Monday, December 31, 2007

Sweet sixteen, ain't that peachy keen?

Monday, December 31, 2007 9

I should assert my paternal paternity. I should get all patriarchal and dominant. I should reef the offending dvd from the player, insert Barry Lyndon and press that big old play button. I should strap Riker into a chair and having purchased one of those Clockwork Orange hold your victim's eyes open devices off of Ebay, make her watch the whole splendid 184 minutes. Because I swear to Jebus himself that if I have to watch her watching either High School Musical or High School Musical 2 even one more time I will fucking scream. Or sigh. And I'm not sure anyone can take any more Gimme sighing.

Both films are truly hideous pieces of deeply sick popular kid propaganda. We're talking about the HSMs here, folks, not the Kubricks. Did you get that? You probably got that.

Here are the lessons to be learnt from three hours of this Disney vomit:

If you are male you must play a sport.

If you are female you must look on adoringly as the boy who plays a sport discovers his soft, sensitive artistic side, and then if you're really good and you promise to give up your goodies you can sing a quick duet with him right at the end.

If you are male and you start off with a soft, sensitive artistic side and do not play sports, well then you're either a fucking pussy or a fucking crazy.

And if you are female and are not pretty or are lacking the potential to be revealed as pretty in the closing scenes, then you can fuck right off. Go on, out you go. Aren't you fucking listening? Get off the fucking screen. We've had our scene where we sneer at your ugliness and clumsiness so fuck off please. Thank you.

It's time to start mashing up movies, I reckon. Snoop Dogg vs Grease is just peachy for your musical needs but let's take the next step and starting mixing up the mighty motion pictures. And let's begin with High School Musical. And let's mash it up with Gus Van Sant's Elephant. Nothing would bring out the hidden depths of this dreck like a couple of rampaging loners armed with AK-47s and hunting knives. Nothing would clear up the underlying homo-eroticism between Troy and Chad like an artfully shot shower sequence. And nothing would make me happier that seeing all those poor rich popular kids die with the word 'why' on their lips. I'll tell you why, you fucks.

Because. That's fucking why.

We can call it 'High School Elephant'.

Sunday, December 30, 2007

Girls' faces formed the forward path, from phony jealousy

Sunday, December 30, 2007 9
For Savannah, on her birthday. May she forgive me my lack of focus.

The homicidal bitchin' that goes down in every kitchen

Here come the Irish Blog Awards, folks.

So clearly I'm going to win Best Blog. But outside of that we are only permitted to focus on one category. And how the fuck are we supposed to do that? I am the most humorous. I am the most personal. I am certainly the best newcomer. I do the occasional sporting post. I'm constantly spewing about technology fucking me in the ass. I could clean sweep the motherfucker if only I was a group. Decisions, decisions.

I'm only kidding really. I know exactly which category in which I wish to triumph, where my undisputed talents are best displayed.

Folks, I give you: 'Best Use of the Irish Language in a Blog': Ní fhuaireas féin aon suan ná séan, ó chuaigh i gcéin mo ghile mear

Really folks, who the fuck is going to beat 'nuachtflash dickwadinní'? No body, no how.

At the risk of alienating the voting panel, what the motherfuck is that fucking category about? Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know it's the Irish Blog Awards and all but aren't there more people in Ireland now who speak Polish? Or even fucking French? Let's have a 'Best Use of Yugoslavian' category. Or 'Best Use of the Word 'Cunting'. Just a suggestion.

You might as well fuck off and do your nominating now.

Saturday, December 29, 2007

No more blue songs, only whoop-dee-doo songs

Saturday, December 29, 2007 8
Oh how fat I'm going to be. How very, very fat. Oh yes, soon I will be the fattest fit fucker you ever lay eyes upon. And all because of evil, evil automotive transport. That and a couple of penchants: an old one for snickereses and a new one for full fat milk soaked cocktails.

I did it folks, I fucking drove to work. No mean feat this for a guy who still can't really drive with even a modicum of competency. And you know, it all went reasonably spiffingly on the way over. I had intended crossing the city via the toll bridge but realised early on that I had omitted to put my carefully gathered coinage in a place from where I could simply extract it. I did not put the €1.55 up my ass but so buried was it in my trackie bums that I might as well have done. So I just thought 'Fuck it' and drove into town. The fuck was I thinking? I was thinking 'Fuck it'. But like I say it went fine. The traffic gods smiled upon me. I cut out only once, and there was nobody behind me to get pissed off about it. I should point out that I only stopped twice. But still, right?

Here's a fucking thing, take a note of this. Took me half an hour. Takes me 26 minutes on Rosie, folks. I ask you, what's the fucking point?

So I stretch some slappers out, I work out some wankers. Who the fuck goes to an exercise class on the December 29th? The only thing you should be training on a day such as today is your fucking liver for New Years Eve. For fuck's sake.

And then I got back in the car. I'm tired. I'm still a little hungover from two nights ago. (I dropped a day, folks, did you see me drop a day?) And I'm fucking starving. So perhaps my concentration is down. Perhaps my hackles are up. But either fucking way it turns into a horrible nightmare. And quickly too.

Early on hesitancy almost causes me to be hit by a van. Nearly never fucked a cat, I guess. Maybe it isn't that close. But that makes fuck all difference, because from this moment on (and it's the whiny Jimmy Sommerville version, folks) I am a bag of nerdy nerves, an out cutting monster of the roads. There's panicking, there's multi-restarting, there is even, right at the end, some beeping. I have to draw a veil, folks. I'm too embarrassed and sickened by it all. Nobody died or went to prison or was delayed by more than forty-five minutes or so. So let's move on.

We move on to my quick trip down to the shops for a little extra full fat milk. On Rosie naturally. On the way back I have to go into the wind for all of thirty seconds. And I have me some realisations. I realise that tomorrow I will have to cycle into this wind for 26 minutes. Then I realise that no, in fact, I don't. I realise that I own a car and can if I so chose, put myself through what can only be a consistently dwindling state of fear and drive to work and back once again.

It's fat I'm going to be folks, oh so very, very fat.

Wednesday, December 26, 2007

The jukebox has to take a leak

Wednesday, December 26, 2007 11
It's post Christmas twitter from a post Christmas twit, folks. It's post Christmas posting of posts to boost a post count. For fuck's sake.

I like a bit of variety in my Christmas drinking folks. Ans so I give you, in order of first consumption, a list of the drinks that I have drunk in the last 36 hours:

1) Port

2) Fake champagne

3) Red wine

4) Vodka

5) Tia Maria

6) Beer

7) Sherry

8) Gin

9) Baileys

And I think that I will now have a can of

10) Guinness

Hic.

God forbid you ever had to walk a mile in his shoes

Yeah, yeah, yeah, we're all bored with my Christmas carping, my Yuletide mewling. But folks, I have one more so dear to my fucking heart Crimbo related raging to ratchet up. Here, hear:

The Bridge Crew, Common Law and I hit town early Saturday morning. We mugged Santa in the Jervis Street shopping centre, bought Lush shit for anyone not possessed of a penis and finished off with a little hardcore book buying in Eason. Bish bash bosh, fuck you Christmas, you will not fuck with Gimme.

And as we struggled in a laden down, children dragging manner towards the nearest taxi rank we passed the privileged children from Belvedere College on their yearly sleepout in front of the GPO. Common Law and I made our traditional jibes about the fucked-upness of all this, making note of the €200 sleeping bags and this year's addition of gym mats for the poor lambs to lie on to soften their two nights of craic on the streets. For fuck's sake, I thought, as usual.

We crossed O'Connell Street and noticed some army types erecting a tent-like structure on the central boulevard. I assumed that there was to be some class of Christmas parade and that the dignitaries would be sitting their fat asses under this tent in case of rain.

'Maybe the army are there to protect the rich boys from the scobies,' Common Law joked. And how we laughed.

That evening I was once again passing through town on my way to meet the newly returned V. And unbelievably, in a move that put the entire situation way past satire, those 'sleep out' fuckers were underneath the cunting tent. All bunched together on their gym mats, in their sleeping bags. The gaggle of admiration-fueled, high-booted, short-skirted teenage girls hanging out nearby were doing a better job of replicating homelessness that those snuggled up toastie tossers under the tent.

We all know that Gimme is an horrendous hypocrite, folks, but I learnt from the fucking masters. If the Catholic Church are the Inter Milan of hypocrisy then the Jesuits are Ibrahimovich, leading the line, getting the goals.

They and almost everything they do still makes me fucking sick to my stomach.

If you're the best, the worst, longest immersed

I have a reasonable post frequency record folks. I'm no Old Knudsen of course, no Manuel me. But I have yet to drop below the twenty posts in a month mark. The pressure to retain this record is seriously fucking on.

So you can expect a whole load of filler posts like this one over the next few days. You may even get yourselves a Your Tube clip or two. You lucky, lucky fuckers.

Like this one:

Thursday, December 20, 2007

A cracked polystyrene man who just crumbles and burns

Thursday, December 20, 2007 12
I love that my beard makes me scary.

I have Data in the trolley, in the local supermarket. The Christmas spirit is alive and kicking, kicking out at anyone who moves slowly, anyone not in a panic state of ‘must consume, must consume’. It’s busy, it’s frenzied. And look who’s coming...

It’s some balding, suited cunt who I feel deep in my bones was born on the same day as me, in the same year, perhaps at the very same second, who is rushing through the supermarket trying to get to the comically embedded off-licence section. He is hassled, he is harried, but he is a king of the world in his mind. He has bottles of wine to buy for colleagues who have unexpectedly bought him bottles of wine.
Yes, prick, I thought everyone hated you too.

We find ourselves, this king of crap and I, me and this monarch of the mediocre, in something of a Robin Hood/Litttle John type scenario. Yes, it is the height of the holiday season and yes, the schools have just ejected the children but still they stock the shelves. More, more produce thrown upon the bonfire of our innoncence, more stuff-rope with which to hang our sense of perspective, our very morality.

So with space for just the one of us to move down the aisle, we lock eyes. My instinct in these situations is to gesture expansively and allow the lady or indeed the rare supermarket shopping gentleman through. And if they don’t smile and say thank you then I shriek ‘You’re welcome!’ because I am a cunt.

But I know this guy and I want to move to the being a cunt thing that little bit earlier because yes, I know him but more because he thinks knows me as I’m in my deadbeat dad uniform and I’m pushing a toddler around and I’m doing grocery shopping and this fuck thinks that he is better than me and prebeard I might have agreed with him and dropped my gaze but not today, not with my facebadger, I hold the stare and he suddenly he looks genuinely terrified and waves me through.

‘No.’ I say. ‘No. After you.’ And I smile. But my smile is bearded and dead, a rotting stinking corpse of a smile and he knows it and he edges past me mumbling ‘Thank you’.

‘You’re welcome,’ I hiss.

It’s Christmas trying to fuck me folks. But I will not be fucked.

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

I don't have a husband, he don't play the trombone

Wednesday, December 19, 2007 17
Cunting Christmas.

Let's break this bad boy down just one more time. For two years in a row I sang the bass line of 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen (and fuck you waster women)' every night but Sunday from December 1st to deep into February. Oh, how I tickled February's g-spot with my young Scrooge shenanigans. Except I didn't fucking sing the bass line of the aforementioned carol, because I can't sing. Instead I sang the melody out of tune and a couple of octaves below everyone else. Such was my dedication to depth that I believe I may have slipped into 'Old Man River' on occasion. The rest of the cast were embarrassed for me. I was embarrassed for myself. Reason enough to hate Christmas, you might say. But there are more reasons, folks, there are more. I offer a tiny, barely representative selection:

I have guilt. You know that I have guilt, oh such guilt that I have. Guilt about the spoken, guilt about the unspoken. Guilt about what I have done, guilt about what I have failed to do. Guilt about all those lies and all those truths. So the last fucking thing in the world I need is a letterbox full of Christmas cards to add to this already crippling emotion.

Why fake liking someone once a year? If you fucking like me call me up on the phone. Of course I have caller id, and if it's you then I probably won't answer, and if you block your number and it comes up unknown then I definitely won't answer. But nevertheless, how about we dispense the fuck with this meaningless, forest-decimating, guilt inducing tradition? How the fuck about that?

Of course I wouldn't have the guilt if I sent Christmas cards myself, but I'm not that class of hypocrite, (my hypocrisy scales higher heights than that) and more importantly it would involve being arsed. And folks, I am not arsed.

Hey. Since when the fuck did we become American? And since when did blue become a Christmas colour? Fucking Americans, with their brashness, their cultural imperialism, their taking two years to elect a fucking president. But most of all their fucking Christmas lights. You Yanks have been dong this shit forever though, right? These gaudy displays of disposable income, these tacky tasteless trinkets dripping from every exterior nook and cranny, every branch and bush, they've been around since back in the day for you guys. But it's a relatively new Celtic Tiger inspired phenomenon on this fair isle and folks, how it fucks me off.

To begin with, this was confined to the suddenly rich poor folks and I could shake my head and smirk condescendingly. I'm good at that. I've got a good line in smirks, and the best sellers are all about the condescension. But now, now they're all fucking at it. Our property developer next door neighbours, and not too coincidently, our landlords, have a flaccid string of these eerie Christmas blues dangling from a tree that intrudes on our gaff.

These are people of culture and enlightenment, their children are well mannered and play a wide variety of musical instuments in a stunningly inoffensive manner and yet still, come the Yuletide season, they are overwhelmed by the compulsion to turn both their mansion and by extension our gatekeeper hovel into something more akin to a Miami brothel. Poor fuckers, poor mindless Xmas automatons.

You'll be wanting me to think about the excitement of the Bridge Crew, folks, those cries of joy that will emanate from their little mouths when they see the vast range of crap that will be sitting in piles on the couch. But this joy will be tainted in my mind by the memory of the stress, the queueing, the overloaded plastic bags digging into my poor patrician fingers, pulling on my undertrained biceps. And those sickening moments of panic when it looks like this year, for sure, I have completely fucked it up and left it too late to get that heart's desire present that was ordered from Santa many a week ago.

Surely the happy children will be enough? Na hah. They won't be happy for long. Soon they will be crashing down from their Christmas Coco Pops high and there will fighting and wailing and possibly gouging. And even if they stay happy all the live long day there is still the matter of the karaoake machine that is Riker's main present. Riker sings like me folks, but she doesn't know it yet. The poor, poor child. It all comes back to the singing as she will soon discover.

Am I being too negative? Perhaps. But I have no enthusiasm for positivity. I have no enthusiasm for it because, in case this is not clear, this festive season brings me down, bums me right out.

To restate: cunting Christmas.

Tuesday, December 18, 2007

For every point you make your level drops

Tuesday, December 18, 2007 6
Here's the fucking thing. Once the novelty wears off and I start to feel like I might be achieving something, that's when I generally just give the fuck up. Why fucking bother, like? My inner hedonist insists that if it's not bringing me instant gratification or at least a little shiver of pleasure then whatever this it happens to be is clearly not worth my time. My outer hedonist finds himself in complete agreement. They're good mates, my two hedonists. They see I to I.

And so I am faced with the following question: proper post or Pro Cycling Manager?

You fucking guessed it, folks.

Sunday, December 16, 2007

Most of '81 passed along those lines

Sunday, December 16, 2007 9
I went to my Christmas party. That sounds like a neutral statement, right? You don't know how it went yet, do you? But you're wondering was it as bad as the bowling, aren't you? If you haven't read about the bowling you might as well go and do that now. I couldn't be arsed being expansive so if you want to get your money's worth you should really go and read about the bowling. Also, it will provide you with a valuable frame of reference for when you're discussing the latest offering from Gimme at the watercooler.

Let's take it all the way back to the neutral statement, folks. I went to my Christmas party. But let me be clear. This is not just a party for the employees of the august establishment in which I ply my pimpish trade. This party is also for the members. And I mean members in at least two senses. Tell me this, folks. Who, of a Black Friday, at the peak of the Yuletide party season, considers their best festive piss up option to be the member's party at the gym they have paid huge money to attend really fucking sporadically? You needn't tell me after all, I fucking know. Fucking no life losers. That's fucking who.

Does this seem a trifle unkind? A utty butty bit nasty? Better get used to it, folks. After six weeks of being told that it is the season to not be a cunt it finally tis that fucking season and I'm all not being a cunted out. I'm saving any remaining fake Christmas spirit for the children so you can expect bitterness, schadenfreude and general gloom all the way to the Epiphany. Problem with that?

The party differed somewhat from the bowelling that was the bowling. It was longer, more alcoholic and just slightly less stressful. But I still struggled to speak, to do anything in but a repeat performance of the inane smiling, no matter who was speaking to me about what. As a rule, I like to be down on myself, to focus on the overwhelming negatives. But there's nothing like a social situation to bring out the real, the true, the full full-on self loathing. Oh, how I irritate myself as I smile and nod, how I fuck myself off as I faux pas it up.

But as much as I wish that I wasn't myself, I remain very relieved that I am not many of the other people who attended this knees up, this dance of the desperate. The single salsa kicked in early on and how I inwardly laughed to see these poor people manoeuvring themselves from target to target, weighing their options, assessing their chances. Too drunk, not drunk enough. Pretty but a little too dumb. Handsome but a little too malodorous. Brilliant and witty but brown paper bag ugly. Decisions, decisions. I used to do all this. I sigh with relief that I never have to do it again.

It's conclusion time, folks. I conclude that I hate Christmas parties, I hate other people. I hate fucking Christmas, I hate myself.

Like I said, not expansive. But conclusive.

Thursday, December 13, 2007

Salagadoola mechicka boola bibbidi bobbidi boo

Thursday, December 13, 2007 17
They're back. Yes they are and I'm back on the bike, drug and alcohol free. No more snooker for me, no more midday vodkas. No more gut wrenching Alien baby vomiting.

From what I gather the Bridge Crew and their adult companions had a good time in the Land of the Crazy Fridge Freezer Fascist. They ate naught but sugar and ketchup soaked chips, they drank nothing but Fanta and well, ketchup. Straight from the sachet in Data's case.

And so dripping with hideous Disney merchandise and hepped up on these disaccharidian goofballs they wandered from glitzy attraction to nauseating ride. Riker went on a whole load of insane upside down vertically plummeting through the dark crap to which wild horses would not drag me. Data focused mostly on the terrorising of the unforunate, and unfortunately named, 'cast members'. Word has it that she introduced herself as 'Data the Princess'. Perhaps if she now turns from the dark side, keeps her nose clean and studies really hard then one day she can be a Disneyland Resort Paris cast member too.

'Would you you have liked to stay another week?' I asked Riker, who was at this point dressed in a High School Musical hat, a High School Musical t-shirt and High School Musical socks. 'Only if you were there, Daddy.' Ha! Oh, she knows the buttons to push that one. Eight and three quarters and already more manipulative than her mother. I haven't worked out what she's trying to get out of me yet but it's probably, I don't know, attention or love or something.

And Data? She keeps coming up and throwing her arms around my legs. Maybe she thinks I'm that little known Disney character 'Mr Bearded Miserablility'. Or perhaps she's trying to tackle me to the ground so she can go through my pockets to get change for the vending machines in the hotel lobby to which she has become so accustomed. Or maybe, just maybe, she missed my gruff, grumpy ass as much as I missed her whiny, tantrum having one.

Three days is all that it was. The fuck is it going to be like when I send them to boarding school?

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

I wish I had all the money we used to spend on dope

Wednesday, December 12, 2007 16
I know, I know, they be closing Luke's Hospital, they be burning fossil fuels, they be oppressing the oppressed. So you can go off on your march, you can change all your light-bulbs and stick stickers on SUVs, you can even try to be a little less oppressive, but before all that folks, I got a real campaign for you to take up, a genuine cause célebre.

Make Tom Waits No. 1 for Christmas. Find reasons, like you need any, and methods here.

And find a live version below.To hear the far superior, stunning original version you're just going to have to fork out your 99c. But don't shoot your wad yet ladies, gents cool your jets, save your repetitive Waits buying for between Friday 14th and Thursday 20th.

We can do this folks, we can make Christmas a better place to be.

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

And whether he wins or whether he don't, I always bite me eyeballs

Tuesday, December 11, 2007 9
How the gods of doing nothing have smiled upon me this afternoon. Which is dead nice of them after they spent most of yesterday holding me down and gang raping me as I tried so hard to vomit that I was making the noise that the baby alien makes after it bursts from John Hurt's stomach. Eeeeeaaarch! Breathe, breathe. Eeeeeeearch! Breathe, wait, here it comes, oh god please, not again, here it comes.

After every failed purging of my entire stomach wall I was hit by a wave of brutal, searing, crippling and of course nauseating pain that washed through my head from back to front. A pain to make me weep if I hadn't already been too busy letting off my next eeeeeearch.

Three hours of that. Many more hours of slightly less intense misery. Me time, as it's called.

But today is another day. And today these gang rapist gods have brought the greatest gift that can be granted to the potentially bored slacker. A meaningless but extensively televised snooker tournament.

What greater joy to the couch bound stoner than a long drawn out game of rhythm and flow and snug litte tuxes emblazoned with garish ads for online gambling websites. All this and the Terminator-like presence of referee Jan ver Haas.

As a youth I used to weep in butchers' shops and as a unemployed childless actor I used to flake out with the good kind of smoke within easy reach and watch the Snooker World Championship, and the UK Masters and any other shitty little competition that an increasingly desperate BBC Sport could find to transmit. Don't tell Common Law, but I turned down a job rather than miss the closing week at The Crucible.

This dedication, this marijuana fueled stubbornness led to my being witness to a magical sporting moment.

Observe, ignorant Americans, clueless Canadians, naive Nicaraguans. It is sporting perfection, the snooker equivalent of the pitcher's perfect game, the bowler's 300. And this one is the fastest ever too.

Enjoy that? Oh, don't try to fake me out, losers. You didn't fucking watch it, did you? I know you didn't, don't fucking lie. You don't know what your missing.

Now pipe down, mid-session interval is over, Ronnie's on the table and any kind of shit could happen.

Marge murmurs, Maude croaks, Lisa Buddhas, Homer tokes

Sometimes what I want to write has already been written so I'm fucked if I'm going to write it again.

From Martin:
'You'd think I'd be in pretty terminal shape by now, what with the rum and the dope and all. But not me. No sir, not this baby. you recognize the type by now? Some people get sleepy when the drink a lot, but not us. When we get drunk we want to go out and do things...Never do anything is the rule I try and stick to when I'm drunk. But I'm always doing things. I'm drunk.'


From Manuel:
'I spent Thursday in bed with the bizarro dwarves, coughy, sicky, sweaty, horny (always a strange hangover side effect), depresso, shaky, and hallucinationo. It was awful. "Oh sweet Jebus take me now" sort of awful. Song lyrics were going round my head, the same song lyrics over and over and over again.'


From Me:
'There is nothing that takes place on this good green Gaia that cannot be directly and instantaneously linked to my own personal pain. From the menace of Mugabe to my mother's adult measles, it's all about me and my suffering.

I sicken me.'

Friday, December 7, 2007

It's two thousand miles I roamed just to make this dock my home

Friday, December 7, 2007 14
I already feel paralyzed by the possibilities, folks. I have before me, gleaming like a piece of misplaced modern architecture, three days without children or work or any other life sucking, grey hair giving responsibilities.

The Bridge Crew are going to Disneyland Paris, little Celtic cubs that they are, and they're dragging Common Law and Common Mother-in-Law along with them. I am a little jealous and a little sad that I won't be there to witness what will undoubtedly be the highlight of their lives thus far but not so jealous and not so sad that I haven't spent every waking moment since the announcement of this trip fantasizing about all the possible hedonistic activities with which I might fill this unprecedented length of free time.

72 is a whole fuckload of hours to use up in the pursuit of enforced relaxation when one is used to at the most three or four hours in the evening and those always with that overhanging seven o'clock rise and the inevitable spin class the following day. And so my first plan, the original and quite possibly the best, had the virtue of simplicity. It was timetabled in my head thusly:

Sunday 2.30pm: Commence drinking and smoking drugs.

Wednesday 2.30am: Cease drinking, drug smoking. Sleep until return of Bridge Crew twelve hours later.

Good, huh? Elegant, you might say. But I did a little White Russian warm up last weekend and I have a sneaking suspicion that non-stop drinking and poor quality dope smoking is going to get a little tired, and if I stop half way I'll get a little tired and the whole experiment will turn into a drearily depressing waste of these precious precious hours.

But what the fuck else is there to do? The movies! I never get to go to the movies unless its some post Pixar pish with poorly animated animal assholes. I was contemplating an Eastern Promises - The Golden Compass - annoyingly titled Jesse James movie triple bill, but Eastern Promises is gone already and if I am to believe all the reviews and reports I'm going to find The Golden Compass a huge disappointment. So just Jesse James, then. I gather it's about eight hours long so that leaves me, assuming a blissful ten hours sleep a day, with ummm, I don't fucking know, thirty something hours to fill with something apart from sighing about the missing children and the eerily silent, tidy house.

Help me out, folks. Suggestions that help me grow as a person will be accepted but ignored.

Thursday, December 6, 2007

If I have one more pie a la mode, I'm going to need my own zip code

Thursday, December 6, 2007 14
I have fuck all against fat people, folks. They're jolly, right? They're bouncy and buxom and bountiful. And Lord knows the large (did I say fat before? Apologies, the large) are now in the majority. I don't have the statistics to hand but I gather that 90% of the population now need those little car things to do their shopping. And good for them, it sure beats the snot out of waddling around burning calories that could be put to much better use in the digestion of cakes and biscuits.

But. But, but but. I'm going to make a statement here folks, put out what I believe to be a big fat fact. A big large fact. Shoot me down if you will, shoot me up if you want. Intravenous Gimme, that'll sort your Thursday blues.

Here we go: There are a number of, shall we say, physical idiosyncrasies, which are not entirely compatible with certain career paths. Blindness and bus driving, for example. Ageusia and celebrity cheffing. Dwarfism and NBA basketball playing. I'm not saying that these differentiated abilities and professions are necessarily mutually exclusive, just that there are perhaps more suitable choices to be made.

You can feel me going somewhere with all this, right?

There's a new fitness instructor at the gym, folks and he's fucking huge. Big boned? Quite possibly, though that's kind of difficult to assess what with the many layers of adipose tissue covering said bones. This gentleman is not just a little overweight. He's Mary Harney, he's Orca, when he's sitting around the gym, he's sitting around the gym. Twenty years ago, you would have assumed he was American. He's that fucking big.

I reckon that seeing as the majority of people join a gym with a view to losing weight, surely the person to help them achieve this goal shouldn't be themselves failing to achieve this goal in the most spectacular of fashions.

Can he demonstrate the chest press on a stability ball? I have no doubt that he can, though watching this happen would be akin to the unsettling experience that is watching a toddler sitting on a party balloon. Can he encourage and inspire? Perhaps he can folks, perhaps he can. Does he know his exercise physiology? Of course he does, or he wouldn't have been able to pass the rigorous multiple choice exam needed to attain the title of 'fitness instructor':

The knee bone is connected to:

a) the wrist bone
b) the leg bone
c) your arse
d) all of the above.

But even taking into account the potentially vast knowledge of this motivational man mountain, clinical obesity and the instruction of fitness just don't gel for Gimme.

Call me a fucking fat fascist folks, it has a nice ring to it.

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

And when they pulled her from the wreck, you know she still had on her shades

Tuesday, December 4, 2007 13
I've gotten one or two new readers the last couple of days, folks. But don't worry, we'll soon sort that out. The Yanks are going to be alienated and confused by two Ireland specific posts in a row and everyone else will have had their fill of me and my being full of me.

If one week ago you had tickled me with the following teaser, my answer would have been a resounding: 'Damn fucking straight. You betcha. Bring it on, and make it painful.' But now? With a situation full of reality and bedside vigilantes holding court? How do I respond to the repetitively self-posed question: 'Do I want Katy French to die?'

Does my hatred of this shallow slapper and her ilk allow me to get behind the concept of a young life, however vapid, prematurely ended? Am I so sickened by celebrity culture that I can live with the thought of a father waking up every day for the rest of his life without his darling daughter? How much of a self-righteous, self-important, self-regarding cunt am I?

Folks, I am fortunate to find myself with a ready-made cop out, a solution that allows me to hold my Hicksian head high without wishing death upon a relative innocent. If French were to die, the levels of affected hand-wringing, the weeks of tastefully tasteless headlines, the sight and sound of the meedja in full, gleeful mourning mode would be all but unbearable.

And so, I bestow my approval on the continued life of Katy French.

I am such a fucking softie.

Monday, December 3, 2007

Please don't mind me if I get a bit crude

Monday, December 3, 2007 5
Who the fuck watches 'The Late Late Show'? Me. I do. Gimme does. Once a fucking year. The Toy Show edition.

Tell me something, you year round Kenny watchers, you lifeless losers, is it always that horrible? That embarrassing? That completely fucking shit? Do the camerapeople get sloshed for just that one show or are we dealing with a weekly diet of back of the head shots, shaky crash zooms, and storm tossed ship inspired sweeps of the ugly, ugly audience?

Is it always lit like a funeral home or was that just for the festive period? Is it always directed and produced by people who appear to just not give a fuck? I'm not talking about malfunctioning toys folks, or comically collapsing sets that seem to have been constructed by the infirm and incontinent, but about simple things such as selecting the camera that is pointing at something relevant to the intended content, as opposed to say, the floor, or Pat Kenny's arse.

And speaking of Pat Kenny. Let us speak of him in tones that are hushed and reverential, for this man is clearly some kind of higher being because how fucking else could he be the highest paid broadcaster in RTE when he is incapable of even the simplest of televisual tasks? See that red light, Pat? That means that camera, yes, the camera with the red light, is broadcasting to the nation. Yes, I know they all have red lights but you see, only one of them is lit up. The four year old tarted up like a street walker gets it Pat, why don't you?

Yes. So when you turn your back to it and talk nobody can see your face. I don't know why they want to see your face, Pat, but they do. Yes, I know the audience in the studio can see you Pat, but the audience at home...that's right, Pat, it's just like the radio but with pictures...

And answer me one more question, loyal viewers. How is that somebody can work in the industry of television throughout the 1990s or indeed be fucking alive throughout the 1990s and still remain unaware of the pronunciation of the name 'Seinfeld'? And even if this pullovered prat had his memory wiped just before kick-off surely he could have asked some drunken assistant how to say the name of one of his two guests?

'Ladies and Gentlmen, Jerry Seinfield!' Seinfield, folks. Jerry Sein..field. Why are we paying this heroically ignorant tosspot a king's ransom to fuck shit up?

I told Common Law not to pay the TV license last year and she just ignored me. As she does. And she'll pay it again this year too, I just know she will. Le fucking sigh, folks, le huge fucking sigh.

Saturday, December 1, 2007

Seems like folks turn into things that they never want

Saturday, December 1, 2007 18
And now I see it looming frostily through the glass every time I walk down the stairs, whether it be ale tipsily at 11.30pm or blearily at 6.30am. (Really Data? On a Saturday? When I have to pull you kicking and screaming from under your duvet at 7.45 every weekday morning?) And before my slow slow brain train catches up with the reality of my newly grown up life I feel all violated and imposed upon. Because that corner of the eye dark shadow means we have a visitor. Somebody who is going to want to be fed, liquidized or liquidated and almost certainly talked to. Visitors, what a fucking pain in the tits, with their need to be spoken to with civility whatever the time of day or hour of mood. Visitors and their cars taking up my normally sweeping, barren driveway.

Because how could it possibly be my car? What kind of fucking sense would that make? Only adults have cars, adults who are part of the machine, servants of the man, earth destroying celtic tiger fucking fuckwits. All motorists? All car owners? Uh huh. Yesiree bob. You may be the nicest sweetest person in the world, fuck, you might even be Savannah, but once you sit behind the wheel of an automobile we are enemies, you and I.

And now I own a car. It may be old, it may have an element of quirk in its purpleosity, but a fucking car is what it is and a filthy stinking orc-like motorist is what I am destned to become.

And the money that has been paid to achieve this selling out, this self-rape of the soul. Surely a sell out should make me gain material wealth? Apparently fucking not. Money for the car, money for the insurance, money for the L plates, the car seats, the petrol, the washing, the crashing. Excluding cumulative expenses forked out on items like food, dope and nappies, this is by far the most money we have ever spent on anything. And it's on something I don't fucking want and barely fucking need.

I came very, very close to calling the whole thing off at the beginning of the week, folks, and now that it sits out there, lurking, with its little blinking red jap's immobiliser eye that I can see all the way from the kitchen table, I kind of wish that I fucking had.

Friday, November 30, 2007

How can I try to explain, when I do he turns away again

Friday, November 30, 2007 9
You know what I fucking hate, folks?

If this is your first visit case, then welcome. Sit the fuck down, shut the fuck up and have yourself a Caucasian. And if manual dexterity is your gig then you might want to think about getting one together.

If this is not your first visit then you'll be aware that there is in fact a whole load of shit that I fucking hate. Here's the first three that pop into my head as I write: Rugby, instant coffee (what's the point of you, what's your fucking point?) and the concept of car insurance.

But when it comes to blogging, and blogs and bloggers, there's one thing that really works me up, that bums me right out. It's fucking bloggers who blog about blogging. I generally try to avoid even using the word, preferring 'bleugh' as that sound is closer to the sound of vomit and vomit is what most blogs are. It might be fragrant, it might be fucking hilarious and it might be profound but the personage that will be most interested in the vomit will be the vomiter. Let me step outside the vomit metaphor for just one second and move to shit so that I might quote Archie from Cormier's 'The Chocolate War': 'Everyone likes the smell of their own shit, Carter.'

Back to the vomit. Nobody reads and rereads Stranded on Gaia like I do, nobody but Gimme gets just how fucking funny and insightful I truly am. So while the act of the bleugh is in itself the act of a loser, a bleugher, the idea of blowing chunks about chunk blowing makes me want to blow those chunks most of all.

And so, with my trademark hypocrisy, I give you a bleugh about my bleugh. Or more specifically, about the comments on my bleugh. It's time I cleared up my policy on comments, get going with the trendy unmuddied lake look on what is that I will allow and what it is that I will be wiping from the face of my bleugh like so much spilt man custard. I will be deleting the following:

Spam.

That's it.

Racism? Bring it on, we'll take you on or ignore you. Personal attacks on me and my family? It's all fucking made up, folks, I'm a black lesbian without a family, so you won't be bothering me. Condescension? I'm a big boy now, folks, I can take it, condescend away. You know what? I won't even be censoring bad spelling and grammar. I'm that fucking broadminded.

Just like it says down the bottom, folks, I am the comment whore and if there's a trick out there I'll be turning it. Gimme does not discriminate.

Comments?

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

His car is warm and dry

Wednesday, November 28, 2007 16
Birthdays are pretty crappy these days, these years. There'll never be a party like my twenty second, never a present like that little box video game I got when I was 10. Christmas day, New year's eve, St Patrick's Day, all a load of shite. I normally work on March 17th and make the fuckers climb to Banana Republic and sprint to the Sick Bed of Cuchulainn. New Year's peaked in Carlow back in '95, and even then it was a senseless, sickly day. And the consummation of this eight week orgy of lemming like consumption which we are currently credit carding our way through? Just a day, just another fucking day with the tiresome addition of sherry and familial commitments.

But folks there is one day to which I look forward all year long. And in 2007 that day is today. This very afternoon susposably at 2.55 but more likely sometime closer to 3.30, Common Law and I will attend Riker's parent teacher meeting. And maybe this year her teacher will not tell us that we are the parents of a smart, hard-working and well behaved child. Maybe this year there will be no mention of her enthusiasm, her creativity, her kindness. Maybe this year the news will be bad. Yeah, and maybe Bertie ain't a beater.

The trill of anticipation will last all morning and the glow of satisfaction will linger for days. The satisfaction is born of what I will tell myself is a job well done, though deep down I sense that the persistent playschool punch ups of her, shall we say, feistier sister Data, indicate that all this Rikerly good behavior is considerably more about the nature than the nurture. But who fucking cares either way? Not Gimme. Our Gimme will be courting proud and smug for the foreseeable. ..

An afterthought: The odd thing about this year's seven minutes of heaven (the winners only get seven minutes folks, the losers are the ones holding up the show) is that both Common Law and I have yet to meet the teacher. I can't help but wonder if this latest mentor, this senior side swami is, well, hot. Just one more thing to look forward to.

You won't believe what Mr. Stitches saw

Here's some more shit for which I would very much like to blame my father.

Now that I have two bikes and dream wistfully, lustfully, of a third, I am faced with having to get it together on the cycle maintenance front. I have asked Santy for a Big Blue Book on this very subject (thank you boards.ie cycling section for the helpful recommendations) and hope to be greased up from head to toe with cogs, sprockets and dérailleurs dripping from my every pore by New Year's Day.

This morning, Big Blue bookless, I found myself needing to do a little mechanical warm up, faced as I was with the most basic of bicycle fixing tasks. Hardcore Motherfucker had a puncture and despite the challenge and amusement involved in slaloming down to the school with all the weight of Data and her child seat resting on an airless tube, I decided, well, why the fuck not? I gather that a proper cyclist can fix a flat in under five minutes, the most time consuming part of which is waiting for the glue to dry. Guess how long it took Gimme, folks. Go on, fucking guess.

Precisely. A nice round 90 fucking, fuckingly frustrating minutes. I won't go into the details but suffice it to say that I spent a large chunk of that time repeating the entire process on the self-flagellatory premise that I had fucked it up and failed to seal the hole successfully whereas I had in fact merely fucked up the operation of that highly complex piece of equipment which these jargon obsessed bikies refer to as a 'pump'.

Oh, but I am a dolt. Nothing but a dolt am I. A technical thicko. A mechanically misfitted mong.

And for this I would dearly love to blame my father. Oh yes, I would. Surely if we had spent those divorced parent and child Saturday afternoons in the construction of soapbox racers or home-made shortwave radios as opposed to sulkily watching Grandstand and briefly, grumpily fucking a rugby ball around his back garden then I would now be one of those manly men who can earth a socket, true a washer and, I don't know, build a fucking house.

But I can't do it. This is blame that I just cannot apportion. Because Finbar clearly took one insightful glance at me, saw that I was the gayest heterosexual in the village, the girliest boy in the glen and realised that he would just be wasting both his time and mine, time much better spent watching me watching him watching the golf.

I shall overcome though folks, watch me overcome.

Monday, November 26, 2007

I was spinning round a dead dial

Monday, November 26, 2007 13
I have joy.

England failed to make Euro 2008. This is because they are shit at football and they are shit at football because they have sold out to the big money of Rupert Murdock. Even the Englanders have been forced to admit this. This is a little sad but still I have joy.

Also Roy Keane's bunch of yellow pack footballers got fucked in the ass by a different team of almost equally shitty footballers. This is not sad at all. It's fucking hilarious. Take that you shite spouting opinionated treacherous cunt. Joy it is that I have.

I have rage.

It's somewhat uncool to like Bruce Springsteen, I believe. I don't fucking care. I think he fucking rocks. I came to The Boss late and I've never seen him live. And I want to, to witness first hand his snorting, vein-popped, having a mammoth dump face as he bangs out any number of hits both old and new. He plays Dublin the day before my birthday. And now folks, with just a little research you can find out when that auspicious day is and send me an early birthday present of €600 for my Bianchi.

My rage comes not from the fact that I couldn't be arsed staying up all night in front of Stephen's Green Shopping Centre or whatever it is one has to do to obtain a ticket but from the pricing. The cheapest fucking ticket is €90. Ninety fucking euro. Watch me spell out a number over ten there, such is my rage.

So let me get this straight Brucie baby, Boss man. Poor people aren't allowed at your shows? You grunting cunting ape. Aren't you supposed to be a hero of the common people, you greedy fuck? And maybe yeah, yeah, yeah it's all the promoter, you have no choice, it costs a lot of money to move the ten par cans and twenty gobos they'll be using to light the show around the globe. Bollox. All kinds of bollox. The tickets are expensive because you don't make money from album sales anymore because albums are free now and the bizillions of dollars you already have aren't enough for you, you grabby grasping greedy fuck, you.

Lately there ain't been much work on account of the economy indeed, you prick.

Rage and bitter, nasty joy on offer this morning, folks. Take your fucking pick.

Sunday, November 25, 2007

My two front teef

Sunday, November 25, 2007 10


There are no words. No, there are. The words are: 'I. Want. This. Give. It. To. Me. Now.'

What's that you say? I have two bikes already? What could I possibly need a third one for? Ahahahaha. I don't need a third one folks. I fucking want a third one. I want the Zen-like experience of veering brakeless through the streets of Dublin in the most intimate manner available to us two wheeled freaks. The fixed gear bike, folks, the fixie. The purist pursuit of the cycling pure.

I completely appreciate that the bad boy up there is a custom built stone cold classic and would cost any potential Christmas present buyer up to €3000 to get together for Gimme, so I'm willing to compromise. Here's another one:



That sweet little mover is a mere €600. Cycling Nirvana never came so cheap. And hey, hold up there, folks. Don't be thinking I'm going to be setting up any kind of Paypal donation button over there on the sidebar. What kind of scrounging interweb bum do you take me for?

No, all I want is a volunteer or two to help me mastermind some kind of insurance fraud/scam type situation. I'm going to need a driver, someone to do crowd control and mostly I'm going to need a head honcho, a Takashi Shimura, a leader of both men and chicks. My current concept is pretty fucking sketchy to say the least and what with all the dope and all the being a dope I'm seriously short of a mental mover and motivator who can come up with, and execute a scheme so cunning that it'll fuck anything Henry Gondorff ever conceived right into the ha'penny place.

I'm thinking the plan is going to involve some sort of faked accident whereby Common Law's new car (it's going to be Common Law's car, I'm just the driver) gets either completely fucking totalled or I suppose, if you wanted to get all minimalist about it, cosmetically damaged to the tune of one new Bianchi.

If applying for the role of 'Brains of the Operation' please be sure to include a detailed proposal as to how I'm going to have my new set to spin Italian baby out of the box and on the roads by Christmas.

Yes, folks, you heard right. It looks like we're going to have a car by next weekend. I sigh. Oh, how I fucking sigh.

Friday, November 23, 2007

You better start swimmin' or you'll sink like a stone

Friday, November 23, 2007 13
“By far the most dangerous foe we have to fight is apathy - indifference from whatever cause, not from a lack of knowledge, but from carelessness, from absorption in other pursuits, from a contempt bred of self satisfaction”

Are you having a laugh? 12 fucking votes? This is important shit, folks. Fuck Harney, fuck Pakistan, fuck the anniversary of Radioactive Man. Think of my beard, I howl, won't someone please think of my beard!

Don't make me leave the three year old by herself in the house so that I can go to an internet cafe and move from machine to machine casting my ballot over and over again to make it look as if I have more than 12 readers. You don't want that shit on your head, folks. And if you have already voted, fucking vote again from work. Or if you don't work which is pretty likely seeing as we're talking people who read blogs here, then get the fuck over to your sole real world mate's house and vote from there. Or if you don't have any real world mates then fucking break into the next door neighbour's house while they're in work. Vote or die? Not die, no, but disappoint.

Vote or disappoint, folks.

Thursday, November 22, 2007

Those holy hills, that deep ravine

Thursday, November 22, 2007 7
I need to talk about breasts. It was only a matter of time, I suppose. Rows upon rows of breasts. To be perfectly fucking blunt folks, I could be doing without them. I will have plenty of other shit to be thinking about come seven o'clock tonight. Shit like shouting. Shit like the perfect Zen circle to which my pedal stroke constantly aspires yet never quite achieves. Shit like is the music going to come to a crashing fucking halt now that, faced once more with mp3 player death, I find myself relying on the incredible temperamental technology that is the cd-rw. All this shit of which I have to think.

But I can see nothing but breasts before me. Is this biological? Can I blame the human nature of humanity, the way of the man? Why must it take a conscious effort, a big fuck off conscious effort to wrench my eyes from these over-exposed, under-clad, gently jiggling funbags?

I swear to you folks, I do not, I will not spend the hour gaping open-mouthed at the wide range of size and support on display. I will not. I will face faces to check for effort level. I will studiously examine legs to assess form, I will even look at the men, grunting, sweaty apes that they are. But it will require focus and concentration that could be better applied to other aspects of the training session. And they're always there anyway, in the corner of my eye, these galloping globes of flesh.

So here is my wish, ladies, heads up for my simple request. I understand that the nature of a strong aerodynamic position involves something of a lean over. And I know that we can all get a little toasty, a little on the warm side as we hold our heart rates at 85% for lengthy periods of time. But please, wear a fucking t-shirt with a slightly higher cut. I don't want to oppress you, but I can see the top of your nipples and none of us want that.

So, sports bra. A technical fabric top that has a neckline rather than a nipple line. Is that so much to ask?

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

Momma's gonna make all of your nightmares come true

Wednesday, November 21, 2007 5
The lengths to which Irish mothers will go to express disapproval of their children's misbehavior appears to have peaked out with Jonathan Ryhs Meyer's ma eating a dirt sandwich in reaction to his arrest for being a drunken dickhead.

Beat that, Mickle.

A little chihuahua named Carlos

Some musings on Gimme's beard. Like navel gazing but with my beard instead of my cute little hairy insy.

Muesli doesn't work anymore. Pre-facial hair, my slurpy sloppy ways might have meant the odd dribble of skinny milk flowing gracefully down my chin to be wiped nonchalantly away with the front of my deadbeat dad 2002 Dublin Bus Ten miler T-shirt. Not no more. Even a good scrub merely serves to rub the milk into the generosity of my face fuzz, leading to that crusty carpet effect except with beard instead of carpet and fat free milk instead of adolescent semen. And despite being unable to smell anything due to my man cold, I can clearly phantom whiff the curdling of the milk directly below my nose. This leads to the washing of my face, and what a lengthy, thankless fucking snorefest bearded face washing has proven to be. So either no more muesli (unthinkable if not unwritable) or a further drop in my already limbo dancing standards of personal hygiene. How low can I go? Pretty fucking low, pretty fucking happily.

Perhaps, as everyone from Common Law to random Irish chicks living in Italy maintain, beards are sexy. But I gotta tell you folks, on Gimme the sexy seems to have been superseded by the scary. At work, despite my freelance status, I am happy to do my bit for the company by smiling and occasionally even greeting the punters as I wander about trying to remember what kind of shouting it is I am supposed to be doing next. And whereas before the female fitness freaks would greet these smiles with a look of 'Who is this mysterious, cute, if rather large nosed individual? What twinkly eyes he has! I must follow him and see if he will shout at me too..', now the response elicted is closer to 'Aaaah! Crazy psycho axe murderer smiling at me! Crazy fucking eyes! Crazy fucking beard! Run! Run to the hills!' I think I prefer the intensity of the the latter reaction.

I am not a thoughtful person. I am generally in either a state of convulsive panic or one of mindless drug induced stupor. But sometimes, and with increasing beard induced frequency, I find myself being all reposeful, all contemplative. And then folks, something shocking happens. I finger it. I caress it. I stroke it. I stroke my beardy beard. About the chin area. Like I'm some kind of fucking ponce. Not, you understand, in the homosexual sense, but in the pretentious, faux intellectual sense. A big fucking chin stroking ponce is what this beard has made me. Which is fine.

Everything up to this point is, if not positive, then certainly not disastrous. But the look of sheer disappointment on the face of Gay Country Client that, folks, that is disastrous. Like arrows to the heart were each of these words that GCC spoke: 'Ah, Gimme, you've lost your boyish charm!'

A date with the razor looms.

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

When they leave they're so hard to find

Tuesday, November 20, 2007 13


I had a man cold. In fact, I still have it. At least that's my story. You don't want to hear more whining shit about my fear of happiness, my lack of friends and my being a complete and utter cunt. You really don't.

Oh, and I also have a hurty knee.

Thursday, November 15, 2007

Visions of your chestnut mare shoot through my head and are makin' me see stars

Thursday, November 15, 2007 17
If parenting is a competition, and it is, of course it fucking is, everything is a competition, then I am the champions, folks, I am the fucking champions. No time for losers, not looking at anyone, Common Law, cause I am the champions of the woooorld.

Do we remember when Riker asked Gimme what abortion was? Now that one was a whole lot of fun. This happened in France though and Common Law had successfully extricated herself from that particular holiday, thus avoiding any direct comparisons between our explanainicating styles.

We have a mug in the house, a present from my sister. I has one of those faux fifties illustrations of a smiling housewifey type. It proclaims, in white lettering, on an appropriately menstrual red background: 'I'm Having my Period and can therefore Legally Kill you.' Capitalization as it appears, folks. The mug is up high, it has pencils in it.

Riker, while short (thought the tallest in her class at the moment, no reason for this to be a source of pride for me, but it is), is not fucking blind.

'What's a period, Dad?'

I hear the diving submarine alarm sound. You know the one I mean.

'Um, what's the context?' Can Gimme get away with a discussion of the American word for a full stop?

'I'm having my period and can therefore legally kill you.' He can not.

I mean for fuck's sake. Didn't we get her a book on this or something? Isn't this completely a mother's job? I have half a mind to get Common Law on the blower. 'Yo, teach! ' I'll holler, 'Mentrsuation 101! You're up!'

I don't though. I explain to Riker that God and Jesus and the Virgin Mary have cursed all women as a punishment for their horrible whoreishness, their base animalistic sexual urges. Every month from the moment when she decides that boys are not smelly after all or that they are still smelly but she now likes the smell, she will bleed, bleed from her dirty place and this bleeding will be accompanied by a wrenching of the abdomen that is to be relished as it deserved and may even possibly save her from the fall down, down, down, to the depths of hell where truely she belongs because she is a unrepentant slut.

Ok, not really. I said some other stuff instead, simply, and with a well practised air of matter of factness.

'Oh,' said Riker.

'Hasn't your mother talked to you about this before?'

'Yeah, but you explain things much better.'

Like I say, folks, I am the champions.

And not to rub it in or anything:

CHAMPIONES! CHAMPIONES! OH WAY, OH WAY, OH WOAH! (Repeat as desired)

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Mister, won't you help me please?

Tuesday, November 13, 2007 8
I am bored of the near death experience, folks, the joke is getting old. The first couple of times that I saw my life flash before my eyes there was a newness to the experience. It was a load of boring tosh that I won't be troubling you with today, but it had novelty. There was a certain freshness and energy to the delivery that has faded with time, as the worn out, tubby, balding middle-aged stand up gets up on that tiny little excuse for a stage yet again, in an attempt to prise one more laugh, or Christ, even a fucking titter, out of the gruesome shaggy dog story that is my life.

The audience is my conscious mind and it can be forgiven for being a little distracted given that it is also trying to take on board the whole 'car moving at 60km/h cutting violently into my path from my blindside' thing. I am essentially blind in one eye. I got it all going for me in this scenario, folks. And I am going at a fair clip myself as I capitalize on the brief rest and downhill start provided by Charlemont Street Bridge.

It's wet. Rosie's rear end is gone from under me the moment I instinctively slam on the breaks. I slide across the tarmac until I am directly underneath the wheels of the oncoming car. I am not wearing a helmet. I fucking die.

It's wet. But the back tyre holds and all that happens is that my braking distance is doubled. My braking distance is doubled and I am hit from the side at 60km/h. I fly gracefully through the evening, right leg already shattered, before hitting the ground with a throw-up-in-your-mouth crunch. My head slams against the curb. I am still not wearing a helmet. I fucking die.

But it's not wet folks. It's dry. I live.

It rained all day today. And I am bored with the almost fucking dying.

We have a greed with which we have agreed

Let's strike a bargain here, folks: three strikes and you're out.

The three strikes of which I will speak all bring a little flutter of regular joy to my chronically arrhythmic heartbeat.

Strike the first: Television and movie writers in the US. Ha! Ahahahaha! Youse can fuck right off. Haven't you heard? We have reality tv, you fucking dolts! We don't need your witty one-liners and sparkling word play. We have the common man to spout out cliché after cliché after cliché. That's enough for us, can't you see? We have lines like the Tyra spouted 'you are still in the running towards becoming America's next top model.' Beyoncé came up with that all by herself, you know. Common Law maintains that my insistence on referring to Tyra Banks as Beyoncé is horribly racist. I think it's horribly funny. Oh you fucking writers, and you wannabe writers too, I know you're fucking out there, reading Gimme, stealing his ideas for your own writerly plans. You're a pack of pointless pricks and it's about time you learned your place. Your place is a waste of space. So if I were you muppets, I'd up pens and take whatever scraps happen to be leftover after geniuses like Simon Cowell and Gordon Ramsay have done their bit.

Strike the second: Dublin Bus. Everyone's banging on about this one. Bock's banging on about how everyone shouldn't be banging on about it. Here's the deadbeat dad angle, the Gimme take: You go, bus striker dudes! Get those buses off the roads. Because when the end of Gimme comes, I'm pretty sure it's going to be death by bus. There's one particular cunt who drives a 27a who doesn't seem to appreciate that I am not legally obliged to use the glass and heroin addict strewn bike path that runs from Fairview into town. His lack of appreciation leads to him sounding his horn and attempting to run me and my Rosie off the road at least once a week. So let the strike spread I say, let it spread all the way to the 27a. And let that guy be a scab and find himself on the receiving end of a good going over with a pipe wrench. And then let the strike end in case I want to go somewhere without one of my bicycles...

Strike the third and last: This one is my absolute favourite. Oh, this one's a humdinger. The Gee Ay Ay! One more time, folks, let's have ourselves a big ha! Ahahahaha! I have zero fucking understanding of the issues at hand in this dispute (aren't they supposed to be fucking amateurs though? What's to fucking strike about?) nor am I in any particular rush to gain this knowledge. What I do know is that I want this one to run and run. I don't want our tv schedules and sports pages cluttered up with this crap, nor do I want to have look at those garish filthy bog hopping jerseys on every single summer Sunday cycle.

Down with writers, pretentious fucks. Down with buses, murderous bastards. Down with bogball, in all its hideous inbred forms.

And up with strikes. That is all.

It's getting hotter, it's our burning love

When Riker was a toddler I never let her watch Barney. Why? Because Barney is an evil purple parasite produced by a pack of motherfuckers who are too lazy to get it together to get some new songs written. Every single tune is ripped off from some usually shitty traditional ditty. Contrast this with the stone cold children's classic that is Bear in the Big Blue House. Go Bear! That's some quality shit, folks, with lots of original songs including 'C'mon everybody lets clean up the house' and 'Just Listen', a Tutter torch song that addresses homelessness. Now that's fucking children's television.

But back to Barney and its many drawbacks. Barney's voice. Nails on a blackboard ain't nothing to those hyper-modulated, so clearly feigned enthusiasm packed tones. And the fake nasty Billy Barry kids who, the second the cameras stop rolling, are doubtless heading into the toilets to throw up their lunches and get some good old fashioned self harm done. I love you, you love me, I fucking hate myself. And then that 'just the one' line of coke to get them through another soul selling, childhood shilling afternoon shoot.

I'm not a big Barney fan, folks.

But when number two pops out, and parents will recognise this bad boy as a universal truth, standards tend to drop. In that if the television program in question isn't telling Data to kill her parents or all the immigants then I'll probably let her watch it if it's television watching time. Data gets about an hour after playschool before we go to get Riker, and Barney generally forms part of this hour.

I'm sitting here tip tapping away, inhaling a turkey sandwich and I hear the latest song that Barney and his coked up cohorts are fucking in the ass. It's Depeche Mode's 'I just can't get enough'.

Really, folks, I wouldn't lie to you.

This is wrong on so many levels. Ratchet & Clank Future: Tools of Destruction has less levels that this is wrong on. Its wrong, wrong, wrong.

Oh, it's so very, very wrong.

Monday, November 12, 2007

I've moved your mountains and marked your cards

Monday, November 12, 2007 11
My good friend, who for reasons of privacy protection and anonymity, I shall be referring to as 'Gav', and you can shut the fuck up back there, I have plenty of good friends and not all of them live in Spain or on the internet. 'Gav' for instance lives in the greater Dublin area (and I mean greater, folks, he's dead posh) and then there's, well, there's...let's move on.

'Gav' has finally gotten it together and got his lovely wife 'up the Damien'. That's how he phrased it. 'I got my lovely wife up the Damien', he said. It's the language of the miraculous, folks. People who have no fucking idea what he was talking about need to go away and update their knowledge of Irish football and its denizens. But I'm guessing you get the picture. A father he will be. Many congratulations and all that shite. About fucking time.

Come a little closer folks, and watch how I make these happy, joyous tidings all about Gimme and Gimme's rage. On the day I heard this news, I also received a missive from another law smith, another who is paid to prey upon the legal niceties, the nice legalities of our suspect system. Said missive included forms that must be filled out and signed in front of yet another law joker. These signings, these scribblings will finally make me a legal guardian of the children I have been fathering since they emerged howling and hellaing into the world eight and three years ago.

What a load a cock it is that this has to be done. Why was I not a legal guardian from the moment of their birth? Was my contribution so minimal? That's a super rhetorical question. No answers on a postcard thank you. What type of fucked up system is it that has a built in assumption of dad deadbeatedness? And while we're at it, what kind of useless father takes eight years to get it together to establish guardianship? The Irish type, folks, the Gimme kind.

Common Law, I suspect, is delighted to find herself in a position to abscond to South America safe in the knowledge that I will be legally obliged to keep looking after this pair of comedians. Abscond to South America or, you know, die.

Friday, November 9, 2007

On roads that are paved with men that behave like they know where they're going

Friday, November 9, 2007 23
The prosecuton calls its first witness: this guy at the gym.

This guy, this guy just looks dirty. He wears a cotton polo shirt for spin. Which is wrong, wrong, wrong. His hair is lank, greasy and just that little bit too long for his age. I guess he's 40 odd, or perhaps way way younger. It's hard to tell because he has a beard. A nasty thankfully extinct animal on your face kind of beard. It's shapeless, of a nondescript length and badly cared for. It looks remarkably like my own.

'Welcome to the beard club,' he said cheerily to me at 6.45 yesterday morning.

'Tyutrfyg,' I replied what with it being 6.45 and all.

'Grew mine when I was eighteen. I haven't shaved since.'

'Oh Jesus, dude, really? And have you washed since? Or changed that polo shirt? Because all evidence points to the negatory.'

I didn't say that, of course. I said 'Utuhguhl.'

The prosecution calls it's second witness: Riker. Riker gives her testimony on the walk home from school yesterday.

'So, Riker, darling, my first born. How was your day?'

'Fine.'

'Anything exciting happen in school?'

'No.'

'What did you do in yard?'

'Nothing.'

'Oh for fuck's sake. Are you a fucking teenager already? Engage with your father! Christ.'

I didn't say that. Instead, reachingly, I said: 'So what do you think of my beard?'

There is a Beckettian pause. My Riker is a wonderful, sensitive, thoughtful child. She had no wish to rush in to anything that might hurt my feelings. So she went into it nice and slowly.

'No offence, Dad, but it looks kind of freaky.'

'None taken, Riker. None taken.'

The prosecution rests.

The defense calls Common Law.

'I like it.'

'I don't believe you.'

'I do. I think it's sexy.'

'No you fucking don't. You just want me to go out looking like a plonker.'

Common Law sighs.

But I do believe this, folks. She's always sending me out in dodgy, generally inside out attire, with sleep in my eyes and bogeys hanging from my nose. Why? Because I was totally lying when I said that I look like a car crash victim. In truth I am devastatingly, drop dead gorgeous and Common Law just doesn't want both women and men wandering this planet weeping inside day after day for the rest of their lives as they wail and bemoan the stark reality of my takeness, my being hers. She's generous that way, Common Law. And her generosity is fucking loving the beard.

The defense calls it second and final witness: Hardcore Motherfucker, my recently recovered bicycle.

'Your Honour, there is no way on God's green Gaia that those scumbags would have handed, nay, pushed me back into the arms of my true master had it not been for the beard. Yes, his eyes were crazy. Yes, he was foaming at the mouth. But they still would have punched him in the face and kicked him in the head until he was dead had it not been for this beard, this patchy beard of the unhinged.'

The defense rests.

As usual, folks, I will be letting all you people who I've never met make the big life decisions for me.

Shave or no shave?

Wednesday, November 7, 2007

Cadent tears fret channels in my cheeks

Wednesday, November 7, 2007 12
Risotto, done right, takes quite a bit of time.

Yes! Oh fuck, yes! It's the Gimme cookery hour! You've been waiting for this one for a long long time, right folks? Why the fuck does Gimme waste all his time talking about his insecurities , his bicycles, his chiildren? The fuck is he going to start on the good stuff? Cookery, Gimme, cookery! C'mon dude, you could be the new Jamie Oliver. That fucker's gone all fat and sincere and we need a bitter and slim go-getter to take his place...

Not tonight, folks. This one's about the Bridge Crew. Those ungrateful little bints.

It's been a week of sweets, of cheap candied crap. The twist of fate which has saved my girls from my car crash looks served them well this Hallowe'en. You pull a lot of fucking sweets when you're as beautiful as my girls, as Gimme gene free, as Common Law chromosone heavy. Last year's solution to this sugar snowstorm was my eating all Data's stuff. Took me about four hours one evening. She was two and so didn't fucking notice. Still living in the moment. Not so much this year. Already it's all about the anticipation. She had them all out in line on the kitchen table. I think she may have taken a picture with her Dora camera. Either way, nothing was going missing.

And so, in a desperate bid to get them through it all, I somewhat dropped my food fascism, and allowed each of them one piece of crap after lunch and one after dinner. But I reckon they've been sneaking stuff all afternoon too because it's been five days since either of them have eaten any dinner. Well, it all fucking ran out last night and I decided that tonight, tonight they eat food. They wil eat this dinner that I cook. My labours will be rewarded by the beatific smiles of pure gratitude. 'Oh Daddy, how we love you, you big strong provider you.'

And so to risotto: finely chop the onions, garlic, celery. Finely chopping. Now there's a major pain in the tits. And a pain in my distally weakened fingers and in my burning eyes. And don't you folks be coming at me with your 'use the food processor' shite. That's almost as annoying, with all it's bits of celery sticking to the side and not getting chopped up crap. And it completely lacks authenticity. So I'm not doing it.

And then there's a whole lot of other shit you have to do. You don't want to know. It's fucking boring.

Here's what you need to know. I cooked solidily, constantly doing one fucking thing after the other for a full hour and fifteen minutes. That's a lot of fucking time when you're as old as Gimme. But the result folks, made it all completely worthwhile. This was a risotto among risottos, one of the greatest dinners I have ever created. When you get a risotto right, it rocks, right? Damn right. Rocking risotto is what I raised up.

And despite being starved for the entire evening, despite the creaminess, the barlotti beans, the perfect pancetta, despite all these things, my children, first and second born both, took one look and one fake taste each of this culinary conquest, this food of the gods and refused to eat so much as a spoonful. They ended up with fruit and cheese dippers.

Hear me howl with pain and frustration, folks. Hear me sob with sadness. Fucking dope drought and all its terrible, beautiful consequences.

Tuesday, November 6, 2007

He'll teach you how to pick and choose and how to throw the blade

Tuesday, November 6, 2007 10
I have many addictions:

Exercise, obviously.

Handjobs, naturally. And I mean naturally, folks, I mean handjobs. Not for me the Wicked Wanda 3000 of Captain Smack.

Chocolate. All varieties, but with an over-the-top emphasis on the Snickereses.

Marijuana. Ditto on the all varieties thingy - I know what ditto means now. Emphasis here on whatever I can get my hands on. As a rule,I find the selection to be terribly limited and as soon as the Bridge Crew grow up and get proper highly-paid soul-destroying jobs in marketing, I'm moving to Amsterdam where they have dope menus. Dope menus, Tim Krabbé, and many many miles of bicycle lanes.

Alcohol. Specifically Whistable Organic Ale these days. But I'll also drink that week old cooking wine if that's all that's to be had.

The World Wide Internet. They have it on computers now and there's nothing like it for filling those empty hours that would otherwise be wasted by preparing the evening's class, folding clothes or paying attention to the children.

But folks, the favourite of all my favourites, my Ace Internet Marketing of addiction, my Thomas More of mood enhancement is that sweet bean caffeine. Yes, I fucking know caffeine is not a bean, but please, you got let me have that sweet bean caffeine. It sounds too good for you to shoot it down.

Caffeine. Espresso for preference. Double espresso for double preference. What a fucking all rounder that drug is. Just got up and despise the world and everyone and everything contained therein? Coffee'll sort that out. In minutes you won't just have gotten up. You'll be up. And your hate will be stronger, longer and more focused.

About to teach a spin class but would rather sellotape your bollox to the ceiling than scream 'Circles! Relax the upperbody! Go, go go!' even one more fucking time? Not to worry, enough free filtered Robt Roberts shite will push you through that hump right to the point where the concept of using Sufjan Stevens as effort increasing exercise music seems not only reasonable but downright obligatory. And you'll want to shout at them. They fucking deserve it, the masochistic fools.

And want to have yourself a little relaxerooni, a little down time from the endless Sisyphian circle of children delivery collection feeding delivery collection feeding? A cup of joe, black as a moonless night at midnight is going to give that down time a little upitude. You don't want to be down when you're down, folks. That'd be a downer.

And once you're hooked, once you've got that caffeine monkey on your back, you're going to be in complete control of your bowel movements, you'll be the boss of your bombs, you'll decide when to dump. Because unless you feed Curious Coffee George ain't nothing moving no matter how many pints of Vindaloo and Guinness you've lowered.

And wow! Coffee goes with all the other addictions too! Irish coffee. Hash coffee. Jerk off coffee. Internet coffee. It all works and works beautifully.

There's one more thing. I can measure the progress of my day by the number of espressos I have ingested. With these shifting seasons and changing hours it's nice to know how far I am from my bed, and my precious, precious shut eye. Right now, I'm at eight.

Halfway there...

Saturday, November 3, 2007

It's hard to tell where a man goes wrong, it might be here, it might be there

Saturday, November 3, 2007 11
Question. What great moment in history would you like to have witnessed? Personal or global, sporting or political, it's all up for grabs folks.

I appreciate that every last one of would like to answer with 'Hallowee'en night, 2007, Statoil Petrol Station, Howth Road, Dublin.' And I understand that. I'd like to see it again myself. But we need to put the incident aside and move on, no matter how satisfying repeated reflection on my ride rage may be.

The following clip reminded me of my own choice:



See that guy, that player who leans seductively on the two chicks? And then laughs convincingly, genuinely, with eight seconds to go? That's my father, Finbar.

Not really. But I suspect it was that charmingly sweatered smoothie who inspired Finbar to take up curling for a season a number of years ago. He got swept up in it, I guess. As you do. I have the details of following incident solely from his own somewhat biased description, so for the sake of accuracy, I'll tell it like it is in my head.

Finbar, taking a break from all that seductive leaning on attractive Canadian women which plays such an integral part in the sport, is on sweeping duties. He's the man, the man with the broom. He's sweeping with the enthusiasm and ultra-competitiveness that also has him beating all his children at any available sport for as long as he possibly can. No soft touches from our Finbar, no easing up on his four year old grandchild in a game of snap, and nothing but all out, go team, give it all you got sweeping when he's being the sweeper guy.

And then something goes awry. What it is that causes both feet to suddenly go from under Finbar we shall perhaps never know, though there can be no doubt that insane desperation to win has played a part. His feet fly high, the sweeper man gets air and it is at this point that my father makes his most grevious error: he fails to let go of the broom. So rather that breaking his fall with his newly acquired, top of the range curling glove protected hands, he uses his protection free pretty Irish face.

I saw the pictures folks, and he looked very similar to Kiefer Sutherland in Flatliners after a good seeing to from the little red riding hood kid. But the comedy contained within the photos of his battered face never matched my mental reconstruction of the incident itself. I suspect the reality was even better.

And for you folks? There's no particular reason for your selection to involve the humiliation and facial scarring of a relative, but one or two along those lines would make me feel marginally less bitter and mean.

Thursday, November 1, 2007

Ride of the Scumbag Bogeyman

Thursday, November 1, 2007 18
I'm throwing my leg over Rosie when the Crackberry chirps. Communiqué from Common Law demanding beer. A reasonable request considering that it was her turn this Hallowe'en and she's been the loser Yummy Mummy (and she sure is yummy, folks) standing at the end of the path as her children demand party food payment from complete strangers, while the most strenuous thing I've attempted over the course of the evening is the triangle pose.

That's about to change, folks. That's all about to change.

A glance at the watch shows 9.07. Our local off license inexplicably shuts at 10. No fucking problem. Not on Rosie, not with the wind at my back and a complete disregard for the rules of the road or my own personal safety. I fly through the Lebanon-like night past an army of Garda Siochána on Pearse Street who appear to be doing little to guard the fucking peace. That's where they'll be when I need them, standing on Pearse Street discussing which bonfire to ignore next.

It's a quick, quick 10k and I'm pulling up to the offy at 9.35, plenty of time to spare. Except there fucking isn't because it's fucking closed. Qué? Must be a Hallowe'en thing. Lazy fuckers, any fucking excuse.

So. What to do? On any other night I would have gone 'Fuck it', and gone home to the week old glass of leftover cooking wine and a smoke that did not fear to joke. But a demand is a demand and the garage is just an extra five minute Rosie rampage away. And so I go.

I'm almost there when I realise that I am lucklessly lockless. Rosie resides indoors at work and I can almost bring her in to the local place, but this beer dispensing Statoil is a whole different kettle of fish. The only place where I could reasonably rest Rosie is completely invisible from inside the shop area. Do I risk it? As I pull up I take glance around for suspicious, shady types who might want to make off with my new bike babe.

This quick look tells me that I'm going to have to go home and get a fucking lock if Common Law is to get her well deserved beer boost. There are two scumbag types loitering, littering, being scumbags, with their scumbag haircuts and their scumbag tracksuits. They both have bikes, but that makes fuck all difference really. I could brave it out and actually drag Rosie into the shop. They both have bikes. What to do, what to do? The scumbags are moving slowly out of the forecourt. They both have bikes. I'm just going to have to go home. They both have bikes. One of them, a tall skinny fuck has what looks like a Specialized Hardrock. I look more closely. Gimme and his paranoid delusions. Gimme and his lingering grief.

It's a Specialized Hardrock, alright. It has mountain bike clip-on pedals, but non-knobbly slick tyres. The back tyre is bigger than the front tyre. Folks. Oh folks, it is. It's Hardcore Motherfucker.

I am instantly, bestially aware that consideration means hesitation and that hesitation means, I don't give myself time to think what hesitation means, I just fucking go for it, folks, I let the red mist descend and I fucking go for it.

I open with a cunt. A screaming, snarling, spitting 'YOU FUCKING CUNT. GET OFF MY FUCKING BIKE YOU CUNT, GET OFF MY FUCKING BIKE!' Almost instantly he's off it. 'That's my fucking bike you fucking cunt, you fucking stole my bike' I'm growling now 'from the side of my house you fucking CUNT' This big kid even as he backs away attempts 'It's me mates bike...' 'It's my fucking bike, you little fuck! (cunt is losing its impact I primally feel) Look at the pedals. Look at the tyres. You fucking thief.'

They could have beaten the shit out of me and taken both bikes, folks. It would have cost them little and nobody would have stopped them here and now in our modern Ireland.

But my eyes, folks. My weirdo bikie clothes, sure, my fucked up patchy homeless person beard, yes, but mostly my eyes. My eyes are crazed, maniacal. I have no memory of ever being so enraged, so completely out of control. I keep screaming, unhingedly shrieking for much longer than is necessary. They keep backing away. And then quickly, before these superhuman powers of insanity leave me, I get up on Rosie, pull Hardcore Motherfucker close and we all ride off into the night.

And you better believe that I was back there twenty minutes later to get those beers. I brought a lock.

Wednesday, October 31, 2007

Mamma's gonna keep baby healthy and clean

Wednesday, October 31, 2007 8
When I had cooties (cooties is so much nicer a word than lice, isn't it? It's cuter, cootier) as a child and my grandmother, who had charge of me at the time (the wages of sin are being primary caregiver to a disturbed and fragile ten year old shoplifter, and boy did that lady sin) was administering the vile evil smelling shampoop treatment, I carefully read the side of the packet to myself. And posed questions. The first of which was:

Little Gimme: Mammy Zealot, what are public lice?

Mammy Zealot: I beg your pardon?

LG: What are public lice?

MZ: I wonder what filthy brat brought these into the school. And such a good school.

LG: Mammy Zealot?

MZ: Your uncles never came home with lice.

LG: Mammy Zealot?

MZ: Yes, Gimme?

LG: What are public lice?

MZ: I beg your pardon?

LG: What are public lice?

(Mammy Zealot mutters something)


LG: What?

MZ: Don't say what, Gimme.

LG: I beg pardon?

MZ: I said, don't say what.

LG: I mean I beg pardon from before.

MZ: I really don't know what you mean, Gimme.

LG: Mammy Zealot?

MZ: Yes, Gimme.

LG: What are public lice?

MZ: (sighs) Sometimes adults have hair where children don't.

LG: Oh. Like under your arms?

MZ: Yes, Gimme, like under your arms.

LG: But why is it called public hair if you can't see it most of the time?

MZ: May I have that box please? We have to rinse.

I have grown a beard. It is straggly and scraggly, both public and pubic. Public in that everyone can see it, pubic in its wiriness, its shortness, its almost curliness. My beard needs a straight iron. I'm sure you can use them on beards, seeing as they're so masculine and all.

But why do you need to know this, folks? You need to know this because it plays a minor but integral part in a Hallowe'en story that is coming soon, really fucking soon. While I'm reluctant to build this story up, I have to tell you that, for a true story, this is one fucking incredible story. Incredible in that you won't believe it, fo sho, but also incredible in that it is a suspenseful fucking cracker of a tale. And true, all fucking true.

Of a Hallowe'en night, she rose from the dead.

Tuesday, October 30, 2007

Dead in a ditch somewhere with a mind full of chemicals like some cheese eating high school boy

Tuesday, October 30, 2007 10
It's a months mind for Hardcore Motherfucker, folks.

'What's a month's mind, Gimme?' shriek the hysterically hellbound heathens. Wikipedia says it's a wake but Wikipedia is full of shit. And you folks might say that Hardcore Motherfucker is not technically dead but you folks are also full of shit.

If I don't have her, she may as well be dead.

Every bike that I see makes me think of her. If that bike be black or grey or just not fucking pink or if that bike is dropless or if I'm going too quick to see that bike clearly at first glance then I slow down to get a better look to make sure that it isn't her. I followed a guy on a Hardrock Specialized last week. Followed him in and out of traffic for five minutes. Wasn't her. Grief will make you do some stupid shit.

Mistake me not folks, I'm not Rosie dissing here. That Rosie. She light, she quick, she purdy. But she no Hardcore Motherfucker. No way, no how. Poor, poor Rosie. Such is my unspoken resentment towards her that I know that I am subconsciously blaming her for my shoulder injury. Her and her non-existent suspension, her crazy drop handlebars. Stupid, amazing, just not my old bike, bike

But raise your glasses now and I promise that I'll let it go. I swear it. Really.

I'll let her go.

Friday, October 26, 2007

Party - The Aftermath

Friday, October 26, 2007 11
Riker bubbles into the house full of tales of treasure hunt victory and karaoke renditions of High School Musical tripe. Throughout this non-stop breathless stream of party related information I attempt to establish whether she has eaten anything but cake over the previous two hours.

She pauses in her Beowulfian narrative long enough to inform me that she has, she's had 'chips and stuff' but that she is very thirsty.

'Get yourself some juice, the bath is ready, I'm going to brush your sister's teeth.'

Despite the idiocy of an eight year old's party finishing at 7pm on a school night, I am determined to get the bedtime done in time for bedtime. This is not a football thing. What care I for the champions league? Not a jot. This is purely a well rested happy children thing. No, really it is.

I am not half way up the stairs when there comes from below a resounding crash. Crash, bang, smash. I sigh. I turn around.

'I'm sorry, I'm really sorry.'

It's our last remaining fancy blue glass. Now we're down to empty nutella jars and pilfered pint glasses. Again I sigh.

'I'll do it, go and get in the bath.'

I kneel. Big shards. Quickish job. I do this then sweep aggressively, minutely. There comes from upstairs yet another crash. Not quite as resounding. No cries of pain or horror.

I do not swear in front of the children. But they are both upstairs and the sighing thing is getting old.

'You have got to be fucking kidding me', I opine, calmly.

I walk slowly up the stairs, (like schoolboys towards school with heavy looks if you want to get romantical about it and I do) to be greeted by Riker holding out her piggy bank.

The shower curtain is down, splayed about the bathroom floor like a Dolce and Gabanna rape victim, dressed down in a shower curtain.

'I don't want your stinking money,'I say. 'All I want from you Riker, my first born, my darling darling child is for you to be nothing whatsoever like me. Yes, yes, I know we can point the finger at the sugar and my failure to help you in building up a resistance to it over the years but in truth, in salt and vinegar veritas, it's the genes, Riker, it's the fucked up Gimme genes which you must strive against. Be not like your father, your crash bang smash breaking stuff father. Please, please try harder. Don't let the inanimate world push you around like I do. Beat that fucker down now, early on, while you still have the strength and the will.'

I don't say this. I just go back to the sighing. I sigh for Ireland, just as my mother did before me.

'Get into the bath. Try not to break anything else.'

'Ok.'

'Ok.'

I go and brush Data's teeth.

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

I'm the fear addicted, danger illustrated

Tuesday, October 23, 2007 16
I've fucking done it now. Almost done it anyway. Almost burned down the house. It's the having two children to deal with at the same time, you see. I'm aware that there are a number of other people who succesfully run their lives and those of up to a bizillion kids without constant beatings from the inanimate world, but they're different folks, folks. They don't feel life quite as keenly as Gimme and therefore are not sitting ducks for the kind of household shenanigans that I shall now describe.

Some people believe in Jesus, or Mohammed or any number of other crazy Mansonesque bearded types. Not me. I believe in appliances. And table corners. And bowls full of muesli, bottles filled with beer. But today I am mostly believing in microwaves.

'Is there meant to be smoke pouring out of the microwave?' asks Riker, tentatively leaning her head around Data's bedroom door.

'Not as such,' replies Gimme from his prone on the floor nap for Data securing position. Which quickly becomes a sprinting down the stairs position.

One minute and thirty seconds is just about right to heat up a plate of leftover pine nut and raisin pasta, folks. Eleven minutes and thirty seconds not so much.

Many of you will be aware that I have a bit of a nuclear holocaust fetish thing going on. So it was with a little trill of pleasure that I withdrew the minature meltdown from the newly slick shit brown interiored microwave. It was Hiroshima in a pasta bowl, folks, noodles alá Nagasaki. And the stench, ooh the stench. It lingers still, it lingers like my mother in common law at the close of a family gathering. I have every door and window in the house wide open for the past two hours and it is making exactly fuck all difference.

I am so fucking dead when Common Law gets in. If you happen to bump into her at an opening this evening, ply her with Pinot, piss her right up past the point of perception. Maybe that way she won't notice that her house smells like fallout death.

You wear a dress baby, I'll wear a tie

Tomorrow I shall stand at the school gates distributing 'Stranded on Gaia' gold leaf embossed, egg shell white business cards to all those tank drivers, those prissy, pissy parental units who desperately need the knowledge, the knowing of Gimme's go getting or slow setting moods.

This is to avoid a situation such as transpired today when a parent or two, lacking the knowing of Gimme's exercise deprived chemical imbalances and even greater than usual depraved rage, had the temerity to include Riker, the first born, in a mass mail invitation to a party that is taking place in forty eight hours time.

Forty fucking eight hours, folks. And this is not any old show up and fuck your present in the pile, see you in two hours for the sugar crash party, this is a show up, fuck your present in the pile, see you in two hours for the sugar crash, fancy fucking dress party. Seriously, you inconsiderate imbeciles, who in this modern world has time to be dealing with this shit? I now need to sort present and transport, costume and childminding and all in two short days. Who, I demand once more, who the fuck?

Plenty of people, perhaps. But a quick perusal of my last few day's posts would have alerted the parents of Olivia (yes, folks, the one who says 'crap' all the time) to my current discontent and extreme provokability, thus providing themselves with the opportunity to get their fucking lives together and by together I mean revolving nicely about the celestial body that is the Life of Gimme. Just a little fucking notice folks, that's all that I require. A little notice to avoid the now unavoidable consequences that await Mr and Mrs Olivia. The shaming. The naming. The hysterical screams of abuse that will greet them as they drop their child to school every morning when all the other parents and their various associations realise the true power of a disapproving Stranded on Gaia post.

And finally, as the community's disdain and desperation for deadly vengeance reaches a climax, the inevitable stoning in the public square that is the newly opened Insomnia. Death by day old bagel.

What's that? You're sorry that you didn't give Gimme a little more of a heads up, huh? Regret not being just that utty butty bit more organised?

Well, too fucking late assholes. Have another stale muffin to the temple.
 
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