Sex and the Emerald Isle
Imagine my surprise last week while walking to my local bakery I discovered that some devious entrepreneurs had opened up an Adult Shop. Where were the warnings? Where were the newspaper articles outlining and censuring this travesty? Where were the angry and concerned citizens? This establishment of wanton filth is not more than a hundred metres from the local high school. Will somebody please think of the children!
And then I realised I wasn’t in Ireland any more. Last year my mate and I spent five months working (and tasting many a pint of Guinness) in the beloved Emerald Isel. During that time, a nondescript and modest looking adult shop did indeed open up around the corner from where I lived. This ruffled the feathers of many devout Catholics and inspired them to take shifts in protesting right outside this lewd establishment.
Now, where in Oz there’s no mistaking an adult shop when you see one (with their glaring neon-signs and giant…hearts), in Ireland they are virtually invisible. A cursory glance and you would miss this place. In fact, once the protests had died down, I had some fellow ask me to direct him to the adult shop when he was merely 30 m up the street from it.
There’s this idea that travelling will remove various stereotypes. I use to think that the Irish were all happy, English-hating*, alcoholic Catholics. Little has changed, though they are improving as they don't hate the Enlgish that much anymore.
* A couple of months ago I had a pom try to convince me that the Irish didn’t hate the English. Um, just because they shag your women, doesn’t mean they still don’t hate you, mate.
And then I realised I wasn’t in Ireland any more. Last year my mate and I spent five months working (and tasting many a pint of Guinness) in the beloved Emerald Isel. During that time, a nondescript and modest looking adult shop did indeed open up around the corner from where I lived. This ruffled the feathers of many devout Catholics and inspired them to take shifts in protesting right outside this lewd establishment.
Now, where in Oz there’s no mistaking an adult shop when you see one (with their glaring neon-signs and giant…hearts), in Ireland they are virtually invisible. A cursory glance and you would miss this place. In fact, once the protests had died down, I had some fellow ask me to direct him to the adult shop when he was merely 30 m up the street from it.
There’s this idea that travelling will remove various stereotypes. I use to think that the Irish were all happy, English-hating*, alcoholic Catholics. Little has changed, though they are improving as they don't hate the Enlgish that much anymore.
* A couple of months ago I had a pom try to convince me that the Irish didn’t hate the English. Um, just because they shag your women, doesn’t mean they still don’t hate you, mate.
posted by Engels at 3:50 pm
2 Comments:
In the People's Republic of the ACT, there's more sex shops than you can poke a stick at.
Fyshwick's the place.
PS: The Irish hatred of the English is totally silly, especially since the Irish brought the first Anglo-invasion on themselves. (IIRC, some Irish nobles invited the English over to help them win a civil war). Silly buggers.
Cheers, I'll write Fyshwick down. I'll bring my rubles.
What's silly is they absolutely despised Dale's Aussie singlet because of the Union Jack.
I heard one Irish fellow admit that the Irish had started it by invading the English centuries ago. I really don't know the history.
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