Friday, August 15, 2008

Get ready Malta, I'm almost there

Wheeeeeeeeee! I'm off on me jollies!

All I have to do now is get a camera that works and iron a few creasy bits and bobs, oh, and finish packing and stuff, and then it's up into the clouds and away, those same clouds I'll leave hovering in their fixed position over the saturated rock known as Ireland for ten glorious days. I literally can't get out of this shithole quick enough.

I'm fully prepped. I have done a reckoning on essentials such as underwear, teeshirts and socks, and I reckon I have enough to see out the trip although, to be blunt about it, I expect it'll be a sweaty old time and consumption could rise beyond projected levels. I have powdered quick lime with me for daubing under my oxters should things get out of hand but I still expect to be drinking alot of water during the day to keep myself in a state of hydration.
Hey, I've even got my back de-furred - very metro I know - because I thought the Maltese will have enough to deal with when I get my hairy legs out, showing them the hairy shoulders as well might be too much.

I'm VERY excited. I hear Malta is very sunny and hot (33 degrees over there now like, not a cloud in the sky and that's all it's giving for the week. Maltese meteorologists, handy job wha?), the food is decent, the people are friendly, they don't use silly electric plugs thanksbetajasus, there's piles of history attached to the place (Knights of Malta, built some cool shit) you can boat trip it around to other islands, and you'll be falling across museums and megalithic structures and old temples too which sounds great to me as long as I don't get trapped in some passage chamber or other. It was the most bombed place in WWII as well I think, so there's lots of stuff to see relating to all that and for a bit of a buff like me, that amounts to fun.

But what I look forward to most of all? It's just going to be really nice waking up every day and not taking a tentative peek out the window to see if your car is floating off down the driveway, while Dorothy and Toto tumble flailing through the air not far behind. How great will it be to sit at a cafe and look out into the harbour after a pleasant Mediterranean meal, relax with a cool beer in my hand and the sun on my face as I plot my next move. It'll be nice to be somewhere where summer is a reality and not something that happens once a decade.

Sigh, it's all ahead of me, as Dolly Parton would say.

Oh, for those of you that worry, I will, of course, remember to apply a liberal coating of factor 50 with a paintbrush and bucket every morning. And I will try and update the blog a few times as well, maybe with a few photos if I get the aforementioned camera.

Now, just look after the rain till I get back. Nyahahahhahaha!
Monday, August 11, 2008

In the lap of the giggles

Naturally, all of the very funniest moments of our lives are the very situations when we know we really, really REALLY shouldn't laugh at all.

Like, for an example off the top of me head, when you've just paid a woman to waggle her boobs in your face.

I think this one easily outdoes old chestnuts of the shouldn't-but-gotta genre, such as an old woman walking around with a dead cat on her head, a puzzled dog chasing a boomerang, or best of all, a deep, sonorous and resonant fart during mass. (Preferably from the priest, but any fart in God's house is comedy gold).

Yes, laughing your tits off, into the face of someone whose tits are in your face, is one of those moments when it's both unwise and unkind to crack up. Then again, as we all know, it is for that singular reason that you piss your pants laughing in the first place.

So there we were, myself and he who will only be known as Mr. Mardzord, at a loose end when a stag weekend in Liverpool had fragmented a little in the small hours. Idling and seeking distraction, we discussed our next move and after some reflection, we decided to order some boobs somewhere. (It was a stag weekend, we felt duty bound).

We soon found a suitable establishment typical of the trade; it was basemental, dank, murky, a bit smelly and uniquely, the ladies jacks doubled as the dressing room for the girls. Or undressing room, maybe. Anyway, we felt a tad uncomfortable with ostentatious sophistication like this, so we consciously threw our shoulders back, took our accents uptown and sat down confidently, trying not to baulk at the dear price of the cheap beer.

The wanton cash-hungry diddy women soon descended on us in a buzzing cloud. First up to me for a chat was 'Helen', and I'm using her real name here because I'm confident she uses a false one. Oddly, as far as such 'conversations' go in hostelries of this ilk, she was diverting enough. She was actually quite nice to talk to, didn't pester me and didn't molest me, perhaps because she wasn't the best-looking of the bunch to be brutally honest. She tottered off somewhere after a while and myself and companion knocked back a few more fuckinpriceofthem beers, inspected the talent and generally sat shooting the shit, with apologies to those reading aloud with new braces fitted on their teeth. And those sitting nearby without an umbrella.

Anyway, approaching chucking out time, I realised I still had a token for a 'free dance' which came as part of the admission fee. I was a bit annoyed with myself as I had actually forgotten I had it and had paid hard cash for a dance moments earlier. It wasn't even that good or anything. She had the obligatory celestial orbs alright but they were hard as rocks and her party piece was to smack them off your cheeks and to be honest I found it all a bit over zealous getting boob-battered across the furniture while I squirmed like a dirty-faced child trying to escape a mother's cloth.

But I digress. I took a look at the token in my hand. Then looked at my watch. I scratched my chin, exhaled a bit in thought.

Well. I was hardly going to bring it home as a souvenir, was I?

It was then that the fateful moment came to pass. All of the other girls had gone to the jacks, presumably to get into their civvies and leave, or maybe they rounded out the night with a big communal wee-wee while singing the company anthem, who knows. Anyway, Helen, it appeared, was the only one left on duty. Oh well.

C'mere, says I. Ahem. Cough, cough. I have this token you see...

And the rest, dear friends, belongs in the history of hilarity.

From the moment she commenced manoeuvres, I knew it wasn't going to be great. She kept pulling silly pouty faces which she clearly thought were sexy, but my instant thought was of the ad for bonjela where the oul' fellas gurn and screw their faces up and stick out their tongues in agony when they feel a gumboil coming on. She kept flicking at her boobs as well and I remember wondering if she was actually hurting herself the poor thing.

A small smile played about my lips as I thought of this and it grew wider at the realisation that I really ought not to be thinking of all this at such a time. Steady now.

Then, all of a sudden, she unleashed breasts, left one first, winking at me duskily all the while or so she thought. She had a penchant for moving through the stages quite quickly, I noted, with no discernible warning. It wasn't a triumphal introduction either. She didn't exactly move with fluid grace like a dancer should, or employ a slow reveal sort of thing. The diddies themselves didn't issue forth proudly either, or swell gloriously into vision as in my adolescent dreams of yore. It was more like two water balloons slow-chasing each other over the edge of a tabletop.

I inhaled deeply, bit my bottom lip, wiggled a finger in one ear and moved a bit uncomfortably in the seat. I could see my pal shooting a suspicious glance across at me and hoped to Jesus he couldn't see that I was starting to find this all faintly ridiculous, because he'd be the type to enjoy watching me in such a pickle. Not to worry, I told myself, avoiding eye contact with everyone (anyone) and gazing studiously at a piece of peeling plaster in the corner over her head. Sure it can only get better.

It was then that the leg work started and things started to unravel altogether. The lassie in question was, how can I put this, not exactly built for speed. She was carrying a bit of Christmas weight as they say, which is no crime of course even in April but perhaps something of a hindrance in her line of work where lithe gyrations are the order of the day.

So when she went to - deliciously - stretch one leg up on to the couch beside me, but couldn't carry it off and had to grip behind her own knee and heft it onto the chair with a wee grunt, I'm ashamed to admit that an audible giggle escaped me. She had even stuck her tongue in her cheek with the effort of it all. There were traces of sweat on her brow. Spry and limber she was not. Oh fuck, I thought, this is a pantomime and I'm going to laugh here.

Meanwhile, best buddy to my right could now clearly tell something was amiss and was peering intently into my face looking for signs of weakness to exploit. I made the mistake of meeting his eye for a second and I nearly went.

What brought me back from the precipice was the thought of how crushing a blow it might be to be a lapdancer trading on one's inner raunch to have some drunken Irish gobaloon guffaw into your face while you did your level best to carry off a performance in something approaching the right side of sexy. As I mused all this I had taken on a somewhat strained expression, laughing a little through the nose, and then covering it up instantly by pretending I was sniffing. Then she flicked her tongue at me - no doubt going for the old mock oral sex stunt but alas kindling images not of Angelina's lips but the landlady from Kingpin - and I swear to God I almost died there and then. But, blessed relief!, she then turned her back and started into some god-awful spanking of her own dimpled arse, and finally, I was able to laugh.

My shoulders shook, tears welled in my eyes, the bastard on my right had a grin the width of the Mersey but it mattered not a jot. She was looking the other way. Another punter gave me a funny look on the way past as he went to the bog, a sort of puzzled why-laugh-at-a-time-like-this look, then he shook his head and went on.

I cringed, I writhed, I strained, I wiped my eyes, I excruciated myself further and deeper. This was going on for what seemed like ages. Holy Jesus, I startled at one point, I think she likes me and is giving me an extra long turn! Nooooooo! I want to go home!

And so it continued, the never-ending lapdance. There were a few more ass slaps accompanied by a blamonge-like shivering rump, a bit of faux shagging on the arm of the chair alongside me - I swear I heard squeaking, more polish please! - a little bit of fidgeting/genital husbandry downstairs, followed up by an elaborate stretching of nipple which almost killed me because I was imagining sound effects by then and was thinking of that long bwoonnnnngggggg noise that oversize elastic bands make in Road Runner cartoons. I think the ordeal came to a close, if not a climax, when she slowly leaned over with a small stumble, slid her hand under my chin, gave me a wee kiss and said in her most sexiest sexy sexual sex voice of sex, which in keeping with all that passed before, wasn't in the least bit sexy, and said:

"So, did you like that, eh?"

I just sat there bolt upright in very back of the chair, my face frozen and contorted in horror, looking all the while like a latter-day Christy Brown, and hoped to hell she hadn't noticed.
Friday, August 08, 2008

1600 and counting

Is 1600 words too much for one blog post and should I publish it in two parts instead?

Especially when said words concern, in the main, a pair of saggy boobs I met in Liverpool?

And anyone thought of a joke about 'in two parts' and boobs yet?
Tuesday, August 05, 2008

Con'd

...yes yes, it was a horrible picture for a menu of course, as I was just saying there a few months ago, but after eating my pizza at the Bionic Bulimic Baby Bistro I nevertheless got totally fucking hammered and can't remember a blasted thing.

Sigh...it was a good night. You always know it was a good night when you can scarcely recall a single detail of the night itself, except for the southern comfort, a very drunk journalist from one of the country's flagship organs (ha ha, 'flagship organ', ha ha), a good band that had me singing along too loudly, a fatherly and stern sex talk from Johnny which was hilarious in its well-intentioned intensity, a few cigarettes (I don't smoke), and no ladies (I do ladies. Like the smoking it seems, only occasionally and accidentally).

It's all been a whirl. Work - phew - is now on the wind-down and me with it, thank Jeebus; I am between the temporary workplace I've just left and the permanent one to which I will return tomorrow, but thankfully, only for two days before I take to the skies (I'll probably do it in a plane, people just think I'm a showoff otherwise) for ten sun drenched days in Malta. At least they'd better be sun drenched because if I don't get some sun on my milky bits soon, I think I'll develop some sort of light-lacking depression and shrivel up all flattened out like a deflated sex doll.
Now I won't over labour the point about Ireland's weather this 'summer' (i.e. Irish summer, it happened on a Tuesday last year, no sign of it this year yet) but suffice to say I am giving serious consideration to throwing it all up and quitting this crazy town and moving abroad. That's as far as the grand plan has progressed like, but the longest destinations must start with a single step as oriental philosophy tells us, in this case the philosopher being weary Chang who delivers the Chinese takeaway at home.

I'm wracking my brains here trying to recall all the crazy shit I've been getting up to in the last few months. I recall falling in love twice back in Galway, the day after while relatively sober, once with the deadliest barmaid ever and then again with a diminutive nurse on the train home. The former being at work at the time, and the latter not being in Copper Face Jacks at the time, there was no dice with either. The lads (Johnny. Again.) were kind enough to show the barmaid my lovelorn texts about her after I left though. She laughed like a musketeer. Damn them to hell, all of them.

I've scarcely touched down in Cavan at all over the last few months. Flying visits, the odd Smithwicks, a good rant about our shite football team and then off back into the busy vortex with me. I'll be reconnecting with the source before too long.

Radge, meanwhile, has gone all continental on us, travelling Europe and having amorous encounters under umbrellas. There was a brief breakdown of sorts followed by a short Limerick interlude for a quick change of intestines, and then he was off again. Truly he is a but a butterfly flitting through all our lives. It was a good pissup before he left though, as far as sessions with butterflies go.

My home is now for sale. A good time to be selling, wha? I swear if I hear that once more I'll disembowel someone with a Stanley knife. IT'S A SALE OF CIRCUMSTANCE, NOT OF DESIGN, GEDDIT?

I've now got advanced forehead growth as well. Some call it receding hairline but I prefer to look on it in its positive aspect; instead of losing hair I am gaining face, which will be handy when I go bald and need to save face. See? It all works out in the end. My forehead has been steadily extending north for a few years now, truth be told, but it's really taking a charge lately. You know you're in trouble when the barber just clips the back and sides and then kind of playfully ruffles the thatch on top and smiles awkwardly, considering whether to do a few placebo hover-hair-cuts with the scissors just to make you feel better. Arrah whatever, I'm fairly happy in my skin anyways, sure now that I'm acquiring a bit more every day, I'm smug out altogether.

Also, I've changed gyms. I arrived at my old one a few months ago to discover they'd closed it, with little notice. I couldn't sit on my hands for three weeks and the thoughts of seizing up for an extended period and then having to snap the rust of my grating joints, well it was just too much to take, so I got the credit card out and joined another. I've now taken to hitting the gym about 7.30 in the morning and then going to work, something I thought I'd never do as I'm very fond of the duvet normally - (as the old saying goes, if my job was in my bed, I'd get out and sleep on the floor) - but it's actually a brilliant start to the day and the whole evening is yours after work. Plus, there's never any assholes there that early in the morning and you've a free run at the equipment. I will however, miss the sheer madcap comedy of Mad Lad but on balance it's the right thing to do. There's a swimming pool too which I will soon stop using as a window to look at fit ladies in bikinis (no really, I will), so I can fulfil a long standing ambition and learn how to swim. I've been kinda putting that one on the long finger though, I must admit...

God only knows what's been happening in the world of blog. I expect I've missed some excellent posts, but them's the breaks. I'll catch up with y'all later, just as soon as things calm down here and I can get back to my regular work where I've ample time for dossing on the internet. Jesus, don't you just hate it when work piles up at home?