TCD Miscellany

Story.

This post is a little shameless promotion, aimed especially at Trinity College students.

I’m urging you all to go pick up a copy of TCD Miscellany. It’s free and you should find it outside the SU shop, and possibly elsewhere.

I’m the back-page columnist, which is why I’m urging y’all to go pick it up. It’s a very good read right through though.

For people who can’t go pick up the magazine, check out the website where you can read it online.

As for my article, I have permission to throw it up here for your pleasure, so here you go.

“So How Was Your Summer?

Ah sure. You know yourself. Grand.

I look forward to Summer all year long. But after a few weeks of arsing around, you realise it’s actually pretty shit. When you’re off galavanting and doing things with your life it’s good, but that doesn’t happen to me that often.

What’s worse is the pressure to go and do something. Because you just know that in a few months time, people are going to be asking you the question that titles this “article”. Sometimes I find myself doing things solely so I can have a good answer for that.

Can’t I just vegetate in my own filth please?

Similarly, whenever I do something remotely interesting, there’s that little voice at the back of my mind telling me that this’ll make a fuckin’ whopper facebook status. People’ll comment it, “like” it – the whole shebang.

It can be depressing at times. A particular moment springs to mind here. It was a Friday evening, 5pm. The start of the weekend, and I’m a free man. I could do anything I want to. Anything. But there I find myself – unshowered, unshaved. Having not eaten at all that day. Not even dressed yet. On the toilet. Laptop at my feet. Playing ‘Connect 4’ online against someone who’s probably far younger than I am. Listening to old school wrestling music to remind me of my childhood. Times like those really make your day y’know? The times you realise you are totally fulfilling your potential.

And then people go asking you what you’ve done with your day. And I have to lie or at least sugar-coat the truth.

“Oh you know, just chilled really. Took it handy.”

I guess it’d be a tad unsociable to tell them you woke up at 4pm, had half a Moro for breakfast (left over from yesterday), masturbated, went on facebook, lost track of time looking at photos of people you don’t know, then considered masturbating again but got distracted by them asking you on MSN how your day has gone.

I become so utterly useless during the summer that I consider the most mundane of things to be an achievement. Cutting my nails for example. I cut my nails in the morning and that’s it for the day. I’m done. Drained. I deserve a treat. Fetch me a crisp sandwich! The traditional Summer cuisine. Works for every meal.

My summer wasn’t all play though. There was some drama thrown in there. Oh yes. You better believe it.

There was an incident with the lunch I was making one day. I decided to go a bit mad and do some proper cooking. Naturally, I went for beans on toast.

I threw some beans in a cup, and bunged ‘em into the microwave. Stuck the toast in the toaster. Less than a minute later I hear a sort of splashing noise.

Oh Christ.

The worst has happened.

All hope is lost.

It’s a disaster of Chernobyl proportions.

I forgot to cover the beans while microwaving them.

I open the microwave and see bean juice scattered everywhere. Pandemonium ensues.

What do I do first, eat or clean? The age old question.

If I eat first, the bean juice’ll harden and be a cunt to clean. If I clean, the beans’ll go cold.

Then the toast pops up.

I had to make a mad dash for the fridge to ensure I got that butter before it went past the point whereby it wouldn’t melt into the toast properly.

I’m not sure anyone else could so catastrophically prepare a meal of beans on toast. It’s up there with Homer Simpson setting the cereal on fire.

Most of you would think I couldn’t possibly cram more drama into the three months of Summer.

You’d be wrong. Catastrophically wrong.

On, not one, not two, but three separate occasions, a daddy long-legs found its way into my bedroom. I’ve learned that a spider coming into the room is an event that nobody will ever, ever become comfortable with. Every time I see a spider in the room I go into full-on panic mode, as if I’ve just had a gun pointed in my face.

Kill him! No, kill it! Don’t personify what you intend to kill.

I leap up, and then begin the frantic search for a murder weapon. My mind then works out the trade-off between my desperation to kill the spider while it’s still in sight, and my unwillingness to use a birthday card to do the deed. But then, genius strikes. The Argos catalogue. The book given to us by the gods for all our spider-killings needs. It’s probably out of date by now anyway.

And as I scoop the frail little spider corpse into the bin, in what has to be the most undignified funeral the world had ever seen, remorse sets in. Did I really have to kill the spider? He could have had a family. He might just have been looking for food to bring back to the nest or whatever it is spiders live in. Then again, he might have walked on my pillow during the night. Fuck it, good decision.

So that was my Summer. Oh, I also went interrailing. The problem here is that when people hear I interrailed, they get very excited and ask me what it was like, expecting an exciting, potentially life-changing answer. All I can usually muster is a mumbled “Ah yeah, it was good…”.

There it is folks. “It was good.” Isn’t that the exciting answer you were hoping for? Are you all atwitter now? Three words, one syllable each.

IT.

WAS.

GOOD.

Don’t get me wrong, it actually was good – amazing infact, I just feel like a total fraud for not having a more exciting response.

But yeah, Summer’s alright innit?”

Now, can anyone tell me how I actually pronounce “miscellany”?

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It’s Business Time

This post is mainly from the viewpoint of a man, but I’m sure you wimmin readers can still appreciate the sentiment.

Friday night. Finally some respite from the office job. A hard week’s work has left some money in your pocket and you’ve no hesitation about spending it.

A new shirt first of all.

Looks good. Worth the hefty price tag.

A crate of beer next. Stack the fridge full, and ask the lads around for a few drinks before you head out to a club. One of them mentioned something about someone’s birthday, and everyone’s heading to a club in town. You don’t really care though. You just want to get fucking drunk and have a good time. More importantly, you’re going to pull.

It’s been a while.

The fruitless flirting over the desk in work is tiresome.

Unchased opportunities that you regret. The times you simply weren’t arsed. The times you were well on the way to success but drank too much and all you remember is that it didn’t happen in the end.

Not tonight though.

Yeah you’ll have a few drinks. But not too many.

You’re having one of those days when you just feel confident. You woke up with your charming hat on, and it’s not falling off any time soon.

Shit, shower and shave. New shirt on. Looking good.

The lads come around. All in good form. Grateful for the beers and hospitality. You’re especially witty tonight - no surprise there - cracking jokes left, right and centre.

The beers go down well along with a few slices of pizza. Stomach well lined, and mind gently merry - you hop in a taxi, but not before a splash of aftershave. Oh yes.

The taxi driver, who’s a cool guy you had a laugh with, gets you into town in good time. No hassle getting into the club. Didn’t even get asked for ID.

You get the lads a round of beers. Your wallet’s still thick with notes though, don’t worry.

Then one of them comes up to you with a girl, and introduces her. The birthday girl!

Decent looking girl. Not amazing - but decent.

You have a lot of friends in common as it turns out. You’re fairly certain you’ve seen her around before but don’t say that because you’re not sure. You ask her what she’s drinking. Vodka and coke? No bother. Let me buy you a birthday drink. She coyly accepts. You also get two shots of Sambuca. One each love, come on. She twists her face after downing the shot. You don’t. She’s impressed and grateful for the drinks.

You and her have a good laugh. You’ve continued with your witty form from earlier. It’s safe to say you’re doing some top notch wooing.

A song comes on that was being played in the taxi on the way in. You now realise it’s fucking class and you want to dance to it.

Birthday girl takes you by the hand to the dancefloor.

Christ she’s a good dancer. You’re not usually a dancer but with a few drinks inside you, an attractive women on you, and confidence oozing out of you - you’re Fred fucking Astaire.

Christ she’s gorgeous.

The hours in the club pass, one of your mates got way too drunk but one of the lads took one for the team and brought him home. While agreeing to do so he gave you a wink and said “You’re in there son” with a nod to the birthday girl. Great guy. You’d get him a pint if he wasn’t leaving with the drunkard.

You don’t remember how it first happened but you spent the guts of the last hour in the club lip-locked with the girl. You definitely made some cheesy joke about it being her birthday present, but fuck that. A mere bump in the road to orgasm.

On the way out of the place you see someone from school. Haven’t seen him in years! A lot of drunken hand-shaking ensues.

You get a taxi home with her.

Maybe have one of the beers leftover from earlier, then upstairs to do the deed.

Make the beast with two backs.

You wish you’d stopped in the chipper after the club though. You’re starving and would fucking murder some chips right now.

Then again, you don’t want to be bloated during the night’s, ahem, climax.

The taxi drive made you a little sick but your stomach soon settles. No way is it going to fuck you over. Today is just your lucky day.

Probably should have thrown a few quid on the horses and all.

You get up to your room. The day that’s in it, your room is fairly tidy. You also thank your lucky stars that you gave your pubes a quick trim recently.

As she sits sexily on your bed, she asks for some music to set the mood.

You head over to the stereo, stumbling a little. Did she notice? Did she fuck! She was busy getting her shoes off.

What music to put on?

You want something that somehow reflect the act that’ll soon follow. But what?

Fuck it. Lady luck’s been good to you all day, just take a chance. Just press play. Whatever CD’s in there already can’t be that bad. You’ve a great taste in music anyway. She’ll be well impressed if it’s something a little obscure.

You hit play and strut back over to her, waiting to see what music’s going to be drowning out the inevitable noise.

And BAM.

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It’s A New Dawn, It’s A New Day

Right so.

I can be a bit of a Nazi when it comes to spelling and grammar. Or speeling and grammer, if that’s what sort of cretin you are.

Mainly just for important stuff. When people should be concerned about it. Not personal texts or emails or anything like that.

Now, last year, the Students’  Union for my college were considered a bit of a let-down. Being a first year, I had nothing to compare to, so can’t really comment.

But it did bother me seeing glaring mistake in emails or articles by the SU officers. Is it much to ask them to proof-read their drivel? I’d have happily taken a glance over it for them.

This year, I voted for the new officers of the SU. All but one of the people I gave my number one vote to, got the job.

I was looking forward to seeing what the new SU could do. I hoped their promises of “righting the wrongs” etc. weren’t empty.

The other day they sent out their first email. I was actually looking forward to reading it.

The subject was : “Welcome from the new Students’  Union”.

Yes!

They didn’t fall at the very first hurdle. That apostrophe in that sentence is one many people get wrong so I was glad at least they got that right.

First sentence : “We hope you are having a great Summer”.

Gee, thanks guys. It’s even better now I’m starting to believe I’m not going to receive an email from grammatical retards every week.

Second sentence : “We are the new officers in the Students’ Union and wanted to say hello and take this opportunity to intorduce ourselves”.

Oh for the cunting love of Christ.

The second fucking sentence.

Intorduce yourself to my pedantic fucking hole.

I didn’t read the rest of the email.

I glanced and saw different fonts, different sizes and all that shit.

I’d rather they emailed a picture of their own turds.

Maybe I am being a bit silly. It’s just a typo.

I just consider it important to read over stuff at least once before you send it to thousands of people. Thousands.

Or at least read over the first two fucking sentences.

Now, if anyone’s trying to place where I got the title from, here y’are. If you’re from Trinity SU, try this instead.

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