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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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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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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TCD Miscellany II

Same deal as this. Here’s my article for the second issue of this year’s TCD Miscellany.

Ah. Back to college. The old grind again. Like we never left.

I was surprised at just how enthusiastic I was during Freshers’ week. I was genuinely looking forward to being back. Mainly because college gives me a reason to get up and get dressed. A reason to shave other than getting rid of the itchiness. A bit of structure to my days. I was beginning to hope and dream again.

I’m gonna go to every lecture! I’m gonna study during the year instead of just cramming before exams! I’m gonna go to the gym all the time! Hell, may as well give Schols a go!

Thing is, lectures start early and are shit. Studying seems unnecessary and shit. The gym would require me bringing in changes of clothes and stuff. And then being sweaty. And it’s also shit. Schols? Where’s the lolz in Scholz?

I was soon reminded of my laziness. I’m also convinced that I have regressed socially. Over the summer I built an image of myself going back to college, seeing everyone I know, being all cool. I saw myself strutting through front square like The Fonz, giving an “eeey!” and a thumbs up to all those cool cats I’m friends with. I’m just a man about town, baby.

The reality was me sheepishly dragging myself through front square and panicking upon seeing one of those people you sort of know, but not enough to comfortably say hello to. If they try do a stop-and-chat, you’re right up shit creek. Nah, just wait until you’re both out drinking some night. That’s when that sort of stuff should be done.

I’m already behind in my classes. I find myself becoming increasingly frustrated at the people who seem to know what’s going on in everything. How dare they be on top of things? Knowing when essays are due, having stuff done for tutorials. They’re often the sort of people that adapt to new acronyms too quickly. For example, people calling History of Political Thought, “HPT” from the first day. It’s just too soon. Stick your HPT up your GEE.

To worsen matters, my lecturers have decided to go all ‘interactive’ this year. Asking questions to the class. What happened to the days when I could sit in silence in a lecture and take in the cleavage on show instead of paying attention? I now have to pay attention lest I get asked a question I haven’t heard, and then get mocked by the failed stand-up comic lecturer. There was a bit of an incident with this recently.

The woman lecturing us had been asking questions the whole time. Ever single question she asked, I sat there slyly grinning at the inappropriate responses my little ol’ brain was thinking up. While talking about the misery JK Rowling suffered while writing her books in Edinburgh cafés, she asked “I mean, if you want to go somewhere to write and be miserable, where would you go?”. Obviously hoping for an “Edinburgh” response. I sat there thinking “Auschwitz Auschwitz Auschwitz”. Alas, I wasn’t asked.

Then we had to all write down an answer to her question “What is Marketing?”. She asked someone at the back. Then another. Then she points to me and asks what I wrote. Christ. I look down at my page and see the three words I’ve written – “What is Marketing?”. Why did I even bother writing the fucking question? I then did the biggest cop out imaginable and garbled out some jibberish about having the same answer as the last. The shame.

I planned to go in and see Jack White when he was in. I’m not a major fan or anything, but it’s pretty cool that he was there. Then I found out it was on a Sunday. This was a problem for the simple reason that I rarely have plans for Sundays, so it unnerves me a little bit when I do. I can barely remember the last time I did something on a Sunday aside from eating dinner.

And then my mam clinched it when she told me what we were having for Sunday dinner. Chicken and ham. Chicken AND ham. That’s two meats. TWO. That’s twice the amount of meats I normally have with dinner. Soz Jack, it’s nothing personal, but it’s gotta be something really special to outdo a double meater.

I’m way out of the loop with nights out too. Where are all these new night clubs coming from? And all these themed nights? I feel like a pensioner baffled and bemused by technology. People ask me if I’m going to things and I don’t know if they’re saying the name of the night’s theme, or the venue. ‘War’, ‘Break for the Border’ – what is this shit?

No, I shan’t be going to Piss Flaps in The Granny Hub on Harcourt Street tonight. I don’t care if you get in for free if you’re wearing soiled wellies and eating a pube. I don’t care if they’re selling Mojitos for two euro and a Tayto crisp. I’m going to go home and have a glass of orange juice and scratch myself. However, if it’s any consolation, I will silently browse through the Facebook photos of your night, so if you could upload them sharpish, I’d be grateful. I’m planning a day of bitter scowling tomorrow so that’d really fit in with my schedule.

Oh well. It’s Christmas soon. And we all know what that means!

The inevitable disappointment of New Year’s.

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A Few Tidbits

Tidbits is a weird little word isn’t it?

Tidbit.

Tid.

Bit.

Bidtit.

Anyway, I haven’t posted in quite a while. Soz. I’ve been awfully busy dealing with all the women queuing up outside my house. Many of them are merely hopin’ for a gropin’, but most are lingerin’ for a fingerin’.

So here’s a few tidbits.

1. Whenever I get an idea for something to write about, I save it as a draft message on my phone. My drafts folder is now way too full of half-formed ideas, some of which I can no longer make head nor tail of. This is yet another reason why, when I broke my phone (well documented here and here), I was distraught.

My ideas, my precious ideas! All my carefully works plans of genius! Whatever will I do? How can I go on when all my hard work has been undone?

In reality, I reckon all I lost was something shit like “Do a blog about sandwiches or titz lol”.

2. I take an absurd amount of pride in my ability to judge how much squash to put in when making orange or blackcurrant squash. Honestly, I get it perfect. If anyone was ever to criticise my squash-making, they would simply be wrong. There’d be something wrong with their taste buds. Because I’m so used to perfection, I’ll never have someone else at home fix me up a glass of squash - it’ll only be shit. The worst is when you can tell just by looking at it, that it’s all wrong. Lately we’re using “double concentrate” stuff, meaning you have to put less squash in. I assure you all that I adapted to this change absolutely seamlessly.

So if you want a good glass of squash, I’m your man.

3. While we’re on the subject of pride, I’ve become very smug about my road-crossing abilities. There’s a couple of roads I have to cross every morning for college, in the city centre. I’m now the leader of the road-crossing pack.

Out of my way you fools! Let me show you how it’s done. Pah, waiting for the green man to show up are you? Why wait for that nerd when you’ve a maverick like me on hand to show you the way. Follow my lead you pathetic pack of sheep!

I will admit though, that I get beeped at, the odd time. Honest to christ, I get so irritated when someone beeps at me unnecessarily. It’s one of those things that really annoys me, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I’d like to stand there and shake my fist at the culprit, beeping me, offending my ears and my road-crossing skillz, but no, I can’t. I have to keep walking and hope that anyone else around the scene is on my side. I always feel embarrassed when it happens too.

4. Contrarily, I get ludicrously pleased whenever I meet a polite bus driver. Whenever I’m getting off a bus, I ensure I thank the driver. I take out one of my earphones to do it. I even do a little lean in their direction and look at them. It’s a genuine thanks. Now and again they’ll respond with a “cheers” or even just some shitty little grunt, but for some reason it puts a real spring in my step for the next little while. I urge you to imagine me jumping off the bus with a “WEEEEE!” and clicking my heels.

However, I’ve noticed lately that I never speak properly when thanking the driver. Something happens to me, and I get some awful speech impediment. I think it’s the pressure of the whole bus full of passengers looking at me, judging me with their vicious little public transport passenger eyes.

My attempt at saying “Thanks very much” turns into “TALVELMUHL”

“Cheers” can go to either “EARS” or “CHUZ”

“Thanks a lot” will come out as “TAZLOT”.

I then worry if the rest of the bus heard me garble out that jibberish.

5. I’m beginning to think that my whole mood, esteem, and general persona, is determined by how many “likes” I get on facebook when I post a status update. So if you’re reading this as a facebook note, you know what to do.

6. My mother has to be the least efficient person when it comes to getting ready to go out. This irks me. When I’m going out, I get ready quickly and efficiently. For example, when I go to the bathroom, I’ll do everything I need to do in there. Shit, Shower, Shave. One take. BAM. I’m done with the bathroom. Need the bathroom do ya? That’s grand, because I’m done with it for the night. Go right ahead.

My mother would switch on the shower, then nip down to the kitchen and stick some toast in the toaster. Back up for the shower. Run out half way through to butter the toast. Place the now soggy and shower gel-covered toast on the radiator to dry. Back up to the shower. Finish showering. Eat toast. Put shoes on. Run back upstairs to get dressed. Run back downstairs to remove shoes. Run back upstairs to get dressed. Get dressed. Pop into my bedroom to ask me a question. Run downstairs to put shoes on. Back upstairs to get the answer to the question. And on it goes.

But sure how do you tell someone that?

How can you tell someone they’re inefficient at getting ready? It’d take too long to explain. Then they’d tell me I’m an inefficient explainer.

That’ll do for now I think. There may be a follow-up to this post sometime. So that’s something to look forward to eh?

(Also, “hopin’ for a gropin’ and lingerin’ for a fingerin’ ” - confirmation that I’m a modern day Shakespeare there)

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The Important Things

You look around, baffled and bemused.

Complete and utter darkness.

In front of you? Darkness.

Behind you? Darkness.

Inside you? Darkness.

Christ. Again. You’ve been here before, but it never gets any easier.

It’s times like these that you really wonder what your life has been. What wayward path has brought you to this point?

Could you have done things differently?

Course you could.

Should you have done things differently?

Who knows? No use wondering now is it?

All you know now, is how little you know. No idea what to do, where to turn.

You can’t even eat.

What did you do with yourself before all this? How did you even get through the day?

You could sleep, but you’ll have to wake.

You can’t just disappear, as much as it seems like everyone and everything around you seems to have done.

You lie down. Distraught.

Your limbs are weary and tired, but your mind is reeling too much for you to sleep.

Maybe everything’ll be alright in the morning. They say time fixes everything, right?

Maybe you’ll wake up and everything will be like it was before, and you won’t have to think about the answers to all the questions rushing through your head.

But then, a FLASH.

It’s over!

The power cut’s finished, the electricity’s back, so you can go on Facebook again and everything’s fine so K THX BAI.

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The Haircut

Or getting your ears lowered, for anyone who watched Doug back in the day.

Getting my hair cut is something I’m still uncomfortable doing. I get my hair cut every 2-3 months. Somewhere in between there.

The hair beside my ear (’locks’ I think they call that bit) is an indicator. When that bit grows long enough that I have to decide whether I tuck it behind my ears or not - then I have to start thinking when I’m gonna get the hair cut.

And there’s that two week or so period after the cut where it’s too short looking, then it’s reaches its optimum point, before completing the cycle and venturing into “too long” territory.

As every man knows, getting a hair cut takes all day.

If I’m planning out my week, “haircut” will be assigned to a certain day, and NOTHING ELSE can be planned.

So, I wake up at around 12pm. Should I do something? Nah, can’t. Getting my hair cut later.

Stroll down around 2pm. In I go. There’s one guy sitting on the couch there, and he’s old. Why is he getting his hair cut? He doesn’t need a hair cut. Is he deluded? Is this his last shred of youth?

Oh wait, maybe the kid getting his hair cut is his son.

Fuck it, none of my business. It’ll be me in thirty or forty years anyway.

A woman walks in with a young boy, and a pram.

Oh Christ.

A pram in the barbers.

You know what that means.

A baby in the barbers.

There are few things I fear more than a baby in the barbers.

See, barbers are full of men. So when a woman comes down with her son to get his hair cut, and brings her baby, it’s awkward. No men know how to act with a baby.

What the fuck am I supposed to do when the baby smiles at me and makes some gurgling noise?

I probably should smile back. But when I consider doing that, I just imagine myself grinning at the baby with a dirty pedo-smile. Here is a rendering of what I think I’ll look like (ironically I forgot to do the hair).

The horrified mother will look at me in disgust. Then she’ll look at my crotch. My jeans will have done that self-made bulge thing that all trousers do, but she’ll misinterpret that and run out of the barbers.

So I usually ignore the baby. If there’s a newspaper there, you’re laughing.

There’s a relatively new barbers in my town, and it’s run by eastern European women. I first went there out of curiosity. I kept going there for the bewbs.

When they call “Next please!”, I still have a little jolt of panic, as if I’m actually doing something important

Oh God, what do I ask for again?

What if I stutter and panic and ask for the wrong thing?

Do I have an erection?

So I stand up and walk towards the chair. I then ask for what I always do (at least I think so - every time I’m there I always wonder if I’ve actually forgotten what I usually get).

“Four back and sides, fives on t-”

“Yes, seet dowhn pleesh”

Fucking hell. I don’t know why, but every time I go up and tell them what I want, they interrupt, and get me to sit down first, then say what I want. It’s bullshit. Just let me fucking finish for Christ’s sake.

I hate telling them what haircut I want when I’m sitting down, facing the mirror, with them behind me. It’s not normal. So I tend to half turn around which makes me look a total spastic. I can’t win.

Last time I went down, this did indeed happen.

So while sitting, I ‘made my order’.

“Four back and sides, five on top please”.

Now, I said already how I worry about asking for the wrong haircut. So there’s a few things I don’t want to hear after I ask.

She responded with a delightful :

“FIIIVE? ARE YOU SUUURE?”

“Eh, yeah, I think that’s what I usually get.”

She ruffles my hair.

“Bit short no? Six, maybe?”

“Eh, fair enough, that’s fine.”

So away she goes. I hate the bullshit questions they ask then. I don’t mean conversation - that’s fine - but the bullshit hair questions I don’t give a fuck about, and never know how to answer.

“Cut fringe yes?”

“Ah yeah, give it a trim”.

Is that a normal response? Am I supposed to give more specific instructions? There’s no guidelines for this shit. Why is there no guidelines?!

“And the locks?”

“Ah yeah, just make ‘em eh, normal”

She laughed.

Does anyone actually have specific instructions for these little things? I should bloody well hope not.

The second last time I was down there getting a haircut, there was a rather large woman cutting my hair. She was gruff and wearing a low top. She was reefing me around the place. Fine by me, if it hurries the whole process then go for it love. Ya feisty little barber ya.

So at one point she forces my head downwards, and snips away. I do everything I can to ensure I don’t move my head, lest she attack me with the razor. She then turns my head towards her.

My face literally couldn’t have been closer to her breasts.

Seriously.

Breastfed at the barbers.

At this point my mind raced through all the inappropriate things I could have done at that moment.

I quite fancied looking up at her, right into her eyes, doing this face ;

and then returning to the depths of cleavage she’d placed me in.

But I just stifled my giggles and soldiered on.

And what’s to stop anyone running out of the barbers after you get your hair cut? They can’t exactly catch you and stick the hair back on.

And don’t get me started on the itchiness afterwards. Or the stray hairs on your hand when you scratch your head.

Anyway, I wish to open a new barbers. Man barbers. It’ll be for people like me who don’t really care about their hair, they just want to get that shit cut and looking normal. The barbers are women wearing only lingerie, and they don’t speak a word of English. But that doesn’t matter because they don’t need to understand instructions. It’s the same haircut for everyone. You also drink beer while your hair is cut. No questions, no bullshit. Football and car magazines are there for you while you wait.

Is that sexist?

I fucking hope so.

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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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