Europe's Second-class citizens

It has been announced that workers from Romania and Bulgaria will not have an automatic right to work elsewhere in the EC, when the two countries join next year.

Why have they been allowed to join so, if their citizens are to be effectively second-class citizens of the European Union? I feel that this is a violation of a fundamental, and I mean fundamental tenet of the EU. It makes a mockery of one of the four factor freedoms which were at the heart of the European Union's foundation: the free movement of labour.

This has been done to please racist, diseased filth like Toby - insecure little people leading shitty little lives and doing shitty little jobs which, however, they are so fearful might be taken by "foreigners".

But there is a far more insidious reasoning behind the decision, which displays a form of racism which the European Commissioners are afraid to admit to. It is designed not to thwart labour from Romania and Bulgaria in its entirety. Both countries have large communities of Roma who are the subject in both countries of frightful discrimination. I have heard them described as "black Romanian bastards". In Romania, Ceausescu may be long dead but the hatred of the Roma continues and is, in many aspects of life, institutionalised. Roma are frequently targeted for assault which are hardly ever investigated by the police who are, in most instances, sympathetic to the assailants - if not actually committing them themselves.

Some time ago a really horrible local councillor from Belturbet commented that Belturbet was in danger of being turned into Bucharest. Apart from being impressed that he knew the capital of Romania I was compelled to make the following comment, which I have had no reason to alter since. I believe that such a transformation would be an unqualified improvement for Belturbet, especially since Bucharest has been cleared of its feral dog problem.

In Bulgaria the Roma face an even worse time. An organisation called Attaka sits in the Bulgarian parliament. It makes blood-curdling statements about Roma and members have been implicated in arson attacks on Roma homes. A sickening psychotic thug named Volen Siderov, backed by Attaka, won over 21 per cent of the vote in the recent Bulgarian presidential elections, forcing incumbent president (and former historian - we have to stick together you know) Georgi Parvanov into a run-off, which he is thankfully assured of winning.

So when the regulations were announced that Romanians and Bulgarians would have to get permits to work in Ireland, but that people from these two countries would be given preferential treatment, the sub-text was clear enough: preferential treatment would indeed be given to non-Roma from these two countries.

The Roma aren't good at telling their story. It would shock too many. Nobody is quite sure how many Roma were murdered by the Nazis; a conservative estimate says half a million. It is known that over 23,000 - yes twenty-three thousand, were killed in Auschwitz alone. Along with the Jews, the Roma were targeted for extermination as part of the final solution, but unlike the Jews they did not have rich cousins in America prepared to tell in technicolor detail of their sufferings. No doubt there are those who say that, like the Jewish holocaust, the Roma holocaust never happened; that it was all part of a "holo-hoax".

I was once outraged by the ignorance and stupidity of an Irish racist who, when talking of the Roma described them as "Dirty, black, Romanian bastards." Dirty!?! How dare he say such a thing. The Roma subscribe to a very strict regime of personal and ritual cleanliness, perhaps originating in India. They will only eat certain foods (amongst them, traditionally hedgehog). They will not allow cats and dogs to share their living space. This is because both animals habitually lick their genitals while washing, and thus are unclean to the Roma. Indeed in their eyes, we, western Caucasian Europeans, are the dirty ones.


A British newspaper carried a headline that "illegal immigrants" would be fined £1.000 This reminded me of a film I saw recently with Rosie, called Children of Men - a beautiful film but very disturbing. It is set in a nightmarish world in the future where women have lost the ability to conceive, and where the radio carries messages warning people that sheltering "illegal immigrants" is a crime. The fate of those caught by the immigration police is to be caged up in concentration camps. A surreal glimpse into the future? It's already happening.


Irish minister Micheal Martin, in defending this racist move, did say something which should be remembered. Tens of thousands of workers have come into Ireland in the past number of years, and it would be difficult to perceive of a "Celtic tiger economy" without them Difficult? Impossible! If it wasn't for these people what we'd have would be a Celtic kitten, a wan, sickly, yet vastly obese creature who would never catch mice on a Monday because it was too wrecked after the weekend; which wouldn't catch mice on a Friday afternoon either; which would be "under the vet" for the rest of the week, unable and unwilling to do anything; which would respond to any attempts to move it by pissing over everything; which wouldn't even consider licking its arse after it crapped itself without a sufficiently large cash inducement; and which would defend its antipathy to catching mice (or anything else) with reference to a lack of adequate resources.

The Irish language

Whenever I think of the Irish language I am filled with an immense feeling of shame: shame that I cannot speak it better and that I don't use the little knowledge I have to its full effects. For despite the best attempts by teachers over the years to inculcate hatred towards it, I still love Irish. It is part of who I am. However, English is my vernacular. My desire is to attain a state of practical bilingualism. I would be able to get there, especially as I have attained such a situation with other language, but I'm lazy.

I don't like turning on the TV, because whenever I do so I am inevitably put into a bad mood. This morning I caught a panel discussion on, I think, RTE 1. Some little anally-retentive little prick with a Dublin 4 accent was complaining that "the money he paid in HIS taxes" was being spent to subsidise the Irish language. He claimed that he had nothing against the Irish language as such (apart from the fact that he couldn't speak it). Somebody pointed out that the government subsidises many groups, especially disadvantaged groups. "That's another matter entirely", though his demeanour suggested that he would be equally appalled by the notion of HIS taxes benefiting the poor or the "great unwashed."

Many crimes have been committed on the nation's youth over the years under the banner of promoting the Irish language. But times have changed. The lunatic, Hurley-wielding Gaelgoir fringe, so well parodied by the late Dermot Morgan, have now mostly gone to the great Feis in the sky. Any money spent by the government on promoting the Irish language is to be welcomed. No one forces anyone to speak a language in this country, though no doubt the prickeen would compel people to speak American English, so as to promote our business competitiveness.

There are some people I form an instant dislike to, and he was one of them. I would have loved to have given him a good, sharp, arse-kicking, only I fear that, given the location, he would derive too much pleasure from the experience.

The Irish language

Whenever I think of the Irish language I am filled with an immense feeling of shame: shame that I cannot speak it better and that I don't use the little knowledge I have to its full effects. For despite the best attempts by teachers over the years to inculcate hatred towards it, I still love Irish. It is part of who I am. However, English is my vernacular. My desire is to attain a state of practical bilingualism. I would be able to get there, especially as I have attained such a situation with other language, but I'm lazy.

I don't like turning on the TV, because whenever I do so I am inevitably put into a bad mood. This morning I caught a panel discussion on, I think, RTE 1. Some little anally-retentive little prick with a Dublin 4 accent was complaining that "the money he paid in HIS taxes" was being spent to subsidise the Irish language. He claimed that he had nothing against the Irish language as such (apart from the fact that he couldn't speak it). Somebody pointed out that the government subsidises many groups, especially disadvantaged groups. "That's another matter entirely", though his demeanour suggested that he would be equally appalled by the notion of HIS taxes benefiting the poor or the "great unwashed."

Many crimes have been committed on the nation's youth over the years under the banner of promoting the Irish language. But times have changed. The lunatic, Hurley-wielding Gaelgoir fringe, so well parodied by the late Dermot Morgan, have now mostly gone to the great Feis in the sky. Any money spent by the government on promoting the Irish language is to be welcomed. No one forces anyone to speak a language in this country, though no doubt the prickeen would compel people to speak American English, so as to promote our business competitiveness.

There are some people I form an instant dislike to, and he was one of them. I would have loved to have given him a good, sharp, arse-kicking, only I fear that, given the location, he would derive too much pleasure from the experience.

Bad news

I sometimes feel I'm living in a nightmare, This morning I turned to the RTE teletext news pages where my attention was drawn to one particular item:

38 TALEBAN KILLED IN AFGHANISTAN

Now I know that the Taleban are a group of bastards, but bastards they may be, but as my late mother would have said each one of those 38 had a father and a mother, probably still alive and grieving for their son. It is also likely that they were married and had children, This act, which has an air of the celebratory about it, has created a whole new raft of widows, not to mention children burning with hatred and a desire to revenge the deaths of their fathers. Sadly, when (and I say when not if) this comes to pass, the people who will suffer will also be innocent by-standers, not the puffed-up war-mongers and the poodles like Blair and Bush.

The Cavan Echo

I am dellighted to be able to speak of a truly positive development here in County Cavan, the appearance of a new local newspaper, The Cavan Echo, which is worthy of the people of the county. As I thumbed through the pages of the first edition I was overjoyed to be able to read a paper which had a truly all-embracing view of news in the area. So many things happen here but they have not been recorded. There has been a reluctance to pursue news in the Cavan area, lest it be found to offend someone. As a result true journalism has withered on the vine in the interests of a sorry and tired self-slorification of a particular group of self-important nobodies. I'm not going to point an accusatory finger but the dogs on the streets of Cavan probably know where I think the blame for this lies. As I remarked to Maria McCourt, the new paper's very able and delightful editor (if only all editors were so delightful!) I knew that a change had occurred the moment I skimmed the photographs. There were none of the toy-soldier poses of (pictured from l. to r,) the good, the bad and the unspeakable, as if they needed identifying.

But let us not talk of blame. Let us rather celebrate that there is still a niche, and a ccommercial possibility, for such a local newspaper. Perhaps this is because the Cavan Echo is fully aware of the possibilities of the Internet, not as a rival but as a partner. They plan to make the newspaper downloadable in PDF format, as well as carry blogs. The management realise that the only hope for local newspapers is to become truly innovative.

The paper was formally launched on October 19th, in the Cavan Crystal Hotel, a venue which is fully wheel-chair accessible let me add. There was a buffet meal consisting of a tasty chicken ruby, though not as tasty as the rubies made by my Rosie. The launch was attended by a charming buffet meal, while the inevitable speeches were short and incisive and free of the waffle that all too frequently tarnishes such events. Mr Peter Quinn gave an intersting and visionary contribution in which he spoke about a venture like the Cavan Echo, employing just six people, could be a force for change and progress within the Cavan area.

It is only fair for me to place my cards on the table here. Yes, I am contributing a regular feature to the paper. I'm both proud and pleased to be doing so. It was very nice to be asked. And while running the risk of being catty and the attendant threats to have me done, it is heartening for me to see my words appear in a Cavan newspaper under my by-line. In the past my prose has appeared in another Cavan publication, though under someone else's by-line. There is such a thing as intellectual property. There is also consequently something called intellectual theft, long practiced by a self-styled journalist of a long-established Cavan newspaper. While Proudhon pronounced that "Property is theft", theft is most certainly not the same as property in intellectual terms.

Let me finish by wishing the Cavan Echo every success to its staff, its advertisers, its contributors, and generally to all who sail in her.

Bonfire night comes early to Pyongyang

Most people were no doubt amazed by the pictures from Pyongyang in North Korea. The event celebrated was the 80th anniversary of the Anti-Imperialism League, or cynics might say the tenth anniversary of the last time the Dear Leader Kim Jong-il had a wank.

The reporters on Sky News spoke about "extraordinary pictures from Pyonngyang." Well, there's nothing really extraordinary about pictures of people dragooned like robots and made to move in military formations sometimes spelling out words like "Peace", "Screw" and "Shit" in Korean. This is usual prime time viewing, ever since Bruce Forsythe pulled out of a North Korean version of the Generation Game, because there was only ever going to be one family in the show: the Kims, and Korean Central TV refused to take the Irish show The Lyrics Board because it was unsure whether host Lynda Martin was a woman or a mannekin.
But last night the more I looked at these images of thousands of people carrying torches against a black background the more queasy I became. It was horrible, like a nightmare. A bit like Mississippi Burning, or maybe The Wicker Man without Britt Eckland and the sexy dancing. It was nightmarish, like something from a horror movie. There was a commentary by the North Koreans. I don't know Korean so I don't know what it said, but the announcer sounded as if he had had a vindaloo and that he was really bound up. Nothing would work.
The analogy with Mississppi Burning was not exactly crazy. We couldn't see the faces of the "protestors" in Pyongyang, so they could have been wearing white hoods. I also thought that the Nazis' torch-lit processions must have looked similar.
And one other little cavill: the gig was supposed to mark the foundation of the Anti-Imperialism League. It was accompanied by banal but jaunty North Korean marching songs. Now these don't sound very North Korean to me: there is hardly a glimmer of a pentatonic scale there. In fact, they sounded rather western, well in relative terms. They were very similar to the type of musical crap turned out by Stalin's musical minions just the last years of his reign.

Have You got a Police Record?

Of course I have - Walking on the Moon. It's an old one. I want to dispel a notion that might have got abroad. Some people might think that, because I write at such length and with such vitriol about the Fukkin' Gyards that I have an obsession with them. No I haven't. I think it only fair to say that An Garda Siochana, both past and present, counts amongst its ranks a fine array of men and women, most of whom operate to the highest standards of professionalism and who would be a credit to the police force of ANY country. Others still have made the ultimate sacrifice in the line of duty. And what is this duty? Nothing less than the protection of the people of Ireland.

Yet we have a situation, as seems to exist in Ireland now, where a minority, though a considerable one, of the police force is at the very least inept and at the very worst corrupt. We have a minister for justice who is an intellectual captive of his clerico-fascist mandarins, who doesn't really want to alienate the police force, lest they prove eventually unwilling to take on the real enemy of McDowell and his cronies, the poor and the unemployed. People are afraid to speak out for fear of attracting victimisation on themselves and their families. And who can the public complain to? Who watches the watchers?

I remember a former teacher of mine. He was called Father (not Doctor) Phil, though some of us unkindly referred to him as Pudgy - I can't think why. A favourite comment of his was that it only takes one bad apple to send the whole barrel rotten. That is a comment which can be made about An Garda Siochana. It only takes one "bent copper" to undo the great work done by others, and to tarnish their bravery and selflessness. But the culture of indiscipline comes from the top, from the most senior ranks. They have routinely failed to root out the bad apples; indeed. they've often denied their very existence.

I am not some anarchist hot-head. I believe in police forces. Maybe their continued existence reflects upon the human race's continued weakness and its inability to regulate its activities to the benefit of all without harming others. An efficient, professional police force enjoying the confidence of all sections, and I mean all sections, of the community, is a sine qua non of any society which pretends to be either liberal or democratic. Such a body not only deserves the resepct of the citizenry, but should be able to demand it as a duty of citizenship. I want a police force of which I as an Irish citizen can be proud. Speaking selfishly I want a force which responds to concerns I may have about people loitering at the bottom of my garden, which does not attempt to mow me down when crossing a street in my wheel-chair, whose members train cameras on criminals and not peaceful protesters, whose members do not indulge in a litany of racist comments about people from overseas. You might say that what I want is a respectable police force, not one that sounds as if it is made up of sewer rats.
I believe that such a police force is possible in Ireland. But then I used to believe in Father Christmas.

"Diarmuid Martin - That Fucker!"

It goes without saying that the statement in this post's title was never uttered by me. Archbishop Diarmuid Martin of Dublin is, unusually for a member of the Irish Catholic hierarchy, a man for whom I have an ocean of respect and regard. He is possessed of a quiet, unaffected charm, as well as being a man who attempts to be a true witness to his faith. He is also a man of great compassion for his fellow men, though this has been his undoing in the eyes of one rather sad specimen of pseudo humanity.

There is this individual (let's call him Toby) who has a habit of dropping in to see me uninvited. He seems to think himself so important, and everyone else so unimportant, that he can just arrive and be entertained. Many have been the occasions when I have been really busy, and my first response would have been to tell him to f"*k off (with knobs on), but I have been too indulgent towards him. On his most recent visit he started to "give out" about the pope and how he had covered up cases of clerical sexual abuse. I have long been upset by this, and so I listened to what he had to say, knowing well that it was perhaps less than sincere. (He is a man who has long been annoyed at not having been invited to join the Knights of St. Columbanus, an influential right-wing Catholic lay group. This surprises me, as recently they've been taking any scoundrel in. He has even explored the possibilities of joining the Free Masons.) I expressed my own feelings of disquiet about the handling by the Catholic Church of this sad phenomenon, and how the hierarchy had perhaps done less than they should. I immediately added how much I respected the comments made on this issue by Dr Diarmaid Martin.
"Diarmaid Martin, that fucker?" was the response. I asked why he said this.
"He wanted to bring back that black bastard that was deported."
Now as Toby knows how I feel about such intemperate racist language I went straight on the attack. Diarmaid Martin was obviously, I said, a man who took his Christianity seriously, who saw every man, woman and child on this planet as having been made in the likeness of God. I told him that he was obviously sick and unhappy, that I wake up each morning thankful for an an opportunity to experience the wonders of the world, not wondering who can I hate or despise today. Furthermore I stated that when I meet anyone, regardless of their skin colour, creed, sexual orientation or whatever, I view that person as having been sent to me by God and maybe they are God.

Yet none of this cut the slightest ice with Toby. I was told that the "black bastard" was an "illegal immigrant, who had been educated by the Irish tax payer, and ..." here I cut him off. I was so angry by this statement that I could have hit him. I'll explain elsewhere the reasons for my choler. I reminded him that many of the hundreds of thousands of people who left Ireland for England or America were technically illegal.
"But we worked" he answered, whereupon I reminded him of the stereotypes common in both England and Ireland of the lazy mick. It should be remembered that those seeking refugee status in Ireland were not allowed to work, whether they wanted to or not. As for the crap about "illegal immigrants", this man doesn't accept that there should be even legal immigrants, while the excreta about working is just that. He doesn't like the "black bastards" because, according to his sick worldview, they don't work; he doesn't like the Poles and Balts because they take Irish jobs and because they work.

I hate people with "one track minds" - though I might not mind if Toby had a more traditional "one track mind". This phenomenon usually speaks of a deeper mental malaise. It doesn't seem to matter what you're talking about with him, he'll bring it back to his sick racist prejudice. I recall the joy I felt when Rosie first pushed me around Cavan in my wheel chair. I was like a child seeing my native town again for the first time. I was also so impressed by how sympathetic the majority of motorists were who always stopped so as to allow us to cross a street. Yet when I related this to my "acquaintance" the response I got was "None of them were fucking foreigners." This was as stupid as it was banal. How could he say with such certainty that none of them were "fucking foreigners"? We didn't ask them for ID or a passport before they let us cross.


When Toby starts on his prejudicial philippics, whether against foreigners, gays, women... whatever you're havin' yourself, I feel physically sick. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to violently puke into his face. As I said above, I felt like hitting him. A number of things stopped me. The idea of me trying to hit anyone in my physical state would be laughable. But while I was very angry with him and what I perceived to be his insensitivity of my feelings I also felt immense pity for him. I could have floored him intellectually - I've been around long enough not to be frightened by stupid bigots. But I also felt that he was more of a danger to himself than to anyone else. I genuinely believe that he is not a bad person, just someone who has a whole lot of issues which only he can sort out. He has known his fair share of personal tragedy, indeed some would say more than his fair share. He is a very talented specialist who has been "fucked around", refused work and jobs for which he was more than entitled and qualified. But the people doing this weren't "Black Bastards" (how I hate that phrase) from Nigeria or Romania, but good white Irish people.

Toby attends Mass on a Sunday, usually going to the 10 o'clock showing in Cavan town's cathedral (which I long ago hristened "The Golf-Club at Prayer"). He probably believes in a place called Heaven, and all things being equal he stands as good a chance of getting there as the rest of us. But what would happen if, on passing through the pearly gates, St Peter turns out to be black? Will he demand relocation to the other place? Ah but sure I'm only wandering. He is betting on the existence of a nice Irish, White, Catholic heaven. (You've heard the joke about the guy who's being given a guided tour of heaven by an angel. As he rushes along the angel says. "In there are the Jews, over there are the Baptists, Around the corner are the Muslims..." As they walk along they come to an enclosure with a very high wall. The man asks the angel "who's in there?"
"Shhh, keep your voice down. That's where the Catholics are" replies the angel in a whisper.
"But why are you talking in a whisper?" asks the man.
"Because they think they're the only ones up here." answered the angel.

Racism and racists

Most people are by now well aware of how I feel about non-Irish people coming to work or live here. I welcome them unreservedly. I hope they have a good time and I also hope many of them will settle down and make their live here and maybe set up businesses. They don't frighten me. They do not tweak some deep-seated insecurity. Some of the women are beautiful, even though I'm spoken for, thanks to a girl who is herself not a native of Ireland.

I suppose I can understand how the advent of difference upsets people, especially older folk. For so long they were used to people leaving Ireland in droves, so the idea of large numbers of people coming in the opposite direction. However, my dear and lovely mother, Mary Parker, who passed away this July at the age of 88, had no such feelings of insecurity. Perhaps like her son she knew that the people who really make you feel scared are your white neighbours.

These people are not bad or evil in themselves. Their fears though are played upon by wicked and mischievous people.

What I would say to any of them is: I understand how you feel, but I don't agree with you. There is nothing to fear. I would also appeal to them to show some class and to eschew the cornerboy rhetoric. Alright, so you don't like foreigners, but why refer to them with a rare flight of allieration as "fucking foreigners"? Or the other phrase which disgusts me because of its innate violence "black bastards". If one quarter of the world's population cause them such unease why not call them niggers or coons - equally offensive but not as violent and full of hate as the preceding. This type of language is meant to demean non-Irish people, but the only ones whom it demeans are the Irish people who use it. It's the equivalent of calling people Fenian bastards, dirty Jews or enemies of the people. It leads inexorably in the direction of Auschwitz.

Racism in Northern Ireland

Hardly a week goes by without a report of an attack on immigrants in Northern Ireland. They are subjected to verbal and physical abuse, while their homes are frequently petrol-bombed. The source of these reprehensible actions are usually Loyalist youths, inspired and encouraged by their political leadership. These people come from a culture that defined itself in hatred, hatred especially of Catholics. Many, if asked to define what being a Protestant meant, would answer that it wasn't being a Catholic. Tague-baiting was in the blood.

However, it's a little bit politically incorrect these days. But they still need people to hate and despise. The Poles are Catholics - the former "whore of Babylon" (the anachronistic name used to refer to the pope) was Polish, so there you go. Tagues by another name, probably Tadeusz, who are aiming to take over the North and turn it into a boot-camp for the Jesuits, the pope's SAS. The same goes fo the Lithuanians. The Latvians are a different quantity. Those from the Latgale region of the country's south-east are Catholic, but the rest could be Russian Orthodox or even Protestants. But fuck it Sammy, they're fuckin' foreigners.

It is sad that so many of those in the south of Ireland, who would profess themselves the sworn enemies of this loyalist scum, should also have a similar thwarted world view and poisoned vocabulary.

The Police Service of Northern Ireland (PSNI) seem to be doing a very good job in countering these hate attacks. For their fight against extremism and this new form of bigotry they deserve the unqualified support of all sections of the community and all political parties and formations. Remember, the PSNI is not the RUC (the Royal Ulster Constabulary) or the B specials (the loyalist paramilitary squads who were their predecessors). And Thank God, they are not An Garda Siochana (The police force of the Irish Republic), better known as "The fukkin' gyards."

Another restaurant review

The Little Sicily

I have been a frequent visitor to the Little Sicily in Cavan town for many years. For one thing, in the days before I had such a beautiful assistant as Rosie to push me places, it was the nearest decent eatery to me. Another thing, and very important, it was accessible.

We went to the Little Sicily on the last night of Rosie's stay and as usual we made pigs of ourselves. We started with a dish of Suppli (rice and mozzarella croquettes) served with a creamy white cause. This made a change from the meaty sauces usually served with Suppli. As is usual with us we had a pizza for our main dish. Now I'm a twelve incher when it comes to pizzas. I love nothing better than to be able to cut it into wedges and eat it with my fingers, the way pizze are eaten in Napoli.

As the various cuisines of Italy (as varied as the country itself) are nutritious and healthy I never feel embarrassed by excess when eating in an Italian restaurant. Yet in the Little Sicily I always end up making the politically correct choice for desert, a fruit smoothy. These are wonderful. What's more by that time in the meal I am too lazy to use my hands, so begging your pardon missus, I can just sit back and suck.

We had two bottles of the house red, a very nice and velvety Merlot from La Venezia. This is a perfect accompaniment to a whole spectrum of foods, being pleasantly quaffable but not too strong as to drown out the flavours of the food. The Little Sicily is fully licensed, and this encourages me to indulge in numerous bad habits. For one thing, I've got into the bad habit of drinking vodka and tonic with my meals (in addition to wine. The old adage about never mixing the grain and the grape doesn't seem to apply to me.) If anything vodka enhances the flavour of food and I heartily recommend the practice to my readers.

Another character weakness which has been sprung from my armoire recently, and which has been facilitated by the Little Sicily, is ending a meal with a cocktail. Last Saturday I had a Margarita and let's just say that I would not have said no to dos o tres margaritas - comprende hombre?

On the night we were there the place was hopping. It was really noisy, and I just love noisy restaurants, the type of place where you can laugh uproariously. It shows that people are having fun and enjoying themselves. That's what they should do when they have a nice meal. I cannot stand those starchy restaurants where you can hear the cutlery clinking ashamedly against the backing sound of the muzak. You might as well be in a church, and sometimes you need the kiss of life when you're presented with the tab.

The price of our meal was, as always, very reasonable and well within my limited financial constraints. The staff were also attentive, courteous and helpful. One girl in particular, from Lithuania, shows that the women of that Baltic nation are amongst the most beautiful in Europe - along with the women of East Sussex.