Dick Bulger Goes to Ireland: Ancestral Soil, Modern Static, and the Eternal Duty to Yell at Fascists
I didn’t fly to Ireland to “find myself.”
I flew to Ireland to find my people—and by “my people,” I mean the folks who understand three eternal truths:
- Guinness can solve problems you didn’t know you had,
- the wind is legally allowed to slap you in public, and
- a man should be able to speak his mind even if his mind is mostly roast beef thoughts and questionable radio modifications.
And so, yours truly—Dick Bulger—arrived in the old country with a carry-on bag, a permanent squint, and a heart full of ancestral mystery.
The Homeland Hits Different
There’s something about stepping onto Irish ground that makes a person feel… connected. Like your bones remember the place, even if your brain is still buffering from airport coffee and jet lag.
I stood there for a minute, breathing in that damp Atlantic air like it was a sacred ritual. Then my stomach immediately reminded me I’m a man of tradition:
“Tradition,” in my case, being: find a snack, complain about it, then eat another one anyway.
Ireland didn’t disappoint. The bakeries? Unreal. The pastries? Suspiciously perfect. The coffee? Strong enough to wake up a man who fell asleep in 1983 and never fully came back.
And yes—I did what any proud traveler would do: I started hunting for the closest thing Ireland has to a North Shore roast beef sandwich.
Ireland has many gifts. That particular one is… still in development.
Dublin: Where the Streets Are Made of History (and Also, Extremely Confident Bus Lanes)
Dublin is beautiful in that “every corner looks like a postcard” way, but it also has the energy of a city that’s been through a lot and refuses to act impressed by your backpack.
I wandered around soaking up history—old buildings, old stories, old stones that have seen more drama than a group chat at 2:00am.
And that’s when it hit me: this place has known oppression and resistance, not as an idea, but as a lived reality. Which brings me to the part where we get a little serious.
Ancestry Is Nice. Principles Are Nicer.
If you’ve followed my saga for even five minutes, you know I’m not here to play the “neutral observer” game. I may be a roaming, beer-scented radio goblin with a talent for saying the wrong thing at exactly the right volume—but I’m also firmly committed to two things:
- antifascism
- free speech
Some people try to treat those like they’re opposing teams. Like you’ve got to pick one and boo the other. That’s lazy thinking—like putting ketchup on a perfectly good breakfast roll and calling it “innovation.”
Here’s the real deal:
Free speech matters because people deserve the right to speak.
Antifascism matters because fascism exists to make sure only some people get to speak—while the rest get threatened, erased, or worse.
So yes: I’ll defend your right to speak, and I’ll also reserve the right to say your idea is garbage if it’s aimed at harming people.
That’s not censorship. That’s consequences. And consequences are older than any constitution.
The Pub Isn’t a Parliament, But It’s Close
One thing Ireland reminded me: real conversation still happens face-to-face. Not just through screens and algorithm-fed rage funnels.
In a pub, you can disagree with someone and still end the night with a handshake. You can argue politics without trying to destroy each other’s lives. You can be a loud American with a terrible accent and still be treated with a mix of patience and mild concern.
And honestly? That’s healthy.
Free speech isn’t just a legal concept. It’s a cultural habit: listening, responding, pushing back, laughing, reconsidering, and sometimes admitting you were wrong.
(Do I personally admit I’m wrong? Rarely. But I support the concept.)
Bulger’s Irish Revelation
Ireland didn’t make me softer. It didn’t turn me into a poet. It didn’t magically fix my posture or my opinions about modern radio manufacturers.
But it did remind me of something important:
- People are complicated.
- History is alive.
- Freedom isn’t automatic.
- And if you don’t protect it, somebody meaner will eventually try to rent it out and charge admission.
So I’m leaving Ireland grateful—grateful for the stories, the streets, the warmth, the laughs, the baked goods, and the quiet reminder that dignity and liberty aren’t abstract.
They’re daily work.
Final Thought From a Man Who Should Not Be Allowed Near a Microphone (But Absolutely Will Be)
If you see me out there on the airwaves, crackling through the static, sounding like a foghorn that found feelings—just know this:
I came to Ireland looking for my roots.
I found them.
And I’m still committed to the same thing I’ve always been committed to:
a free world where people can speak, live, and exist without fear—
and where fascists get told, clearly and loudly, to take a hike.
Sláinte.
— Dick Bulger (temporarily international, permanently ungovernable)
P.S. If you’re in Ireland and you know where the secret roast beef sandwich is hiding, I am accepting tips, bribes, and detailed directions.
