do islamists dream of jihadi sheep

Heading for the Starbucks Cafe on Grafton Street.
It's the one situated above the Brown Thomas fashion store.
To get to the cafe you've got to walk through the glittering ranks of lingerie obsessed fashionistas in wondrous states of deshabille.
I mean they're in wondrous states of deshabille.
You don't have to be deshabilled to walk through them.
I'm telling you folks, Brown Thomas is like something out of Logan's Run.
These sylph like sexies wandering everywhere in skirts that barely exist.
Presumably Brown Thomas don't allow any of them to grow old.
They shoot twenty one year olds, don't they?
Passing through their paradise of the temporary, I feel wearied by the cult of youth.
It's like the whole environment and its denizens have been contrived to discommode me.
Yes.
These people are sticking it to me.
Sticking it.
I voyage to the far interior where Starbucks is posited and check that Shouty McGrew is not on duty.
Shouty McGrew is the only Irish member of staff at this particular Starbucks.
His stock in trade is shouting at the customers while clearing the tables.
He approaches a table and yells: "Do you mind if I take this cup?"
And he looks at you positively daring you to mind.
If you're in near closing time, you'll see him going to each table shouting: "We're closing in five minutes."
And then he adds in a truculent snarl as if daring anyone to oppose him: "Alright?"
Clearly he's over compensating for some deep rooted insecurity.
He should cut down on his red meat.
But I'm not his therapist.
Low life scruff.
Sticking it to me.
All this is typical Starbucks.
No sooner do I get fond of one of their cafes, than they appoint some scrote to manage it.
I mean about ninety percent of their cafes in Dublin are staffed by absolutely lovely people, ie foreign nationals, who work hard for a living and still manage to raise a smile for the customers.
But there's always about ten percent that are either Irish scruff like Shouty, or worse, resentful Arab blokes full of anger at the injustices of life which have compelled them to become waiters serving people they don't consider human.
Starbucks has a genius for recruiting these types and putting them in those of their cafes I like to frequent.
Having moved Bald Joe, their last living legend thief Paddy Whack Irish lowlife out of the Starbucks on Dawson Street, they've replaced him with a bloody Mussie.
I'm telling you these people are definitely sticking it to me.
The Mussie manager in Dawson Street has a marvellous clear cut British accent that is always one octave away from being a sneer.
He never greets me with an hello.
He always says: "Are you alright Sir?"
With a faint pitying smile and a slightly raised eyebrow.
Sticking it!
Okay okay.
I can't be completely sure.
He may just be a very polite very clear spoken fellow with a supercillious Brit accent whose favoured greeting is: "Are you alright Sir? Oh there goes my eyebrow again."
But I'll tell you what.
I think he's sticking it to me.
And I've gotten tired trying to figure out for certain.
So today I'm on Grafton Street.
Running the gamut of Irish scruff.
Here's a hint for you Starbucks.
The reason you lost five million quid last year in Ireland, at a time when hundreds of thousands of people are leaving the pubs in search of cafes, is because you're employing: (a) low life Irish scruff like Shouty McGrew and thievin Baldy Joe who shout at and/or rob your customers, or (b) you're employing Arab scruff who are sticking it to me.
Sticking it.
I banish these thoughts from my mind.
No sign of Shouty McGrew so here I stay.
Presently I'm sitting at a window seat bathing in a pool of peace amid the hubbub of afternoon coffee quaffers.
Two Black Jacket Muslims arrive and sit opposite me.
I kid you not.
The Black Jackets is a Muslim crime gang Al Qaeda franchise which has been steadily extending its grip on the streets of Dublin.
I don't like them much.
The two in Starbucks make strenuous efforts to attract my attention.
All flashing teeth, sudden bursts of loud lingo, vague hand gestures.
Since my mother died ten months ago I have enjoyed a certain spiritual detachment from the vexations of the world in general and the boorishness of young Muslim males in particular.
Now I drink my coffee slowly as a spiritual exercise.
A rueful smile gilds my rugged McGyverish features.
I can hardly blame Starbucks for the demeanour of its clientele.
But a part of me knows this is all Starbucks fault.
They're sticking it to me.
Again.
Sticking it.