Dublin, please continue...

Doors. The doors are brightly painted. Their cheeriness reminds me of Balamory, except here no-one's in denial about their homosexuality (I'm looking at you, PC Plum).

Birds. I've seen some weird birds here. And by that I don't mean the ones stumbling out of nightclubs in minidresses at 4am, hur hur! No really, I saw a heron the other day. Tourists were taking its picture. But I got the one-up on them by bundling the heron under my arm and taking it home as a pet. Then it died. Just like my Tamagotchi died fifteen years earlier. Spooky.

Angry birds. Birds scream at me when I go up to the roof. Caw caw caw! First one bird sees me, then he'll call his mates over, and then they all circle overheard cawing in alarm. It's the miracle of nature. Five minutes later I realise they're angry because I trod on one of their babies. Oh well, I guess now I know what's for dinner tonight!

Internet. My laptop connects with no fuss to Starbucks' wifi. And my phone provider offers 'all you can eat' internet for just €20 a month. I'm not sure how one would go about eating the internet though. I suspect it would involve opening your mouth really wide.

Dublin, please for the love of Gawd stop...

Plastic bags. Ireland has a plastic bag tax of 22 cents a bag. That's 22 cents for a single bag. In my day you could buy a sackful of sweets for that, sack included, and you'd still have enough money to see a black minstrel show and a stoning. In Tesco the other day I asked for a bag and the cashier looked at me as if I were shit. No, less than shit. Imagine a shit taking a shit -  I was that shit's shit. I was a second-generation shit. Just because I wanted a bag. And one Planck time after purchasing said bag, it split, sending cabbages and watermelons rolling over the floor and knocking over old ladies. For shame, anonymous Tesco employee. For shame. Maybe if you spent more time doing your job and less time fobbing me off with these shitty bags then the economy wouldn’t be in such a mess.

Rent. According to Numebo.com, rent is 85% is higher in Dublin than Montreal. Now my girlfriend and I have to share a flat with another couple, like poor students. This means I'm regressing back to my student days. I don't get laid and I spend all day procrastinating on my laptop.

Bureaucracy. To open a bank account I need proof of address. But apparently it's unacceptable to hand over any old scrap of paper with your address scrawled on it in red biro five minutes ago behind the back of Safeway while getting sucked off by a hooker, because it's got to be official and all that. So what's an example of an official document? A bank statement. But I need a bank account to get a bank statement in the first place! ...ARGHGHGHGHGHGH SELF-DESTRUCT