On the weekend, I was at a country town pub with a mate, having a beer. A local bloke gave us a bit of lip, we told him to fuck off, and then we sat down and watched the rugby on the tv.

Delightful. After the game, we were chatting to a couple of local women about nothing important, and generally having a good craic.

The guy from earlier on came up to me.

"That’s a fucking hipster beard, mate."


"That’s pretty bold for a man wearing that ridiculous hat."

He kinda looked upwards and then turned to one of the local women and said “What’s wrong with my hat?”

My mate and I finished our pints and walked back to the house where we were staying.

"Fuck, man," I said as we walked along the gravel road, "can you fucking believe that guy?"

My mate turned to me and said dryly, “Yeah. You completely bitch-slapped him. Well done, slugger.”

It’s important to have mates who call you on your bullshit. And let’s be honest, this beard is starting to want its own unicycle.

Every time Erin goes abroad without me and gets a burner sim card, I assign it a new name in my address book.

Anyhow, have you met my girlfriend?

Her name Is Bunghole Frealsies.


However, the primary reason I make the extra effort to plan my travel outfit is because, well, no one else does. Among the cavalcade of pajama pants, tracksuits, nightgowns, painting rags, and ill-fitting sweatshirts that one encounters in the world’s terminals and stations these days, the competently dressed individual stands apart as a beacon of civilized life, an island of class amid a swamp of schlumps. By dressing myself as a decent human being who is aware that he is in public, I like to think I am performing a small act of resistance against the increasingly slobbish status quo.

Dressing up for air travel: In defense of looking nice on a flight or train.


I might have to ban myself from listening to Rattlesnakes. It’s starting to feel like a compulsion. I can’t imagine talking to a shrink about it though.

"I’ve got this problem. About once a day I devote thirty-five minutes and twenty-five seconds to the enjoyment of the best record of 1984."

In case you thought age was going to change her at all, you ought to know that she just walked around the house naked yelling ‘LOOK AT MY BOOBS’.


Everyone’s broken. Everyone is probably trying their fucking hardest just to get through.

I’m cutting people a little more slack today.

But just today.

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