racial tensions

The Pakistani Muslim manager of the Kylemore Foodlife cafe in the Stephens Green centre approached the blonde women.
The blonde women has been on the staff at the cafe for some years.
She is not an entry level staff member.
She is herself in a management position.
She is polite and friendly and pretty and one of the reasons people still go into that cafe.
The Muslim manager began to shout at her.
She said a few words quietly.
The Muslim manager of the Kylemore Foodlife cafe continued shouting at her.
He was shouting at her in front of customers and staff members. Standing to his side was one of his friends a fellow who wears a fake name tag reading Vicky, who is also now on the staff at the Kylemore Foodlife cafe in the Stephens Green Centre, and who has formerly been known to me along with the manager himself through their harassment activities on Grafton Street as part of the Black Jackets Muslim street gang.
Both the Muslim manager at the Kylemore Foodlife cafe in the Stephens Green centre and his friend Vicky the street thug have come up in the world.
And the Kylemore Foodlife cafe in the Stephens Green centre has come down.
The Muslim manager of the Kylemore Foodlife cafe was still shouting at the girl.
She spoke now a little louder and with dignity.
She said: "Don't shout at me."
The Muslim manager of the Kylemore Foodlife cafe in the Stephens Green centre leaned forward and menaced her with his balled fists.
He shook his fists at her.
He was careful.
He didn't shake his fist in her face.
He kept his hands well back moving them up and down like a demented Islamic monkey.
He shook his fists at her in this way for quite some time.
And all the while he shouted: "I'm not shouting at you."
Over and over.
My oh my it was quite inflammatory.
I turned and walked out of the Kylemore Foodlife cafe in the Stephen's Green centre for the last time.
Outside it was sunny.
I took a deep breath.
Let it go.
As I headed down Grafton Street I came upon a Spanish guy shouting into the faces of two other men.
He seemed to be calling them out to fight him.
He spat.
The two men he was shouting at seemed inoffensive enough.
What was going on?
Then I saw.
The two men were holding hands.
They moved away calmly.
They seemed unruffled by what had happened.
I hadn't seen an incident quite like this before.
I walked on.
On Dawson Street a Chinese man strolled up the street.
An Irish street thug, a classic Dublin hoody, suddenly lunged towards the Chinese man.
The Dublin hoody screamed something unintelligible.
The Chinese man flinched but kept moving.
I went up to the Chinese man.
I said: "Are you okay?"
He said: "I just got a bit of a fright."
I said: "I thought that nut case was coming after me."
He said: "I didn't know what was happening."
I said: "Thankfully most people aren't like that but there's always some."
He said: "Yeah."
It was turning out to be quite a rum sort of day in the life of the Mighty Heelers.
That same evening I wandered into a salubrious little Starbucks cafe on Dawson Street.
Up to now it has been my favourite cafe in the city.
The Starbucks cafe on Dawson Street is renowned for having the friendliest staff of any cafe or restaurant in Dublin.
There are three Chinese people, each of whom is a joy.
There is a hardworking Boston girl who occasionally flashes a lovely smile.
There are several Hispanics and middle Europeans who are instantly friendly and alone worth the price of admission.
The friendliest staff in Dublin.
Except for one guy.
Just one guy.
The only Irish guy on the staff.
One bald Irish pillock.
The bald Irish pillock is a bit of a legend among people who frequent Starbucks in Dublin.
Legendarily obnoxious.
He is not always to be found at the Dawson Street Starbucks.
He is occasionally on duty in the Dame Street branch.
He's also sometimes to be found lurking in the Grafton Street outlet above the BT store.
He is a twenty something bald Irish pillock who gets his jollies out of being rude to customers.
Apparently Starbucks likes to spread him around.
It's not a good policy.
I had seen him in action in other Starbucks and had made a mental resolution that he would never under any circumstances get the opportunity to be rude to me.
This evening before I entered the Dawson Street Starbucks, I first checked to make sure he wasn't there.
He wasn't.
One of the girls took my order and I paid for it.
Presto.
As if by magic the bald Irish pillock appeared.
From a back room.
He took a position behind the counter and made some remark to me.
I didn't take kindly to the remark.
I said to the girl: "Bring me my coffee to go."
I sat down.
The girl brought me the coffee in a mug.
I said: "Okay, I asked for that to go and I have to go. Just bring me a refund."
She said she would.
Five minutes later my refund hadn't arrived and I went up to the counter.
The girl looked at her shoes.
"It's alright, just give me my refund," I told her.
She still looked at the ground.
The bald guy said to the girl: "I'm the manager. He has to deal with me."
He shooed her away so that there would be no witnesses.
I was now in conversation with someone I had sworn never to have any dealings with.
I said quite deliberately: "I have paid for a caffe latte. I am not happy with the service. Give me my refund."
The bald guy smirked.
The bald guy said: "Calm down sir."
I repeated just as calmly as before: "Give me my refund."
He repeated just as smirkily as before: "Calm down sir."
I said calm as ice: "Give me my refund."
The bald guy smirked and shrugged: "Refund for what?"
In quick succession I demanded the refund five more times.
Each time the grin on the pil garlic deepened and his remarks became ever more obtuse.
He was so sure I wasn't going to hit him.
Most Irish people would do a sublime bit of shouting at this stage.
Just to let the other customers and staff know a ball game was in progress.
I didn't think the bald guy whom Starbucks were permitting to pose as a manager in their Dawson Street store, was worthy of my shouting.
I reached across the counter and took the tips jar.
I removed the price of a caffe latte from the tips jar.
I strolled towards the door.
I was half way up the street before the bald guy Starbucks permits to pose as a manager found his courage.
The bald guy Starbucks permits to pose as a manager, stood in the doorway of the Starbucks cafe on Dawson Street and called after me.
His voice was a pseudo would be trendy twenty something voice, the sort of accent Irish kids ashamed of their backgrounds, put on because they think it makes them sound like they've been to college.
It is a mongrel cross between an upper Brit accent and a trans Atlantic American.
It is the saddest pseudo accent on the planet earth.
The accent of someone pretending to be something they're not.
The bald guy who Starbucks permit to pose as a manager called: "I'm going to remember your face the next time you come in here."
Without looking back I shouted in a voice fit to raise the dead: "You won't be working there you bald c---."
As my fury abated in the cool night air, a wry and rueful thought came to me.
What with all the Muslims and Irish behind the counters, it's getting hard to find a good cafe in this town.