TCD Miscellany IV

Right so. If anyone doesn’t know, I’ve been the back columnist for TCD Miscellany this year. The final issue of the year has just gone out this week. I’ve really enjoyed writing for the magazine. Special thanks to the editor, Conor, for doing such a great job with it. I’ve always had complete faith when sending in my column, and for me, that’s saying something.

My first article is here, the second here, and the third here. Enjoy.

Miscellany IV

So here we are. The final column of the final Miscellany of the year. I’m starting to worry. The end of year exams are drawing near. All year I’ve been telling myself how I’ll be getting my act together soon.

‘Just after I go out this weekend, then I’ll start studying!’

‘Ah sure, I’m too hungover today, it can wait ‘til tomorrow.’

‘ There’s too much snow this month, it’s a month for tracksuit bottoms and two pairs of socks, not the library and essays!’

And now I’m fucked.

Too many tutorials have passed by with me being the gormless mute at the back. Sitting there, open-mouthed, gawping in amazement at the amount of stuff other people know. How do they know all these things? How do they know about politics? Why don’t I know about these things? Why have I spent my college life drinking and wanking my days away, instead of reading? Why do I consider a productive day to be one where I’ve cut my nails, had a shave and gotten a good rest?

Sometimes people have made jokes in reference to political happenings and everyone in the room laughs. I sit there trying to smile as if I know what the joke is. There’s one tutorial like this where everyone’s great, but then there’s me and one other girl who never really contribute. I appreciate her so much. Having someone else to look at and think “well, at least I’m not the only one”. So in a recent tutorial, I sat beside her at the back. The class begins as normal, everyone talking and answering questions, except me and her. Then we move on to discussing school exchanges and whether they have any sort of impact on international relations. She exclaims that she went on one of these EXACT exchanges we were talking about, and begins telling the class all about it. She’s one of them now. One of the knowledgeable ones.

I’ve never felt so betrayed in my life. My partner in ignorance leaving me in my sordid little pit of silence, all alone except for the poor company of my own fading dreams and wasted potential. Selfish cow.

I have started to make an effort though. I went to the library one Sunday. It was Sunday the 14^th of February actually. A very romantic Valentine’s day I had. On the bus home I looked around and everyone was by themselves. I felt sorry for all these people, all alone on a romantic day like that. Then I realised I was one of them. I reckon that if I’d tried to initiate an orgy at that point, nobody would have declined. But how does one initiate an orgy? Do you start with one person and hope others just dive in, or do you make some sort of declaration to everyone? We got to my stop before I could come up with a plausible solution.

I’ve also begun playing the odd bit of five-a-side football. I played football for my local team for ten years, then just lost interest. To this day I regret quitting, and still often have dreams where I’m back playing. So I like a bit of five-a-side so I can see if I’ve still got it. You see, of all the men who’ve played football, not one of them ever truly stops believing that someday he’ll play for his country. Obviously, I know I won’t, but I don’t believe I won’t.

There’ll come a day, when my grandchildren pay me a visit in my hospice, and I’ll be propped up, all withered and yellow and listless, smelling of piss. As they spoon some baby food into my mouth, they’ll ask me if I’m feeling alright. I’ll tell them I’m not, because I woke up that morning and finally realised that I really am probably never going to captain Ireland in a world cup match. I imagine I’ll die the following morning, of a shattered heart.

The five-a-side is good though. I do still have it. I change into my tracksuit bottoms with the hole in them, stick on the runners, take a swig of Lucozade, and trot onto the pitch (the small little indoor place) and play my heart out. Closing down, tackling, through balls, cheeky back-heels.

For about five minutes.

The following 55 minutes involve me doing whatever I can to stop myself from vomiting, and clutching my sides with a stitch. What the fuck is a stitch anyway? Just fuck off you weird little pain.

Before I tackle exams, I have my birthday to deal with. This year, my birthday falls on Good Friday. Now, I know there’s been an earthquake in Haiti, and thousands of people are suffering. I know about 9/11, and how many lives were lost and how some people had to throw themselves from the towers to avoid being killed in the inferno. I know all about the degradation and segregation minorities have suffered throughout the centuries. I know there’s been concentration camps in which millions have suffered and died. I know about all sorts of horrors and plights.

But do any of these people know what it feels like to have your birthday fall on a day when the pubs are closed? I think not.

On the upside, I’ve managed to avoid the illnesses that everyone else seems to have gotten. I sit bewildered in lectures as everyone coughs and sneezes. Baffled as I watch people projectile vomit over each other. Bemused as limbs are falling off people left, right and centre. You’d think this is a good thing, but now I’m just worried that this is a brief respite from illness, building up to something serious.

So that’s it. This is the final paragraph of the final column of the final Miscellany of the year. I should end it with something reflective and nice. Some food for thought perhaps. Instead I’m just going to say tits, scrotum and clunge.

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Willya Meet Me Friend?

Lately I’ve been reminded by a few people of this incredible method of seduction.

Where I’m from, “meeting” was the term for locking lips with some young ‘wan and sloshing your tongue around in her gob. Other people may know this as “shifting”, “getting the wear”, or the very rare one, “kissing”.

“Meeting” is a difficult one, as it can be mixed up with an innocent rendezvous, but such is life.

This all happened at the local disco. There was either the ‘No-name’, but I was more of a fan of the one held at the GAA club.

You might hear about the disco while midway through a game of Snake on your cool new Nokia 3210. That was before you could go through the walls. A text saying “Gaa’s on 2nite. U goin?”

And that was it.

You’d ask your Mam for a lift later on. She’d agree only on the condition that you ate all your dinner later.

A clean t-shirt was all you needed. Football jerseys were acceptable. If you really wanted to look dapper you could throw on a Ben Sherman shirt. Usually short sleeves though.

Cream tracksuit bottoms.

The clean runners that you usually only wear to mass.

Half a tub of Brylcreem in your hair. A heavy spray of Lynx.

Get in the car, listen to your Mam telling you to be good. Arrive, get out of the car while saying your embarrassed goodbye and hoping she drives away as soon as possible.

See your friends in the queue.

“Alright?”

“See yer man in the jeans over there? State of him. In his jeans.”

“The state.”

“They new runners?”

“Yeah, got them off me Ma for Christmas.”

This chat continued ’til you got in.

Then the total madness begun.

Flashing lights.

Bangin’ choons.

Smoke machines.

Cups of 7up, Coke and Fanta to beat the band.

For a while you’d just stand with your mates but then you’d start sort of dancing. It was more standing on the dancefloor, moving a little bit, trying to slyly see what other people were doing with their bodies, and seeing if you could do it too.

You were fairly safe with the “big fish, small fish, cardboard box” move though. Fred Astaire shit right there.

Then it was ‘meeting’ time.

The first ‘meet’ of the night was a big deal. Once two people had taken the plunge to be first, it was fair game.

Some girls used to play ‘Beat the Slapper’, which was a challenge to see who could meet the most boys. I haven’t gotten a chance to read the official rules yet but I don’t think there were too many. I don’t think it’ll be in the Olympics any time soon anyway.

If you saw a girl you wanted to meet, there were simple steps to make this happen.

Grab a mate, point out the girl to him, and tell him to ask her if she wants to meet you.

As he walked over, you waited, knowing you were about to find out how attractive you were. The best way to deal with this was to talk to another friend and try to make jokes and be laughing.

There was some sort of pre-pubescent logic that told you that if you were laughing with a friend you’d probably look cool and this would increase your chances.

You’d try watch out of the corner of your eye. See them talk, see her look over. Then he’d either stroll back with a grin, or walk in a completely different direction. This would sometimes be followed by you receiving a text from him “She said maybe later”.

That meant no.

Not to worry. Go buy a packet of Tayto crisps and a cup of orange and move on.

Seeing people arrange this successfully was weird. She’d look over, nod her head in a way that just said “Yeah go on then”, and they’d walk off to a corner somewhere.

Being asked to meet someone was very exciting. You knew it was coming as soon as you felt a stranger prodding you.

“Willya meet me friend?”

“Where?”

“Over there, in the black, with the hoopy earrings.”

And there she’d be. All shy and nervous. Shuffling her feet uncomfortably.

Girls didn’t do the brilliant “pretending to joke with your mates” technique. Fools.

I was once asked to meet a girl, and when I looked over she was just sitting there on her own, looking right back at me, looking really pissed off. She really did look very angry. And very older than me. This intimidated young naive Mark. So it was a no.

When you did start meeting a girl, there were several worries. Your mates could start fucking it all up. Whether they’d start pulling her hair, pressing your hands aggressively into her arse, or jabbing you, it was off-putting. Often you also had to conceal an erection. At that age, a whiff of a girl’s hair could set you off. So having a girl chucking some saliva in your mouth was tough to handle. Especially in tracksuit bottoms and on a major fizzy drink buzz.

But the very worst was if a meet was separated by one of the chaperone people. You could see guilt on the faces of all parties involved. Often at the GAA discos, the chaperone people were folk that were involved with the club. Many disco-goers played for the club. So there was a chance that a friend of your parents’ could catch you at it. A friend of mine once had to be strategic about where he did his meeting, because one of the people supervising worked with his Dad.

So there you’d be, gettin’ jiggy with it.

Feeling pretty horny.

But the highlight was when Mark McCabe came on. Maniac 2000. You knew the night was nearly done when this bad boy came on.

Then it was all over.

You’d leave, with your ears feeling all funny. Get in the car, usually a few of you would get a lift home with someone’s mother or father.

I remember once I was getting a lift with one girl’s mother. There was a few of us in there. Before we got in the car, the girl explained to us not to tell the mother anything in much detail, before uttering the immortal line “And remember, we didn’t do any tonguey things“.

Also, once a girl was texting me, and whenever she meant to say “meet”, she spelled it “meat”. There’s something so terribly wrong about that word as a verb. Like you’d be throwing a slab of beef at each other on the dancefloor.

How times have changed anyway.

Now, instead of getting a mate to set you up, we just let our new friend, alcohol, do the talking.

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So It’s Valentine’s Day

Ah, Valentine’s day.

Innit lovely?

As you walk around the shops in the weeks leading up to the big day, you see flowers, hearts, and all manner of romantic gifts.

Fluffy teddies.

Cute little cards.

Giant obnoxious cards.

Heart-shaped boxes of chocolates.

Men usually put in the effort, surprising their woman with a romantic gesture, be it something grand like a trip away to Paris, or flowers delivered to work, or something more simple like cooking dinner for her with a bottle of wine and a  Tesco candle or two.

Women reward their man with a night of love-making.

You see pre-teens buying their cards, or looking sheepish purchasing a red rose for their bbz. It’ll be over in a couple of weeks, but sure let them have their fun. Puppy love never harmed a soul.

Today I saw countless couples walking along, looking extra loved-up. Holding hands, linking arms, and generally looking truly in love.

Back in school we’d make cards and the teacher would tell us the story of St. Valentine.

You might send one of the cards, and maybe even receive a couple. If you didn’t fancy anyone that year you could just give that card to your Mammy, or if you were a suck-up, to the teacher. If you were a massive stud like me you’d return from the bathroom to find your bag bursting with cards from secret admirers.

So on this day of love and romance, let’s all remember one thing.

Something we should never forget.

Amid all the loving gazes you’ll make.

The electrifying kisses you’ll share.

The simple hand-holding you secretly adore.

The sentences you’ll finish for each other.

The private jokes nobody else would get.

The glow their mere presence gives you.

The absolute vulnerability of being so reliant on one other person.

The smiles they give you when you’re down.

And the passionate love-making you’ll brag about.

Just remember this one thing:

The reason you exist is because your Dad slid his erect penis into your Mother’s vagina and rogered it until he ejaculated.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

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Ladies’ Man

So there I am in a nice little accounting tutorial. Lurking at the back hoping not to be asked anything.

My phone vibrates.

A text, from an unknown number.

This always fills me with fear.

Unknown number: “Hi can yhoo ring me…!!”

The spelling of “you” along with three dots and two exclamation marks was enough to tell me that this person was no friend of mine.

I replied: “Just in a tutorial now, who is this?“

Unknown Number: “Is dis owen….!!!“

They then rang me, just moments after sending that text. I finally got out of the tutorial and rang them and said “Hey, this isn’t Owen, you must have the wrong number”. There was a massive long pause, and then a “Oh right bye”. It was very abrupt and unapologetic. A female voice. So unknown number now becomes unknown girl.

I begin walking to lunch. It’s now that I’m going to start including the time of receiving texts.

Unknown Girl (14.05): “Who is dis….!“

I’ve just fucking rang to tell her I’m not the person she wants. Leave me alone.

I was going to lunch with friends so didn’t reply. Then I receive a text from a DIFFERENT unknown number.

Unknown girl #2 (14.22pm): “Whos dis.?”

What the fuck is with these people using full stops along with question marks?

Unknown girl #1 (14.23): “by da way who’s dis… !x”

I’m under siege from texts from unknown numbers. I’d have felt very threatened if it weren’t for that affectionate little kiss at the end. Bear in mind I’m telling you every text that I received and sent. So unknown girl #1 has now sent me two different texts in a row asking me who I am, and presumably gotten a friend to send me one too.

I reply to Unknown Girl #2 (at 14.26): “My name is Mark. Who’s this?“

Unknown Girl #2 (14.27 - honestly, they text so quickly these kids): “Aine..How old r u.?“

STOP DOING FULL STOPS BEFORE QUESTION MARKS!

Despite now knowing her name, I’m still going to call her Unknown Girl #2.

I’m in the process of replying to the eager beaver that is Unknown Girl #1, when she texts me AGAIN.

Unknown Girl #1 (14.28) “Hey by da way who’s dis… !”

That’s the same text as her last one, except she has chosen to remove the kiss at the end. What have I done to deserve this cold shoulder? Is she mad because I replied to her mate first? Have I ruined this beautiful relationship?

Although she’s clearly quite keen - three texts in a row without response. Must have loved my voice on the phone.

Reply to Unknown Girl #1 (14.32): “I’m Mark. Who’s this? Do you have my number by accident?“

Reply to Unknown Girl #2 (14.34): “19. Do you have my number by accident?“

Unknown Girl #2 (14.36): “Im 13..Yup mi friend had it and thot it was her dad nd wen she found out it wasnt i txt it to find out 4 her..“

Unknown Girl #1  (14.37): “Yaa i am 13..!!! I thot yhoo were my dad…x hahahaha…!!“

Another kiss in there for me.

So there you have it. They “thot” I was a Dad of theirs.

Naturally I’ve asked them both on a date. You may be thinking “But Mark, they’re only 13.”

Well more fool you.

Combine them and you’ve got yourself a sexy 26 year old.

Get in there.

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Home Alone, Again

Don’t worry, this isn’t quite another ‘Parents Are Away Diaries‘.

But yes, my parents did indeed go away again.

Before going, my mother gave me some money to ensure I bought some food while they were gone. Y’know, to prevent me from starving and all that.

She stocked up the freezer with a few pizzas.

She bought two loaves of bread, but put one in the freezer and told me to take it out the night before I wanted to use it.

Two packets of rashers. There was already a pack and half in the fridge.

A few sausages and a dozen eggs (there was already a half dozen left - and while I enjoy eggs, I’m really not some sort of egg fiend).

She bought two packs of four muffins. That’s eight muffins. And I’m not talking about the tiny little girly muffins. I’m talking big, dirty, man-muffins. They’re the ones that you start eating, and they’re nice, but after you get about half way through, you start feeling full and you don’t want to eat the rest of it. As a man, I feel shame in not being able to finish any kind of food, so I have to pretend that I’m still enjoying the muffin and continue eating. Essentially, I have to start bluffin’ with my muffin.

They’re blueberry muffins too, which I’m not a big fan of, to be honest.

I was leaving for college in the morning, and they were leaving that afternoon. So before I left the house, my Mam gave me a big hug and told me to look after myself, and to phone her if I had any problems.

Just before 4pm, I received a text from my Dad telling me they’d arrived safe and he’d give me a call tomorrow or soon to check up on me.

You’re probably thinking there were off hiking through Africa or something.

Climbing Everest perhaps?

Volunteering in Haiti?

Nope.

They were going to Athlone.

That’s about an hour and a half journey, in their own car.

For two whole days.

Anyone fancy coming round to mine for a pizza with muffin and rasher toppings?

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TCD Miscellany III

For those poor souls out there who can’t pick up the latest TCD Miscellany, I’m posting my article up here. You can read first my first one here, and the second here. I urge you all to check out the whole magazine on miscellany.ie.

Enjoy.

“So that was Christmas.

I love Christmas, I really do. But this year it really made me realise how old I’ve gotten.

I was the last person in my family to get up on Christmas morning. I’m the youngest in the family. What’s happened to me? I was shouted at by my family to go downstairs and open the presents with them. I grumbled and staggered out of bed, covering up the unwanted morning erection with a dressing gown.

Down I went. Opened up the presents that I’d bought myself. They give me the money, I buy my presents. My parents wouldn’t understand the presents I want. For the record, and this is for all you fine ladies out there, I did get myself a sexy little external hard drive. I can hear you all swooning already. So if any of you want to swap data sometime, or maybe just backup your current hard drive, just form an orderly queue and I’ll see what I can do. Be patient though doll-face, I’m packing a whole extra terabyte of storage now, so I’m really fighting the bitches off.

So I already knew what all my presents were – bar one. It was socks. Remember when we were young and would look at our presents with awe and amazement? Well I didn’t want to appear ungrateful. I’m there looking at my socks for several minutes, pretending to be interested in them. 100% cotton, wow! I love socks, I’m always wearing them so I am, how did you know?

Even in the build-up to the holidays, I noticed myself aging.

I had to buy a new pair of jeans. I haven’t shopped in so long. I can’t bear it at all anymore. There’s too many people around. All of them ambling along without a care in the world. Don’t these people realise I’ve told my Mam I’ll be home by six pm for the lasagne? I’m fucked if I’m reheating it.

Back in the days when I cared about my appearance, I’d buy jeans based on how good they looked. Mincing around the fitting room, checking myself from all angles. Ooh, do these make my arse look a bit plump? How’s my crotch bulge looking in ‘em?

Not now though. All I care about now is getting the jeans with the biggest pockets. I was there checking the pockets of all the jeans in the shop, not caring how they look. As long as they’re not too flamboyant or anything, I’m happy. So that’s two things I now require in jeans: big pockets, and zero flamboyancy.

The SU had a big end of term frat party organised. I read the description, about drinking games, beer pongs, and bangin’ choons and that sort of thing. A year ago I’d have eaten that right up. I’d have been all enthusiastic, looking forward to it all week, making sure I got my mates to go.

This year I read about it and just thought to myself how it all sounds very loud. Nah, think I’ll stay home and watch the Late Late instead. Have some beans on toast or something. That’d be nice. Wait, who’s on Jonathan Ross tonight? Might give him a go instead. Fuck it, I’ll see. OH! I’ll pick up some sweets on the way home and all.

I’ve seen a few new events advertised around Facebook and the likes. Some of them are nights starting really early and they’re trying to sell it to us as not just partying the night away, but partying the day away too. Again, the Mark Walsh of one year ago would have jumped in with both feet. All day drinking? Right up my alley mate. Give it to me. Give me all the promiscuity, depravity and debauchery you can throw at me.

Now though, I just worry about if I went out drinking in the afternoon, then to a club in the evening, what’d I do if I need a poo? I don’t want to shit in a nightclub, up to my ankles in someone else’s vomit. Even if it was my own vomit I’d be less than pleased. And you’d want to line your stomach well by eating a lot during the day, to prepare for all the drinking. But sure then you’re only increasing the chances of having to do a nightclub poo. It’s a bloody nightmare. What if I got so drunk I didn’t realise how bad my need for a shit was? What if I literally shit myself and had to go home? I couldn’t walk onto a nitelink covered in shit. I don’t think a taxi would take me either. It just doesn’t bear thinking about. But these are the things that rush through my mind now, at the ripe old age of 19. Honestly, just pass me the Werther’s Originals already.

I do still go out. But often I find that about halfway through the night, I’m asking myself if I’d rather be at home, alone and playing Football Manager or something. In fairness though, the answer isn’t always yes.

Then there’s New Year’s. What a crock of shit. It’s one of those nights where YOU SIMPLY MUST DO SOMETHING AND HAVE FUN. I don’t think I’ve ever had a really good night on New Year’s. Last year the nightclub I was in actually forgot to do the countdown. So it was basically a regular night in there.

I know 2010’s going to be good anyway. I know this because I topped up my 30 days of free texts on the first of January. So basically I’ll just have to top it up at the start of every month from now on. No more confusion. No more being taken by surprise when you get that message telling your free texts are up. This, my friends, is living the dream.”

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A First For Everything

Before Christmas, Blacknight had a sale on their ‘.ie’ domain names.

I’ve never bought one of these domains before for two reasons - 1) They’re very expensive compared to other domain extensions and 2) In typical Irish fashion, there’s apparently a load of hassle involved in obtaining one.

I couldn’t pass up this sale and had to buy one. So I went for walsho.ie - mainly to find out if there really is a lot of hassle involved.

Bought it, and thought I had it sorted.

Alas, I did not.

I had to send a signed letter to them, outlining my claim to the domain, and what my intentions were for it.

A signed letter.

Meaning I had to type it, print it, sign it, scan it and then send it.

I had no idea what to write either, and it’s hard to take it seriously when I’m justifying my claim to own “walsho.ie”.

So here is my letter to the good people of Blacknight (they are very efficient I must say, I’m not knocking them with this post).

“Claim to Walsho.ie

Dear Sir/Madam,

I write this to outline my claim to the domain name “walsho.ie”.

Currently I own the domains “walsho.net” and “walsho.com” which are used for my own personal blog, which I have been running since July 2007. You’ve probably heard of me, I’m kind of a big deal.

I wish to add “walsho.ie” to my repertoire of domains for my blog, as I feel it is essential that I obtain the Irish domain extension, especially because my website’s tagline reads “The Blog of an Irish Hero”. I’m a patriotic man you see. What sort of Irish Hero would I be if I didn’t even bother getting a paltry “.ie” domain extension? Not a very good one I’ll tell you.

You may be wondering where the name “walsho” came from. Well, I’ll be happy to explain. Very happy indeed.

You see, my surname is Walsh. Now, if you add a crafty little “o” to that, you have “walsho”. Pretty sneaky, I know. But the name first arose in my mid-teens. I find that in casual conversation, sometimes addressing someone with a single-syllabled name doesn’t quite fit the bill. Just doesn’t cut the mustard. My forename is Mark, so that doesn’t work either. And so, we had “walsho”. A few mavericks tested the waters with “Walshie” but it never caught on. I’m glad. It’s a bit effeminate. And as I’m sure you know, I am a mountain of a man, bursting with testosterone and masculinity.

People began to use this as a nickname for me. They’d say things like, “Hey, Walsho, c’mere a minute” or “Oh Walsho, you da man!” or “Stop that Walsho, you’re hurting me”. You get the jist. Wait, is it “jist” or “gist”? I never know. It’s hard to find answer online, since the word is slang, I suppose.

Admittedly I have never enjoyed it when women I’ve been intimate with have called me Walsho. Perhaps if she was being tongue-in-cheek, that’d be grand y’know, but in general I don’t like it. Nicknames are more for your mates really aren’t they?

Now, another thing I’d like to mention is th- Hold on a sec. A song just came on iTunes that I don’t really want to listen to. I’ve got it on shuffle like. Be right back.

Okay, where was I?

Oh, nevermind.

I’d like very much if you could let me have the domain. I have signed below, as requested. I shall hope you won’t be flogging that signature on eBay for a small fortune, you little rascals.”

For those who wish to see the signed pdf version, click here. Note that I could only find a thick marker to sign it with at the time.

I received a prompt response this morning:

“Dear Registrant,

Thank you very much for your application for the registration of the domain name: walsho.ie

This has been accepted”

Cheers lads.

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So It’s 2010

A new year, a new leaf, eh?

That feeling of hope and expectation we all get when we enter a new year.

This year’ll be different.

Nah.

It won’t.

You won’t change your ways.

The best you can probably hope for is for things to stay the same.

This time next year, we’ll all be worse off.

You’ll have less money in your account.

You’ll have lost more friends that you’ll have gained.

You’ll have continued doing all those stupid things you said you’d stop doing.

You’ll be fatter.

Your boobs will have begun sagging.

Your penis will appear to have grown inward.

Women, you’ll be hairier. That’s right, new places with hair in them.

You’ll be smoking forty a day.

Your grades or work performance will decline.

You’ll have acquired zero new skills.

Your talent for the skills you currently possess will have deteriorated.

You’ll be lonely.

Desperately lonely.

If you’re in a relationship now, appreciate it.

Because it’s only going to wither and die, and you won’t be ready for it.

Some of your possessions will be stolen.

By people you thought were friends.

Your house will be robbed.

You’ll buy something you’ve wanted for ages.

It won’t work properly.

You’ll receive instructions on how to cook a healthy meal you’ve never tried before.

You’ll go to McDonald’s instead.

You’ll spend some time with a doctor.

And I don’t mean socially. You’ll be ill or injured.

So Happy New Year, you enthusiastic cunts.

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The Parents Are Away Diaries - Part Two

Part one here.

I woke on Saturday, slumped in an armchair in my living room. My laptop was still on. My mouth was made of carpet. My mind was made of cotton wool. My ‘sent items’ on my phone was full of messages that should never have been sent. Welcome to Saturday morning, bitch.

The best part about being hungover when you’re alone in the house is that you can puke to your heart’s content. With this in mind, I took a risk and made breakfast. I shouldn’t have gone with eggs – imagine how disgusting it’d be vomiting up semi-digested eggs – but managed to keep it all down in the end. Gambled and won.

I had won tickets to go to see Alabama 3 that night, but vowed not to drink as the mere thought of alcohol made me ill. A few hours later, a friend came over before we set off for the gig. We began drinking.

We shared what was left of my Stella, then made a start on the rum he’d brought along. Rum is vile. Gig was amazing. We left the venue, and the fresh air had that incredible drunkening effect. There was some guy preaching about John 3:7 at the top of Grafton Street. Obviously, had we been sober, we’d have done the normal thing and shamefully avoided eye contact and walked on by. Alas, we engaged him. He preached. We listended, nodded, and sometimes said “yeah”. He asked for our phone numbers so he could inform us about some event next week. Something to do with God or Jesus or one of them lads, y’know. I felt a bit like James Bond when I stuttered out some excuse about not having a phone.

Little does he know, I do have a phone! It’s right here in my pocket! It’s even vibrated with a message since we started talking to him! He doesn’t even know I’m drunk! He certainly doesn’t know I’m an atheist!

I’m a very smooth operator you see.

I still have the DVD he gave me, if anyone wants it.

Got the last bus home, and this journey passed without anything interesting happening. When walking home then, I reached into my jumper pocket and found a half-full packet of cigarettes. I generally don’t smoke until I’m drunk, so it’s very unlikely I bought these cigarettes. I was baffled. Racking my addled mind to try to figure out where that box came from.

Could have been from the night before, I wore the same jumper.

About a week later I found out that I’d found them on the ground on the Friday night and yelled “Jackpot!”.

Sunday:

I’m too old for this. Two nights drinking is just too much for me at my ripe old age.

I got up.

I lounged.

I watched X-Factor.

I had a crisp sandwich.

I went to bed.

An average Sunday.

Monday:

I was on time for college. On the way home I picked up another box of Stella Artois. 24 bottles for 15 eurons is just too good to turn down. Having a beer with my dinner (a microwaved lasagne) turned into having enough to be coaxed into going out. We were going to a new-ish club in Maynooth. I’ve been there once before and was thrown out after twenty minutes for picking someone up on the dancefloor. By “someone” I do mean a consenting friend, not a stranger or anything. What a crock of shit. Next thing they’ll be telling me I’m not allowed honk on my crackpipe on the dancefloor. Nazis.

Anyway, we got there fairly late, around half eleven. There was a mob at the (closed) door. Bouncers were telling the mob that the place was full and nobody’d be getting in. One delightful gent next to me decided that the solution to this problem was to push everyone toward the door, causing screams of anguish from a few girls as people got squashed. I’m not taking any liberties with my assessment of his decision either – he verbalised it.

“Fuck it, let’s just push”.

People like this make me wish we could just have regular culls of the human race.

There was also a pair of slags behind me singing that Ireland world cup song, really shouting the lines “And we’ll really shake them up, when we win the world cup”.

It had been days since we didn’t qualify. Our wounds are still open, you odious little fucking cunts. Fuck off. Or maybe sing any song except that. The one song in the world I didn’t want to hear.

Cull them. Cull them all.

We considered going to another place in the area, but upon seeing a bus that brought us back home, the decision was made for us. Pathetic. I must admit that I was a little uncomfortable sitting on that bus, what with my tail wedged so firmly between my legs.

Considered sleeping downstairs again, just because I could.

I didn’t.

Tuesday:

There was some sort of strike on Tuesday. All I knew was that my lectures were cancelled. So you may wonder what I achieved on this full day of total freedom? Free house, no college, no restraints.

I didn’t even get dressed.

At one point I had a revelation when I realised I could watch porn, downstairs, in the living room, with the sound on. No headphones or anything.

I didn’t though.

What if the neighbours heard like?

Imagine they had to come in and complain about the pornographic noise level. And I have to answer the door looking all flustered and with my belt still undone. Couldn’t be having that.

Wednesday :

I had three meals on Wednesday. All of them contained potato waffles.

Thursday:

The parents were coming home the next day. There was an absolute mountain of washing-up to do. There was still some Stella left in the fridge that had to be polished off.

I discovered that it is impossible to get drunk if you are wearing latex washing-up gloves.

It’s also rather difficult to look cool. Particularly if you’re mincing around the kitchen listening to Queen. Catching your own reflection at a time like this is quite demoralising.

Friday:

Parents came home. I was sort of relieved. Having a free house puts pressure on you to drink more than you should. Maybe even more than you’d like. Also, I was looking forward to eating some roast potatoes again. Maybe even a carrot or two. Also, I was hoping they brought me back stuff.

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The Parents Are Away Diaries - Part One

My parents went away for ten days recently. Here’s the first part of a diary of those ten days.

Tuesday :

The final evening before my parents leave for ten days. You’d think we’d all sit down and have a nice family meal, but no. They were busy packing so ordered pizza for dinner. I went out and got plastered and arrived home at about 5am.

Wednesday :

I was woken in the morning in what felt like minutes after I got home. Said goodbye to parents. Despite them waking me early, I’d already missed my first lecture. If you miss one, you may as well miss a few and get a nice lie-in.

Woke up later, ate remaining slices of pizza from last night. An ideal way to kick off ten days with no parents. A swig of milk and out the door. Listened to Wheatus on the way to the bus stop. “Teenage Dirtbag” seemed very appropriate at the time.

Had to make a dash for the bus, which I thankfully made. Felt rather proud that I should be on time for my 3pm lecture, and also that I’d gotten a nice 20 seconds of successful jogging. Got upstairs on the bus and saw a girl I knew a while back. I feared having to make awkward conversation for the whole bus journey, but it was fine really. When in doubt, talk about the X-Factor.

Managed to get in for the lecture. Should I have bothered really? All that hassle for one lecture? Fuck it, it’s better than nothing. And it stops me feeling guilty.

After the lecture, I decided to go home, drop my bag in, switch on the lights (parental request – to avoid burglary you see), maybe eat, then go back into town for the Ireland match.

On the bus, and I end up seated next to an ex. So more bus conversation.

When will I ever get to listen to my podcasts?

So, what ya think of X-Factor?

Got home, threw the bag down, switched on the lights, and considered cooking something.

In the end I just had some cheese on stale Tiger Bread. Bit of cheese on bread – no frills, no fancy shit. Just plain ol’ cheese on bread. Cheeseonbread.

Got on the bus. A few minutes in, I see an old teacher get on. Panic ensues. I could barely hold a three-second conversation in the corridor with a teacher back in school, let alone a full bus journey. Do I call him ‘sir’? Can I curse now? Conversations with people on the bus can be awkward as there’s no escape when it dries up. So I positively shat myself at the prospect of this particular bus conversation.

But no, it was alright. Talked about the match, the school, how I’m doing in college – all that shit. Obviously not the X-Factor.

I began to think I should be more happy about having to talk to people like this. It’s good to have an aul’ natter. Then I remembered people are cunts and my iPod isn’t, so it depends on the person.

Met a friend and went to the pub. Met more friends in the pub.

Jizzed in pants when Robbie Keane scored.

Felt like crying when Gallas scored.

Got on the bus home, dejected and depressed. This depression was compounded by guilt when I realised I felt way sadder about our failure to qualify for the world cup than the death of my granny last year.

Got home.

Attempted to clog the pores of pain with some more cheeseonbread. The bread had gotten staler.

I still ate it.

I knew that if I was up early enough the next day, I’d have eaten more for breakfast. If it was really stale, I’d just have toasted it. Then it’s fresh again y’see.

Bed.

Thursday :

It wasn’t a dream. We’re really not going to the world cup. So, I’ll be in my mid-twenties when Ireland next play in a world cup. If we even make the cunting next one. What a crock of shit.

Fuck the first lecture, he only ever reads from the notes anyway.

I made my only remaining lecture that day – but what’s the fucking point? Go to lectures, get a degree, try to get a decent job. Only for some Frenchman to cheat you out of the job somehow. Fucking Henry. Fucking useless officials. And fucking Nicolas Anelka too. Always hated that sulky cunt.

Pizza for breakfast, lunch and dinner. If you only eat one meal in the day then it counts as all three, yeah?

Sister was out for the night, leaving me at home alone – for the whole night. The whole night.

I watched Sky Sports News downstairs for several hours. It repeats itself but I never really mind.

Especially when it was mostly about the Ireland match.

I reckon I was cupping myself for at least 90% of the evening. There’s some primal urge within every man to cup himself while watching television. When you get the chance, you have to fucking take it.

Before bed, I checked all the locks and windows, because if we get burgled that night, it’s definitely my fault. No scapegoats tonight. And heaven knows I make good use of scapegoats when they’re around. The amount of goats I’ve scaped in my time, you wouldn’t know what to be doin’ with ‘em all.

Friday :

We haven’t been robbed. I’ve missed my first lecture already. In fairness, my next one isn’t for another four hours, so I was always going to miss one anyway, realistically. I’d been forgetting to set my alarm since the parents left. My life was in a state of complete chaos.

Four hours to kill at home.

There’s only one thing for it.

All you men know what I’m talking about.

House to yourself.

It’s been a while since the last one.

You’re only human.

It’s a natural thing anyway.

You can feel the urge growing.

Y’all see what I’m getting at?

That’s right…

It’s time to take a shit with the bathroom door open.

Aw yeah.

Bring in a magazine or your laptop, whatever you want.

Complete freedom. Ensure the door is open at an angle such that it’s still within your reach while you’re dropping those kids off at the pool, just in case anyone bursts in the house all of a sudden.

After becoming one with nature, showering, and having a glass of milk for breakfast, I get dressed and out the door.

As I turn the final corner on my route to the bus stop, I see a bus approaching at the end of the road. I run. I usually never run for buses, because there’s never an outcome that doesn’t involve me looking like a tit. You miss the bus and you’re a tit who ran for a bus and didn’t make it. You get the bus and you’re a tit, panting and sweating for a half hour next to disgusted passengers.

As I ran, I had to go through a group of people waiting at a different bus stop. They parted like the red sea for me, and I knew then I was seriously under pressure to make the bus.

They’re all watching me, I can feel it.

I skid on some wet leaves but manage to retain my balance. Quite miraculous really.

I missed the bus by a mile.

I’d obviously gotten cocky after my success on the Wednesday.

College was boring. I decided that on the way home, I’d invest in a box of Stella Artois – 15 eurons for 24 bottles. And it’s five percent – that’s stronger than most beers. And it’s supposed to make you aggressive. Yet another bonus I reckon.

On my way to Tesco I met a friend. I invite him over to share the beer with me. He obliges. A few quiet drinks in mine resulted in us heading to town to a club.

The hours in the club are a blur.

I do remember dancing on a sort of ledge that overlooks the dancefloor. Only the cool people get up on that ledge to dance. I guess you could say only the legends do it. It’s the ledge ledge.

I am not a cool person.

I do not dance.

I do not get on ledges – at any time.

I most certainly don’t get on a cool person ledge to dance. With a pint of Guinness in my hand.

I’m not going to blame it on the sunshine, nor shall I be blaming it on the moonlight. You’re mistaken if you think I’m blaming it on the good times. I’m blaming it on the Stella obviously.

At home again, I fell asleep downstairs – simply because I could. Because that’s how fucking mental I am, baby.

Parents away, sleep downstairs, bitch.

May as well have developed a cocaine habit while I was at it.

Part two to come soon, hopefully. I didn’t want to do it all at once as it’d end up being a couple of thousand words long, and nobody’d be fucked reading all that shit in one go.

Edit: Part Two is here.

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