I left the dreary grey of London, and through the joy of red double decker bus, the London Underground and then the Stanstead express filled with too many people who really didnt want to be up that early I hit the airport.

I flew Ryanair, "Europes best low fare airline". No frills is definitely the case, we were packed in so tight that I could almost kiss the back of the head in front of me (at least I could count the dandruff flakes), my legs stuck in some sort of thrombosis inducing seat straddle and my knees pushed violently to my chin. The war of the armrest became very territorial indeed a constant jockeying for position, power and glory. Tensions rose, elbows were jostled. Its lucky the flight was only an hour.

Still the other airline alternative was Aer Lingus (The National Irish Line) which to me sounds like a kinky act you perform potentially with a tongue but any wet implement would suffice...

We hit the runway, taxiing across a vast expanse of tarmac inhabited surprisingly by a large number of a) very deaf and b) very gutsy birds.

Seeing birds on a runway always brings about images of terror, It seems a rational fear that a magpie flying into a jet engine brings about sudden bird sashimi and a subsequent life threatening explosion.

I digress to an email that I received once, talking about an American aviation company testing its jet engines. They asked Rolls Royce of England if it could use its chicken canon (a chookchucker2000?), a device that allows for the high projectile firing of chickens (one hopes dead) into jet engines. The chicken canon was sent over, the Americans tested their engines, and were devastated to discover that every chicken fired was causing horrific damage. In a state of concern they called Rolls Royce for help. Rolls listened to their plight, then quietly and calmly suggested that perhaps they should thaw the chickens first.

Up, down, Dublin. Passport control involved seeing the color of my passport and being waved through. Airport bus and into the city.

Dublin is a very messy, straggly looking city. Its a sprawl. Scattered pockets of old mixed in with middle class apartment complexes, its a place with that exotic blend of crime, cosmopolitan charm, and cranes. Dublin is under serious construction. It is limited somewhat in terms of its photogenic personality, you know this to be the case when there are postcards entitled "doors of Dublin". Hmmm. Fortunately Dublin is also the home to Guiness.

I exited the bus, and some sort of inner guidance took over, for my feet started to walk, not to a pub, not to my accomodation, but guided me tirelessly to a point where I was staring at the Brewery for that famous Black Brew...Guiness. Irish Mecca.

They have a Guiness museum and at the top a bar. A pint and admission was 13.50 euros. Not cheap. And for lack of better terms, it really was, quite shite. Lots of projectors, strobes, lights, big installation art pieces, blah de blah. Sugar Hops Water Yeast = Guiness. I think I just summed up five floors of museum. There were a couple of interesting tidbits, 2.5 million pints of Guiness are brewed daily, an Irish pub gets opened somewhere in the world every day, and the brewery covers 26 hectares!

I made it to the top of the museum - the gravity bar. And headed to the counter to get my 'complimentary' pint. The three quarter pour, the micro bubbles boiling downwards, the wait, oh the delicious wait, and then the top up, a thick creamy head gracing the big glass of black as night goodness.

I took a sip. OH MY FUCKING GOD. This was, is, and shall always be, the perfect pint. Straight from the source, this was unlike any other Guiness I have ever tasted. Everything suddenly became worthwhile, the world began to slip into a pleasant daze, and suddenly I started feeling like I wanted a Kebab. If ever a pilgrim was to have an epiphany, methinks this pilgrim just had it.

kebab. Dammit. Then to Temple bar, the trendy pub area of Dublin. Many more pints of the black stuff were drunk. Many, just in case Id missed another perfect pint location. I chatted for some hours with a pair of local lads, but their accent was so think that I had no idea what the fuck they were on about. They didnt seem to mind, neither did I. I did manage to translate an awful lot of "fookin bollox yer bleedin coont" though. I dont think it was in reference to me.

Hostel, no idea how I found it, but it was quite surprising to find myself awake in a bed with all my posessions. Head feels like its being pounded with an anvil. And I am laying a legacy of jet black turds.

I think Ill be going back to the brewery again today....

It felt like a repeat of yesterday. I knew Id fallen victim once more to the Guiness charm, or as Ian Paisely called it "The Devils Buttermilk" when I decided to take a late night shower in my hostel. Grapping my toiletries and towel I walked to the shower area and proceeded to shampoo myself with moisteriser.

I knew it was time to go when on my last day in Dublin I walked into a pub at 9:30 am for breakfast. A full Irish, two pork sausages, bacon, black pudding, white pudding, beans mushrooms, egg, and... a pint of Guiness. It made my trip to the airport quite woozy.

And I definitely didnt make many friends on the flight back to London with my unable to be contained, treacherous Guiness farts.