Last weekend, Igor decided to go to the part of the world where his kind (of which there are so few of his caliber) is perhaps most celebrated: Dublin. After all, they love petite green creatures. Igor was confident that he would fit in (and then act as their leader from that day henceforth).

However, when Igor got there, he realized he had his work cut out for him. First of all, Igor was alarmed to see a number of signs written in other languages. Unacceptable! After last summer, Igor had resoundingly put his (perfectly manicured) foot down and decreed: No languages other than English (the language of Igor, of course) are to exist. Ever. However, once the locals began talking to Igor (of course they approached him, and not the other way around), Igor was relieved to find that the Irish do, indeed, know English. Sort of. In any case, Igor regained confidence: after all, he could work with a foundation (he had with Heeseung, hadn’t he?).

But then Igor encountered the second problem: it was cold. Not just cold, but dastardly cold. Unbearably cold. Utterly, wretchedly cold. Igor was not meant to exist in such wretched conditions, and thus promptly fell into a deep, shock-induced sleep perhaps dozed off for a few moments. And even if Igor had fallen prey to such mortal conditions, it was all Dublin’s fault, wasn’t it? Why hadn’t they thought to insulate the city before his arrival? Later, perched in the deepest, warmest depths of Heeseung’s pocket (still perfectly dignified, Igor assures you) and wrapped in six layers of cashmere blankets, Igor was willing to overlook perhaps a portion of Dublin’s gross error, although even one week later, Igor is finding it difficult to fully forgive.

Igor spent the rest of the trip in relative peace, visiting:

castles,

cathedrals,

museums, and even the library, but then, the third problem presented itself with its large, ugly, all-too fluffy head.

It was the sheep.

There were sheep everywhere, prancing around, chewing away at the grass, dotting the green fields like little clouds. In other words, useless. Now goats, Igor can understand. Goats provide cashmere. But sheep? They just want to be goats, but puffier and fluffier. They think they’re cute, bleating away from their coat of white fuzz. But Igor knows better. Unfortunately, there was nothing Igor could do about the sheep until he actually took over the country, so Igor spared them another day (for now)…

But Igor will (grudgingly) admit that, aside from the sheep, the Irish countryside was quite pleasing to look at, and has already acquired an estate there, although he can’t imagine he would spend more than a night there at a time.

In all, the whole of the Dublin trip was some degree of pleasant, Igor supposes, although his opinion may have been tempered by some quantities of alcohol. Igor would explain that this is because, when in Ireland, do as the Irish do, but Igor is a trendsetter, not a follower (nor a sheep).

And now, Igor is back in London, home sweet home. He saw an updated version of Moliere's "Le Misanthrope" at the Comedy Theatre this past Wednesday, which had gotten a lot of press because it featured a Miss Keira Knightley. Igor enjoyed the production thoroughly, although he was disappointed with the plot and the lack of balance in the cast. But it was as Igor suspected; he must do everything himself if he wants to truly be satisfied.

And currently, Igor is highly dissatisfied. He’s sitting in a small establishment, a hole in the wall (or more of a crack), eating Korean food with the dulcet robotic tones of Big Bang washing over him. The menus are handwritten and photocopied. The walls have disturbingly cutesy notes scribbled on them. The waitstaff speak only Korean. Someone’s mobile just went off and it was a tinny midi of a popular classical piece. And now Super Junior is playing. If he had wanted this, he would have stayed in Korea. Oy.