Dear Irish mummies, dear Irish daddys,
do you know your children? Sometimes I wonder and you may wonder why I am asking you. Whenever I meet you, you’ re telling me: “The kids do grand.” Great kids you all have: they all are superstars, daddy’s little princess, mummy’s good boy. Just the best. Outperformers in school, on the pitch, even at home. Really the kids do great. You tell me. Tell more about it. Summer camp in Florida, and Christmas in Connemara, mummy is the school shuttle, daddy does barbecue, the kids do so appreciate. We trust them. No worries. Apple of our eye. “It’s a shame you don’t have kids” you are telling me. I don’t know. Maybe and maybe not. Your kids are private school kids, you just want the very best. They will be investment bankers, youtube superstars, or lawyers in a few years time. Sometimes I wish I would meet your children, but I never do. Whenever I meet your children and I unfortunately do quite often, I meet kids but they never seem to be the children you are having such a great time with.
I live in a rundown village. In the rundown village ahead of my rundown village, a rundown hotel is running parties for children like yours. Great kids, I know. You have money and the kids have a great night out. You remember how you once fumbled a woman you can’t remember behind the bins. But a great night out it was. You remember puking behind the bushes, but oh my, the fun we had. You don’t remember the skinny kid with pimples anymore you kicked around like a coke can. But oh my, these were the golden days, weren’t they? Your kids deserve such greatness too and this I when I meet your kids. I left work late last night and the last train was gone ( we have a great public transport here in Ireland, just great!) and I took the bus home. When I got on the bus, the bus was empty and I was so relieved. I didn’t last long though. Your kids were coming. Your children came and this was it. My quiet night was gone. Yeah, I know I am such a loser. I have always been. Your kids did great. Shouting and bitchin around. Fuck me bae say your kids and they snigger. The bae was an old Irish granny, the bae was staring on the floor, your kids were opening Lucozade bottles. Smellin’ like champagne? Oh that pussy smells good, are your kids shouting. The Irish granny leaves. Your kids are delighted. They shout: “What a pussy.” Fuckin’ pussy.” Your kids wear Michael Kors handbags, ADIDAS rucksacks, skinny jeans and fake tan. Glitter in the face and a shitface on the phone. So funny. Your kids are really humorous. Your kids open their handbags and rucksacks. The open Listerine bottles are full of vodka. So yummy. “Bitch be humble” do they shout. They mean me. Your boys are drinking beer. Bottle after bottle, great kids don’t you think? Just fifteen and drinking straight. Really men. The girls drink the hard stuff. Girls always worry. Beer has so many calories, and nobody wants to fat fuck fat girls, don’t you know that? This is why there are no fat kids on the bus anymore. They got off the moment your kids get on the bus. Better leave before it is too late, they are smart kids, too. “Bitch you better holin’ up, are your kids shouting.” They still mean me. Are you talking like that at home? When you are having dinner do you shout: “Hey bitch get me a piece of bread, please. Thank you very much bitch, I appreciate bitch”. I wonder, because it comes so easy to them. “Nobody is going to fuck a bitch like you”, are your kids telling me. “You better sit down” that is what I am saying to a son of yours stumbling after can number ten. He is not too grateful. The bus is packed with your kids, drinking, swearing, singing, having a great time. “Get the fuck off me,” shouts a girl. Your son doesn’t listen. So the bus drives on. Your kids are getting more and more drunk and I wonder how you do at home. Are you getting drunk there as well night after night? Are beer bottles littering your kitchen and do you throw wine bottles through your living room? Your kids do. They are throwing beer bottles through the bus, they are throwing beer bottles out of the throwing bus. So funny! So talented, so gifted, so inventive are your kids! Who would have thought that? Have you ever been hit by a beer bottle? I have been. Last night on the bus, straightfaced, your kids did. Not a moment of consideration. “Be bold”, is this what you tell your children? Is this how you do it at home? Is this how you live?
Your kids are shoutin: CUNT. They mean me. Look at this cunt they say and they sing. She is just a fuckin cunt. Is this how it is? Do you talk like this? Do you say: “Pass me the bread, cunt! Sleep well, cunt. Have a great day cunt, please call me back cunt?2 Is this how you do. Your children are pissed by now. They are singing: “Paki, go home, Paki, go home. You’re a feckin Paki bitch.” Is this what you teach your children? Is this you telling them that just the Irish and only the Irish are great people? The rest is just scum? Do you tell your children that they have every right to shout: “Feckin Paki bitch” at everyone they suspect of not being born and raised south of Tipperary? I have fond memories of Pakistan, I have none of your kids. Your children laugh and shout at me and I wonder, what do you know about your children at all? I don’t have children. I don’t know how much time one has as a parent to clear the essentials. You had maybe fifteen or sixteen years. It is painful being with your children, they are abusive, shameless, violent and cruel. When I was sixteen years old and not in a great shape, a loser, a ‘losin feckin Paki bitch’ as your kids would say, she said: “Stop looking for excuses my child.” I did. She was right. What excuses do your children have? Or do you think they are right?
Do you want to know how the story ended? I got up and accompanied by a chorus of your children shouting: “The Paki bitch is leavin’ fuck, fuck, fuck. We fucked the Paki bitch,” I went down to the bus driver.
I said: “Hiya, I am really sorry, but please do stop the bus.” The bus driver did. I said: “Do you want to call the police or shall I do?”
The bus driver said: “I do.”
Fifteen minutes later- your children were still shouting relentlessly- the police came and it was silent. I just realized I was holding my breath. The police was quite nice. They were looking like in the movies. They were good with your kids and your kids had to leave the bus. One of the policemen said to me: “I am sorry this is not how it should be.” I said: “You know this is just how it is. This is Ireland. These are your children.”
I left the bus and walked home. Your kids were having a great night anyway, I have no doubt about that.
Your Read On