The Galway Races Are Decadent And Depraved
This is a picture of the street where I work at night. Sorry, let me be more specific, this is a picture of the street where I work at night during what is imaginatively known as “Race Week”. This is, essentially, when hordes of ill bred, over privileged swine descend upon the streets of Galway to over indulge and fritter away their trust funds. They are a curious breed unbeknownst to the average working stiff; their marks are clearly displayed, making them easy to spot.
It is essential that you know how to spot one of these creatures so that you know what you’re dealing with. As with lycanthropes, the undead and the jackalope, you may never need to draw upon the skills necessary to emerge from an encounter unscathed, yet it is better to be prepared.
In a manner befitting the ongoing destruction of every square inch of earth that we inhabit, it is now seemingly fashionable to attain the use of a small city in some remote part of the world to use for grand scale international events so that it can be filled beyond capacity with the idle rich. The deluded figures of celebrity desperately clambering for recognition and possible validation of whatever genetic deficiencies cause the unbridled desire to fawn around their sycophantic, incestuous social circles, are out in force.
The danger in this invasion is the fact that it is all combined with the stereotypical ideals that whilst in Ireland, and particularly Galway for some reason, that it is customary to drink in great excess to your personal capabilities transforming you into a staggering, abusive Neanderthal. Is this too harsh a generalisation? Not when you take into consider the fact that the Police actually assist all of this by cordoning off the streets and assisting the public drunks by taking away their pint glasses and replacing them with plastic ones. Why this is allowed when, contrary to popular belief, it’s not exactly legal at any other time of the year to roam about the streets in a state of aggression, drunkenness and regret, is beyond me. For there is nothing pretty about a man who has lost a fortune and has been drinking since noon.
The most depraved day of all is Thursday, ironically known as “Ladies’ Day”. This is when large toothed daughters of politicians and equine princesses wear gaudy hats and after involving themselves with too much champagne in the sun all day, proceed to fight, squawk, vomit and fall down a lot. There is not much lady present when they are spotted later in the evening, hat in hand, hem in the other whilst they attempt to urinate in an alleyway and not on themselves.
The startling factor in all of this is the fact that there is no class or grace in any of the events surrounding the races themselves. The pink shirted, cream blazer brigade seems incapable of carrying themselves with any dignity whatsoever. If this constitutes the upper classes, then I’ll happily stay where I am thank you.
Be contemptuous, they view kindness as weakness, however, be polite, overly polite, as they may not have any decorum or etiquette whatsoever, this will inherently confuse them and they will suspect you, suspicion is good, it leads to uncertainty and fear.
Let then come, let them drink; let them make asses of themselves. They may be insulting and vile, garish and crass, but the fact that they will never realise this is a peculiar comfort to me.
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Cara on July 30th, 2008
Oh Colin this was fabulous. Really and truly you captured the tone to a tee. I want the sentiments about the “ladies” at ladies day to be the tagline on Thursday’s front page broadsheets, under the picture of the best dressed.
I entirely loathe that week in the city, and am rather delighted to be on the other end of the country for the event. Dire drunken debacle that it is.