Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Anger

If this was Shakespeare, and Lord knows I get close here sometimes especially when talking about farts - as in, "Blow wind, and crack thy cheeks" etc. - then I'd have to say I was "drunk with choler."

Frissons of rage dance in the air.

Grumble. I failed my NCT today. I say 'I' because even though technically it was the car that failed - aye, technically and then some - I'm taking it personally because my car is basically an extension of me. So if there's a malfunction with any of its mechanical parts that have even a tenuous bodily or sexual connotation, such as my head gasket, twin shock absorbers, injectors, nut covers, big end, back end, front end or big rude honky-horn, then I feel it grievously and get most upset.

I'm angrier than the even angrier secret twin of George from the Famous Five and Alf Stewart from Hymen Wye having a right set-to about the benefits of gender realignment.

So I am.

Get this though. The car is perfect in every way he says. I had it all assiduously prepared and cleaned and bulbs replaced and seatbelt clips visible and my (wheel) nuts exposed and any other little snidey, sneaky Fagin's-fingers-in-your-wallet slippery little shite of a thing they catch people on, all in order. I followed their check list. Make sure you have enough oil and water, intoned their document, although I'd swear they hope nobody will read it so then they can fail you for for having too many consonants in your surname or not liking Girls Aloud or some such. In any case, I knew there was oil aplenty in there because it was serviced recently and also, if the engine had seized up in a fit of blue smoke and collapsed on its haunches in a cloud of dust, I'd likely have spotted it.

But get this though. He couldn't complete the emissions part of the test because, wait for it, there was TOO MUCH oil in there. Apparently it's a very serious matter. Oh fail straight away. Re-test. Thirty more quid please. There was a scowl on me would shock the knickers off a nun, I tell you, and more than a few quips running through my head about letting loose a blast of me emissions.
Too little oil would have been fine, that would be somewhat negligent I grant you, but if anything too much oil only makes me guilty of CARING MORE THAN I SHOULD.

Permit me more Shakespeare, but I have loved not wisely but too well.

Too much oil. I ask you. Lookit, the only thing that can have too much oil is stirfrys, George W Bush and the spotty chessnerd one that got drunk on the rumour of a bottle of wine three parishes away and tried to wear the face offof me at the Debs.

I may well find someone and start a fight with them to work out this anger, or if I can't find anyone, I might just go into the bedroom, close the door quietly behind me and beat seven shades of shite out of myself.

Grump.
Friday, April 24, 2009

All aboard the town bike

Oh I tell you what, back in the old days the ould fellas down the back at Mass would chuckle and rub their hands as they described her, with knowing winks, as "a popular sort" or "fierce friendly".

Yes. Nowadays we call them dirty fucking slutbag whores.

Yeah. This blog post is a dirty fucking slut. You're a whore of a blog. You're a dirty fucking whore. Yeah. You're dirty. You little whore.

I don't know who started passing her around first. All's I know is that Radge rogered her rigid, then alerted Leeroy who took rapid stock of his dwindling chances for extra-pre-marital bonkonology and so promptly downed trow and buckleppin' pogo-sticked boing-boinged the poor yoke around the room every day for a week. Leeroy then spread the love around some more and even Meadow got swept up in it all and turned lesbian in the rush.

The dirty fecking article that she is, however, she wasn't done yet, and let's face it, no filthy strumpet is complete without a six-ways-from-Sunday-seeing-to from the aptly titled Holemaster and there's just too many jokes to do there it's just too easy.

Rest assured, Maxi had his deviant way with her as well, most of which involved dressing her as a Ribena berry and getting her to pour prune juice down the front of his pants while giving him a simultaneous cheese and tomato paste wedgie round the other side. In fact, to the best of my knowledge, it was her time with Maxi that finished the poor cratur off entirely and now, she turns up on my doorstep, destitute, bedraggled, begging me to give her one last go.

Oh alright. I have to post the rules first though:

1) Put the link of the person who tagged you on your blog. (No. I'm going to link to everyone I feel like linking to instead.)
2) Write the rules (Check.)
3) Mention six things or habits of no real importance about you (I'm getting to that bit.)
4) Tag 6 persons adding their links directly. (I will in me bollix.)
5) Alert the persons that you tagged them. (No, fuck off.)

My six of the best

1.
Every time I visit Susan over at Stony River Farm, her title header loads and every single time without fail I sing, in my mind, Rocky Mountain High by John Denver. 'Cept I put Stony River Farm in there instead. It's actually starting to annoy the balls off me at this stage but I can't stop.
And just to add, John Denver looks like the lovechild of The Milky Bar Kid and Martina Navratilova and that's just wrong so it is.

2. I made a girl laugh today when we saw the really tall guy we know and we were gossiping about him a wee bit and she said he was a tad weird and made her uncomfortable and I said "Ah yeah, sure for fucks sake it'd take a week just to say hello to him he's so tall" and I guess you had to be there and all but I scored me some points there no doubt. Giggidy.

3. It's not especially fashionable or cool, I know, but I really like this song and the lovely sentiment behind it, and the timbre of this girl's voice.
You see, when I'm not out wrestling grizzly bears and skinning them and visiting vigilante justice on ne'er-do-wells in dank alleys with my bare calloused fists, I'm a big softie really. Awwwwwwwww bless...

4. I'd love to bring a girl home one night and after working her to boiling point with my array of sexual move, I mean moves, say to her in a suave, smoky, saxophone soundtrack type way "uh-hurrrrrr well, why don't you wait here while I slip into something more comfortable dahling?"
And then I'd bound in the door minutes later in a sumo wrestling fat suit and furry penguin slippers.

5. I'm eating a creme egg typing this, as John Waters might have typed it were things different. Anyway, when I was six, I stole 50p from my mother's purse and bought me and all my mates some creme eggs. Clearly, this ostentation was way too out of step with grey 80s Cavan where a treat for kids back then was a bag of offal from the butchers, and so the beady busy bitch of a shopkeeper copped straight away and told my Mum. She in turn brought me to the Garda barracks down the street and had the sergeant frighten the blue bollocks off me by showing me the cells and telling me if I did it again he'd lock me up and give me nothing but bread and water for a month.

Anyways, a week later I went back to the same shop and robbed a creme egg instead. Nya-hah! One niiiiiiiiiil you fuckers!

6. I get to listen to the radio for approximately 3 hours a week combined, on average. Lately, I have yet to successfully listen in for anything more than 15 minutes, however, without hearing all the following at some point if not, indeed, twice:

Use somebody - The Kings of AlwaysOn
Are we human or are we cancerous? - The Killers
Pa Pa Pa Pa Pa Pa Pa Poker Face - Lady Blah Blah

I'd put me fucking foot through the radio if I didn't generally happen to be in the car at the time, and it moving because I'd be driving it like. Pah!
Wednesday, April 22, 2009

Crisping evening

I don't eat crisps (very often) except when I have a hangover (today) so I'm not very au fait with trends and fashions in the fast-shifting flavours world. I am vaguely aware though that there has been a general shift away from the fundamentalist tastes of our youth like cheese and onion, towards a more eclectic cast like Thai Sweet Chili and cracked blackpeppercorn buffalo wing barbecue beef and what not.

That much accepted, I was somewhat underprepared for the new Walkers ones that I encountered in the shop just now.

Builders Breakfast and Onjion Bhaji? What????

Do they name crisps now based on what your farts smell like afterwards?

Do me a flavour indeed. Well not on command, but I could work up to one given an hour's notice and some pistachios.

I had the Hula Hoops by the way, salt and vinegar, although was disappointed they won't slip over the ends of my fingers any more, and me all ready to recapture my youth with impressions of Liberace and nibbling my hands off.
Monday, April 20, 2009

The sweat differential conundrum

C'mere to me 'til I tell you.

You know how girls have two boobs and one of them, when studied carefully (insert joke here) is generally found to be a different size, or perhaps perched higher or swinging lower than the other? And how nipples often look in different directions as well, like lovers after a tiff?

You're probably also aware then, that men generally have one of their testicoolers sitting at a different, or slacker angle to its neighbour. Ears too; they're generally not symmetrical either, and if you had two noses, like, say, Barbara Streisand, you'd find slight disparities between those and all. So you see, every thing we have a pair of on our bodies seemingly just wants to be a little bit different from its sibling. It's like identical twins rebelling against parents for making them dress the same all the time.

Anyway, in a similar vein, you know what I noticed some time ago?

**Clears throat** Under normal climatic conditions, I only sweat properly out of one armpit!

Yep. The drama of it all. I've been sitting here typing away furiously on some fantabulous literary creation or other and while my right armpit is sodden, the left one is drier than a witch's diddy. How so?

Leaving aside the obvious health and fitness implications of typing causing me to break sweat - I'd be out of breath licking a stamp at this rate - this puzzles me, embarrasses me a little even. So I've sought the counsel of my learned friends, usually, now that I think of it, at weddings where one is most conscious of the dreaded sweaty pits. The old 'map of Africa' blotches on your shirt is never a good look, especially when there's theoretical hordes of eligible lovelorn ladies mooning about, all high on wedding palaver and rubbing their flanks and arching their eyebrows and running their tongue over their lips and oooooh phwoarrrrr oooooooh Betty oooohhhh......

Moving on however, one learned friend I turn to in times of crisis like these is The Good Doctor, an esteemed college professor pal. He moves in highly intellectual circles, debating daily, as he does, cerebral matters such as Freudian psychology applied to the sexual response of herrings, Pythagoras' theory applied to tent-pitching, and investigating where the other sock goes. However, he remains grounded amisdst this ever-churning sea of higher learning by openly supporting Manchester City and eating bacon fries as much as possible.

If you're not convinced by his credentials, and happy are those who have not seen and yet believe, allow me provide an example of the The Good Doctor's remarkable insight. For, it was he who first stated in a groundbreaking white paper circa 2006 that the closest male equivalent to the clucking of the female biological clock is where a bloke wakes up one day and finally realises that he is, alas, now too old to ever make it as a professional footballer.

That's how deep this guy runs, folks.

Naturally, with groundbreaking theories like this, when faced with my conunderarm conunderum, it was his advice I sought. He listened intently, then did some rough calculus and algebra type stuff for about twenty minutes before arriving at the conclusion that it was all due to me being right handed and therefore having a natural tendency to spray more deodorant under my left pit, neglecting just slightly my right one.

That sounded good to me, and content, I swabbed myself down with a baby wipe and thought no more of it.

Content, until today that is. For today I wear no deodorant at all, on either pit, and yet I am soaking on one side.

I feel like some sort of circus freak show act. Now I know how the big-and-burly-yet-shy-and-sensitive-black-man feels in the ad for Sure deodorant, everyone pointing and laughing at his white tiger marks while he's going about his daily business of being all cool and shit.

I'll book another consultation with the Good Doctor, see what he has to say for himself.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Multicultural and the common market

Stephens Green in the still of the night. Awwww....

Easter was great! The Saturday fell on the Monday, the Sunday fell on a Tuesday and now the Bank Holiday Monday falls today.

Me, I fell on the Monday night. Twice. In mitigation, there was drink taken.

Ah, the mad fuckeduppedness of it all. Having missed all the normal nights out over the weekend it was somewhat odd to be skipping giddily about the city with whatever brave entourage could be mustered - but this is my Easter! You must drink with me! - when most of the plain people of Ireland were in their beds and getting ready for the return to offices.

It was a night of firsts. First time ever going drinking in Temple Bar for one, because I normally avoid it like a dose of scabies but needs must on a Monday night - we needed crowds, Temple Bar had them. Tourists mostly.

Another first was me determinedly opening coversations with absolutely everybody I could find. It was that kind of night. There was the three American ladies studying in Rome and visiting Dublin by way of Barcelona, all "enjoying the Guinness" although Lord knows how because it looked like bog water they'd been nursing it for so long. Enduring the Guinness more like. Ah bless.

I think they were from Minnesota. I don't know Minnesota, I said, wherebaouts is it cartography-wise, top, middle, bottom, left or right? (American Geography for Dummies, coming soon). Turns out it's near the top in the middle, beside Canada. So if anyone from Minnesota's reading, that's for you. Never be lost again. No charge.

Then there was a Kiwi who was mighty pleased when I didn't mistake her for an Aussie, as Kiwis tend to be. For those of you who fall down frequently on this thorny branch of accent semantics, just smoothly try to get her to say the word 'fish', and because Kiwis always say it like this: "fush," then you'll know where you're talking and avoid social disgrace. It's easy, do it like this:

Her: ....so I've been here a couple of months, just moving around seeing the country you know, it's really beuatiful and....

Me: Yeah yeah, shutup banging on for a minute will ya?

(At this stage, carefully remove a piece of fresh cod from your coat).

Now, what's that?

Her: Smelly

Me: No what is it, as in species wise sort of thing?

Her: I reckon from sight alone it's from the genus called Gadus, in the latin, belonging to the family Gadidae, a mild flavored, low fat, white fleshed...

Me: For fucks sake woman, is it a dog or what is it?

Her: No....it's clearly a fush.

Me (points): Ha! You're a Kiwi!

Her: "You're a genius. Make love to me."

You can thank me later guys.

My magic social powers don't just wow the ladies either. Later in a club (me, in a club. Like I said, it was that kind of night) drunk lads at the bar kept wanting to talk to me about my teeshirt because apparently it reminded them of the Danish football team from the 80s, and less classically in football terms, Aston Villa circa 2007. Or something.

Nearby, there was a massive big lad from Galway whose friends called him BOILER, (and in block capitals too). He looked like he'd spent all his life throwing tractors at his neighbours for the craic. He spotted me beside him, hit me a slap on the back that damn near brought my lungs out my mouth like a springythingy, and asked me did I want to see him down a pint with no hands.

Jasus, I thought, he's going to chop off his own hands for a bet, now that's going too far.

But it turns out he just wanted me to buy him a pint so he could perform his feat of mastery. He did it too. Placed both hands behind his back, picked up the glass with his teeth and steadily tipped it all back with only minimal slobbering. I was astounded.
I bought him another one and told him to enjoy it the regular way. He belched like a volcano and said thanks very much, and then buried one of his mates into a passing blonde, with a thump on the back and a roar about not to be saving it for the worms or something. Ye gods.

Later still, I was throwing my 'shapes' and 'moves' on the floor. By which I mean I moved like a glacier and was shaped like a bag of turnips, but I cared not.
In keeping with the multicultural flow of the evening we started chatting to nurses from Poland, a teacher from Edinburgh and least understandable of the lot, someone from Offaly. I think I snogged the someone from Offaly but would need someone in the vicinty to confirm this. She might have been 23, she might have been 53, if she had a beard I might not have noticed and more likely, wouldn't have cared anyway. Ach, I am fairly sure she was female though. Lord knows where she went. Ah well.

I next got chatting to a Republican psychiatric nurse from Crumlin who among other things, told me she was 6'1 in her stockinged feet and loved Bobby Sands, and then offered to show me some restraining moves. Some fellas would pay good money for that, but I declined. Then there was a trainee lawyer from Cork who insisted she get a good photo of me, and seven shots and my full repertoire of gurning faces and constipated-Steptoe-doing-a-shit impressions later, she threw her hands up and abandoned the idea. She also called me an annoying shite. And then she gave me a kiss on the cheek. And then she looked at me, shook her head and told me to fuck off. Women. I just love them.

The rest is a bit misty. I lost Mr. Mardzord who was 'shteamed' and had bundled himself into a taxi and hopefully, remembered where he lives. B.K disappeared gently into the good night but I haven't heard he's dead or anything so will assume he's alive and well until told otherwise.

So I strolled on to Stephens Green, aglow in drunk contentedness, grinning like an ape for no reason I could think of. I wanted a memento of surely the most interesting night for many a long day, so I took the above photo. A deserted Stephens Green, with only a plastic bag doing ballet in the breeze, followed down the street by an uncouth bottle rattling hollow on the pavement.

Oh I've been smiling lately, thinking about the good things to come.
Sunday, April 12, 2009

I'm Terry, I tarry

Hey! Remember me? I used to blog here, Terence is my name.

I've been away for a little while, I know, I know...it hasn't been easy for me either. I've been musing, reflecting, gathering my thoughts, working up a head of steam, girding my loins, herding my lions, steeling my irons, hatching plans and most notably, planning hatches.

It's been a not very nice month for old Terence. In this order, it was a week-long flu (see last missive underneath, don't be fooled by the jokes, I was very pissed off), followed by disbelieving half-eyed glances from the bosses when I got back, somewhat shook but alive. It had taken a lot out of me; I'll never forget the first morning back on the train into the city when, clearly not back at full pitch yet, I took a strong weakness in my legs and looked around in vain for a seat. Now I've always believed in the old pregnant woman/sacrifice seat practice, so mercy of mercies, I was able to find a middle aged lady heavily swollen with child, and tell her to get the feck up outta dat so I could sit down. She grumbled a bit but I stood over her and glowered menacingly and she eventually waddled off. You'll be relieved to read that I was alright then and made it to work, noticeably flushed, but none the worse for my little turn.

Then, heavens above, the good Lord saw fit to bestow upon me a surprise apartment viewing which, when I think about it, was probably something he was leaving me in his will seeing as he passed away there on Friday.

Lord be good to him.

This out-of-the-blue-moon occurrence (someone tell me, on the level, is there a recession on or something?) saw me flailing comically and frantically around my little patch of real estate as I beautified it, hands crammed with J-cloths and cleaning products that hadn't been used in so long they were actually filthy themselves. I got through it in the end anyway, even if I did melt the poor oven because the crusty bits wouldn't come off and I had to pour a vat of acid in there. I'm a bit over zealous round the house you see - when wasps settle on my windows, I've been known to swat them with a wok. Well, it is non-stick like. And it's what I settled on after being weaned off the shotgun.
All in all it was good clean fun to be honest, I was like Brenda or Audrey from the kitchen towel ads. Whichever one has more stubble and is crappest at cleaning. (The other one's just a smug ould wagon and wants a good kick in the hole).

They didn't buy it by the way. Not yet anyway.

Meanwhile, back at the coal face - I always refer to work in this way, because my boss makes me feel all dirty and I'd like to burn him until he glows red - I landed the plum draw of getting to work every single day of the Easter break until about 2am each morning. I could scarcely believe my luck! It's like wandering zombie-like through a half life, people are on holidays while I'm working, I'm getting to bed at 3am and up at midday, I literally don't know what day it is and every where I look, I see pints of Smithwicks making comely eyes at me like little shimmery red mirages. And divil a weekend off coming for ages either. BIG SIGH!

Life? Are you listening? I'm going to get you back for this, just you watch me.

That's about all that's been happening. I could mention certain very dramatic plans I've been fomenting during my enforced absence from work, social scene, life and anything approaching a decent existence, but I've some way to go before seeing them to fruition so I'll say nothing. Besides, I like to end in an atmosphere heavy with intrigue, and to leave people wondering.

...

...

...

Oh alright then, I'm going back to the nude modelling. Hands up, who wants to see my willy?