Foil, Arms and Hog — Jaysus, I’d love a holiday

 
 

With the long dark of winter leading into the long dark of spring, Foil Arms and Hog yearn for a holiday

There’s no greater stimulus for planning a holiday abroad then the misery of an early February morning. You’ve got a lecture at 9am, your housemate ate your Cheerios, you can’t feel your fingers, the chains come off your shit bike and the kids are acting up… (We’re trying harder to appeal to the mature students).

But, for god’s sake, go somewhere away from other Irish people. There’s nothing worse than leaning out of your hotel window on a remote island in the Pacific where only you and 80-year-old Japanese Second World War soldiers reside, only to hear “Hey Mossy, isn’t that Kevin from Ag Science?” Avoid, avoid, avoid.

It’s hard to avoid Irishness abroad, what with every major city having a Biddy O’Mulligans bar, but dont worry, Irish people are really easy to spot.

Is it our misshapen heads? Yes, but well there’s tonnes of other stuff too. Runners, white socks, Hawaiian shorts, white beads, red faced and profusely sweating under a Longford GAA jersey; it’s the Irish Lad on Holidays.

Beside him is the more appropriately dressed Irish lass, albeit two stone heavier after a three month J1 in Chicago arguing, “The American food is, like, sooooo much fattier.”

If you decide to spurn this way of holidaying, the rewards can be great, especially with the opposite sex. The quaint Irish accent is a courtship lightsaber. Books could be written about the Irish accent’s hypnotic effect on the opposite sex abroad. You say “How’s she cuttin?” and the foreigner says “Marry me!”

Such a social experiment was in fact conducted in Chicago recently whereby one Irishman was placed in a room full of American women. He could only say the words “thirty-three and a third,” but the results were inconclusive because he ended up hammered in Biddy O’Mulligans and forgot to fill out the form.

Despite this, we have managed to get our hands on a transcript of an actual Irish man chatting up an American girl with thanks to the national archive.

‘I’m Irish.’

“Uh Cool.”

‘Do ya recognise me?’

“Um no. Do you know the Irish band the Script?”

‘Yeah, kinda. Im yer man outa dat.’

“Who?”

‘Im yer man Danny from the Script.’

“Oh my god!”

‘I was also captain of the Longford minors.’

“What?”

‘Forget the last bit. Would you like ta shift me?’

“I have no idea what you just said but it sounded amazing. Hold on while I call my current boyfriend and dump him.”

Also, when on holidays, it’s not ‘do as the locals do’ with everything. Sunscreen up! If it’s hot, wear it. We seem to think that we’ll have a tan by Thursday and on Monday we’ll be back in Rathoath rubbing it in everyone’s faces.

What will actually happen is that by Tuesday you’ll be naked, in agony, standing spread eagled in front of your refrigerator in your apartment and the kids are acting up.

If you do manage to man up and stick on the pasty protector you’re going to forget your legs. I once burnt my legs so badly whilst sunbathing on a boat that I couldn’t walk. The sun burn was on the shins with the calves remaining a deliciously Donegal white.

I resembled a hobbling Neapolitan ice cream. Bottom line is, if you’re Irish just forget about getting a tan. Just remember, when you’re abroad do not under any circumstances answer your phone, Meteor will ride ya.

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