It’s been a while since I updated this page, so something new might be in order.
Hello. I’m Paul. That’s my Simpson character in the sidebar. It doesn’t really look like me, and despite the yellow skin, no chin, and bulging eyes, it’s miles better than the real thing.
I’ve reached an age where I don’t care if people really know how old I am. I’m 24. Or maybe 27, or even possibly in my thirties. I haven’t decided yet.
I work in a student bar in Limerick. Sometimes it’s fun, sometimes it’s not. Some weeks I’m busy, and other weeks I’m not. It’s pretty much the same as any other job, but without the boring 9 - 5 hours. Weekends off are so much more special when you only get one every couple of months.
When I tell people that I live and work in Limerick, their first reaction, (after they take a big step back), is to ask “Isn’t it really dangerous living in Limerick?”. I usually shout back to them, (because they’re now a couple of more steps away from me, frantically looking around for an exit), that it is can be very dangerous living in Limerick. It’s so unlike living in Dublin, Cork, Galway, Dundalk, Drogheda, any large city in the UK or the USA, or any part of China, Afghanistan or Iraq.
In other words, Limerick is pretty much the same as every other large urban area in the country. It has it’s fair share of scobes, but more than its fair share of decent people, and there are much worse places to live. Trust me, I’ve lived in a few. Try Shannon in Co. Clare, or Athy in Co. Kildare for a sense of just how bad a soul-less town can be.
On to sportier topics. I’m a rugby fan, which isn’t a hugely distinguishing personality trait here in Limerick, but it does allow me to say that “I was in the Millennium Stadium in 2008 when Munster won the Heineken Cup for the second time in three years.” Only 60,000 other people can say that.
I used to be a competitive swimmer, and regularly finished in the top three in my chosen event - 50m breaststroke. I was twelve or thirteen at the time. It’s difficult to acknowledge that your highest athletic achievement comes from a time in your life that adults would tell you that it didn’t matter if you won or lost, and you’d believe them.
I am not a soccer fan. I don’t like the game, the participants, or the money attached to it. I don’t even bother denying the fact any longer. When I was younger I had Man City and West Germany strips. Even though I had the jerseys, back then I couldn’t tell you who played for each team. It wasn’t until Italia ‘90 that I realised that Ireland had a soccer team.
There’s a lot of Irish sentimentality tied up in that World Cup. Some have argued that it started Ireland on the road to the Celtic Tiger, (R.I.P.), and that everyone knows where they were when Packie did his thing. Even still I didn’t watch any of the matches. I did hear the penalty shoot-out against Romania, but only because I was on holidays in Dingle with my aunt, and it was on the radio. My greatest soccer memory has always been stuck in goals when we played in school. “Jumpers for goal-posts and mind my fags”.
Ah, those were the days. When cigarettes still came in ten boxes and it wouldn’t cost you the GDP of a medium-large African state to keep your habit going. So, yes I am a smoker, and a drinker, a swearer and much more beside, but I think that’s enough for now. For more of what I’m like, you’ll just have to read the rest of the blog. All 495 posts.
