01/09/2006

Lying on my front looking down at the Atlantic crashing against the rocks 150 feet below. Not a good place to drop my contact lens.

I love it over here, Ireland's a special place. I've been a frequent visitor ever since investing in a bit of property. You can drive for hours and not see a soul. You can also drive for hours and not see a road sign.

Watched a hurling match yesterday. Those guys are seriously nuts. For those of you who don't know, hurling is a cross between three dimensional hockey and Thai boxing. There are two teams, of however many people turn up, who have to get a small white ball (or whatever the Gaelic word for missile is) into the opponent's goal with a lump of wood that looks like something you might paddle a canoe with. If you get it underneath the crossbar you get a point and if you get it over the crossbar you get another point but it's a different kind of point and nobody knows who's won until the end when a man with an abacus made out of potatoes adds all the different kinds of points up then multiplies the total by the number of players still able to walk unaided.

Then everybody staggers back to the hut at the end of the field where they consume vast quantities of tepid, black, fermented soup with a creamy scum on the top until the players that could walk unaided can no longer do so.

Anyway, now where's that contact lens?
Came over to find inspiration. With these road signs, I've got no chance.