My journey to Ireland on Saturday was a fairly uneventful one, apart from the getting up at stupid O’clock to catch my flight bit. After meeting up with friends flying in from different parts of the UK we headed to the pub. At 11:30am. We also went for a brief walk around Dublin, saw a few more bars and eventually made our way back up Grafton Street towards Temple Bar looking for a place to have dinner.

We found a reasonable-looking Tapas place and our party of eight was seated at a table in the corner where we ate a lot, and drank even more. Finally, the bill came and it was time to pay.
I checked my pocket where my wallet normally resides, but it was not there. Nor was it in any other pocket. Or my bag. Or my jacket.

It was gone.

“I, err, seem to have lost my wallet.” I sheepishly offered as people were throwing monopoly money onto the table.

“Yeah, right. Anything to avoid paying your share, eh?” joked one of the really really funny people I was having dinner with.

“No, it’s really gone. Fuck.”

So whilst they retired for the evening, I spent the next hour wandering round Dublin in the pissing rain retracing my steps to see if my wallet had some how been left in one of the last two bars we had been in where I had not had to buy a round. For the record, it had not.

I vaguely remembered bumping into someone on Grafton St. and realised I had probably been the victim of a thieving bastard pickpocket. What an utter, utter cunt.

I cancelled my cards, and made arrangements to get access to some cash in the morning, before heading back to my hotel off O’Connell St to get changed into some dry clothes before heading out to get utterly shit-faced in the first bar I could find.

It was an excellent start to the weekend.

Tomorrow : Mr. Angry visits the Garda (twice), and experiences first hand the delights of Western Union.

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