Is Jury’s car park a Testicular Priority Zone?

One of the great things about walking into Galway City is that you never know exactly what might happen. If you look straight ahead and do not engage with the rest of the world, there’s a chance you might get everything crossed off your list and be back at the car, job done, nifty nifty.
There’s also the chance that, even if you send out the ‘don’t come near me I am a dangerous predator’ vibes, the sister of the bloke your mate went out with will suddenly feel overcome by the desire to walk over and say hello, and even though you haven’t a clue who they are, they seem nice and sure, let’s go for a coffee, and before you know it four hours have passed and you have to dash home and liberate the kitty from the clutches of the hamster.
All very possible, as long as your car is not in a Pay and Display spot, because then you’ll only have two hours to do everything, see everybody and get back to your motor.
So I go to Jury’s car park, because there I get a ticket which is payable upon leaving, leaving me free to enjoy Galway as long as I want to. A typical example of the late 20th century multi-storey, Jury’s car park has sharp bends, steep ramps, and white-lined parking bays that are just wide enough to squeeze yer family saloon into, using both side mirrors. But once your motor is safely ensconced in Jury’s, you are free to linger in town or leg it out, do a runner sharpish, depending on whether you bump into friend of foe.
Unlike anywhere else in town, your time in Galway is not dictated by the time on your ticket.
But the Snapper, by her own admission “doesn’t do Jury’s car park”, and neither does Angel’s wife, and nor do several other women of my acquaintance.
Much as we men are constantly reminded by ye women that we are useless at multi-tasking (and me here right now all typing, thinking, blinking and breathing, simultaneous and co-ordinated despite dangly bits between the legs) you are surely fairly willing to accept some limitations in the arena of spatial aptitude.
We know that women are safe drivers, because insurance companies are interested only in making money and they rate women drivers as better risks than men, but is there something about all those twisty-turny first gear climbs and manoeuvring into tight-squeezed spaces that puts the wind up the fairer gender?
Is Jury’s car park a Testicular Priority Zone?
Before you start plunging your lubed Rabbits into my jugular vein, take a deep breath and realise that I’m only asking. Of course there are some females who use Jury’s car park, but many don’t, yet not one bloke I know would hesitate to swing in there and enjoy its temporal benefits.
So let me know if you’re a woman who uses it, enjoys it, and also, could you please tell me if any of you stop using Jury’s during your PMS days?
Is it possible that like the adult arachnophobe who was once a six year-old who suffered a scary spider in his sandwich, some of the women who refuse to use Jury’s car park were traumatised by their first attempt, which unbeknownst to them happened to coincide with a dose of Pre-menstrual syndrome?
Believe me, I’m well aware that my hypothesis at this point looks ridiculously obscure, preposterous and irrelevant enough to score a massive funding grant from some high-blown academic research institute, but it has long been accepted that during the pre-menstrual days, there is a pronounced drop in the level of a woman’s mechanical and mental efficiency, causing impaired reactions and judgement.
And why do I give a damn? What have the workings of a woman’s inner sanctum got to do with this lowly scribbler?
Nothing personal, ladies. I’m just curious.
At this point I cite the case made by the American lawyer, jurist, and political commentator Alan M. Dershowitz, in his 1994 report: ‘The PMS Defense, The Abuse Excuse, and Other Cop-outs, Sob Stories and Evasions of Responsibility’ in which he describes an incident involving a female orthopaedic surgeon who was pulled over by a US state trooper on Thanksgiving night, after he saw her swerving her BMW.
When the trooper asked the driver how much she’d had to drink, she identified herself as “a doctor” and told the trooper that it was none of his “damn business.”
The trooper then asked her to place her hands on top of her head, but instead she tried to kick him in the groin, yelling: “You son of a [expletive]; you [expletive] can't do this to me; I'm a doctor. I hope you [expletive] get shot and come into my hospital so I can refuse to treat you, or if any other trooper gets shot, I will also refuse to treat them.”
After being arrested, the driver kicked the Breathalyzer machine, before failing the test and being charged with drunken driving.
The driver’s lawyer argued that women absorb alcohol more quickly during their pre-menstrual cycle and that women with PMS became more irritable and hostile than other people.
Amazingly the Virginia judge figured this made a lot of legal sense, and acquitted the woman. Needless to say, the doctor and her lawyer were ecstatic, but my point is this:
As the first-known instance of a PMS acquittal, it may well prove to be a test case, serving as a precedent for future cases.
As a bloke I am the least-able person to judge whether a woman suffering from PMS might be safe behind the wheel, or an insanely raging hormonal death deliverer in charge of a fast-moving lethal weapon.
According to the above court of Virginian law, a women suffering from PMS is also the least-able person to judge her own driving. If she can’t even control herself when talking to a copper, how is she meant to keep to the Highway Code?
Even though I can already feel your female fury bubbling up as I scribble, there is no hint here of sexism.
Simply, if you’re a woman driver who frequently uses Jury’s car park in Galway, please let me know if it feels more challenging parking in there when you’re suffering from PMS, and if so, ergo, do you think you are safe to drive?

My very own Ground Zero? Sainsbury's Car Park, Stanmore, North-West London, England!

Alright already, I'm sorry!
It seems that some of you didn't take too kindly to a being called 'a bunch of nutters' in this colyoom a couple of weeks ago. To be honest, I never understand people who take things out of context simply in order to become outraged.
Yes, indeed I did say that a large chunk of the Irish population were a 'bunch of nutters', but then I went on to explain how, coming from me, that was a compliment.
But sure enough, there were the angry emails, flying into my inbox, the general theme of which was the horribly familiar cry of:
"If you don't like it here, go back to where you come from."
Sorry, lads, even if I wanted to, I can't, because I'm not sure where that is. Born in London, but only 2 generations British, and before that, who knows? One night many years ago, my much-loved recently-departed father was in his armchair, knocking back the scotch, when an item appeared on the news about Lithuania.
"Ah yes, that's where we are from!" he uttered in guttural croak.
"Really? But I thought you always said your side came from Germany?"
Having reached that point of his evening's drinking when it was more important to be right than accurate, he insisted his point by pointing at the tele with a swaying arm, and once more asserting,
"There. That's it. Where we come from."
Admittedly, when I mentioned this exchange to him many years later, he looked at me with utter amazement.
"Don't be ridiculous! I'd never say such a thing!"
But if you loved and respected Dad as I did and do, which Dad do you believe?
Add in the fact that I have spent far more adult years living outside England than in it; the fact that as a Jew, I resent and despise the historical and ethnic implications involved in being 'sent' from a country (especially from this country, which reflexively and ignorantly opposes everything about Israel) and you start to see why I don't know where is 'back'.
Anyway, my point is that I don't want to leave. I love living here.
If you only knew how I go on and on about loving my life in the west of Ireland whilst visiting my family and friends in England. There is something completely fascinating to me about belonging to two nations (three, if you count the Jewish Diaspora), particularly when the lucky winners are England and Ireland.
My countries share an uncomfortable history (a euphemism only an Englishman could use!), and (ex-Gaeilge!) a language. The really significant difference is population size, with Ireland having only 4 million lucky individuals, compared to 65 million English people having to get along with each other. Obviously, the English need different 'coping strategies', as they are wont to say these days; which brings me to my identity's very own Ground Zero: Sainsbury's Car Park in my family's North-West London suburb.
Underground, yellow-jacketed security men direct the traffic around in slow moving snakey jams, which come to a stop each time somebody finds a car leaving a space. The process requires good humour and patience, but the English are a warrior race, and soon enough, geezer in Ghia decides he's had enough, and swings around the wrong way, going against the arrows and all that is good, in order to 'alf-inch my parking spot.
Being now invested with Galway mentality, I smile and point and wave my hand, telling him in what I felt was more than reasonable mime that the space he coveted was mine.
Does he give a damn? Dropping a gear, he leaves tyre rubber on the car park concrete, and shoots his hatchback prematurely into my space.
Getting out of his car, he pushes his chin forward twice, like he's a Mitchell brother, staring at me, eager for me to 'ave a go if think I'm 'ard enough.
Despite knowing that a parking space is not really one of life's worthy causes, I am furious, and being a product of the same society as himself, want to beat him to a messy pulp of bone and gore.
But if I did that, how would I explain to my mum about the blood on her dry cleaning?
Instead I think back a few days, to a similar situation in the Claddagh.
I was just turning my car around so that I could slide into a parking space, when another car pulled up and started to park in my spot.
I waved my hands and smiled.
The bloke in the car waved his hand back, smiled, laughed a bit, pulled out of the space and drove off.
Of course I'm not saying that there are no aggressive arseholes in Ireland. What I am saying is that the chances of you getting into a physical fight over a parking space are infinitesimally smaller in this country than that.
The next morning I went down to the Maxol in Lower Salthill, my mind still severely tested from over-exuberance the night before. After visiting the cashpoint, I was walking to the garage shop, listening in the background to a rapid
'BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!'
'That sounds like a cashpoint machine with money hanging out of it.' thought I to myself. 'Oh shit! That is a cashpoint machine with money hanging out of it, and that money is mine! And if I don't get the money out in time, the machine will pull it back in, although it's already been deducted from my account, leaving me broke, with all hell to pay with the bank to make sure that I get my money back, and anyway, I need the bloomin' cash, right now, and-'
The beeping stopped. My heart sank. And then, from around the corner came a charming smiling local woman, clutching my cash.
"Oh hello! Is this yours? I thought I'd better grab it for you!"
To that woman, whoever you are, I say many thanks.
Thanks for being a wonderful warm trustworthy human being.
Thanks for restoring my faith in our species.
And thanks for reminding me why I live here.
Chances of that happening in England? Less than zero.
One country feels like my past, the other feels like my home; the rest of my life.
So sorry, you're stuck with me. And if that makes me a nutter, I'm sure you'll not hesitate to tell me.

The worst eyes in the Opticians are the ones that chisel upon your soul!

Thanks to crazed greed of our city's parking policy, I'm only allowed two hours to do all the things I need to do this morning. Number one on the list is to head down to the Opticians and finally sort out the business with my new frames; that business with them plunging into the flesh of my temples, so that when I take them off I feel relief, and there for all to see and point and wonder at are the still intact deep-impacted canals.
I'm dreading this, because the place is always packed, and this is my third visit. The first fitting had gone well, I thought, having completely trusted the young lass in the smart coat and name badge.
Possibly I was a little bedazzled by her presence; maybe my paternal side came out, admiring how she was doing a very good job, in a second language and all. Whatever the reason, I discounted 39 years' experience of wearing glasses and knowing that they really shouldn't sit on your nose like that, no no they shouldn't.
So I returned a couple of weeks later and had them fitted again, and a slightly more experienced woman fitted the little plastic nose pads and pointed out that I hadn't been able to see, which I knew, because let's face it, you know when you can't see.
While my frames had been sitting on my nose, a metal line ran through the clear-focused universe below and the blurry one above, and yet I said nothing. They seemed to be better now, and she had been so nice and what was the point in being a smart-lipped arsehole a long distance from wit?
Much better they were, sitting now comfortably atop my shnozz, but within hours I noticed the developing tranches along my temples. You don't have to be all Ginseng and Tai Chi to know that these bits of our glorious bodies are pretty important. Visualise somebody under pressure trying to think fast important thoughts, and more than likely they'll be rubbing their temples round and round with their fingertips.
So cutting off the blood to precisely those bits can't be a good idea, and I really should have gone down and dealt with such a vital thing as this a long long time ago.
But what with life in the shape of burying my father and getting married, finding a job and losing a job, well, it's taken until now to arrive at a place where I can start to look after my own needs a tad.
Hallelujah for that.
For weeks everything has been on the run, making it up as I go along within blurry exhausting exercises at being there for everybody else whilst trying to accept the love and support coming my way, which has been in no short supply.
Unfortunately, for myself and for those loved ones, their nurturing has appeared in front of me a little like traffic passing as you drive at speed the wrong way up a motorway.
Recently, whilst visiting my Mum in London, I took professional advice about my frames, and was told that they didn't fit me.
Genius. Glad I asked.
No, there was more, They could never fit me, because the frames were just too small. No amount of adjusting would make any difference.
So today I'm going to the Opticians to see the Manager. No more fitting fiddly nosey bits and dazzling assistants; no more vanity or paternity: just be able to see.
Stick to the plan Chas. Don't deal with anyone else. And if there's a long queue, explain you're on a time limit.
Wow! The place is completely empty. What a relief! Maybe this is all going to go swimmingly after all.
A little too excited by the absence of any other punters in the place, I approach the lass at the counter, and splutter:
"I've never seen the place look so empty!"
"Sorry?"
"I said I've never seen the place look so empty!"
"Sorry?"
"Oh, it really doesn't matter. I was just saying how quiet the place is, but really it doesn't matter."
"Sorry?"
Hmmm. This was not going well. Clearly my opening remark was not worthy of repeating once, and already I had said it three times, the last of which I had really tried to bail out, what with all that 'it really doesn't matter' stuff, but she'd just thrown it right back at me again with that bleedin' "Sorry?" of hers.
It's not that she doesn't speak English. She is as Irish as I am not, and in this instance it is my accent that is funny to her, rather than the other way around.
Refusing to persist with what I had said, and therefore explain myself to her, might make her think I'm being hostile, excluding her in some way, which I'm not. But oh, oh dear, when I ask to see the Manager, she'll probably think I'm asking to see the Manager because she has failed to understand me, or because she thinks I am mightily pissed off or angry with her for some reason.
Worse, if she really pushes me to say it until she understands it, I will doubtless be faced with that look people give you when these misunderstandings happen; when they finally understand you and stare at you with utter contempt.
No, please Momma. Please don't make me see those eyes.
Hard to try and guess what to do really. I'll try it once more, and then we can move on.
"I was just saying that it was very quiet in here, but really, let's leave it now and move on."
"Sorry?"
Oh fuck this.
Unable to conceal a wobbling tone of impatience beefed up by a soupçon of anger at the absurdity of it all.
"NEVER ..... SEEN...... IT .... SO .... QUIET.... IN ..... HERE."
"Oh."
And there were the eyes! Those blasted damnable eyes that I knew I'd get, but fortunately there also was the Supervisor, and from that moment on, everything went so well I would almost have forgotten the whole episode, were it not for those eyes, those eyes, chiselling upon my very soul the words:
'Was that it? Was that all you wanted to say? Was it worth it? Was it really worth it? Was it worth all that bloody bother, just to say those pathetic useless irrelevant words?'

Bring back petrol rationing and save the world!

Picture the poor tourists battling with the Pay and Display Parking in Galway City.
They have sussed out that it costs a whacking great ¤4.80 to park for a measly two hours, and they've also discovered that their chances of sliding a fiver into the machine and recovering change are as solid as the rushing river Corrib.
They drop in a coin.
'One Moment Please.' says the digital readout.
Desperately, they dive into their phrase book.
"What exchange rate is this 'Moment' to the Euro? Perhaps is this 'Moment' an Irish slang for 50 cent, or maybe a special parking card?"
And then again, far more likely in these days of educated and enlightened travellers, they understand perfectly well what a moment is, but cannot for the life of them comprehend why they can only park for two hours, and how it can cost so much.
As this colyoom has pointed out before, the costs and time limits imposed on visitors to this city are insane, and as a result, Galway is being bled dry of goodwill and trade.
In two hours you can either have a family meal or do a bit of shopping, but you most certainly cannot do both, and surely locals and visitors alike are being deprived of enjoying Galway, as well as being unable to pass on their hard-earned moolar to local businesses.
Oh yeh, I know, if they want to stay longer, all they need to do is move the car and pay again, but when you're out on your own with three kids under five, going all the way back to the car is not only a right royal pain in the arse, but also means your visit to Galway has cost just under a tenner before you've bought anything at all.
I love Galway and hate to see the council leeches sucking the lifeblood out of the place, at the expense of the very people who work and live in the city.
A couple of years ago I used to take my car into town, park nearby, and spend lovely long leisurely afternoons doing what Galwegians do best.
These days I'm constantly checking my watch and mentally cancelling things I wanted to do in town because I have to get back to the bloody car.
Where's the good in that?
No wonder there are so many taxis in Galway.
So what's the answer? Well, how about ¤1.50 per hour, up to three hours, and then a fiver for four hours.
There will of course be those delighted that I'm not using my car as much as I used to, because they'll figure the reduction of my carbon footprint is helping to save the polar bears and rain forest.
And they would be right, if I wasn't instead sitting in a taxi. Had we anything approaching a comprehensive public transport system, we'd all be on the right track.
The politicians try to look like they give a damn about climate change by slapping happy taxes on those who drive SUV's, but it doesn't work, because people just want to show off.
Worse, the ever-growing ranks of ostentatious and evidently insecure people who feel the need to drive small tanks to pick up a pint of milk from the Centra round the corner are blathering on and on about how they are victimised and isn't it just dreadful and yes, of course I can afford it, after all it's only a few hundred quid a year. but really it is the last straw.
No mate, you're the last straw.
As long as there are SUVs, people will want to buy them, and as soon as another bigger more expensive more utterly ridiculous model comes out, there will be another well-dressed stampede down to the showroom, each toff slavering at the possibility of being the first to drive this spanky sparkly super-dooper model, which is very reasonable really, when you think that you could barely buy a three-bedroomed house for the same money.
No, I'm not slagging off the rich in a covetous or begrudging way; merely, as Basil Fawlty so eloquently put it, stating the bleedin' obvious, which is that people who have it seem to need to flaunt it.
So what's the answer?
Well, some in the USA make the interesting point that in fact, these hulking great SUVs and Hummers are actually greener than most other cars, because they are made from less plasticcy ingredients, and thus last far longer than tiny hatchbacks put together with petroleum by-products, cardboard and glue.
And indeed they have a point, but the only thing that should require two gallons of petrol to go around the block is the local bus, carrying everybody else.
You moddim, do not need to be driving something that costs more than the gross domestic product of a small nation to pick up your child from school.
Oh, and while we're at it, can I be the first to ask if it is only SUV drivers who are granted special dispensation to park on double yellow lines, or can we all apply for a permit?
As always and ever, this colyoom does not merely give out and never gives in. 'Double Vision' has a solution, so precise and beautiful in its simplicity that, were I a Bond villain, I would hold it in my arms and stroke it slowly whilst almost imperceptibly dribbling contentedly from my mouth.
Bring back rationing.
Yep, that's what I said.
This way, you can have and drive whatever car you like. Hell, if you can find a Boeing 757 and adapt it to fit in your garage, then take that down Tescos, by all means.
But each year, when you go to buy your road tax, you will be allocated a monthly ration of ¤50 in petrol.
To ward off the gangsters and black marketeers, all cars will henceforth be fitted with microchips that will disable the engine after more than ¤50 of petrol has been consumed each month.
That'll sort out the gas guzzlers from the planet savers. Let the games begin, and enjoy your half-mile drive each month in your 7 litre, 8 cylinder ¤125,000 Hybatsushi Continental Invader.
Me? I'm about to strike fear into the hearts of all ye drivers out there by dusting off and climbing onto my bike, so look out for a Silverback with attitude on two wheels under man power.

Oil those noisy human hinges with flashes of bright light!

Are there two more joyous words in the English language than 'Thank you'?
We've all been in the situation wherein you've given a child a present, and they just turn and walk away, leaving you hanging, waiting for the magic words, but in those situations it is easy to settle for blaming the parents.
Ah yes, they never bothered to teach their kids manners. What a shame, tut tut.
If children have an excuse, adults have none, and although I am only about nine months late, I'd like to say 'Thank you' to someone right now.
'Twas a hot sunny Summer morning, and I had arrived back from a shopping expedition to see two clear parking spaces near my home.
However, after unloading my bags and dropping them into the house, I drove my car around the corner to find that someone had parked their car in such a way as to take up both spaces, and I was not pleased.
Stubborn to the last, and on occasion indomitably male, I tried to squeeze my car into the space and failed, and tried again and failed again. During this process, as if I had drunk of a magic potion, I metamorphosed into my own personal Mr. Hyde, a.k.a. Grumpy Bear From Hell.
On one of my pointless reversing runs, I spotted a woman walking her dogs toward to small park just over the road.
Evidently she was the driver of the offending car. Maybe I could just go over and have a word with her.
Leaving my car obnoxiously double-parked, I walked into the park, and approached the lady in question, asking if she would mind moving her car a bit, so that two cars might park where now one occupied two spaces.
If I recall correctly, she had an English accent (but if not, please take no offense) and immediately headed back out of the park, and over the road, to do as I had asked.
Following her, I raised my arm, offering to hold her two little white poodles' leads, but she didn't see my gesture.
Leaving me feeling increasingly embarrassed, she opened the back door of her Skoda, encouraged both of her little white poodles to jump in (they were not best pleased, because they thought their walk was over almost before it had begun!), and moved her car the requisite few metres. As I climbed into my car to move it out of the centre of the road, I saw her open the back door of her car again, encourage her by now somewhat bewildered little white poodles to jump out once more, and head again towards the park.
By the time I had parked my car the lady was off away, and the only opportunity I had to thank her entailed walking over to her in the park.
After some quick reflection, I decided that should she once more see me heading towards her, she might have cause to fear what came next.
So I walked home, grateful for the polite calm way she dealt with the situation, and feeling guilty that what I thought would be a pretty easy task had turned out to be quite a time-consuming laborious effort for her.
But most of all I felt bad because I hadn't thanked her. The fact that that feeling remains now, three seasons down the road, serves only to show me how powerful is the need for thanks.
Displays of gentle heartfelt gratitude are the sunbeams of the human spirit. We are assaulted every day with an onslaught of news, images and sounds that impose upon us the notion that we, the Human Race, are a terrible beast. We wage war, murder, rape and abuse. We steal, spit, hit and maim.
Yes we do. But also, at the same time, we are a gentle, loving, caring and generous species.
Just as the desire to say thanks to that woman lingers, so too I find tiny clippings on my desk; yellowing snippets torn from newspapers, that touch a cord, twang my strings in a good way.
Two of them were actually taken from this Noble Rag. The first comes from our Lost and Found section, many moons ago. Somebody had gone to the trouble of taking out an advert to announce that they had found a pearl necklace on a Galway Street on a Saturday afternoon, reply to box number blah blah blah.
It makes me stop and think. Yes, we are a vicious mean and nasty bunch of people a lot of the time, but somebody somewhere has a love of their fellows, a love big enough to try to return a pearl necklace to a complete stranger.
In the same vein, a news story weeks ago reported how Louise Dunne from Co. Down was overwhelmed and delighted to receive in the post the wallet she had lost whilst visiting Galway to celebrate a hen night.
"There was a considerable amount of cash in my purse, as well as credit cards, cheques and a lot of personal stuff... the Garda who was dealing with it sent my purse back to me by recorded delivery totally intact. There was nothing taken from it."
Hooray for Galwegians! Yippee for humanity!
We are not all bad. Indeed, far from it. Just like yer Grannie used to say, it's the rusty hinge that makes the most noise. Speaking as one of the planet's most flaky red and decrepit of oxidised hinges, I know full well I often create an unholy racket with all my creaking, moaning and squeaking, but also I appreciate these smallest flashes of the brightest light, and take solace, comfort and hope from these well-oiled sweetly silent slivers of humanity.
As a species we are nothing but a collection of infinitely variable personalities. Regular readers will forgive me for once more reciting my Four Effs Of Humanity: Freaked-out; Fucked-up; Fallible; Fantastic. We truly are all of the above.
The sooner we reconcile all of our parts into one accepting whole, the better, for when that happens we may realise that, in the context of the Universe and our own common mortality, it is a mistake to focus too long on the struggles of 'good' and 'bad'; unimportant whether we believe our spiritual Glass of Life to be half full or half empty.
Only when we understand that the glass itself is beautiful will we rest happy in it.
cadley1@eircom.net
http://doubledoublevision.blogspot.com