whas' the story?

I managed a trip up to the big smoke yesterday, or as displaced dubs call it "town". It was refreshing to be in Dublin after a long spell away, not owing to my general resentment felt when eyes fall upon the rather grand Trinity College. On the Bus Eireann bus up (read 'hell') I noticed things had changed since my last trip on the N3. Somehow, in the last few years, people have discovered the silent control on the phone. I remember bus journeys of yest er years-crazy frog dominated my attempts at reading. People hollowed down their mobile devices "Yeah man..almost in town now. Traffic bleedin' awful" or "Mam I'm on the bus, can ya meet me in Kells?"It was enough to make you remove yourself from the highly uncomfortable chewing gum laced seat and holler "yes, you are on public transport". It was like being in the middle of a nightclub, only without the ringing ears after; scratchy polyphonic ring tones broke out every couple of minutes-updating me on what is 'hip'. Youngsters giggled as they crowded around each others mobiles and extracted the text messages sent by the opposite sex-often in pleasantly graphic detail. It was like being in Sex and the City, without all the fabulous clothes and hip New York eateries. It also had that distinctly Irish take on sexual activity-what can't be passed around is not worth doing. read that statement many ways.

Now the bus is as quiet as a monastery, with the country and western on the radio being the drivers form of gospel. of course you get the odd renegade left winger driver who insists on blasting a phone in on oral sex with angry inner city dubs mouthing off about 'young people today'. these are sadly bus drivers in the minority though. you would barely hear a cough, and, if so it would be from the local drunk on his way home from the out of town boozer. which of course begs the question "why must he drink out of town?"some things really are best kept private, unless you want to go home bleeding into your mouth and smelling of freshly distributed urine. it is as if mobile phones have degenerated into the rubbish often found stuffed into the sides of the seats. which of course, is a good thing. when one feels queasy travelling and highly sleep deprived, one does not want to know what ciara got up to with Johnny behind the parish church. even if Johnny happens to be your rogue cousin who is due a good telling off by the mammy.