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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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 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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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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Facebook Grievance #1

Alright, I’m most definitely a Facebooker. It’s immensely useful. I even set up my profile to post the blogs from this website up on my facebook. I think some of my friends read them without realising I actually own a blog. If you are one of these people, click here. See what I did there?

So where was I?

Ah yes. Sometimes, I see things on facebook that fill me with absolute dread and despair.

Tonight it got too much.

As most users will know, there are “groups” on facebook. Sometimes they’re fan groups or whatever, and sometimes they’re “causes”. I’m all for someone giving their time to a good cause. I commend anyone doing anything to try make the world better in whatever way they can.

But not when it’s shit.

Tonight I stumbled across a group that I found hilarious.

The group is so elequently called :

“1,000,000 PEOPLE AGAINST PEDOPHILES AND CHILD PORNOGRAPHY!!!”

The group aims to get to a million people that are against pedophiles and child porn.

Because there’s so much competition from the other side of the argument isn’t there?

Yeah. You know what? I’m frankly sick and bloody tired of everyone trying to recruit me to their pedophile gang.

Every fucking day, I hear people trying to tell me all about the merits of pedophilia and the glorious wonders of child porn.

I mean, them feckin’ pedos were just getting a bit big for their boots. All that unstoppable, relentless, support from the general public towards pedophiles just needed to be counter-acted. I think it’s high time we ended all the government funding that goes into child porn and all, y’know? I mean, I don’t even care about the tax benefits anymore.

Perhaps, with this new facebook group, we can change public opinion. Maybe, after one million people finally get off the fence and think “Y’know what man? I’m starting to question the morality of all this fiddling” and decide that they’re now AGAINST pedophilia and child porn, we can make things change.

Jesus christ. I’d say words fail me but well, they clearly don’t.

Since when do we need to be reminded that pedophilia and child porn is wrong?

Let’s have some stats. Currently, according to Google, the world’s population stands at 6,706,993,152. I’m going to say, for the sake of argument, that 0.01% percent of people are pedos. That’s one person in every thousand people (I think - my maths isn’t the best when my brain is allowed to melt in the summer). Probably being generous to them and all.

That leaves 6,700,286,16 people in the world that aren’t pedophiles.

I would hazard a guess that out of these 6,700,286,16 people, at least 6,700,286,16 of them would agree that pedophilia and child porn isn’t good.

I can really imagine them saying things like :

“Child porn? Ah now. That’s just not on now is it?”

“Pedophilia? Nah, it’s not the Mae West, I’ve gotta admit.”

Funnily enough, they ask us to join them in their “cause against pedophilism“. Well now. I certainly won’t be joining a group where they can’t even get the fucking word right. Honestly, “pedophilism?” It’s not a fucking religion. Pedophilia. Pedo-fucking-philia.

I bet if the pedos did unite (on Facebook no less) and start a group, they’d at least get the word right.

Now, I’m actually going to be semi-serious for a little bit. And possibly seemingly controversial, but hear me out.

In the blurb on this group, they acknowledge that pedophiles are “sick” but there “is no cure for them”. Right. They then say they should all be killed. I find that interesting.

I have no authority or even a basic knowledge in the field of psychology, but I was under the impression that pedophiles were born with that particular mental condition. They are, quite literally, sick in the head. Ill. If this is the case, there’s something wrong about the “kill them all attitude”.

Nobody think, for a second, that I’m condoning this sort of thing (I think that goes without saying, but it’s not a risk I’m willing to take really).

Let me make the (admittedly flawed - I’ll get to that after) comparison with homosexuality. We now accept that homosexuals are born with whatever it is that makes them attracted to the same sex. Years ago, this was considered a shameful illness, was it not?

Obviously the huge, inescapable difference here is consent and mental maturity. But I hope you can see the point I’m trying to make.

The world caters for all sorts of mental conditions. Addicts are treated. Insanity is a plea.

I’m not sure what I’m suggesting here (serious stuff really isn’t my forté, and on the whole, I’m a bit of an ignorant buffoon). I just find it difficult to blame someone for actions caused by something they were born with. That isn’t to say I don’t find the mere thought of those actions absolutely abhorrent (I think that’s the first time I’ve managed to get alliteration with the letter ‘a’). I don’t subscribe to the “kill them all” attitude anyway. Perhaps in time there’ll be some sort of rehabilitation methods.

Ah feck it, I dunno.

I’d like anyone to comment on this, I’m interested to find out if anyone sees what I’m getting at. I’m also more than open to the possibility that someone who knows what the fuck they’re talking about will comment and make me look like the fool that I am.

But yeah, that facebook group. It’s like having a group against murder. Or a group campaigning for people who enjoy happiness.

Obviously, nobody in their right mind fucking likes or appreciates pedophilia.

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Mark -vs- The World : The Return Leg

If you missed the first leg of this, check it out by clicking here.

So there I am on Tuesday. Finished my exams. Free. Sunny day. No obligations. I can go out drinking in the afternoon if I want. The sun was out. That’s right, the fucking sun was out. On a day where I’m totally free. I cannot stress enough how rare such a situation is. Which explains the staccato style of this paragraph. Emphasis you see. Emphasis.

This doesn’t count as a goal against the world - it was home advantage. So the scoreline is Mark 0 - 0 Cunting World.

I was playing at home in my 90,000 capacity stadium. The fans roaring. Atmosphere had been building all day - even the opposition fans that had travelled over were enjoying themselves. Many came over without tickets, hoping to get some on the black market or just some sort of lucky break. The roar that greeted the players as they exited the tunnel and graced the grass was enough to tell us all that we were in for something special.

I went to Superquinn to get myself a roll. Managed to get there just before the school kids got their lunch and raped the place. Got a roll that was still warm, made up by a deli girl who was very friendly, rather than the usual seemingly suicidal drone I’ve come to expect to serve me. Left for home just as the little bastards were leaving my old school in their uniforms. I felt like I’d narrowly escaped a stampede. Went home and enjoyed the roll thoroughly while watching an episode of Arrested Development.

But still, Mark 0 -0 Cunting World.

I was all over them. Playing them off the park. With 68% of possession and a 90% pass completion rate. 3 corners, 4 shots, 2 of which were on target. I was dominating. It seemed the world just hadn’t turned up that day. I just couldn’t get that final pass to play my strikers in. It was only a matter of time though.

So I decide to go for a walk in the local demesne. It’s actually a really nice place, massive, with paths and a river going through it. So much greenery. There’s also this great spot that I absolutely love. It’s this ledge in the middle of the river, where you can sit with water running either side of you. It’s a tiny bit tricky getting there, but nothing too challenging at all. Was looking forward to going there to sit down for a bit and enjoy the sun.

However, when I get there I see my path to the spot is flooded. Disaster has struck. I don’t understand how this has happened when it’s so fucking sunny out.

Mark 0 - 1 Cunting World.

A routine back-pass from my full back was sliced by my usually reliable goalkeeper. He’s a good shot-stopper but a whole lot less talented with his feet. So the world had a corner, completely against the run of play. Their big centre-back decided to come up for it, and the big galoot went and fucking scored. Rose head and shoulders above my defence, and the keeper, with his now shaken confidence, could do nothing about it. Absolute disbelief on the pitch, the bench and around the stadium. The commentator notes that “nobody ever said football was fair”.

Oh fuck off Hamilton you patronising cunt. Switch on Sky for the match there, I’m sick of that Hamilton and Beglin and their shite commentating.

So I detour a little. Went for some ’splorin’. I found myself walking across this marshy land. Not only am I at risk of getting my shoes and jeans completely wrecked, I’m at risk of totally faceplanting. Suddenly my foot slips on the moist surface and I feel myself starting to go. I somehow manage to regain my balance and continue walking unscathed. I turn around and there’s apparently no witnesses.

The world has a goal ruled out for offside!

Big goal kick from the world, flicked on by their centre-midfielder-turned-centre-forward (due to injuries you see), and volleyed first time by their usual first choice striker. Spectacular goal. Celebrations were short-lived when they saw that the dreaded linesman’s flag was raised. Free out. Replays showed it was a correct decision. “Well done linesman” says the commentator.

What do you mean ‘well done’!? He’s supposed to do that. Don’t ‘well done’ him for doing a fucking simple part of his job. Fucking George fucking Hamilton. Why aren’t we watching this on Sky for fuck’s sake?

But then my venturing to new plains payed off. I found myself in what appeared to be duck central! It was a little spot of marshy land that went into the river. Little patches of grass around. There were ducks all around there, some just chilling out seemingly, others going into the river and some others coming back to what appeared to be their nesting area. The best bit was when I spotted a mother duck (I’ve seen “motherduck” a lot in predictive texting on my phone - never has it been the phrase I was looking for) bringing out her four babies to the river, watching them swim around a bit, then bringing them back. Not sure if they were looking for food or material for a nest or something, but they did this journey a good few times during the time I was there. It was genuinely great to watch. All a few feet away from me. I felt like David Attenborough.

As tough as it is for me to admit, it made me think about how much time I spend behind a screen or using some expensive technology, when there’s great things like this to be seen that are completely free and natural. I was put in such a good mood just by watching those ducks for a while and being in the sunshine surrounded by the river and endless green.

Mark 1 - 1 Cunting World.

My speedy winger was put through clean on goal from a beautiful through pass. He was hacked down cynically by their brute of a centre-half. Uproar from the crowds. Ref blew it up immediately, and strode over to the culprit purposefully, and brandished a red card. Cheers from the crowd. A few claps from some of my own players. No complaints from the opposition. “Well I think the lack of complaints says it all really Jim”, Hamilton quips.

Oh just shut up.

My dead ball specialist places the ball carefully for the free-kick. We need you now son. Now more than ever. He strides up and whips it into the top corner, up over the wall but dipping back down again just in time. A screamer. Keeper didn’t move, he barely saw it. We’re all square. Justice is done. And hopefully now we’ll capitalise on the sending off and bring this match home.

I decide to leave. So, feeling joyous and at one with mother nature, I choose the hard way back (the way I came originally) rather than the new easy path I’d spotted while watching the ducks. It’ll be more fun this way I reckon. I’m more aware of the risk of slipping this time, so I’ll be careful enough to ensure it doesn’t happen.

A shock substitution by Mark!

Instead of going out to seal the victory, for some reason unbeknownst to everyone in the stadium, bar the manager, I took off my best player - my centre-midfield maestro, the talisman. When the fourth official put up his number on the board to be taken off, groans rippled around the stadium. The player himself seemed shocked and shook his head a little, but was too modest to make an issue out of it.

I’m then walking across the marshy land again. Slip!

But manage to regain balance again. For the second time that day I’d narrowly avoided embarrassment in that way. Now feeling invincible, I approached the path nonchalantly. Nature was my bitch. I’d crossed those muddy plains, watched the ducks upclose and was now inches from the path once again.

I slipped.

I did not regain my balance.

I properly slipped.

In the mud.

My phone fell out of my pocked and also into the mud.

It was only my left side that fell in the mud properly, but my left hand, sleeve, and jeans leg were ruined. Covered in fucking mud. My phone was also muddy but thankfully not broken. I felt so enraged and deflated. I’d gone from being utterly content, to being frustrated, embarrassed, and covered in shit. I had to walk home like this. A good ten-to-fifteen minute walk.

Mark 1 - 2 Cunting World.

The dying moments of the game. Corner kick to me. All or nothing lads. Keeper goes up, in a desperate bid to redeem himself for giving away the corner earlier that led to their goal. Corner taken, punched away by their goalie. Picked up by their full back who bombs up the wing with it. All of their attackers in pursuit. My keeper struggling to get back - fitness not his strongest asset either. The full back lays it across and their striker taps it into an empty net. Could have been any of the three that were in the box. It’s all over, and everyone knows it. There’s no coming back from that.

I gambled and lost.

There’s always next year.

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A Gentle Reminder

Right so, Trinity Ball was last Friday, the 8th. My exams start next Monday, the 18th.

So in the time after the ball, I should be studying pretty intensely, yeah?

Anyway. When collecting my ticket for the ball on Friday, I was given a packet of condoms and a box of jellybeans. Score.

Today, nearly a week after the ball, and with three days until my exams, I opened my school bag, and there lay the condoms and the jellybeans.

Here are the reasons why this is depressing :

1. I clearly have not done any study since the ball. I literally hadn’t opened my fucking school bag.

2. I clearly have not been neglecting my studies for what is possibly the only justifiable reason - Monkey business. Doing the deed. Banging. Nookie. It. Sexual intercourse.

3. I opened the pack, hoping to be cheered up by some sugar (yes, I opened the jellybeans, before any wisearse pipes up with a poshwank joke! I know how some of your minds work - just like mine) and got a fucking Cafe Latte flavoured one (again, I’m talking about jellybeans). I would genuinely prefer to pop a rabbit turd in my expectant gob.

A gentle reminder from the world, have sex study.

The ball was good though, despite the atrocious line-up.

And I’ve just gotten an apple flavoured jellybean. Everything’s comin’ up Walsho!

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I Love

Whoever changes the word “litter” on litter bins to “Clitterus”.

It’s genius.

Any old vandal can draw a cock and balls somewhere (admittedly if there is semen emanating from the crown it can be rather impressive), or write “Daz 09″ on a wall. But to change litter into clitterus, an incorrect spelling of the word, is top notch graffiting.

I think it’s so much funnier not only that it’s an incorrect spelling, but also the fact that clitoris is a word rarely used in this sort of thing. It’s like instead of writing “Jacintha is a SLUT” somewhere, writing “Jacintha has irritable bowel syndrome”.

There’s a bin by the bus stop in Palmerstown that has this done, but it’s topped off beautifully with the cheesiest smiley face I’ve ever seen, like this: =]

Here is my rendering of this creation by some latter day Da Vinci.

Bravo.

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Nosey Bastard

A rather unfortunate incident the other day.

There I am, heading into college to do some studying for my exams. The bus came and I sauntered on, and went upstairs to sit down.

I found a free seat, behind some middle aged woman. Threw my school bag onto the seat first, then plonked myself down. I was wearing a zipped up jumper which I then chose to remove, as it was suprisingly hot on the bus. Also, I felt it was only right and proper to show a bit of forearm, for the ladies y’know?

So I lean forward to slip the jumper off, and was like this for a few seconds, shrugging it off. The lady in front of me sort of glanced behind at me, and it was only then I was aware of our proximity, and it seemed as if I was looking in over her shoulder.

No big deal, right?

She was writing in her diary at the time.

For fuck’s sake. What are the odds?

I am a bus diary snooper. Beware.

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