Life is full of serious questions, and the answers could be only a train ride away, writes Kilian Doyle
I RECENTLY received an e-mail from a nice member of the cycling fraternity asking me why I've not mentioned my bicycle for months.
Short answer?
I no longer use it.
See, Clan Emissions has moved from a pebble-dashed box in sunny Crumlin to an extensive demesne in the verdant wilds of Kildare.
While I pine for those adrenalised halcyon days spent tearing through city streets astride my trusty steed - which now lies neglected among the half-empty paint cans in the shed, sobbing itself to sleep each night - there are certain compensations. Not least that the callouses betwixt my buttocks have healed nicely, and my knees no longer rattle as I walk.
I suppose, in theory, I could cycle the 15 miles into work and back each day. There are, however, three things putting me off.
Firstly, my bike is neither amphibious nor armour-plated. Secondly, I'm lazier than a park bench. And finally, I can get the train instead.
I like trains. They are quick, environmentally-friendly and, unlike a bike or car, you can fall asleep on them and still get home alive. What's more, I've yet to be splatted by a SUV whilst aboard one.
They are also educational. In two months of rail commuting, I have learned many valuable snippets of information.
For example, I now know:
That there's a man in Drumcondra who has a rotting 1960s Saab in his back garden that he really should sort out.
Where to buy heroin at 4am in Ongar.
What Jackie (15) did with Kenny in Lucan on Saturday night. (Note to self: Lock up your daughter until she is in her mid-30s. Then ship her off to a nunnery.)
That Anto thinks Croke Park will be "deadly" when it's finished.
How to treat piles. (As explained, in graphic detail, by two pregnant "youngwans".)
That 12-year-old boys from Leixlip make unconvincing ho-slappin-Glock-totin-gangstas but 12-year-old girls from Maynooth can pull off worryingly accurate impersonations of Paris Hilton.
That it is possible for a live human being to smell like a stagnant pond filled with rotting horse corpses.
That graffiti is a window to the soul. I have seen documentary evidence that Barry loved Sham69 in 1985 and The Smiths in 1987. Now, that's what I call an epiphany. In addition, I now know that Del is fat, Kev is a rat and JC is queer. Don't believe me? See for yourself - it's all there, in blue, purple, black and white.
All the words of Touch My Body by Mariah Carey (as sung, eyes closed, full-blast, by a floothered 40-something man who got on at Connolly at 7.12pm last Thursday. If you were that man, thanks for the giggle).
That if a meteor hit Dublin, the only thing that would be left standing is Broombridge station, which remains extant in spite of persistent arson attacks by local hoodlums. What's an interplanetary fireball compared to the destructive force that is the youth of Cabra?
That when station announcers say Iarnród Éireann "is sorry for the delay" they are lying. Indeed, their expressions of regret are about as genuine as me humbly, meekly and fulsomely apologising for any hurt caused by past suggestions on my part that suburban SUV drivers are obnoxious oafs and oafesses.
That innocently reading someone's celebrity magazine over their shoulder can be easily misconstrued. Especially when that someone is a voluptuous, tattooed and very drunk woman with her shirt unbuttoned down to her pierced navel.
That slaps in the face really hurt.
That chivalry is dead. Any man attempting to give up his seat for a woman, pregnant, elderly or otherwise, can expect to be met with a mixture of bafflement, suspicion and derision. And possibly another slap in the face.