I cannot say for certain, Dublin googler, but I will say this: if I know Katherine, and believe me I know Katherine, she’s been on the razz without telling you. What you want to do is make a big noise about being tired and getting off to bed early and so on and then crack on some black face paint and those rubber shoes you wear in PE in primary school and sneak outside the house. Hide out in some bushes, or better still a tree, because dropping out of a tree makes you feel like a proper boss ninja, and wait for her to go out the door. Then follow her until she gets to some shady-looking door, probably at the bottom of a flight of stairs – you’ll know it’s the right one because she’ll be looking around all shifty-like. DO NOT APPROACH THIS DOOR. Keep a close eye on what Katherine does because that’ll be the secret knock or dance or whatever that you need to do to get in. Now, get yourself back home and into bed because even with a hangover Katherine will realise if you’re not well rested which, remember, you should be because as far as she knows you went to bed early. Even if you’re tired and feeling cranky the next morning you have to fake it – whistle or something while you’re making breakfast because for god’s sake that woman is dangerous when she has a head on her. Wait until around half one or so and then leave the house. Actually better make it like one thirty-seven or something, if you leave at half one on the dot it’ll just look like you were waiting til that particular time and she’ll get suspicious. Anyway go back to that door you saw her go through and give the sign and then basically you can just ask the barman if Katherine was there drinking or whatever. Box him in the kidneys if you need to, he’ll crack eventually. They all crack eventually.
Emergency Aldi deodorant, I have some questions for you.
Why are you in some kind of space-bottle? You’re awkward to hold. I don’t know what’s going on with your… button. Is it even classed as a button? I don’t know. It’s hard to press, is the difficulty here. I’d hate to think you were blindly striving for form over function. Where is your German work ethic? Your forefathers would be ashamed.
Secondly, why do you insist that “Efficiency = 300 ml”? Sneer all you want, but I’ve had liquids of unimpeachable efficiency delivered to me in all kinds of quantities. And maybe this is something you’ve missed, but that 300ml only lasts for a fraction of one spray. The rest of your life, by your logic, is a long slide into deeper and deeper inefficiency. Who designed you, Jean-Paul Sartre?
Lastly, emergency Aldi deodorant, and this is a big one: why in god’s name are you called “Man Fever”? That’s… I don’t know where to start. I bought deodorant so I could be confident and fresh-smelling, not sweaty and delirious. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you’re trying to be metaphorical. Even so – whatever “man fever” figuratively represents, I’m not certain it’s a thing I would want to contract. I have a suspicion it would inhibit my rapport with the ladies, for a start.
Oh, emergency Aldi deodorant. I feel like I don’t know you at all.
So those touchscreen video jukeboxes: concealed within each one is a metric shitacre of hilarity. Every song gets a limited amount of real estate, with the result that titles often get truncated, leaving us with gems like:
- I Would Do Meat Loaf
- Here Comes The Shorty Long
- I Just Called Stevie Wonder
and the reigning champion:
- She Bangs The Stone Roses
But I’ve discovered that it’s not limited to video jukeboxes. The wee little yokes in Eddie Rockets, with their charming old-timey tunes, are suggestive goldmines. Witness:
- I’m Gonna Tear Your Ann Peebles
- But I Do Clarence Henry
- Tell Laura I Love Her Ray Petersen
and the plaintive
I would have more for you, but things got a bit Jimmy Ruffin last night after some girl accused me of grabbing her Ray Petersen, at which point her boyfriend punched me right in the Ann Peebles. Bad times.
I was going to just throw a remark in about what a great song The Bewlay Brothers is, but of course I ended up listening to the rest of Hunky Dory. Huge album, like. Enormous. And what with the poncing around the flat and whatnot, I ended up leaving to go to Supervalu two minutes late, meaning I arrived one minute after they locked the doors. Damnit Bowie, always one step ahead.
Still, I’ve found half a bottle of Malibu stuck in the back of a cupboard so I’m not completely at sea. Coconut is a type of food.
My sleep patterns have been all kinds of messed up lately. All this fooling around on other people’s schedules isn’t good for a body. Three cheers for holidays then, because things have been getting back to normal. For instance: last Tuesday evening I grabbed a bus after work, met up with a friend I don’t see half enough, watched a bunch of stupid videos, watched Syriana, read the Wikipedia article about Syriana, read the back of the Syriana DVD box, gave up on Syriana, went home, played Mario Galaxy til five in the morning, went to bed, woke up sometime in the middle of Christmas Eve. That’s a good night by anyone’s standards.
Since then I’ve gotten nicely into a groove of bed at 0700, up at 1500. That’s a sensible use of time. Who needs more than an hour’s daylight?
It looks like we are to have another general election.
Yes, because apparently we didn’t vote in the right people last time, and they’re going to keep on dragging us back to the polls until our faceless masters get what they want. It could be sprung on us at any moment (although probably 2012) and you can bet your arse that they’ll wait until we’re at our most scared and disoriented to try and sneak it through (although, again, probably 2012). I would urge you to at least spend ten minutes doing a bit of research and getting yourself to at least some kind of bare, junior infants-level understanding of the issues, but what’s the point? What would even be the chuffing point? We all know that it’s the worthless sheepy ludramans who form 51% of the population who carry these things, and even if by some kind of sexy miracle they manage to get their thumbs out and vote the right way (which is to say, the wrong way as far as the fat cats are concerned) then it will probably turn out that that was the wrong way to vote all along (which is to say, vice versa)!! And EVEN IF there’s a sexy miracle and thumbs are out and so on and they vote the right way (the right way) and that turns out to actually be the actual right way (see previous) then there’ll just be ANOTHER election in a few years’ time, and another, until we DO get it (actually) wrong (from our point of view)!!!
There is JUST NO POINT TO ANY OF THIS.
Because I love yoghurt, you see, but the delivery system is less than ideal. Utensils are only acceptable in a dinner context – having to use a spoon every time you fancy a fruity snack is nonsense. If you had to use a knife and fork to eat a banana, the entire banana industry would collapse in on itself in one great big lickety-split of a jiffy. Let that be a lesson.
Of course, with a banana it’s easy to get away with using your hands. Not so much with a yoghurt. Seriously, you try eat a yoghurt with your fingers and you end up looking like some kind of crazy yahoo. Uncouth doesn’t even begin to cover it. Rascalous is closer, but that’s a made up word and who in their right mind has time for those in this day and age.
Anyway, this has all been a roundabout way for me to say that I really like Yop. I had one a minute ago and it was delicious. Forest fruits 4 lyfe, yo.
Saw that on the side of a bus this morning. There’s a list of priorities for you: are you breathing? pulse seems nice and steady? full range of movement going on? Good – then let’s get down to the serious business of loving the shit out of some bread.
I imagine a guy waking up in the morning and running through this little checklist. There’s a second of panic when he opens his eyes – am I still here? Life can be cruel, it can be snatched away in a split second, you might wake up and never know you’d missed it, and what’s most terrifying about that is that you might go down the plughole without letting bread know how you really feel. I mean, it knows, sure, it’s been established, but does it know? Does it really know? Does it feel it down at the base of its spine? Is there any flicker of a doubt in its doughy little head as to the full and true and pure extent of the burning, sickening, all-consuming, furious love you hold in your heart?
But the terror passes. Of course he’s still here. And of course it knows. He pulls back the covers, slips his feet into a comfy old pair of hollowed-out ciabattas and gets ready for the day.
I know. Hear me out.
The thing is: it’s you people. You know? My drafts folder is full of things, overflowing with things, that wouldn’t be worth throwing at you even if I knew you’d print em out, scrunch em up and use em for shoelaces. No, no, no. Not even if you printed them on coloured paper and put glitter on them, and were wearing custom shoes with snakes painted on, and the snake’s eyes were the holes for the shoelaces, and not even if you for some insane reason did decide to go out in public and Donatella Versace wandered up and said “Hey. Your shoelaces. Nice.” Because she would be lying. They are not nice.
But they will be. Yes. They will be.
I don’t like being bad at things. If I do something and I’m not automatically a genius at it I get annoyed. This is probably why I can’t do a lot of things.
But occasionally I go temporarily insane and decide it doesn’t matter if strangers see a chink in my armour of awesomeness, and I give something new a shot. Thus the woman and I went to our first tango lesson last night.
Turns out I needn’t have worried – tango is remarkably straightforward. In fact, it’s really just a two-step process. See if you can master it!
For women, the steps are:
- Stand kind of like this.
- Follow the man.
For men, it’s:
- Be an expert.
- Are you an expert yet?
I admit I’m struggling a little bit with the second part, probably because my shoes aren’t quite pointy enough. I must work on that.
Recent Comments