Identity Crisis

Right so.

At the end of the last college year, I had to pick my subjects for next year. I did so.

Summer has nearly passed, and college is approaching, and naturally, being the idiot that I am, I’ve forgotten what subjects I picked for next year. I know I’m doing three business ones, and three politics ones, but I’m not sure which exactly.

I can’t believe I didn’t write the fucking choices down at the time, for my own future reference.

Anyway, I decided to email the course office to ask - in case I didn’t like the look of one and wanted to change.

I may have mentioned before that there’s another guy in my class called Mark Walsh - a fact I found out on my very first day of college - crushing any hopes of being in any way individual. This has caused one or two mix-ups during my two years so far, but nothing catastrophic.

Anyway, here’s my email to the office:

“Hi there,

My name is Mark Walsh, student number XXXXXXXX, going into third year BESS.

I’m really sorry to have to ask this, but is there any way you could tell me what subjects I’ve chosen for next year? Ridiculous question I know. I was very undecided at the time of choosing, so can’t quite remember what I actually put down in the end.

I believe there is another student in the year with the same name as me, so included my student number above, to avoid confusion.

Thanks,

Mark.”

I figured I may as well mention the ’student with the same name’ thing, just to avoid any potential future hassle.

Needless to say, they sent me the subject choices of the other Mark Walsh (I know this because there were choices in there that wouldn’t even have been possible for me to do, given the subjects I’ve done previously).

Jesus Christ.

This sort of shit really annoys me.

Originally there was a 50/50 chance of them getting the wrong Mark Walsh.

Then I included my student number - surely swinging the odds in my favour.

Then I went the whole hog and informed them that there was another student with the same name as me.

And still they get it wrong.

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Why Bother?

I think the Summer really makes my social skills deteriorate. Not seeing people as regularly as I would when college is going, it just seems to render me a bit ‘rusty’ with social interaction - with embarrassing consequences.

Last week I was heading off on my break from work. I strolled out into the village and heard some commotion. Up the road there was a group of pre-teens, all wearing the same t-shirt, which had something about Jesus on it. There were two big speakers pumping out music. A man with a clipboard seemed to be in charge of them all. They were standing around seemingly chatting and stuff, so I assumed they were still in the preparation stage of whatever they were doing.

On the other side of the road was a bus stop, with a lot of people standing, watching this group of kids, wondering what they were up to.

I’m walking towards the group of kids, trying to figure out what they’re doing, and if it’ll be alright if I pass through them.

Hoping I wouldn’t get harassed or anything.

As I get to them, I noticed they’d started arranging themselves in a formation. Like, five of them in a line at the back, then another four in front of them, and three at the front. I still can’t figure out what they’re doing, and nobody has tried to talk to me (though I did have earphones in), so I assumed everything was fine and I could walk through them unharmed.

Natural assumption like.

It was an incorrect assumption.

The very second I stepped into the gang, to pass through, they BROKE OUT INTO A FUCKING DANCE ROUTINE.

What are the chances?

If they’d started dancing even just a second sooner, I’d have been able to stop and go a different way.

But no.

I manage to time it so perfectly that I step in, they begin dancing, and I have no choice but to continue walking, interrupting a dance routine like a massive square.

A dance routine for Jesus, too. I crashed a Jesus dance.

To an onlooker (of which there were many, across the road), it could have looked like I was the group’s cue to commence dancing - if it weren’t for the fact that I was in work clothes, was considerably taller than all the children trying to dance around me, and was looking embarrassed and trying to get away from the scene as quickly as possible.

Anyway, I tried to recover from my unwilling debut into street dancing, and head to my destination - a little park down the road from work. It’s really nice, and always has lots of people walking with their kids and dogs and that. I go to this little bench that’s about a ten minute walk into the park. I plan to sit, eat some food, listen to the iPod, and head back. Lovely.

I get to the place with the bench.

The bench is no longer there.

I considered walking further on to try find another bench - but what if there wasn’t any more? I’d just be getting further and further away, on a wild goose chase.

My thoughts became angry. Anger fuelled by my own embarrassment.

Why the fuck was the bench moved?

They can’t just move benches without giving notice. There should have been a sign on the bench stating the imminent removal of the bench, so I, and any other bench-users, could prepare for it.

So I needed to turn around. Simply turn on my heel and walk back in the opposite direction again. But I felt weird about doing this.

There were a lot of people around. Some people standing chatting to other people they’d bumped into.

Lots of people.

People with eyes.

Eyes that could see me for the bench-less fool that I am.

So I took my phone out. I didn’t have a plan.

I considered faking a phone call, but then realised I’m not in a sitcom. So I just looked at my phone as if I’d gotten a surprising text message, slowed down my walking pace, furrowed my brow thoughtfully, and turned around.

So if anyone had been looking at me, they’d simply assume I’d received a text that stopped me in my tracks, and forced me to turn around.

Smooth.

I’m a regular James Bond, me.

A real cool cat.

A few days later in work, an ex-employee dropped in to say hello. She had stopped working there before I began, but we’d met once before, a good while ago. So we did the whole “Oh we’ve met before haven’t we?”. We’d both forgotten each others’ names, so we re-introduced ourselves.  All fine. A nice chat between me, her, and my co-worker.

Lovely.

Then, she has to go.

She says goodbye to me.

I say goodbye to her.

Then, my brain malfunctioned.

Because we’d introduced ourselves again earlier, I went to add a pleasant “nice to meet you” after my goodbye.

I began the sentence, then realised we’d met before, so it’d be a foolish thing to say.

So I stopped myself, but only after I’d uttered the first word - “nice”.

So the departing conversation went as follows:

Her: “See ya now Mark, all the best”

Me: “See ya [her name] … NICE!”

I just said the word ‘nice’ at her.

Is it possible she might just think I have a pleasant version of Tourette’s syndrome?

I can only hope.

At the end of my shift that evening, I was being collected.

I was going to be picked up in either a silver car, or a red car. I wasn’t sure which. Down the road was a silver car, with a man sitting in it, waiting.

Grand, there’s my lift.

I get to the car and went to open the door.

I then realised that it was not the car I expected.

Out of instinct, I bent down to look at the man sitting in the car.

Needless to say, it wasn’t who I expected.

So I raised my hand in apology and walked away.

This man was sitting innocently in his car, when some buffoon strolls up to the window and waves at him.

I waited for my lift, praying that it’d come in a silver car, so maybe the man would understand what had happened (he was sitting in the car still).

No.

The red car came.

I don’t know why I leave the house anymore.

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This Marilyn Monroe Quote

There’s a quote that’s pissing me right off lately. People having it on their facebook and joining fanpages for about it etc.

Here’s the quote:

“I’m selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can’t handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don’t deserve me at my best.”

Marilyn Monroe said that.

Marilyn Monroe.

This woman:

Look at her.

Look at Marilyn Monroe.

Marvel at her.

Actress, model, and singer. An acting career spanning across three decades.

I would quite happily cut off my hands and feet, and drag my bloodied stumps across a mile of broken glass, just for a chance to sniff Marilyn Monroe’s hair.

Marilyn Monroe could stab me in the chest and I’d still give away everything I have in the world to lick her foot.

So yes. She can be “selfish, impatient and insecure” and “hard to handle” all she wants.

She’d still be Marilyn Monroe.

This facebook page has nearly a million fans.

I’m pretty sure none of them are Marilyn Monroe.

This page is a gathering of people who want to justify themselves acting like a cunt.

Well fuck off.

“Deserve” you?

Good luck darling.

You’re not Marilyn Monroe.

On a related note, you’re not one of the girls off Sex And The City.

Lady Gaga? You’re not her either.

Chin up, though.

Maybe someday you could hope to be like someone from Coronation Street.

Now let’s all just be quiet and go to bed and keep warm under the duvet of our own collective mediocrity.

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Bus Girl

Ah, Bus Girl.

The girl you often see on the bus. You’ve never spoken to her. You don’t know anyone that knows her. You don’t know anything about her, except that you love her.

You hop on the bus home and sit upstairs, bored, and hope it doesn’t start raining before you get home.

Then she gets on.

Bus Girl.

In all her glory.

She sits upstairs, a few seats ahead of you. You always sit upstairs on the bus! You have so much in common!

She’s wearing her usual purple scarf.

Leather jacket?

Haven’t see that on her before. Suits her though. Everything suits Bus Girl.

Normal jeans - a girl next door sort of thing, y’know. You wouldn’t want Bus Girl wearing a short skirt or anything. She’s classier than that.

She always wears Converse shoes. Pink ones. They’re cute. Just like her. The cute little Bus Girl that she is.

You can’t see her face properly from where you’re sitting, but thankfully, as you look out the window, there’s a great shot of her in the reflection. Jackpot. Now you can pretend to be looking out the window. When really you’re pining.

She has earphones in. I bet she listens to the same music as you. You could go to gigs together. The kind of gigs you want to go to, but nobody else really knows the band, and you don’t fancy going alone.

She’d definitely knows some bands that you don’t though. And vice versa. So then you could make each other compilation CDs and everything.

She takes out a book and starts reading. She’s already half way through. She uses a bookmark to keep track of where she is in the book, instead of bending the pages like some people do. You don’t like bending the pages either! Made for each other.

She sneezes.

Just the one little sneeze.

My god that’s the cutest sneeze you ever did hear.

You’d marry that sneeze in a heartbeat.

She takes out her phone and sends a text.

Too far away to see what it said. Or if there were kisses at the end.

SHIT.

What if it was to her boyfriend?

There could be literally nothing worse in the history of the world than Bus Girl having a boyfriend.

She doesn’t have a boyfriend.

Bus Girl wouldn’t do that to you.

The text was to one of her parents. She’s just letting them know that she’ll be home for dinner soon.

She definitely doesn’t have a boyfriend.

She looks after her parents. And her little brother. She definitely has a little brother.

You could teach the little brother football skills and she’d watch and laugh and be impressed with your skills. Afterwards she’d tell you how adorable you were when you playing with the little brother.

Wonder if you should get the little brother a birthday present? She’d be really impressed if you did. And then him and the parents would really be on your side.

The mother would like you anyway, you’re polite and can eat anything she cooks for you so that’s grand. The father would be a bit surly but you’d win him over by knowing about football and cracking a couple of jokes. If he drinks Guinness then simply chat about places that do a good pint, and you’re sorted.

She’s taking out her phone again.

She reads it and puts it back in.

And there it is.

Clarification that she was just texting home.

Wonder if she’d make you change your Facebook status to “In A Relationship with Bus Girl”.

Wouldn’t really fancy that.

But if she insists.

Bet she does something cool in college.

Then she crosses her legs.

A real lady.

You wish you could see what she’s reading. Maybe it’s Catcher In The Rye - just like you’ve read. More likely though, it’s one of those books you wish you had read, but just have never gotten around to reading. She’s cool like that. Might have to brush up on your reading.

Maybe she’ll love your blog though.

She’ll find it really funny and think you’re really funny and girls love funny guys so therefore she loves you.

Shit, maybe you’re not ready for love.

What is love?

BABY DON’T HURT ME. DON’T HURT ME, NO MORE.

Right. You know she gets off at the same stop as you. She walks in the opposite direction, but still.

Except that time when she got off way before the stop. Wonder what that was about.

Say something to her. Crack a joke or something.

Then again, you’d probably make an idiot of yourself.

Don’t say anything to her, whatever you do, you massive fool.

God loves a trier though. And fortune favours the brave. And she’s not going to fall into your lap.

Come on, say something to her. It’ll be like the films.

Then in years to come you can make jokes about Dublin Bus bringing you together.

You both head downstairs as you near your stop.

You allow her to get off before you, with a “Ladies first” and a smile. She thanks you. And smiles.

After you get off she stops you and says “Is that The Smiths?”

Your iPod.

You took out the earphones to thank the driver (and try to flirt with Bus Girl) but left the music playing rather loudly. Clear for all to hear. And yes, you were listening to The Smiths.

You confirm that she’s correct. She gets quite animated and begins chatting away freely to you about how much she loves them.

And then you take her phone number.

Naaaaah.

You both went downstairs on the bus.

You took out an earphone and tried to say a suave “Ladies first”, but you hadn’t spoken for ages, and your throat had gone all funny and needed to be cleared.

So your charming “Ladies first” turned into a guttural “ladglarpi”. She looked at you with disinterested confusion just as the song on your iPod changed to some dogshit song by The Kooks.

She got off the bus and leapt into the arms of her troglodyte, mouth-breathing, illiterate, nose-picking boyfriend. He’s wearing a t-shirt that says “If found please return to pub” and there’s a ketchup stain on it. And on his tracksuit bottoms.

Ah, Bus Girl - the dozy fucking cunt.

Fine. They can go home and watch Jeremy Kyle together for the rest of their lives, feeding their idiot children icepops for dinner and having unloving, hairy sex, that gets interrupted with his growl of “Shite, I need a piss”.

I bet she was listening to some dance music shite.

And reading Ross O’Carroll Kelly.

And who the fuck wears pink Converse?

What is she, twelve?

Grow up you silly bint.

So you walk home and listen to this song and think about that girl that served you in the shop earlier.

Ah, Shop Girl.

You’re so much better than Bus Girl.

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Old Man Walsho

I know I’ve touched on this before, but I really am getting old.

Lately whenever I eat a big meal, I get incredibly sleepy. It’s like when you had old relatives over at Christmas and they fell asleep after dinner. At like 5pm.

I’m very out of touch with stuff that’s going on.

Up until very recently I thought “Dubstep” was a band. Turns out it’s a whole genre of music. I’m really glad I didn’t find that out at the wrong time. Imagine I was trying to chat up a girl and she asked if I like Dubstep and I was all like “Oh yeah, their latest album is really good. Though I prefer their older stuff to be honest.”

And don’t even get me started on that band “Rock”.

In a similar vein, I’d seen a few mentions online of Gypsies On The Autobahn. I genuinely believed this was a load of gypsies after setting up camp on the Autobahn. Didn’t some gypsies live on an Irish motorway for a while?

Anyway, Gypsies on the Autobahn are a band. Not a current affair.

The Hills. Glee. Jersey Shore. I do not know what these fucking things are.

Justin Bieber is a person of some sort. He is male. That is all I know.

iPhones frighten me with how much they can do. Matter of time before there’s a mind-reading app.

I recently got in a bad mood because I couldn’t find any matching socks. This mood culminated in a mental rant about how socks are a scam, and that when I have kids I’ll only ever buy them plain black socks, so there’ll never be an issue with matching. Fucked if I’m buying my own socks yet though.

Facebook has countless things that confuse my poor pensioner mind. What’s with all these turban groups? At first I thought it was funny simply because it’s a bit weird. But now there’s so many different groups about turbans. One of them says to type a big long number into your phone as a text, and when you do, it spells “I love turbans”. I don’t understand why this is good in any way at all. Turbans do actually exist like. Some people do wear them. It’s not that outrageous a concept. Am I missing something? Did Justin Beiber appear in Glee and do a dance wearing a turban?

I also saw a group about poking people’s tongues when they yawn. The type of person who’d do such a thing is EXACTLY the type of person you’d least want touching you. If they go shoving their fingers in people’s mouths willy nilly, lord knows what they’re doing when they’re alone. If they can’t help but seize the opportunity to shove their finger into your mouth when it’s open, what happens when they walk by a stray cat? Or any animal with an anus for that matter.

I also don’t understand why club nights these days are all named after bad things - “PROPAGANDA”, “WAR”, “BLASPHEMY” and finally, “CUNT”.

These names just make me feel nervous and intimidated.

“Hey Mark, wanna go to WAR tonight?”

“Yo Walsho, fancy heading to PROPAGANDA this weekend?”

“Sup M-Dawg, we’re all going to GRIEVOUS BODILY HARM tonight. Fancy it?”

“M-to-the-A-to-the-R-to-the K, we’re just heading for a few pints in YOUR MOTHER’S BLOODIED VAGINA. You stallin’?”

Why can’t they be called nice things. Like “Picnics”, “Camaraderie” or “Harmless Flirting”?

I’d go to those.

I’ve also noticed (mainly from creeping on Facebook pictures) that some nights out now have a novelty guest of a snake. Obviously it’s not set loose but still, it’s a snake! A snake!

Why on earth would anyone want a fucking snake around them during a night out?

I think from now on I’ll stay at home in my duvet. And quiver with fear of everything until I fall asleep.

On a lighter note though, I was in the newspaper the other day. Check it out:

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Earphone Woe

My iPod is a vital part of my life. As such, earphones are a vital part of my life too.

One minute you’re grand, bopping along like nobody’s business.

Then your earphones break and your whole world comes crashing down around you.

I’m a fan of the in-ear ones, so you can have your music on proper loud, and not be an ignorant cunt, annoying everyone else around you. These tend to have little removable ‘caps’ on them. The squeezy bit that goes into your ear, y’know.

This is where my woe began.

I have a VERY STRICT pocket system. Phone and iPod in front-left pocket, wallet in the right, keys in the back-right. The back-left remains fallow for miscellaneous gatherings. This can be betting slips, vouchers, to name just a few.

My favourite pair of jeans have developed a hole in the front-left pocket. My Mam actually used to work in clothes alterations, so could fix this with ease.

However, I can’t ask her to do that, because I once made this mistake with a pair of school trousers back in the day.

Mam, is your sewing machine still working?

“Yeah, why?”

I need you to fix my school trousers, there’s a hole in the pocket.

She began giggling.

Why are you laughing?

“That hole might come in handy you know Mark!”

She continued to giggle as I stormed off.

I refuse to risk my mother taunting me about masturbating at inappropriate times. Not again.

So the hole remains in my jeans.

Now, this caused problems when I was in the college pub one day. I was returning from the bathroom, and felt a strange coldness just above my left knee. For a moment I feared I’d been reckless at the urinals. A glance down proved I hadn’t been, not obviously anyway.

I eventually figured out that my earphones had unravelled in my pocket and fallen through the hole, and were now dangling half way down the inside of my jeans.

“Oh”, says I, “we can’t be having that”.

So I fixes it so I does.

This happened a few times. My earphones repeatedly penetrating the hole in my pocket eventually caused one of the earphone caps to be lost.

“Oh”, I think to myself, “we can’t be having that”.

So I find some new caps and replace them. The only problem is that the new caps are black, and my earphones are white. My inter-racial earphones might be a bit too in-your-face for some folk.

I tried changing my pocket system - putting my iPod in the other pocket - but it really didn’t work. There was a reason the system developed the way it did. I will not allow my pocket system, which has served me so well for years, to be changed by some arrogant little hole. I won’t give it the satisfaction.

Can’t be having that.

Then, over the course of a week or so, these earphones began getting quieter and quieter. I don’t know if it’s anything to do with the new caps. It shouldn’t be, but I guess it could be. It got to the point where listening to podcasts is totally out of the question, because any loud background noise would mean I couldn’t hear what was being said.

Can’t be having that.

I should just buy new earphones - but then again, it’s my birthday soon. I could let someone else pay for them. Obviously I’ll buy them myself, but the family can pay for them. Paying for new earphones when your birthday is only around the corner?

Can’t be having that.

So, I’m left with a big decision.

Option A: Stick with the current earphones, and only listen to really loud songs.

Option B: Go to the Apple earphones - the ones that came with the iPod - they’re terrible. Really abysmal.

The current earphones are the equivalent of your average modern mobile phone. Apple earphones are the equivalent of communicating with your friend next door using two plastic cups and a piece of string.

Option C: The porn earphones.

These are the earphones I had a long time ago, and they served me well. But now only one ear works anymore. I was going to throw them out, until I realised the porn potential they possessed (I do still try to do alliteration whenever I can). Most men obviously understand what I mean here, but I’ll explain for anyone who doesn’t. When watching porn, or even videos your mates send you but you think may end up being dodgy or loud, you simply can’t have the sound on. You can’t. But you want to hear. So earphones are the answer. But then what if someone comes in?

Ah, you stick just one earphone in. Whichever ear is nearest to the door, that one is left free. That’s the lookout ear.

I went with the porn ones for a while anyway. Then the remaining working ear broke. Heartbreaking.

I simply refuse to use the Apple ones.

So I’m back on the quiet ones. I’ve gotten so used to them being so quiet that sometimes I forget to actually stick my iPod on after I’ve stuck them in.

Can’t be having that.

Probably should’ve just risked the wank jokes from my Mam.

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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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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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