Top 5 Holiday Stresses for Corkonians

17th Jun 2011

Having to suddenly dress up like an arctic explorer at the departure gate

Is there anything quite like the frantic panicking humiliation of having to unpack your carry-on suitcase at the feet of a stern looking air hostess when told your bag is too fat to be allowed on the flight? Almost every airside flight queue now has at least one panicking passenger desperately dressing themselves like they are about to be parachuted into a Tom Crean-esque Antarctic adventure in a desperate attempt to get their cabin luggage down to the required size.

Bedecked in two winter coats, two jumpers, an extra layer of four t-shirts outside all that again and the fashionable bright pink Bermuda shorts pulled up over a pair of jeans they waddle on to the plane beaming with satisfaction at having successfully defended against the stinging charges of Michael O’Leary - even if the sweating heat of such dense clothing causes them to smell like a small pig farm by the time the plane is trundling down the runway.

 

Things that go missing even though you definitely had them in your hand thirty seconds ago.

Being outside of Cork can do strange things to us. Our brains need time to readjust leaving much less time for it to function normally. So while you might be convinced that your passport is in the small zipped pouch of your bag your noggin was unable to record the moment you handed it to your old doll with a look of love in your eyes and the romantic words:
 

‘Mind dat dayre willah’

as you opened the overhead locker. This would be fine but for the fact that she has already whizzed passed the mean looking sham in passport control and his friend whose belt features a magnum (the gun not the ice cream or a Tom Selleck doll) and is trying on expensive bikinis in the arrivals hall oblivious to your troubles back stage.

 

Dish jush sesh you are a member of the Victoria Sporting Club...

Another layer of sweat washes across your face as you dig around every coat and pants pocket and rummage through every item in your densely packed bag. IT MUST BE HERE!

By the time everyone else from the Cork flight has sauntered through security you have all your possessions laid out on the airport floor, shaking your raging head as you fan through Donal Óg’s biography for the fifth time somehow desperately hoping your passport might suddenly plop out of the Tome of Cloyne.

When herself goes to pay for her new beach wear your passport falls on the floor and the penny drops – literally, on to her flip-flops. The sight of her tottering back to the armed mean machines at passport control holding evidence of your origin aloft finally brings the exhausting saga to an end.  

 

Entitles the bearer to free entry to any embassy party in any country and a tray of Beamish presented Ferrero Rocher style

Trying to Find A Place Showing the Cork Match

Thinking that technology has made our lives easier you head to the beach thinking your smart phone will be able to stream video of the match or at the very least the low-fi commentary of the ebullient Paudie Palmer and his often cranky cohort Finbarr McCarthy on C103 – a far superior combo for any match now that RTE has lost Ó Muircheartaigh.

Twenty-five minutes after throw-in immersed in a haze of tech-rage you finally concede defeat to the maze of phone app and network settings that refuse to cooperate with your simple request and resort to appealing for text updates from your boys in the Blackrock end. Trouble is that you never know if you’re receiving the truth or a wind-up when you get the likes of:

‘Some Kerry fella just tried to give Cadogan a dental check-up’.

Not knowing the ‘system’

The bus which has a sign that strongly suggests it is going to the beach is loading locals. Nice one. While attempting to join the boarding party with cash-in-hand you are bombarded with a spattering of a foreign tongue and frantic pointing at both the wad in your hand and a roadside café that you guess from the charades probably sells tickets.

Upon enquiry there you learn that because it is the third Sunday of the month they can not sell you tickets and you are redirected to a nearby machine. After finding a way to read its dimly lit display in the blinding sunlight it emerges that the yoke can only accept some sort of roundy plastic token as payment – which you can only purchase….at the beach. Aghhh!

Why is everyone up so early shouting and revving scooters?

When Corkonians go on holiday they like to have a few gats in the evening. Sometimes a bit more than just the ‘wan or two’ so a very late night has to be repaid with a late morning in bed. In many countries people get up at cockcrow to have a long loud leisurely family breakfast that starts before 7am and seems to go on until lunchtime. Unfortunately this may take place right outside your bedroom window.

Imagine having to put up with this lot outside your bedroom window after a night on the sauce

Family members come and go all morning and it seems each departure requires an inordinate amount of high pitched babble before an ear bleeding scooter engine finally whisks at least one of them away. Hoping they will all eventually dissipate into the distance via some two-wheeled amplified bluebottle your hopes are dashed as a two year old grabs a wooden spoon and an empty salad bowl and tries to imitate Phil Collins while his sister practices shrieking and stomping.

Know the one that’s one too many.