Mild Misadventures

Yesterday was a very sunny day. Lately though it’s been very sunny at times, and then out you stride, in your t-shirt, sunglasses, and speedo, and then the rain comes a-pouring. I’ve learned it’s not worth the risk of wearing summer clothes.

So yesterday I had several things to do. Several simple things.

1. Go to the post office to post something.

2. Go to the bookies to collect winnings.

3. Buy beer with these winnings.

So off I go, around 2pm, to the post office. Wearing a jumper.

It was much hotter than I thought. Not to worry sure.

There was a woman in the garden a few houses down from me. She looked familiar, but I didn’t quite know if she lived there, or was just a friend of the person who lived there. I said an awkward hello just in case. I got a confused, mumbled reply. I don’t think she lives there.

So I get to the post office, about five minutes from my house, and I’m genuinely sweating. It really was roasting.

The woman working there was away from the counter. I hate this shit. How do I get her attention without being a knob? Clearing your throat can seem rude. You can take the risk of saying “excuse me” but you really have to get the tone right. If it comes out wrong, you could be facing a snappy response and angry service. And angry service leaves you pissed off for hours after.

Anyway, it all worked out in the end.

To the bookies!

Actually, no.

I’ve forgotten the betting slip.

Back home.

The neighbour-but-not-neighbour woman was there again. I figured I’d already committed to saying hello, so I did it again, except gave a little wave this time. She nodded in return. Yep, she does NOT live there.

Got the slip and went to the bookies. Collected my money. Next to the bookies is a newsagent. In this newsagent they sell World Cup Stickers, which myself and a few friends have begun collecting, to relive our childhoods. I recommend collecting them. It’s class.

The only downside is that it can be embarrassing buying the stickers. I usually try to march up the counter confidently and buy them, in a “nothing to hide” sort of way. This was my plan of action yesterday.

I strode up the counter where they usually have them. The woman working there sees me doing this and paints on a smile, probably expecting me to ask for cigarettes or phone credit or something. Just as I get to the counter I see the stickers aren’t there. I panic and veer off. This confused the woman.

I pretended to be interested in some A4 pads in the corner of the shop for a while, before leaving. As I’m leaving I stop to look at the beer, to see if the deals can match Tesco. They can’t. Just as I’m heading to the door, I see the stickers. They’re now in the middle of the sweets.

Fuck it. I’m getting the stickers.

So I bought them. So it looked like I walked in, pretended to look at stationary and alcohol in an attempt to conceal the fact that I only wanted to buy stickers.

Oh, the stationary isn’t quite up to my standard. Oh, the alcohol section! Mmm, I do like drinking lots of alcohol with my chums. Such merriment we have! Oh, I could tell you a story or two about our high-jinks. Sadly this alcohol doesn’t quite seem to be wild enough for me. If only I could purchase some drugs, such as cocaine. That’s a favourite of mine. The old cocaine. I know, I know, it’s dangerous, but oh, I just love taking risks! So no stationary or alcohol for me here. I’ll just purchases these, eh, world cup stickers then.

Finally, I left. Red-faced. Outside there was a guy with a clipboard and a Concern top on. You know the lads that stop you for a chat and try get a donation thing set up. I try to be polite when declining their offer of a chat.

I’m about to pass him so decide in my head to just say “sorry” as I go by. Had it all planned. Fool proof.

So as I pass, I make eye contact and say “sorry”. Before I got it out though, he gave me a disinterested “howaya”.

Safe to say that wasn’t my finest conversation.

- Howaya?

- SORRY

Why the fuck did I choose to say sorry? What sort of fucking idiot am I? Maybe if I’d followed it up with “I’m in a hurry” or something. But no. A big, lonely, nonsensical, sorry.

Sorry is a great word though. Keep thinking about it there. It doesn’t seem like a word anymore.

Now, to buy the beer. Hopefully without stopping to wave at an empty car or apologise to a bush or something. Like a big idiot. A big, apologising, sticker-buying, idiot.

“Sorry”. Jesus Christ.

I get to Tesco and pick up a big box of beer. I walk to the self-service counter. This is a less painful way to buy. I feel shame when buying a box of beer in the afternoon of a weekday.

I was waiting for ages at the self-service. A little boy was buying sweets and paying in coppers. He took an age to take each coin out of his little coin bag and place it in the machine. Then he’d gawk at the screen for a while before deciding to put more money in.

Sometimes children are cute and their actions can be explained simply by the fact that they’re children. This little boy was just thick.

Finally, he finishes. I scan my beer, and it has to get approved. So I call the woman over.

She starts approving it, then stops and looks at me and asks for ID.

I give her ID.

She looks at me more.

I now became aware of how much I was sweating.

WHY THE FUCK DID I WEAR A DAMN JUMPER?

Still, she looked at me quite inquisitively.

Perhaps she thought I was actually underage, using someone else’s ID, and was sweating with the nerves.

Or maybe she thought I was the disgusting sweating pig who wears a jumper on a swelteringly hot day.

On the walk home I passed many children being walked home by their parents. I felt shame at carrying a big box of beer in the afternoon.

When I got home I looked in the mirror and there was a greenfly in the fringe of my hair. Strolling around in there. In the fringe of my sweat-matted hair.

I wonder how long he’d been there? Was that why the Tesco woman looked at me funny? She probably thought about telling me it was there but decided it wasn’t worth the awkwardness. Or maybe she thought I kept it as a little pet.

Anyway, I’m thinking Al Pacino to play me in the film adaptation.

If you enjoyed this post, make sure you subscribe to my RSS feed!

In The Summertime

Ah Summer, I’ve missed you mate.

I’m finally finished all my college exams, and they went fairly well. My main problem is that all my exams were three hours long, and after a while you get the feeling that you’ve already done enough to pass, so boredom kicks in.

This happened in a big way in my ‘Social Research’ exam. This is a subject I chose so I could avoid doing Maths and Stats for another year. It isn’t exactly riveting, and is basically about researching society and the different methods involved in doing this. For my last essay question in this one, I was waffling my way through discussing the importance of choosing a suitable location for a study.

“Choosing the location of your study is a vital part of any ethnographic research. For example, if you were investigating a certain crime and trying to understand the reasons for it, you may want to study in an area where that crime is very frequent. Alternatively, it could be beneficial to choose an area with a noteworthy infrequency of that crime. This could be of particular use if the crime you are investigating is the murder of Social Researchers.”

Extra marks there surely?

So now I’m free. Free to play Football Manager all day and not get dressed. You can also expect more posting from me on here.

And then we have the World Cup. Football all day. I think games start in the early afternoon, so that’s a legitimate excuse for early drinking there.

Most importantly though, I’m nearing completion of my Summer playlist. Check the screenshot:

A nice mix of cheesy nostalgic shit and some genuinely good tunes. All of them do the job of getting me in the Summer mood.

I’ll just sit back, listen to this playlist, and ogle the women walking around in their summer clothes. And scowl at the topless men wearing flamboyant shorts.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I must commence staying up until 5am doing nothing, then getting up at 4pm wondering where the day has gone. Ah Summer, you’re just fucking class.

If you enjoyed this post, make sure you subscribe to my RSS feed!

Awards

Story?

Right so, this week I attended the Student Media Awards (Smedias) in the Mansion House in Dublin. I was up for two awards - Blog of the Year and Colour Writer of the Year (for my articles for TCD Miscellany, all of which have been posted on here). I must say a quick thanks to Oxygen.ie and all the sponsors for making the night possible.

While I’m at it, thanks to the people who nominated me for the Irish Blog Awards. I got a few nominations (sadly I didn’t get further than that stage!) and I really appreciated these, so thanks to whoever took the time to nominate me. My delicate ego loves a grooming now and again. Apologies for not doing this before now.

Anyway, the Smedia awards. I prepared the way I imagine everyone does for these things - drinking. Not much, just the shower-beer (something I highly recommend to everyone) and a couple on the way. I was fairly dapper looking, and when we got to the Mansion House there was a nice atmosphere. People were mingling and wishing each other luck. This would have been appreciated by me if I hadn’t needed to use the bathroom so desperately.

I guess I take this sort of thing for granted. You could be being crowned king of the world, with millions of admirers literally worshipping you, but you just couldn’t enjoy it if you were dying for a piss.

Once we got inside, I relieved myself and began to relax more. There were vouchers for free drinks. Sadly the free drinks were new Bulmers Berry, which is shit. I’m also wary of new Bulmers products. When Bulmers Pear first came out, it apparently had quite a strong laxative effect (I wouldn’t know, being a Guinness man).

So anyway, I began getting through these free drinks. This meant another trip to the bathroom before the ceremony even began. I’d broken the seal. Rookie mistake.

It was at the urinals that I realised I’d made another rookie mistake. I was wearing quite light grey slacks. I really liked them, but I didn’t trust their ability to conceal wayward urine drops. Firstly, there’s the risk of splashback at the urinals. This is the worst thing ever, as it’s not your fault at all - it’s the fault of the poorly designed urinals.

But, another worry crossed my mind. A rarer, but potentially disastrous thing. I don’t expect women to understand this. Men will. I know this. You see, sometimes after urinating, particularly at a urinal, when you’re not at your most cautious, you can sometimes suffer what I call “post-piss leakage”.

This is when you have a nice relaxing whizz, shake away, and think you’re all done. You tuck the old boy back in, begin zipping up, but then you feel an unexpected drop. This does not happen often, but it’s not a nice feeling when it does. It’s never a large volume either, so even if it does happen, it’s generally nothing to be concerned about.

However, I noted that the trousers I was wearing were just the kind of trousers that would make it obvious if this had happened. So then I had to be careful at the urinals all night. Then there was the (admittedly small) chance that the Bulmers Berry was a bit of a laxative. What if I gambled on a fart and lost? Fucking light trousers. Never again. I knew there was a reason I usually stick with dark trousers. You just never know.

Anyway, I managed to get through the whole night without needing a nappy.

I met some of the other nominees in my categories. They were all very nice people, which obviously was annoying. Then you feel bad about wishing them good luck and not meaning it at all. It’s customary to say “good luck” in that sort of situation, but then you’re thinking “Not really. Actually, technically, I wish you bad luck. Not in life or anything, just in the awards.”

Both my awards were being announced before the half way point of the ceremony.

It was a new experience for me. I was a little excited about having my name announced and clapped, and seeing my name (and blog URL) on the big screen behind.

It’s pretty nerve-wracking though.

You can’t help but feel nervous.

In the moments before the winner is announced, a lot of stuff runs through your mind.

I’m not going to win, I know it. I’m glad anyway. I’d hate to have to make a speech. I’d definitely cock up a speech. And I’d have to walk to the stage, with everyone looking at me. I’d probably trip up or start walking all funny, like when you’re walking by a group of youths hanging around outside Tesco and you suddenly feel all conscious of how you walk.

What if I win though? I could win, I have as good a chance as anyone like. And I’m up for two. If I don’t win one I still might get the other. This could give me a boost. An award would give me some credibility like. I might get to speak to media people and charm my way into a job somehow. This could be the stepping-stone I need to get me a career in writing stuff. Imagine. Being paid to write. I could laze around in my boxers all day, then whip up a brilliant article at the last minute and then get paid for it.

Imagine I got really big and everyone loved me. I might have to go on the Late Late show sometime. That’d be class. I’d get Dad to tape it for me. Walking out on stage would be tough though. Worse than that time I won the Smedia awards, as this time it’s on TV to the whole country. Also, I haven’t won a Smedia award yet.

I’d definitely try crack jokes on the Late Late though. Then someone would upload it to youtube and I could read everyone’s comments. There might be some girls saying how funny I am and how they love me. I’d probably have to put extra privacy settings on my facebook because I’d be getting so famous.

Then I’d write a book because publishers would all be fighting over me because everyone loves me so much. Then the book would be made into a film. My fans would be all “I hope it doesn’t ruin the book for me”, and I’d be all reassuring like “Don’t worry guys, I’m on set everyday making sure it’s staying true to the book”. Then I’d be minted. I’ll keep my feet on the ground though. Definitely. Just because I’m so famous and rich and lusted-after doesn’t mean I’m any different.

I wonder if I’d get into a relationship with another celebrity.

But then you don’t win any of your awards, because the world is a horrible place, and you go home and wish you’d never been born.

So, that was a little disappointing. Thankfully, I’ve found something to relate to, and to help get me through this difficult period. It’s a song. Something about the lyrics really speak to me, and remind me that I’ll be okay. Here is that song.

If you enjoyed this post, make sure you subscribe to my RSS feed!

Mind Wanderings

I walk into a lecture.

A big decision awaits. Where to sit?

Too near the back and you haven’t a hope of paying attention properly at all. Back in school the back row was for the bullies and sluts. Not so much in college, but you still have difficulty focusing back there. People honking on their crack pipes and ridin’ and all that. Too near the front and you’ll feel bad about whipping the phone out right in front of the lecturer. You’ll also be a NEEERRRRD.

I walk by, giving a weak smile at the person I’m friends with on facebook, but barely know in real life. How we came to be facebook friends is anyone’s guess.

Find a seat. Some friends come to sit beside me. They all take out laptops or notepads, so I better do the same.

The lecturer silences the room and begins speaking.

Ugh, reading straight from the slides. Why did I bother coming in? Could have gotten an extra hour of sleep, then got the shitting slides online.

Obviously I wouldn’t have actually bothered getting the slides online, but I could have.

“Today we’re going to discuss the performance of both consensus democracy systems and majoritarian systems. The main text you’ll need for reading this is…”

Snoooore. How much time has gone?

Five minutes. Jesus Christ, this one’s gonna drag.

I think I’ll crack my knuckles. Always feels good.

I wonder if it’s possible that I could try to crack my knuckles sometime, and accidentally break my fingers. What if my wrist felt stiff so I bent my hand back to crack the bones, and I broke my wrist bone? What if I broke it at a weird angle and it pierced a vein or something? Imagine my arm filling up with blood from the inside then. Ballooning up. Ugh. You’d have to get someone to call an ambulance, but then trying to explain to them what you’d done to yourself would be a difficult enough process. Nightmare.

“Ljiphart proposes that there are two kinds of democracy, these are the majoritarian and consensus models we’re analysing today.”

Ljiphart can propose to shut up and fuck off for all I care.

There’s that girl I always see on the bus. It’s weird we’ve never spoken.

She’s in some of my lectures like, and often on my bus. I know lots of people just from lectures. Why don’t I know her when she’s on my bus too?

She’s definitely seen me too.

Someday I hope she’s getting on the bus before me and hasn’t got enough money. The bus driver will be all like “you ain’t gettin’ on this bus with no money darling” and she’ll be all like “but I have to, I’ve got to get home for dinner and then check that really funny blog by that Walsho guy in case he’s written anything new”. The driver’ll be like “tough shit love, nothing free in this world but hardship”.

Then I’ll step forward and be all “Except the kindness of strangers” and pay her fare for her. She’ll be swooning and shit and I’ll give her a wink and say “An ass like that ain’t gotta pay on no bus hunnie” and she’ll grin mischievously and bring me upstairs to the back for a cheeky handjob. That’d be class.

“The majoritarian model is the belief that the government should be responsive to the interests of the majority.”

She’s reading right off the fucking slides. That exact sentence is there like, not just the keywords. There’s literally no point coming to this lecture anymore.

What if I had to get sick in this lecture? But I had three seconds before I actually had to puke.

I guess I could go in my schoolbag, but all my stuff’d get wrecked. I could puke in my laptop bag and try to get the laptop out first, which is possible, but risky. The floor is an option, but it’d stay there until the place is cleaned at night. I’d feel bad for the cleaners. And I’d just be sitting here after puking, with the puke still in front of me, stinking up the place. But walking off would be weird too. Vomiting on the floor, then standing up, grabbing my things and trying to slink out, with everyone looking at me. Where would I look as I was walking out? No, the floor is definitely not an option.

I could try to run out and do it in the bathroom, or the bin outside, but that’s seriously chancing it. The worst case scenario would be if I got stuck getting out of the row, and ended up puking on somebody else’s bag or something. I could end up doing what that lad in school did during a ceremony once - running for the door, not quite making it, putting my hand to my mouth to stop the sick coming out, failing, and having puke violently spray out from the holes between my fingers. That was awful. It was like he had five tiny mouths that were getting sick - the five separate spurts of sick.

Running out draws attention to yourself too. I guess if I stayed sitting and did it, it’s possible nobody would notice.

Why am I thinking about this? I don’t need to get sick. I should pay attention.

“Now, In the consensus model, the belief is that governments should respond to the needs of as many people as possible.”

That girl in front of me has been texting all through this lecture. She holds her phone right up to text, I can read everything she’s saying. She uses way too many exclamation marks. Sometimes she puts kisses at the end, other times she doesn’t. Wonder what she’d do if I leaned forward and was like “ooh, you sure you want to send that one? Seems a bit forward to me.”

Why has nobody texted me so far anyway? I should be getting texts.

I wish everyone would stop taking so many notes. Even the lads are doing it. This lecture’s a write-off for me, no point starting now.

Imagine I somehow became a dog. Like, my mind but in a dog’s body. Not a stray dog, but one who lives with a human family, and I have 24 hours to communicate to them that I have a human mind, or else I’ll forever be trapped in this canine body. If I make them understand that I’m a human in a dog’s body, I can go back to normal.

I couldn’t really write, as my dog paws would be too rubbish. I guess I could use my nose to type a message out on the computer.

I wonder if I’d still enjoy human food or would I want dog food? Maybe I’d like to continue being a dog so wouldn’t bother telling the family I’m really a human. It’s a fairly handy life, lounging around, sniffing stuff, humping legs and all that. Bit undignified, but the total lack of responsibility would be class.

I could go into school playgrounds and wreak havoc too. I’d probably win awards and stuff because my human mind would make me a really intelligent dog. But then what if other dogs beat me in some of the dog competitions, I couldn’t handle the shame of being beaten by an actual dog. I’d definitely want to be human again. Or else just a dog with a dog’s mind. That’d be pretty cool.

“This next section often appears on the exam, so take note.”

Shit. Better listen.

I really need to fucking listen.

I really want to too.

I want to listen.

I’LL TELL YA WHAT I WANT, WHAT I REALLY REALLY WANT.

SO TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT, WHAT YOU REALLY REALLY WANT.

I WANNA-AH, I WANNA-AH, I WANNA-AH, I WANNA-AH, I WANNA REALLY REALLY REALLY WANNA ZIGAZIG-AAAH.

If you enjoyed this post, make sure you subscribe to my RSS feed!

When I Were A Young ‘Un

Contrary to seemingly everyone who ever gets a chance to talk about their lives in some form of media, I had a nice childhood. No complaints like. S’grand.

I do, however, have some stories from the days when I wasn’t quite the charming, suave, and handsome specimen of a man that I am today. I stress that I was very young when these things happened. Very young.

1. I only found out about this one the other day. My parents used to bring me into town to see the St. Patrick’s Day parades. Kids love these things, getting free sweets that were thrown into the crowds, seeing all the floats and dressed-up characters. I, apparently, did not.

My Mam said she’d point to the next big float coming in the parade and say “Ooh Mark, look at that one!”

I’d respond with a mournful, “Aw nooo, not another one.”

I just wanted to go home.

I’ve never been more proud of my childhood self. Even then, I knew parades were shit.

2. I once asked my mother what it meant when “my willy goes big”.

She told me it meant that I needed to go to the toilet.

I did not believe this. And I had the evidence to prove I was right not to.

“No it doesn’t, look.”

It was at this point my erect penis was presented. Exhibit A.

“And I don’t have to go”.

Panicked, my mother shouted down to my Dad to back her up. He confirmed that it did indeed mean I had to go to the bathroom, and if I didn’t now then it was just a warning that I would need to soon.

Obviously, eventually I did have to go, so I believed them. Quite cunning of them really.

Thankfully, schoolyard hearsay informed me more accurately, so I never ended up giving anyone an unwanted golden shower.

Nor have I given a wanted golden shower, for that matter.

3. My sister used to get some butter, put it in a bowl, and microwave it. She then poured it over popcorn and it was truly delicious.

Once, when my mother and sister were out, and my Dad was asleep upstairs, I decided I wanted to try this myself. The only problem was that I was afraid to use the microwave. So I tried simply buttering the popcorn, as you would butter a slice of bread or a potato. I assure you all that this is as disgusting as it sounds.

Imagine massive clumps of butter, with some popcorn lobbed on.

I was so determined to make my cuisine a success that I ate a lot. I can’t remember if I managed to eat it all, but certainly a lot.

A while later I got sick. I got sick a lot.

There’s some beautifully childish about getting sick from eating something wrong, or eating too much.

I then couldn’t eat popcorn or anything with a lot of butter, for a very long time.

I never told my family about this because I was so embarrassed.

4. You know that groove between your nose and your upper lip? Some quick internet research tells me it’s called a philtrum.

Well, I used to think that that was caused by allowing your nose to run all the way down to your lip. As in, a trail of mucus. See, in playschool this would happen to kids all the time, because kids are disgusting and have no control over their noses and all (I was different of course. I used to strut around the playschool in a blazer, with red wine in my sippy cup, and doing a sudoku).

This theory also meant that if you allowed your snot to drip just half of the way down towards your lip, your philtrum would only go that far down.

I don’t know if there is any scientific backup to my theory.

5. Adults used to always ask what you wanted to be when you were older. I had a great answer for this, such that my parents used to get people to ask me, just so they could enjoy my response.

Mark, tell your auntie what you want to be when you’re older.

“A footballer, a rugby player, a basketball player, a tennis player, a runner…

… and a shop-keeper.”

Why a shop-keeper?

“Because then I can eat sweets all day.”

6. When you’re young, people always make remarks about how tall you’ve gotten since they last saw you, and how tall you’re going to be when you’re older.

One day I really took this to heart and believed I was going to be some sort of giant.

This upset me because it meant that when I became a professional footballer, I’d just be stuck up front as the big man to aim long balls at. And I wanted to be more of a creative midfielder.

I think I actually shed a tear at this prospect.

7. I only know this one from seeing an old family video of it.

The whole family were at some event. Possibly a communion or something. It got to the stage where everyone gathered around to watch the children sing a song or do something like that.

My cousin was encouraged to sing Ba-Ba Black Sheep. If anyone didn’t have a childhood and doesn’t know this rhyme, here you go. So, off he went, singing.

When he got to the last line he said “And one for the boy who lives down the lane”, and everyone clapped and cheered.

It was at this point I stepped forward, and demanded everyone stop clapping, because the words were supposed to be “And one for the LITTLE boy who lives down the lane”.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt more ashamed than when I saw that video.

If you enjoyed this post, make sure you subscribe to my RSS feed!

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.

If you enjoyed this post, make sure you subscribe to my RSS feed!

TCD Miscellany IV

Right so. If anyone doesn’t know, I’ve been the back-page columnist for TCD Miscellany this year. The final issue of the year has just gone out this week. I’ve really enjoyed writing for the magazine. Special thanks to the editor, Conor, for doing such a great job with it. I’ve always had complete faith when sending in my column, and for me, that’s saying something.

My first article is here, the second here, and the third here. Enjoy.

Miscellany IV

So here we are. The final column of the final Miscellany of the year. I’m starting to worry. The end of year exams are drawing near. All year I’ve been telling myself how I’ll be getting my act together soon.

‘Just after I go out this weekend, then I’ll start studying!’

‘Ah sure, I’m too hungover today, it can wait ‘til tomorrow.’

‘ There’s too much snow this month, it’s a month for tracksuit bottoms and two pairs of socks, not the library and essays!’

And now I’m fucked.

Too many tutorials have passed by with me being the gormless mute at the back. Sitting there, open-mouthed, gawping in amazement at the amount of stuff other people know. How do they know all these things? How do they know about politics? Why don’t I know about these things? Why have I spent my college life drinking and wanking my days away, instead of reading? Why do I consider a productive day to be one where I’ve cut my nails, had a shave and gotten a good rest?

Sometimes people have made jokes in reference to political happenings and everyone in the room laughs. I sit there trying to smile as if I know what the joke is. There’s one tutorial like this where everyone’s great, but then there’s me and one other girl who never really contribute. I appreciate her so much. Having someone else to look at and think “well, at least I’m not the only one”. So in a recent tutorial, I sat beside her at the back. The class begins as normal, everyone talking and answering questions, except me and her. Then we move on to discussing school exchanges and whether they have any sort of impact on international relations. She exclaims that she went on one of these EXACT exchanges we were talking about, and begins telling the class all about it. She’s one of them now. One of the knowledgeable ones.

I’ve never felt so betrayed in my life. My partner in ignorance leaving me in my sordid little pit of silence, all alone except for the poor company of my own fading dreams and wasted potential. Selfish cow.

I have started to make an effort though. I went to the library one Sunday. It was Sunday the 14^th of February actually. A very romantic Valentine’s day I had. On the bus home I looked around and everyone was by themselves. I felt sorry for all these people, all alone on a romantic day like that. Then I realised I was one of them. I reckon that if I’d tried to initiate an orgy at that point, nobody would have declined. But how does one initiate an orgy? Do you start with one person and hope others just dive in, or do you make some sort of declaration to everyone? We got to my stop before I could come up with a plausible solution.

I’ve also begun playing the odd bit of five-a-side football. I played football for my local team for ten years, then just lost interest. To this day I regret quitting, and still often have dreams where I’m back playing. So I like a bit of five-a-side so I can see if I’ve still got it. You see, of all the men who’ve played football, not one of them ever truly stops believing that someday he’ll play for his country. Obviously, I know I won’t, but I don’t believe I won’t.

There’ll come a day, when my grandchildren pay me a visit in my hospice, and I’ll be propped up, all withered and yellow and listless, smelling of piss. As they spoon some baby food into my mouth, they’ll ask me if I’m feeling alright. I’ll tell them I’m not, because I woke up that morning and finally realised that I really am probably never going to captain Ireland in a world cup match. I imagine I’ll die the following morning, of a shattered heart.

The five-a-side is good though. I do still have it. I change into my tracksuit bottoms with the hole in them, stick on the runners, take a swig of Lucozade, and trot onto the pitch (the small little indoor place) and play my heart out. Closing down, tackling, through balls, cheeky back-heels.

For about five minutes.

The following 55 minutes involve me doing whatever I can to stop myself from vomiting, and clutching my sides with a stitch. What the fuck is a stitch anyway? Just fuck off you weird little pain.

Before I tackle exams, I have my birthday to deal with. This year, my birthday falls on Good Friday. Now, I know there’s been an earthquake in Haiti, and thousands of people are suffering. I know about 9/11, and how many lives were lost and how some people had to throw themselves from the towers to avoid being killed in the inferno. I know all about the degradation and segregation minorities have suffered throughout the centuries. I know there’s been concentration camps in which millions have suffered and died. I know about all sorts of horrors and plights.

But do any of these people know what it feels like to have your birthday fall on a day when the pubs are closed? I think not.

On the upside, I’ve managed to avoid the illnesses that everyone else seems to have gotten. I sit bewildered in lectures as everyone coughs and sneezes. Baffled as I watch people projectile vomit over each other. Bemused as limbs are falling off people left, right and centre. You’d think this is a good thing, but now I’m just worried that this is a brief respite from illness, building up to something serious.

So that’s it. This is the final paragraph of the final column of the final Miscellany of the year. I should end it with something reflective and nice. Some food for thought perhaps. Instead I’m just going to say tits, scrotum and clunge.

If you enjoyed this post, make sure you subscribe to my RSS feed!

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.

If you enjoyed this post, make sure you subscribe to my RSS feed!

So It’s Valentine’s Day

Ah, Valentine’s day.

Innit lovely?

As you walk around the shops in the weeks leading up to the big day, you see flowers, hearts, and all manner of romantic gifts.

Fluffy teddies.

Cute little cards.

Giant obnoxious cards.

Heart-shaped boxes of chocolates.

Men usually put in the effort, surprising their woman with a romantic gesture, be it something grand like a trip away to Paris, or flowers delivered to work, or something more simple like cooking dinner for her with a bottle of wine and a  Tesco candle or two.

Women reward their man with a night of love-making.

You see pre-teens buying their cards, or looking sheepish purchasing a red rose for their bbz. It’ll be over in a couple of weeks, but sure let them have their fun. Puppy love never harmed a soul.

Today I saw countless couples walking along, looking extra loved-up. Holding hands, linking arms, and generally looking truly in love.

Back in school we’d make cards and the teacher would tell us the story of St. Valentine.

You might send one of the cards, and maybe even receive a couple. If you didn’t fancy anyone that year you could just give that card to your Mammy, or if you were a suck-up, to the teacher. If you were a massive stud like me you’d return from the bathroom to find your bag bursting with cards from secret admirers.

So on this day of love and romance, let’s all remember one thing.

Something we should never forget.

Amid all the loving gazes you’ll make.

The electrifying kisses you’ll share.

The simple hand-holding you secretly adore.

The sentences you’ll finish for each other.

The private jokes nobody else would get.

The glow their mere presence gives you.

The absolute vulnerability of being so reliant on one other person.

The smiles they give you when you’re down.

And the passionate love-making you’ll brag about.

Just remember this one thing:

The reason you exist is because your Dad slid his erect penis into your Mother’s vagina and rogered it until he ejaculated.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

If you enjoyed this post, make sure you subscribe to my RSS feed!

Ladies’ Man

So there I am in a nice little accounting tutorial. Lurking at the back hoping not to be asked anything.

My phone vibrates.

A text, from an unknown number.

This always fills me with fear.

Unknown number: “Hi can yhoo ring me…!!”

The spelling of “you” along with three dots and two exclamation marks was enough to tell me that this person was no friend of mine.

I replied: “Just in a tutorial now, who is this?“

Unknown Number: “Is dis owen….!!!“

They then rang me, just moments after sending that text. I finally got out of the tutorial and rang them and said “Hey, this isn’t Owen, you must have the wrong number”. There was a massive long pause, and then a “Oh right bye”. It was very abrupt and unapologetic. A female voice. So unknown number now becomes unknown girl.

I begin walking to lunch. It’s now that I’m going to start including the time of receiving texts.

Unknown Girl (14.05): “Who is dis….!“

I’ve just fucking rang to tell her I’m not the person she wants. Leave me alone.

I was going to lunch with friends so didn’t reply. Then I receive a text from a DIFFERENT unknown number.

Unknown girl #2 (14.22pm): “Whos dis.?”

What the fuck is with these people using full stops along with question marks?

Unknown girl #1 (14.23): “by da way who’s dis… !x”

I’m under siege from texts from unknown numbers. I’d have felt very threatened if it weren’t for that affectionate little kiss at the end. Bear in mind I’m telling you every text that I received and sent. So unknown girl #1 has now sent me two different texts in a row asking me who I am, and presumably gotten a friend to send me one too.

I reply to Unknown Girl #2 (at 14.26): “My name is Mark. Who’s this?“

Unknown Girl #2 (14.27 - honestly, they text so quickly these kids): “Aine..How old r u.?“

STOP DOING FULL STOPS BEFORE QUESTION MARKS!

Despite now knowing her name, I’m still going to call her Unknown Girl #2.

I’m in the process of replying to the eager beaver that is Unknown Girl #1, when she texts me AGAIN.

Unknown Girl #1 (14.28) “Hey by da way who’s dis… !”

That’s the same text as her last one, except she has chosen to remove the kiss at the end. What have I done to deserve this cold shoulder? Is she mad because I replied to her mate first? Have I ruined this beautiful relationship?

Although she’s clearly quite keen - three texts in a row without response. Must have loved my voice on the phone.

Reply to Unknown Girl #1 (14.32): “I’m Mark. Who’s this? Do you have my number by accident?“

Reply to Unknown Girl #2 (14.34): “19. Do you have my number by accident?“

Unknown Girl #2 (14.36): “Im 13..Yup mi friend had it and thot it was her dad nd wen she found out it wasnt i txt it to find out 4 her..“

Unknown Girl #1  (14.37): “Yaa i am 13..!!! I thot yhoo were my dad…x hahahaha…!!“

Another kiss in there for me.

So there you have it. They “thot” I was a Dad of theirs.

Naturally I’ve asked them both on a date. You may be thinking “But Mark, they’re only 13.”

Well more fool you.

Combine them and you’ve got yourself a sexy 26 year old.

Get in there.

If you enjoyed this post, make sure you subscribe to my RSS feed!