Where, when, who… and the Holiday Psalms!


 By Gerry Moran

Holidays frazzle my brain. And this is before I book a flight or pack a bag. The frazzling starts with three words: Where? When? Who?
First off where will we go? Somewhere hot? Yes. But not too hot. And where’s that? Do we go somewhere we’ve been before? Where we can drop the bags and make a beeline for the bar. Or pool. Or beach. Or do we go somewhere new where you waste a whole half day familiarising yourself with the place?
hen there is: When? When do we go? Certainly not high season when prices are sky-high and everywhere is packed with pesky tourists, lashing into lager and lolling noisily about in the pool. Autumn maybe but the mercury might be dropping; springtime and the mercury mightn’t be rising. Winter? Nah. Winter’s for hot whiskeys and nights by the fire – in the pub.
Finally there is Who? Who do we travel with: Aer Lingus? Ryan Air? And who should we book with? Booking.com? Or should we let the local tourist office do it all for us? Or do we go the DIY route where you spend all day, and the next, scouring flights and hotels, till your brain is frazzled and Tramore seems appealing. Oh, and when we’ve resolved the where, when and who, there’s the following to contend with:

The Holiday Psalms
Spare us, O Lord
From security checks
That leave us half-naked
And nervous wrecks
Spare us from baggage
That goes astray
To Bonn or Berlin
But not where we stay.

Spare us, O Lord
From ‘Flight Delayed’
And hanging about
Till we’re frazzled and frayed
Spare us from flights
That NEVER take off
And leave us stranded
In La Paz or Lowestoft!

Spare us, O Lord
From in-flight food
That’s totally tasteless
Chewy and crude
Spare us from flights
That run out of booze
That run into turbulence
Or worse still – blow a fuse!

Spare us, O Lord
From babes on our plane,
Not some buxom blonde
Or dishy dame,
But tiny things
That holler so loud
You’d parachute out
If one was allowed.

Spare us, O Lord
From mosquito bites
(The little feckers)
And other mites
That feast on our
Celtic, snow-white flesh
Marinated in booze
And juicy and fresh.

Spare us, O Lord
From the ‘neighbours from hell’
Who grunt and groan
And scream and yell
Spare us from these
Dear God above
‘Cause they’re not fighting
They’re making love!

Spare us, O Lord
From the taxi fare
That rips us off
And drives us spare
Spare us from waiters
Who smirk and grin
Who hate our guts
And water our gin.

Lord spare us from wine
That’s cheerful and cheap
And leaves us hung over
For one full week
Save us from grub
Not quite cordon-bleu
That has us sprinting
To the leu!

Spare us, O Lord
From torrential rain
In golden, blue-sky
Sun-kissed Spain!
Spare us, I beg
From TOO MUCH sun
That leaves us bright pink
On our back and bum.

Lord spare us from Swine Flu
Bird Flu and Sars
And rickety, run-down
Rented cars
Spare us from petty-crooks
Swindlers and scams
From lager-louts. oafs
And loud hoolig-ans!

Spare us, O Lord
From cultural stuff:
Trips to museums
And guides full of guff.
Spare us from castles
And ‘ruins’ roundabout
To be honest, Lord
They wear me out.

And help us, Lord
To find a good pub
That shows the Big Match
And serves decent grub
Where there’s bonhomie, craic
And banter toujours
Do that for us, Lord
And all the rest we’ll endure!

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