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Imagine if you will, a shoal of mullet, swimming along. It’s not the prettiest sight, there’s nothing fancy about a tonne of mullet. They can swim, but the fancier moves have evaded them. They’d never do anything as frivolous as dart about the place with nifty flicks of their dung brown tails. What’s the point, they live in unexciting waters. They survive and that’s all that matters.
And now, think of the exotic fish that live in the warmer climes. The kind of fish that people like to put in fish tanks. Small, colourful, gorgeously pretty. They dart about, neon stripes flashing, frilled fins fluttering, cute little faces the envy of their sturdier cousins. Everything they do, every move they make screams out a ‘hey, look at me, I’m fabulous.’
Now, visualise the horror of shoving the mullet in with the exotic fish. Think of this great big fish, splashing water all over the place and making a show of himself as he tries to adapt to his new environment.
That’s how I felt when I went on holidays. That’s how a lot of Irish people feel, I’d imagine. Mr and Mrs Irishperson and their two kids, complete with mullet haircuts, take a break. Mr and Mrs Irish haven’t seen sun in decades. Mr and Mrs Irish self consciously don sun wear. Mr Irish is wearing long shorts. There’s a contradiction in terms here but long shorts are the big thing in Irish abroad wear. And he has a tee-shirt which he probably won in the local pub quiz. Mrs Irish, for the first time since teenhood, has her luminous white legs on show, legs which later in the evening will probably attract moths. And their foreign holiday transformation is complete when they stick on their sunglasses. Thus, peering through dark lenses at this exotic world, Mr and Mrs Irish think they’re quite cool. Then, dismayed, they espy Mr and Mrs French/Spanish/Italian effortlessly strutting their stuff in sassy little dresses and colourful shirts.
The heat is on and Mr and Mrs Irish begin to wilt. Mrs Irish’s hair has abandoned it’s blow dry to become an enormous frizzy mess. The pores on their faces are larger than their holiday overdraft and their sweat coated bodies are begging for relief. To the delight of the kids, they slip on their swim wear and walk on down to the pool. Mr Irish has gone for the shorter version of the long shorts. There is no way Mr Irish would ever wear the skin tight swim wear of his European cousins. Good God, what can happen to a man who wears stuff like that? And apparently, living in such hot conditions makes chest hair wither and die. Mr Irish doesn’t have that problem. Neanderthal man isn’t a patch on him. And Mrs Irish, with her roaring red face and her bottle white body feels only a little self conscious in her spanking brand new bikini. Wearing colourful underwear in public isn’t her style but she does her best to carry it off. Her hot weather cousins however have no such problem. Little teeny tiny bits of fabric cover their little teeny tiny bits or in some cases their rather enormous bits. The look is completed with jewellery and make-up. Mrs Irish decides that they’re all poseurs. Plus, they’ll all probably get skin cancer, she thinks, as she self-righteously plasters herself and her little family in lotion.
Aw, the Irish Abroad – we’re fish out of water. But big, sturdy, hardy fish. And it’d be a right cod who’d choose flashy style over good solid substance.