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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