried. I wanted to keep moving forward to find the end but I begrudgingly decided to head back.

I’d stopped laughing now. I’d stopped smiling, focus came back to my eyes and I grabbed the drivers wheel in the nick of time and got back onto the road. I had returned to sanity, I was back in control.


Well that was a complete load of shite, wasn’t it?

I wasn’t even fucking drunk. I had two pints in me for Christ sake. Barcelona man, it just fucks you up. I love that city. I’m glad to be alive so that I can feel stupid shit like that. But for now it’s time to man up and do man shit. What do guys do? Kick a ball? Start random fist fights? Yell at women across the street- that sounds fun. Maybe I could eat a bear- actually, no. That’s a bad idea.

The bears I know I have no interest in eating.

I got back to the bar twenty minutes later, the little Lesbian was up buying the next round. She was glad to see me, she said that they were worried about me and all that. Frankly I was very surprised by that since most of the time they barely realised I had gone. Remember that story I told you with the hooker? That only happened because I ditched the group after class to get a cornetto. When I got back to the hostel I asked if any of them noticed I was gone- none of them knew I went away to get a cornetto. They didn’t turn around once to see if I was still there. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

We got in line to buy a drink. She was getting weirded out by this guy checking her out, so she wrapped she crossed her arms with mine to make it look like we were together to ward off other guys. It was a little weird, I’m not gonna lie. Human beings are a very strange species. The Lesbian often took pictures of me because she thought I was “beautiful” it’s my fucking luck that the only woman that finds me attractive is a Fucking Lesbian.

So the guy who was checking her out was Argentinian. I know this because I stood next to him while I was ordering a pint. He said to me “You know Álvarez?” I did in fact not know who Álvarez was. He kept asking till I understood the question. I told him that I don’t know who Álvarez is. He showed me a picture.

canelo-alvarez (10)_5

World Champion” he told me. He said that I looked like him. I’ll let you guys be the judge of that.

The man in the photo above is Saul “Canelo” Álvarez. He’s a Mexican boxer, three time world champion. He’s fought Floyd Mayweather as well. Honestly I was as surprised as you are to discover that there’s a Ginger Mexican guy. Like, that’s the equivalent of finding out there are Black Leprechauns.

I mean it’s possible but it’s very unexpected.

Oh and by the way, he didn’t show me that photo when we were at the bar. This one is far more flattering than what I initially saw. Here’s what he showed me.

Canelo Alvarez v Erislandy Lara

Ok, great body- I like that the Argentinian guy thinks I have potential- but my chin is a hell of a lot more square than that.

Like I understand that he was in a rush so he couldn’t pick the most flattering image, but come on! You couldn’t pick one that didn’t involve him having shit in his mouth! How am I supposed to feel after seeing this???

Ok, so to clarify to you strangers- this is me:


I know, I am very pale.

So we obviously share a square head. Somewhat similar noses and we’re both Ginger so…yeah.

However I have a worse hairline than him and I’m significantly paler. His jawline is also a lot more sharp than mine. Which is surprising since he gets punched in the face for a living. I also have braces on so that may explain why my lips seem puffy- I don’t know. I don’t like looking at myself or the most part. It’s bad for my self esteem.

Personally I think he looks more like a guy that was in my Primary school and would later go to my Secondary school- although he’s blonde, not ginger. I elbowed him in the nose with full strength when I tried to replicate that scene from Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal skull when Jones lands in a car and elbows a Commie. He cried and then I started crying cause I thought I’d get in trouble. I was a little bitch back then.

Anyway, I bought a pint and went back to the crew. I got a few more drinks and started dancing. Desperately tried to avoid looking in the direction of Christina so I was just hopping up and down like a madman with my eyes closed.

A lad from tech asked “Were you really dancing Des?” and I said “Aye, I was that drunk

I’ll give you one thing, the Spaniards know how to fucking dance. Like fuck- I had this dance off with a Spaniard and it was one of the most surreal moments of my life. I ought to dance more because I imagine I looked like a fucking idiot. The Argentinians knew how to dance as well so I was just swinging about with my eyes closed, not a care in the world.

I realised two things about that night; Women want to dance while Men just want to fuck. Like you can tell that a woman actually enjoys dancing, but a guy is only dancing just to get his dick wet. You’ll see guys corner girls as if they were fucking gazelles to eat- it was weird. However I was too drunk to give a fuck. I can’t remember what happens next.

I had a nice lie in on Sunday which was very welcome. Throughout the first and final week we had to wake up at like seven in the morning. Or at least I had to because some cunt always set his alarm way too early. However on this fateful Sunday I was well rested. I got up at around one in the afternoon, walked down to the Sagrada Familia and got breakfast at subway. Wasn’t even hungover, I just wanted a meatball sub.

That day was pretty uneventful. What I do remember was that the new tutors arrived and the old ones had gone home. We were very lucky to have some of the nicest tutors looking after us, I really mean that. Most of the people on the trip never got on my nerves- except of course for the two that I mentioned earlier.

But of course I had my issues with the Gay Stoner as well. Now I’ve known him for like three years, we’re not very close but I see him in Derry literally every time I’m up there. We did the BFI together and afterwards we’d just walk past each other without saying hello. Then of course I found out he went to my tech so we actually had to talk to each other. He’s a very nice guy, I just think he’s clinically insane.

He annoyed the Quiet man on a few occasions. The most notable was due to the fact that he made the room stink of a certain plant- he got very upset with him for that. The quiet man believes that he *allegedly* made the room smell like the plant because he was doing something with the plant. However the stoner claims that he was not doing anything with the plant, he would never do anything at all with the plant.

When I arrived the room smelt like deodorant and it was very stuffy. I sat on my bed and drank out of one of my big bottles of water. The quiet man came in, frustrated and told me what happened. This lead to a very funny altercation.

Ok, so the Hairy man didn’t think that the Gay Stoner smoked weed. Now, this is hilarious to me and to literally everyone who has ever met this guy. For starters; he’s a white guy with dreadlocks. He wears these really bright clothes with all the colors of the rainbow- they look like what you’d see tripping Acid. The others took the piss out of him one night when he told them that.

The little Lesbian ended up having to tell him that “Yes, he smokes weed” he was very shocked to learn that. I was in the room with him, the quiet man and scooter boy. He told us that he was a little suspicious since the Stoner had made a video for a tech project about legalizing Marijuana. At that point I just burst out laughing- that didn’t give you a huge red flag?!

The hairy man was a little upset by this so he asked “What are you laughing at Des?” I responded with “You’re some Pup” and continued laughing. The phrase “You’re some pup” originated with my first Spanish teacher. He was fond of saying it whenever he was impressed with someone or someone said something remarkably stupid; “You’re some Pup” the correct response of course would be “I’ll be a Queer dog when I’m ol’er” the last part pronounced “owl” with an “er” due to our accent. Queer in this case means strange or special, not Gay. There’s nothing strange or special about being Gay.

None of the lads knew this reference, so it was literally just for me. The hairy man got upset by this and stormed out the room; “He’s doing my head in!” I wasn’t. I laughed and said something he didn’t understand- hardly annoying. I was annoyed that he was upset, especially since I did nothing wrong. The other lads agreed. I realised where we fucked up was with the fact that by taking the piss we insinuated he was stupid and this was the wrong kind of guy you want to make think was stupid.

The next week was a little stressful due to client work- I’m not gonna lie, it was a real bitch to accomplish. It was the same kind of thing I was used to back at the tech. Film some stuff, edit some stuff, talk to people- y’know, the usual. The time I spent working was by far the worst part of the trip. Because I was often tired and frustrated and grumpy. The food was ok though. The staff were very nice, I liked the office building we worked in. Though you had to climb like two flights of stairs and go through two separate offices to get to the toilet.

But they had a dog so it was ok. My crew fucking loved dogs. They kept referring to them as “Doggos” and they nearly broke down in tears of “awwwwwww” when they saw a dog bon the street. I know this sound sexist but literally every woman I’ve ever met loves dogs. Like, not just loves dogs- they’r infatuated with them.

Dogs are ok. They’re fairly friendly beasts. They’ve been bred to look as cute as possible because they realise that they need to look cute so they can beg for food. They are the descendants of Wolves too lazy to hunt after all. I’m a mix of a dog and a cat person to be honest. I’m not infatuated with the animal. In fact I treat them just like I treat my fellow human beings. Dogs are ok.

That second week was stressful but at the same time I had fun when I could. Ate a lot of cornettos, got drunk- y’know, the usual. The last sesh was held on the thursday, the second last day I’d be in Spain. I visited this Irish pub outside of the Sagrada Familia, it had the best name ever:


For clarification I recommend checking out my article about a United Ireland.

It was kind of surreal to be honest. I discovered it on the Tuesday of the second week and it made me so Goddamn happy. I visited it by myself on the Thursday. It was fairly empty because it was the middle of the day. I ordered a pint of Guinness and it was surprisingly decent. Tasted way better than that god awful lager back at the Hostel. The thing about the Hostel bar was that they never measured drinks- they just poured in a random amount. Like you could order a Vodka and Coke and it’ll be a third vodka when it should barely be a fifth. I’m telling you. Barcelona will fuck you up- I love it.

The pub reminded me of the pubs back home. Which I imagine is by design. It felt weird being the only Irishman in an Irish pub, like I was the Token Leprechaun. Despite my surroundings everyone was Speaking Spanish and I was very weirded out by the fact I was being served by an Englishman. I mean an Englishman serving an Irishman in an Irish Pub…I don’t know. I certainly don’t get that back home.

I don’t get a lot of things back home. Mainly the diversity. Ireland is like 98% white. Most of the immigrants I’ve met are Polish or Eastern European. For the most part they’re decent, hardworking people. There’s very few black people in Ireland. Mainly because it’s cold and wet and unlike England we’re not very appealing for jobs so we get very little immigration from African nations or from the Caribbean or even the Americas for that matter. We also weren’t involved in the Slave Trade so unlike the Americas we don’t have a large black population that are the descendants of slaves.

Like I said before there’s something weird about Ireland. Like the further away you get from the cities- the less racist you are. It’s mad, it’s usually the other way around. Ireland is quite a Leftie nation in general because for most of our history we’ve been treated like shit. We try to be nice to immigrants because we had a rough time when we emigrated to America and Europe. Irish Nationalism differs a lot from the general kind of Nationalism you’d see around the world because it’s so Left Wing. That’s mainly due to the fact that Loyalists are a bunch of Right Wing cunts. Like, remember that time Trump shared those videos from Britain First? Those are it’s supporters. They’re insane.

But anyway, back to the sesh.


The night was pretty uneventful. The bar was playing football so we were in the seating area where we could drink in peace. I drank like six or so pints of lager but I did my best to pace myself.

The night was actually great craic. Gay James Corden told some funny stories. The Quiet Man and Scooter boy kept laughing at the Monsters INC scooter- OK, I’ll explain it to you know but it won’t be as funny as it was on the day. Ok, so for one of our projects in the first week we had to come up with business ideas and had to pitch them to the class. The tutor got on everyone’s nerves because he kept tearing apart everyone’s ideas and it wasn’t even that constructive, he was being a real prick.

So the Quiet man, Scooter boy and the Hairy guy were all in one group one day and they came up with this idea to create like a portable editing studio. It’s basically just a van that you can edit in, programmes like Question time have similar stuff like that. So of course the tutor tore it to shreds even though it was a very achievable and realistic idea, there would be a market for this kind of stuff for War journalists.

So when the hairy guy left to go the toilet, Scooter boy grabbed the A3 piece of paper and started drawing “Just roll with it” he told the quiet man. So he drew out this Monsters INC scooter and they mad up this insane bullshit pitch. So when it was their turn to talk they switched the A3 paper around and presented the Monsters INC scooter with a straight face. Talking about some bullshit how War journalists need to move about quickly in a warzone- so of course a Monsters INC scooter is perfectly ideal for that situation.

The Hairy Guy was completely oblivious to this plan, you should have seen his face when they flipped the page to reveal that fucking scooter. I mean I was doing my best t hold back the laughter and one of the Girls called L tried to ask lie a serious question because we had to ask question and by fuck was it hilarious. The tutor scorned the lads, reminding them to take this seriously. But it was ultimately an act of rebellion from his bitchiness.

One day n the following week Scooter boy and the rest of the crew went to the Disney store and bought this Monsters INC scooter that was built for a five year old. The mad whore brought it into class- it was hilarious. Fuck, he spent €40 on that scooter and he couldn’t bring it home. He tried! He bought a fucking backpack and took the scooter apart but it wouldn’t fit in. The next person that walks into that bedroom will find a bunch of empty water bottles and a fucking Scooter.

So, on the night of the final sesh one of the tutors was doing card tricks. Now I know that sounds dull as fuck but by God was he fucking class. I can’t even begin to describe the type of shit I saw, it was phenomenal- especially when you’re drunk. We ended up just playing cards all night. I did my best to sober up by ordering a glass of water from the bar. I went to bed at around 2am. I had to jump out of bed to go to the toilet so I could throw up.

It was rotten. I did my best to get the place clean. I got all the chunks of food but there were splotches of water on the floor. I tried to clean that up but I thought “Eh, what’s the point?” and went back to bed. I woke up in my clothes, the guys were complaining about the mess in the bathroom. I pretended to be asleep.

Now the mess in the toilet wasn’t too bad. There weren’t any chunks of vomit anywhere- it was just a massive stain on the floor of water that I’d drank that night. Fuck, it didn’t even smell that bad. But I didn’t own up to it because I knew that Hairy bastard was going to be a massive fucking cunt about it and I honestly couldn’t deal with that on that day. I was so close to killing that motherfucker. I’d often look at his throat and fantasize about carving out his voice-box so I wouldn’t have to hear him speak. He really did get on my nerves.

The final day was pretty good at the start. The Sassy Spaniard was a lot nicer than he’d been all week. I got to eat some cake, got a cornetto, had a few laughs etc. After we finished class everyone said that they wanted to head to the Las Rambla markets but all I wanted to do was get a Subway. So I ditched them, they didn’t notice. I wandered the streets of Barcelona for a good hour- contently lost. I found this gem on my walk:


You wouldn’t find that shit in Ireland.

It was a pleasant walk but I quickly realised I was in my new boots so of course the pain of getting the flesh systematically removed from your heels kicked in and it made things very awkward. I found the Sagrada Familia after an hour. It’s a pretty building, I’ll give you that. But it churns my stomach a little, I just know Jesus wouldn’t have wanted it. Like this guy was really humble- we wouldn’t want this expensive monstrosity built in his name. He’d rather have the money spent helping the poor. That’s what I think at least.

I got a Subway, again with a meatball sub. I really love the meatball sub. I went to the Irish pub afterwards. I was going to sit at he end of the bar but I thought there was a guy sitting there so I went to the opposite end. Of course if I’d have known there was no reception for 4G at the opposite end I wouldn’t have went there but here you go.

I didn’t have any internet so I spent a while thinking about stuff. I thought about all the articles I want to write for the blog (I have hundreds of ideas) I though a little about Christina. It was a little weird I kept thinking about a Girl I didn’t even know but I’m a particularly odd man so it seems to be in character. I thought about what the weather was like at home and if I’d have issue readjusting, I recall coming back from Australia in January- it was like switching from Summer to Winter in a day but I managed to adapt just fine.

I thought about Barcelona and how much I actually liked the city. It’s a shame about those Jihadi cunts though, that’s the reason why there’s they’re concrete cubes on the road beside the Sagrada- they’re to stop cars from mowing people down. But for the most part people don’t give a shit about that kind of thing. They won’t stop living despite what some cunt wants them to do. It’s quite admirable.

I thought about the amount of stress I had to deal with this week, I planned on staying out for a few more hours just so I didn’t have to deal with that bathroom back at the hostel. If that Hairy bastard brought it up to me I would have gotten so Angry and…I really just didn’t want to be angry. Its my least favourite emotion.

I came to the realization that Film Making is a terrible career choice for Misanthropes. I mean you have to talk to people, you have to travel all the time- and I just fucking hate airports. The ideal job for a misanthrope would be like some kind of mushroom farmer on a mountain side where yo had little to no human contact. Fuck, that’d be brilliant. I could die at the ripe old age of forty five due to malnutrition- it’s be class.

I thought about Barcelona again. I had this idea that when  made my fortune I’d buy a house in Barcelona and come here in the Winter time to avoid the cold weather in Ireland. I’d be like one of those birds that migrate south in the Winter, only to return when it’s warmer. I believe I told Christina about that, I also talked about learning Spanish and she kept correcting my words when I tried to speak what little I know. It was fun. I thought about that for a while. I noticed that the bar was quite empty, the Guinness was great but I was bothered by the lack of internet. I was really bored.

Y’know how a train of thought goes? You can’t control it, you’re just a passenger and you have no idea where it’s headed. For the most part it’s good. But sometimes the train takes you somewhere you don’t want to go and you can look away, you can’t get off, you can’t change directions- all you can do is sit down and witness all the horrors you can conjure up. There’s another thing that happens- the train grows to a halt and you’re stuck with one thought. A really bad thought, possibly the worst realisation you could ever make. Something that you cannot unlearn, that you cannot unsee. It’s like the ever lasting moment- but a thousand times worse. Everything goes quiet, everything goes still and all there is…is you- and the thought that echoes in your mind;

You’re all alone, Des

That shook me to the core. I’d realized that the way I was living my life guaranteed only one thing; I would be alone. But I’d grown so accustomed to be alone, for Christ sake I referred to myself as a Lone Hyena! But why was I alone? Well it was because I had a lot of issues communicating, a lot of issues making friends when I was younger. In fact for the longest time I didn’t have any friends. People found me insanely annoying so they ditched me, I was alone. I gradually became less annoying, less repulsive over the years but by that stage the damage had already been done- I was alone. I had issues forming close friendships and communicating my thoughts. I didn’t see the point in hanging out with people just so I wouldn’t be alone- especially since these people used to find me annoying. I wasn’t interested in half hour friendships at lunchtime- I’d rather have ate lunch by myself. I’d rather go to movies by myself. I’d rather walk around the city by myself- I’d rather do anything by myself.

I learned how to be alone a long time ago.

But now things were different. I realised that if I didn’t change everything about how I lived my life, I would be doomed to a life of loneliness. I could be alone, but I couldn’t be lonely. I wasn’t prepared for that shit.

You’re all alone, Des

I tried desperately to escape that moment. I tried to restart that train of thought. Thinking up distractions like politics-

You’re all alone, Des

Food, violence, cars, sex-

You’re all alone, Des

Money, power, that weird Saturday night out-

You’re all alone, Des

There was no point. The train wasn’t moving- it broke down. I just let that moment wash over me. It was cold, lonely, heartbreaking. I felt like I was dying. I didn’t want to die- I wanted to live. I had so many plans, so many stupid articles to write, so much stupid things to say so many…so many things. But it didn’t matter, because unless I changed then I was doomed to one inevitable conclusion;

You’re all alone, Des


I went back to the hostel slightly depressed. I ended up just sitting about, charging my phone. Desperately seeking distractions from that stupid echo in my head. I got dinner. Listened to everyone below on about stuff like “Oh this is our last night in Spain” and “Oh this is our last time eating dinner here” and of course “Oh this is our last time at the Arch de Triomph” like they put so much emphasis on the fact that everything was their last time- I don’t know. I guess it got on my nerves a little, but my nerves were fired anyway.

At around nine almost everyone went down to the bar, I remember coming out of the toilets and heading to the door to the bar area and I just stood there staring at the handle for a solid twenty seconds. Did I really want to go out tonight? Honestly? No. No, I wasn’t up for it. I was too depressed and I would have spoiled everyone’s night. So I crossed the bar, nobody saw me except for the Asthmatic kid but he didn’t say anything.

I went back up to the room, planning on going to be early but instead I found Gay James Corden. He wasn’t drinking tonight either. We talked for a little bit, I packed the bag. I can’t remember what we talked about. I think I talked about the stress of the week and how much of a bitch it will be to get up for the airport in the morning. I talked about acting and lying, about how a good actor is always worried about the believability of their performance.

You see, the mark of a good actor is not about how many accents they can do or how many facial expressions they can make- No, a good actor just has to make you believe that they are in fact someone else. If you refer to a character by their actors name while watching a performance then the actor has failed, because they aren’t believable enough to bring the character to life. There’s a balance here with belief and credibility, you have the find the fine line with acting. You have to display just the right amount of emotion at the right time. If you worry too much you may hamper your performance, however if you don’t worry at all then there’s no foundation for success.

Lying is like that, but its an every day concern. You worry about whether or not the individual you lied to realised you were lying. Was the tone of your voice off? Did your facial expressions give you away? Did you use too much or not enough eye contact? All of that goes through my head when I lie- it’s annoying.

He wasn’t very interested in that. I don’t think I explained it right. See I could ramble on and on about story and joke structure but I notice than ordinary people get really bored like five seconds in so I just stop talking about it. It sucks, but that’s life.

Not much happened that night. The gay stoner came into pack his bag. We chatted a bit. I recalled how he got on my nerves all week. You see, all he does everyday is smoke weed and edit his YouTube videos- that’s his life. Like we’ll be asleep and he’ll barge in at three o’clock in the morning after finishing an editing session with his stoner posse. One night was particularly bad. I gave that wee asthmatic kid a death stare- the poor bastard couldn’t look at me for like a week.

He realised that the Stoner was a bad influence though so he didn’t hang out with him as much. Which was a good thing. Although the Stoner still got on my nerves because he’d insist on waking up at 3am every single day to edit- he set a fucking alarm that always wok me up. I wanted to strangle him with his White-boy dreadlocks.

He’s a strange character, for one thing I believe he’s clinically insane. Like he’d ask the weirdest questions when we working together; “What’s your favourite colour? What makes you happy? What do you fear the most? Have you ever killed anyone?” like…what am I supposed to say to that shit??

He reminded me of my sister Katrina though. Mainly because of his big ass nose. I used to tease her about it, she didn’t like it one bit. Granted maybe it was a mistake to bring up the nose at her best friends funeral.

So I watched this little stoner pack and ramble on about the most basic shit. He found everything fascinating. He was a genius when it came to operating cameras and editing but the depth of his ignorance was astounding. Like, he didn’t know who Harvey Weinstein was- the most notorious sexual predator on the fucking planet and he didn’t know who he was!

He seemed really happy and energetic despite only getting four hours of sleep a night. I kind of envied that, ignorance really is bliss.

I watched him pack as I delved further into my depression. He gave me these two pliers he bought but couldn’t bring home because this bag was too heavy. I decided to give them to my dad as a present. I gave my mum a copy of Fire and Fury that I bought at Dublin Airport when I left for Spain, I only read a few chapters.

As I watched him pack I wondered what would happen to this kid in fifty years. Would he even be around in fifty years? I mean Christ, I can picture him going out by twenty five. YouTubers don’t have great lifespans. His entire fanbase was like ten so it five years he’ll be getting a lot less views so he’ll end up doing a lot of dumb shit just to get more views. I imagine he’ll do some crazy stunt that kills him. Hopefully he’s wise enough to check out early, retire with money he’s made and smoke weed on an island for the rest of his life.

The quiet man told me this story that made me respect the kid a hell of a lot more than I previously did. So he used to vlog inside the Tech and for the most part they were fine with it. But they got annoyed with him because in his videos he kept referring to the place as “the tech” so the whole advertising advantage of having a Vlogger for a student went straight out the window- which was a stupid idea anyway since the majority of his audience haven’t even hit puberty yet. They had to sit him down and say “Right, if you don’t refer to us directly as the NWRC we won’t let you film on our property” so he was like “That’s grand” and he just stopped filming there. That’s hilarious.

Eventually he left and it was just me and Gay James Corden. He was a nice guy. I first met him at one of my film screenings, it was my job to check up on the customers to see if they were alright so I struck up a conversation and within five sentences he told me about how drunk he got the night before. Like I said, the man was a self proclaimed alcoholic. However he doesn’t drink nearly as much as he used to. He’s also doing his best to lose weight which fair play to him.

he always went out of his way to talk to me, mainly because he reliased that often times no one else was listening t him so he tried to play it off as “Oh, I’m talking to you” and despite me nit being a very good talker I always enjoyed our conversations. Despite the fact that he smelled like shit, he was a great guy.

I was still feeling really depressed until I got a notification from WordPress. I received my first mean comment and I was so happy. It really cheered me up. I spent a good few minutes thinking of an appropriate response:


David, f you’re reading this, I just want to say thank you. You inadvertently cheered me up.

So I thought this guy was just a cunt but then I started reading a few of his articles. I’m not gonna lie, I liked them. His style reminds me of Hemingway, or more specifically Hemingway’s final novel “The Garden of Eden” I ended up thinking about this guy a lot. About his life, his struggles, his accomplishments. I started thinking about that article I wrote on Mogg and how vulgar it was. I decided to remove the vivid sex scene, I didn’t find it funny anymore. It really was just poor taste.

The hairy guy came and and went to bed. I guarantee you he didn’t sleep because the lights were still on and we were loud as fuck. I couldn’t get to sleep till one o’clock in the morning because I had to wait for the rest of them to head back up from the bar. So I have no fucking clue what he was at. People really are just weird.

I slept in my clothes, that was the first mistake of the day. I felt all manky and sweaty- I was sure as hell the girls would smell the ball-sweat a mile off so I was in low spirits already. I also struggled to sleep so I was super tired. Everyone was too loud, some cunt set an alarm way too fucking early- it was a mess. Also it was way too cold out. It was like seven degrees- I wasn’t prepared to wait for a fucking bus for twenty minutes in seven degrees.

The bus ride was acceptable. I’d rather if everyone had shut up though, specifically the vloggers. I was too tired for that kind of craic.

The airport was a complete and utter abortion of an experience. By fucking God it was awful. Like I was really dehydrated and tired and I had to wait in a fucking Que and everyone was talking and it was just torture. Hell is an Airport, I’ll tell you that. I also got held up by security because people are too goddamn fucking slow. Also I realised my new boots stank like hell- partly because these were the same socks I’d been wearing for two days and they had vomit stains on them. I also dislike taking off my jacket and hoodie because I’m very self conscious about my body. Like I’m not as fat as I used to be but I’m still uneasy about it. Then we got lost in the fucking duty free, the whole place was too fucking bright and stank to high heaven of cheap perfume. Almost missed the fucking flight because some fuckers are TOO FUCKING SLOW. Top it all off with the fact I didn’t have breakfeast, the plane was shite- I blatantly refuse to eat plane food because it is garbage. All I wanted was a meatball sub and I prayed to fucking God that Dublin Airport had a fucking Subway.

But I couldn’t find out because as soon as we collected our bags we were  off. Four hour drive. Stopped at a shitty petrol station where I ate some unripe bananas and some pringles. We were back on the road. I thought about the bus I’d get home. I didn’t want an awkward car trip home because my parents would insist on asking questions and I was in no fucking mood to talk. So I planned on getting the bus home at quarter past six, an hour and a half after we’d arrive in Derry.

I’m not gonna lie, for a moment I was so pleased to see that goddamn cesspool. It really was a sight for sore eyes. Perhaps I was only pleased to see it because the Little Lesbian was so excited to be home. But after fifteen minute soft walking up and down with a suitcase that weighed eleven kiliograms I quickly rediscovered my passionate hatred for Derry City.


By God I hate this city. It’s not even a fucking city, It’s barely a fucking town for Christ sake. It’s just a river, a housing estate and a few cathedrals- there’s nothing city-like about it! Barcelona- now that was a fucking city.

It started raining and I grew angrier by the minuted. I was bombarded with the drone of those incessant accents, the descendants of incestuous seagulls. The chavs- by God do I loathe the Chavs. Especially the ones that spit on the ground when they walk- and they do it because they watched their scummy fathers do it when they were avoiding their child support- PICK A BETTER FUCKING ROLE MODEL YOU DUMB FUCKING WHORES- FUCK. 

Now Belfast also has an equally repulsive accent and a large number of Chavs, however since Derry is significantly smaller the population is squeezed in tighter giving the appearance that there are more chavs. It’s kind of like the difference of seeing a Chav across the street, and being shoved into the boot of a car in which you’re forced to stare at that scummy inbred ugly face.

All I wanted was a Meatball Sub. There are three subways in Derry- all of which are like a mile apart. I went to two f them- both of them were out of meatballs. I was heartbroken. I’d been carrying this fucking suitcase up and down the street like a fucking moron for forty minutes. I could role it because there were too many piddles and I didn’t want to get my stuff soaked.

I was heartbroken. My heart sunk as I admitted defeat and headed to the bus stop. I wondered if it would be worth the walk to the last Subway. I regret not going, but I was so goddamn tired.

I waited a solid forty five minutes in the freezing cold for that bus. There were two young couples who thought it was so goddamn funny and having a hell of a time. Both girls were sitting on their respected bastards laps. That just really made me feel like shit. Like nothing reinforces the whole “You’re all alone, Des” by being reminded of your romantic failures.

I was in no condition for any romantic engagement. If a woman looked at me she’d be repulsed. I was way too fucked up. Girls don’t go after Guys that are crazy. It’s not a sword that cuts both ways. Guys go on about wanting to go out with a crazy girl because of the great sex but they always end up whining when she does crazy things. You don’t hear that with women, there are no “Crazy Boyfriend stories” because every girl that ever had a crazy boyfriend is fucking dead.

Plus, not to belabor the point, but women seem to have some semblance of sense when it comes t this shit. They usually don’t go after the crazy ones- unless they’re clinically insane as well then by all means go ahead.

The bus home was long. It was really dark outside now, the countryside doesn’t have any street lamps. The driver took a wrong turn and drove by my house for like half a mile so I had to get out ad walk home in the pitch dark rain. It was freezing and my back was in agony for having to carry that stupid fucking suitcase all day. The only nice thing about that walk was that I got a nice view of the stars. I hadn’t seen the stars in a while, Barcelona is too bright for you to see the night sky- it has a lot of light pollution. It was a nice moment. But like all moments it passed, and I’m left with this cold hearted bastard called reality sucker punching me.

I forgot how much I hated the cars on my road. Like its a straight mile long road and there’s no traffic cameras so people are going as fast as they can. There’s also nothing to look at around here so when you’re walking you have that constant irk that you’re being stared at by the passing car. Nothing is worse than some cunt proving they were staring by beeping the horn or yelling some dumb shit. I hate when that happens.

I got home. Unpacked and tried to forget ho much of a horrible day I had.

Honestly the worst part was probably the fact that I couldn’t get a meatball sub. That would have saved the day for me, but they were both out of it. I like that imagery. I find something I love abroad, something I’d been missing out on my entire life and when I come home I can’t find it. The thing I love can only be found elsewhere.

Maybe that means something, I don’t know. Or perhaps God is an even worse writer than I am.











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