I went down to the village yesterday.
They have invaded again. Another damned film.
Last year is was that mob from Disney and their fecking “Disenchanted”. I don’t know who it is this year but they’re obviously from the UK. The very first thing I noticed driving in was that the telephone kiosk is bright red yet again. That kiosk changes colour more often than a pair of socks.
In fairness to them, at least the village isn’t shut down this time. They have only blocked off one road but this has led to traffic chaos and a lack of parking. However their junk is everywhere – camera dollies [or whatever you call ’em] and big spotlights dumped in driveways and my usual parking spot.
As I sat and enjoyed my mug of coffee and a puff of the pipe I surveyed the scene. A line of shops opposite has been renamed yet again. The village hall is now sporting a huge sign saying “THE POST OFFICE” and someone has mounted a pair of fake letter boxes on the wall outside that are bright red and sporting “VR” on them. I presume this is for local post and not-local post but I couldn’t be bothered to check. I assume from the “VR” that whatever they’re filming is set in a past era? It’s a while since Victoria reigned. For some strange reason our real letter box has been encased in a steel box with three sides. I don’t know what that is about.
Apart from the decor, the place is also full of Luvvies. They all strut around no doubt with the idea that us humble Irish folk are frightfully impressed with the sight of a real film being made here, with real directors and real cameramen and real actors and all the associated glamour and glitz. Sadly their egos must be a little deflated as we have seen it all so many times before and most of us just ignore them and wish they’d fuck off and leave us alone.
My pal Dave joined me after a while. He is usually the font of all knowledge villagewise but even he didn’t know what was going on. “Some six part television thing” was the best he had to offer.
On the way home I called into the real Post Office [which of course is nowhere near the village] to collect Herself’s pension and more importantly, a receipt for same that I can bung off for my grant thing. The real one has “Oifig an Phoist” on it which, for the sake of you foreigners translates to Post Office.
And it’s pronounced “Iffig on Fuisht”.
I do my best to be educational.