When one is young and full of vim, there are things that you are sure you will never resort to in life. “I’ll never get too old for dancing on a Tuesday night,” I’d scream at the mirror ball in the empty nightclub of my youth. These days, I keep my phone on silent lest my 25-year-old self texts to say he wants to go boozing on a school night in his god-awful clothes. Or, like, I made a promise with myself that I’d never wear chinos. I still haven’t. A small win. But one pact I made myself was that I’d never get annoyed at tourists. One of my all time favourite activities is to loiter around the crossroads at Christchurch helping anyone wrestling with a map, offering directions whether they want them or not.
But as I get older and grumpier, I find myself getting annoyed with tourists. My ire is not directed at the swarms of Spanish teenagers congregating at pedestrian crossings, nor American couples on our cobbled streets foolish enough to pay €7.65 for a pint of beer in Temple Bar. My vitriol isn't even aimed at the thousands of tourists snapping up Airbnb rentals and driving private rental prices through the roof.
No.
Last week I yelled at a Polish woman with a carrot. Before that I snapped at a Venezuelan with a sliced pan. I’ve even pleaded with an elderly Australian couple with a packet of Hob Knobs.
In Dublin, we are lucky enough to have a herd of wild fallow deer roaming free in the Phoenix Park. They have been there since the 17th century, surviving on grass, rainwater and fresh air. I walk there almost every day, and at first I said nothing. But these days, I shout with wild abandon at tourists who show up with a bag of junk food ready to manipulate a Dublin Bambi into the perfect holiday selfie. I've had enough. Enjoy the park, friends, and thanks for visiting Dublin - just DON'T FEED THE DEER.
Phillip McMahon’s play Come On Home, is on the Peacock Stage at the Abbey Theatre July 13th – August 4th.
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