My parents went away for ten days recently. Here’s the first part of a diary of those ten days.

Tuesday :

The final evening before my parents leave for ten days. You’d think we’d all sit down and have a nice family meal, but no. They were busy packing so ordered pizza for dinner. I went out and got plastered and arrived home at about 5am.

Wednesday :

I was woken in the morning in what felt like minutes after I got home. Said goodbye to parents. Despite them waking me early, I’d already missed my first lecture. If you miss one, you may as well miss a few and get a nice lie-in.

Woke up later, ate remaining slices of pizza from last night. An ideal way to kick off ten days with no parents. A swig of milk and out the door. Listened to Wheatus on the way to the bus stop. “Teenage Dirtbag” seemed very appropriate at the time.

Had to make a dash for the bus, which I thankfully made. Felt rather proud that I should be on time for my 3pm lecture, and also that I’d gotten a nice 20 seconds of successful jogging. Got upstairs on the bus and saw a girl I knew a while back. I feared having to make awkward conversation for the whole bus journey, but it was fine really. When in doubt, talk about the X-Factor.

Managed to get in for the lecture. Should I have bothered really? All that hassle for one lecture? Fuck it, it’s better than nothing. And it stops me feeling guilty.

After the lecture, I decided to go home, drop my bag in, switch on the lights (parental request – to avoid burglary you see), maybe eat, then go back into town for the Ireland match.

On the bus, and I end up seated next to an ex. So more bus conversation.

When will I ever get to listen to my podcasts?

So, what ya think of X-Factor?

Got home, threw the bag down, switched on the lights, and considered cooking something.

In the end I just had some cheese on stale Tiger Bread. Bit of cheese on bread – no frills, no fancy shit. Just plain ol’ cheese on bread. Cheeseonbread.

Got on the bus. A few minutes in, I see an old teacher get on. Panic ensues. I could barely hold a three-second conversation in the corridor with a teacher back in school, let alone a full bus journey. Do I call him ‘sir’? Can I curse now? Conversations with people on the bus can be awkward as there’s no escape when it dries up. So I positively shat myself at the prospect of this particular bus conversation.

But no, it was alright. Talked about the match, the school, how I’m doing in college – all that shit. Obviously not the X-Factor.

I began to think I should be more happy about having to talk to people like this. It’s good to have an aul’ natter. Then I remembered people are cunts and my iPod isn’t, so it depends on the person.

Met a friend and went to the pub. Met more friends in the pub.

Jizzed in pants when Robbie Keane scored.

Felt like crying when Gallas scored.

Got on the bus home, dejected and depressed. This depression was compounded by guilt when I realised I felt way sadder about our failure to qualify for the world cup than the death of my granny last year.

Got home.

Attempted to clog the pores of pain with some more cheeseonbread. The bread had gotten staler.

I still ate it.

I knew that if I was up early enough the next day, I’d have eaten more for breakfast. If it was really stale, I’d just have toasted it. Then it’s fresh again y’see.

Bed.

Thursday :

It wasn’t a dream. We’re really not going to the world cup. So, I’ll be in my mid-twenties when Ireland next play in a world cup. If we even make the cunting next one. What a crock of shit.

Fuck the first lecture, he only ever reads from the notes anyway.

I made my only remaining lecture that day – but what’s the fucking point? Go to lectures, get a degree, try to get a decent job. Only for some Frenchman to cheat you out of the job somehow. Fucking Henry. Fucking useless officials. And fucking Nicolas Anelka too. Always hated that sulky cunt.

Pizza for breakfast, lunch and dinner. If you only eat one meal in the day then it counts as all three, yeah?

Sister was out for the night, leaving me at home alone – for the whole night. The whole night.

I watched Sky Sports News downstairs for several hours. It repeats itself but I never really mind.

Especially when it was mostly about the Ireland match.

I reckon I was cupping myself for at least 90% of the evening. There’s some primal urge within every man to cup himself while watching television. When you get the chance, you have to fucking take it.

Before bed, I checked all the locks and windows, because if we get burgled that night, it’s definitely my fault. No scapegoats tonight. And heaven knows I make good use of scapegoats when they’re around. The amount of goats I’ve scaped in my time, you wouldn’t know what to be doin’ with ‘em all.

Friday :

We haven’t been robbed. I’ve missed my first lecture already. In fairness, my next one isn’t for another four hours, so I was always going to miss one anyway, realistically. I’d been forgetting to set my alarm since the parents left. My life was in a state of complete chaos.

Four hours to kill at home.

There’s only one thing for it.

All you men know what I’m talking about.

House to yourself.

It’s been a while since the last one.

You’re only human.

It’s a natural thing anyway.

You can feel the urge growing.

Y’all see what I’m getting at?

That’s right…

It’s time to take a shit with the bathroom door open.

Aw yeah.

Bring in a magazine or your laptop, whatever you want.

Complete freedom. Ensure the door is open at an angle such that it’s still within your reach while you’re dropping those kids off at the pool, just in case anyone bursts in the house all of a sudden.

After becoming one with nature, showering, and having a glass of milk for breakfast, I get dressed and out the door.

As I turn the final corner on my route to the bus stop, I see a bus approaching at the end of the road. I run. I usually never run for buses, because there’s never an outcome that doesn’t involve me looking like a tit. You miss the bus and you’re a tit who ran for a bus and didn’t make it. You get the bus and you’re a tit, panting and sweating for a half hour next to disgusted passengers.

As I ran, I had to go through a group of people waiting at a different bus stop. They parted like the red sea for me, and I knew then I was seriously under pressure to make the bus.

They’re all watching me, I can feel it.

I skid on some wet leaves but manage to retain my balance. Quite miraculous really.

I missed the bus by a mile.

I’d obviously gotten cocky after my success on the Wednesday.

College was boring. I decided that on the way home, I’d invest in a box of Stella Artois – 15 eurons for 24 bottles. And it’s five percent – that’s stronger than most beers. And it’s supposed to make you aggressive. Yet another bonus I reckon.

On my way to Tesco I met a friend. I invite him over to share the beer with me. He obliges. A few quiet drinks in mine resulted in us heading to town to a club.

The hours in the club are a blur.

I do remember dancing on a sort of ledge that overlooks the dancefloor. Only the cool people get up on that ledge to dance. I guess you could say only the legends do it. It’s the ledge ledge.

I am not a cool person.

I do not dance.

I do not get on ledges – at any time.

I most certainly don’t get on a cool person ledge to dance. With a pint of Guinness in my hand.

I’m not going to blame it on the sunshine, nor shall I be blaming it on the moonlight. You’re mistaken if you think I’m blaming it on the good times. I’m blaming it on the Stella obviously.

At home again, I fell asleep downstairs – simply because I could. Because that’s how fucking mental I am, baby.

Parents away, sleep downstairs, bitch.

May as well have developed a cocaine habit while I was at it.

Part two to come soon, hopefully. I didn’t want to do it all at once as it’d end up being a couple of thousand words long, and nobody’d be fucked reading all that shit in one go.

Edit: Part Two is here.

9 December 2009 ‧ For The Lolz, Life etc. ‧ 7 Comments