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.

Monday, October 22, 2007

I'll kiss your open sores

Monday, October 22, 2007 0
I fucking hate milestones. Milestones are millstones. And a pain in the stones.

Have you noticed the padding, folks? The pictures of calves, the Bob Dylan virals? It's cause I'm pushing, pushing hard for that first milestone, millstone. One hundred is just around the corner and I don't want to talk about it when it arrives so let's just get it out of the fucking way now.

I started spouting this crap for the attention. Look at me! Look at me! Look at me now! And you looked, all fourteen of you. And now, predictably enough, I feel all scummy and stalked and stared upon. Rape by eyeball and plasma, that's what you folks are performing upon my delicate little mind with your supportive comments and your witty retorts. And just like the unwanted and purely physiological erections that the male rape victim experiences I have responded with a big ole mental and emotional hard-on of my own.

But there's more. Gimme knows his fat lesbian self a whole lot better than when he started this shit, and these knowings make him sick. I was always aware that I was possessed of heroic levels of self-absorption but I was thinking along the lines of Captain Caveman or that homeless guy who jumped into the Liffey to save a bus. Turns out my heroism (in self-absorption terms) is actually right up there in the Superman/Doomlord league. 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.

And so violated by visitation and nauseated by knowledge I creep up upon my century of sullied senseless spoutings.

Comments disabled, folks, I don't want to fucking hear it.

Saturday, October 20, 2007

'Tis but a scratch

Saturday, October 20, 2007 9
I'll have always worked on the assumption that when my complete physical breakdown arrived it would announce itself first in my left knee. That's the bit of me that my ma was holding on to when she dipped me into the Grand Canal as an infant. But it would appear that she also failed to douse my posterior deltoid (fucking look it up) which has this morning reached a level of immobility which is preventing me from both typing with my left hand and helping with the Saturday morning tidy up. Common Law has therefore risen from her slight headcold deathbed and is cheerfully working around me in a deathcleanfest instead.

I have just necked three espresso washed Nurofen mellets for kids (somebody want to tell what the fuck a mellet is?) and there's most of a tub of Tiger balm searing through my rotator cuff and yet still the slightest motion is causing levels of discomfort that my pussyness just cannot abide.

This is how my body tells me that I'm overdoing it, I guess. Ease off on the fucking spin, you tosspot, it declares, and get the fucking bus for a change. And how about opening a yoga class without a fucking long arm plank? Would some T'ai Chi fucking kill you?

Yeah, yeah, yeah, body, and here's a little request right back atcha: Ever think of cutting down on the endless requests for snickereses and ice cream and three medium pizzas in one sitting? How about that body?

And while I'm going with the internal dialogue format here's some things that Gimme's mind might take under consideration: plenty of people are able to wander the world with their car and wall punching rage under control without having to put their bodies through intense physical effort six times a week. Yes, well, perhaps they are working with the help of anti-psychotic medication and that whole not being a fruitcake gig, but still brain, you want to get it together chill the fuck out? Because gotta tell you, grey matter, judging by the shooting pain that darts from neck to fingertips anytime any kind of weight is applied to left arm it doesn't look like body is going to be working with any bike, stationary or otherwise, for at least a week. And so it would appear that you're staring down the barrel of a minimum of seven days of exercise-free existence.

So here's what's coming: mood disturbance, state anxiety, tension, depression, and confusion. Aha! Ahahahahaha! Like I can be more confused.

Should make for an amusing week or two for everyone except for Gimme and anyone who comes into contact with him.

Friday, October 19, 2007

Is it selling out if I don't get any cash?

Friday, October 19, 2007 1

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

Another time undone

Wednesday, October 17, 2007 11
Can somebody explain the technicalities of selling out to Gimme? Just how does one go about this brave and lucrative lifestyle step? Spill the secrets of shilling, folks.

During my ten years as a filthy actor I never once appeared in a commercial, never once got on the voice-over bandwagon. Not, let me point out, for the want of fucking trying. I sat down with my agent just after Common Law got up the duff with Riker and informed her in no uncertain terms that I now wished to sell out in every possible way.

'I'll do fucking anything,' I whimpered bravely.

'Anything?' she asked.

'Hear me, my agent,' I wailed. 'I will pitch McDonalds to dangerously pudgy preschoolers. I will peddle SUVs to hot suburban Moms. I will push bedside gun racks to Jewish settlers in the West Bank, you fucking name it, I'll fucking proclaim it.'

'Gimme, my son,' wept my relieved show biz representative on earth, 'Come to my arms! Together we shall make it so!'

Except we fucking didn't. I worked plenty as an actor folks. I was on TV. I was in movies. (Briefly, crappily) I was in an endless succession of edgy gay plays. But despite my almost unbearably good looks and an ad audition at least every other fucking week I never cracked the commercial sector.

Perhaps this was because, contrary to my firmly held beliefs, I am in fact an ugly talentless motherfucker. Let us not rule this possibility out. But naturally I will go to my grave maintaining that although I could convincingly portray a fag from Foxrock, a queer from Queens or even a Shakespearean shirt-lifter, I was incapable of coming anywhere close to believing that mortgages, macs (big or otherwise) or move over butter could improve the lives of the people.

Yes, folks, probably it was the ugly, talentless thing.

Last night I heard 'Untitled', a fairly obscure track from The Cure's masterful 'Disintegration' album, being used in a promo for a movie to be shown on TV3 later in the week. The movie was 'Music Box' which Common Law assures me is a good picture. But then Common Law cries at the trailer, the trailer folks, of What's love got to do with it - The Tina Turner Story and thinks that Barry Lyndon is 'boring' so let's not be bestowing excessive credence on her cinematic choices.

Doesn't fucking matter what the movie was anyway. What I want to know is how did evil TV3 get their hands on 'Untitled'? Did Robert Smith consciously sanction the use of this track by a commercial television station? He must have done. On some level or another he has allowed his beautifully creation to promote the nastiest television station in Ireland. And that's quite the statement when you consider that we have a supposedly all-Irish tv channel that regularly broadcasts English language advertisements.

Robert Smith. The fucking sell out bastard.

The lucky, lucky sell out bastard.

Sandra Bullock's tits

So Gimme gathers that some of his readers can read. To be honest Gimme assumes that his average reader reads but two readables: Stranded on Gaia and heat magazine. Gimme's right, right?

Time to expand your horizons, folks and don't be getting all snorey and skippy and movey on to the next worthless opinion about meaningless crap when you hear what it's called and what it's about and that it's a translation of a Dutch novel. Hey! Get back here. Sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up.

It's by a guy called Tim Krabbé. Let's start there. Stay where you are! Tim Krabbé is one serious fucking renaissance dude. The only kind of person I admire more than an hardcore slacker is a renaissance dude. This guy, this Krabbé, was a kick ass chess player. He went at the chess like one crazy motherfucker until he was 29 at which point he realized he was never going to be the Utimate Move over Morphy, Fuck you Fischer, Kasparov you Kunt Grandmaster and decided to give it a fucking rest. So he turned to amateur cycling. Through the application of the same stupid levels of perseverance that turned him into a championship chess player Timmy boy, Timmy man, morphed (unlike Morphy) into a strong amateur cyclist.

Step away from the mouse! Do not browse on!

Kiefer Sutherland, I scream! And Sandra Bullock, I bawl! I scream to prevent the scramming. I bawl to prevent the bolting. That's about as close to a heat connection as I can get, folks. Does Kiefer Sutherland appear in heat? Has he been 'Torso of the Week' recently? Let's assume that he has. Kiefer Sutherland appeared alongside Miss Congeniality in the shitty American cop out ending of the remake of the Dutch film 'The Vanishing'. (And here's a little Gimme synchronicty for you folks, also featuring was the creator of the greatest slacker characterisation of all time, Jeff Bridges)

Did you get that? The Vanishing? Lost Boy and Speed woman? Remake of Dutch movie 'Spoorloos'? Tim Krabbé wrote the novel, folks. So now you've got yourself a reference point. Let's all thank Ganesha for that.

All the way through this chessing, this biking, Krabbé was forging a successful career as a writer. Not big in Japan perhaps, but big in the Netherlands. And those stoners know their good shit. A fucking bow full of strings, this guy.

Ok. I'm going to risk announcing the title of the book: 'De renner'. Ahem. So I kind of copped out there a little. That's the Dutch title. It's called 'The Rider'. And it has climbed it's way gracefully into my top ten books ever in the history of the world and sprinted aggressively straight to number one in my top a million sports books of all eternity. Screw you 'The Olympian' by Brian Glanville, better luck next time.

This novel fucking kicks, folks. I would not be ordering you to get the fuck on to Amazon as soon as you finished reading and commenting on this entry if it weren't so. It puts you in the head of the narrator during an imaginary race. It pulls you up and down the cols, along the faux plats and all the way to the finish line. It's both breathless and meditative, lung bursting and thought provoking. The prose is sparse, engaging and occasionally transcendent, the translation as unclunky as a translation can be.

If you're a big fat cunt who washes himself with a rag on a stick and secretly dreams of getting your obese life together, a porker who plans to tart to start exercising and eating right, any day now, next Monday maybe then relax! Don't fucking worry about it for one second more! You don't need to do it. You can experience all the benefits of strong athletic body and a keen mind without any of the resulting pain merely through the picking up of Krabbé's 'The Rider'. You will be effortlessly transported into a life you never knew even as you maintain your dunker dunkin'.

If you're Jackie Collins fan, mister, then this is the book for you. Romance abounds. Stephen King your poison? Right up your street, lady, there's horror and tension to beat the band. Just jumped on the Anne Enright bandwagon? Jump the fuck back off and get on the Krabbé express.

You remain unconvinced, folks? Here's the clincher. It's short. 148 pages. That's only 18 more than an issue of heat and if you can read ten pages of this book and not finish it I'd be really fucking surprised.

Off you go then. Go and fucking buy it.

Monday, October 15, 2007

What big calves you have, Grandma, I mean Gimme

Monday, October 15, 2007 12

Data got a camera for her birthday. It's Dora and it's pink and it's sturdy.

Yo, Lieutenant Commander, I'm up here.

Sunday, October 14, 2007

I'm so scared in case I fall off my chair

Sunday, October 14, 2007 10
Stay with the wheel, stay with the wheel. You're dropping off, you dick. Stay with the wheel. Fuck's sake. It's not like it's costing you any physical effort. Stay with the wheel. FUCK! Too close, too close. And now too far. Concentrate you cunt. Stay with the fucking wheel.

Yes, folks. Saturday morning brought group ride number one. You know those obnoxious gangs of spandex clad fucks that roam County Dublin's country lanes of a Saturday morning preying upon the poor innocent motorists who just want to get where they're going at 20 miles per hour above the speed limit? I was one of those those lycra louts. And it was some scary shit, folks. Some scary, exhilarating shit.

I need to stay on the wheel of the person in front in order to maintain optimal wind breakage. Preferably as close as an an inch. (See the way I've gone all imperial with my miles and my inches? The fuck is going on with that?) But I can't be getting too close what with the inevitable consequences of the wheel touch, the swerving, the crashing and the responsibility for the broken limbs and collar bones of all the cyclists piled up behind me.

Clearly the wise approach to take on one's first group ride is to stay at the back and practise, get the feel for the concept and avoid putting oneself in a position where one is going to be responsible for mayhem and destruction. Clearly the thing not to do is get bored after 5k (back to metric) and opine internally but forceably 'Fuck this for a game of Risk' and slowly start easing one's way up through the bunch. That would just be silly.

I didn't crash and I only nearly caused a few. We went circa the 100k mark, folks, and it fucking flew in. I had a ball. They're a nice bunch too, these cyclists. Nicer that drivers, it goes without saying. Nicer that runners too, I would hazard. Certainly nicer and more welcoming that the random strangers I find myself attempting to converse with on public transport these days in my desperation to find a temporary V replacement.

So given the fact that I fucking hate everyone, to find a group of people who seemed instantly tolerant of my excessive enthusiasm and showyoffedness was both surprising and delightful. And as if that wasn't enough to make me love them I was stronger and quicker than just about all of them too. Aha! Ahahahaha!

So I guess I'll be going out again. But quietly and unobtrusively this time.Less of the showing off. Humble Gimme next week for sure. And naturally I will be leaving in my wake masses of perfectly achieved housework to make up for the fact that I'm now going to be fucking off for four or five hours every Saturday. Who said that?

At least it's not fucking golf, right?

UPDATE:
Update in the sense that I left something out.

Nobody offered me drugs folks. Not the nifty swifty sixty four year old on his rickety Raleigh, the up and coming seventeen year old on his one kilo Specialized nor any of the fatsos in between. Not a syringe in sight. Not a perceptible pill. No wonder they were so fucking slow.

Saturday, October 13, 2007

This one's for you, Art

Saturday, October 13, 2007 10
I have been attempting to think of things that make me happy. Why? Because people are constantly implying that Stranded is now just one big fat downer.

'I was depressed already and this was just not helpful'

'You've been more hostile than usual lately'

'Jesus, but could you just fucking shut up for two fucking seconds? Or two weeks? How about two weeks?'

Really, I couldn't agree more.

So here's what makes me happy, or at least what made me happy this Thursday evening:
Spreadin' out her wings tonight, she got you jumpin' off the track and shovin' into overdrive. That's right, folks, highway to the danger zone. In fact, I'm going to take you right in to the danger zone.

Top Gun. What a fucking movie. High octane action sequences to rival 'Sleepless in Seattle'. Sparkling dialogue as witty and as vibrant as that in 'Conan the Barbarian'. Romance between men the like of which you are unlikely to see outside of www.hugecockjock.com. I never saw the gay cowboy picture, but I suspect there is no way that it is even as remotely as steamy as the volleyball in Top Gun.

Physiologically speaking, (and this is the best way to speak, folks, particularly when your mouth is full of Snickereses and beer) I can confirm that every time Tom twitches his well toned cheek muscles in frustration at the inexpressability of his man lust, my abnormally large heart skips a little beat. I wore my heart rate monitor to be sure.

And then there's Anthony Edwards as Tom's ridiculously moustachioed wife and Meg Ryan as his beard. What a double act! What a useful reminder of the shelf life of the reasonably pretty but hugely talented young comedic actress. We're not talking Clintesque longevity here.

But it's Val KIlmer that does it for me really. Val Kilmer playing a character called Iceman while coincidentally looking remarkably like Vanilla Ice. Val Kilmer sniffing invisible lines of cocaine for no apparent reason. Val Kilmer not being Jim Morrison. Ah, Val. Val, Val, Val.

You can be my wingman any time.

Friday, October 12, 2007

Late shift masquerade

Friday, October 12, 2007 12
Big breakthrough today, folks. Moment of clarity.

Data was home sick from playschool (she's faking, the big faker) and I had the morning off. My chemical balance seemed reasonably attuned to the accomplishment of household goals and so it was with not quite a bounce in my step that I settled into some serious food preparation.

First up, fried, breadcrumbed chicken pieces for lunches. A whole fuck load of them. Yes folks, since you ask, I can be even more specific. Eighteen of the motherfuckers. This involved much careful, thin slicing, aggressive, arthritic egg beating and tedious, messy breadcrumb application. Culinary artistry abounded as I fried one batch after another to golden brown perfection. Then the cooling, the bagging and the freezing. As the cooling commenced, I skipped merrily on to the dinner...

It's still only 9.30 in the morning! Who is this mysterious go getter dressed in the one leg rolled up ill fitting jeans of Gimme A. Minute? Why is he not slumped over the keyboard trying to think up something offensive to write in Twenty Major's comment section? Who can say?

So the plan for this evening's dinner is lamb cutlets with cous cous and hummus. I decided I'd make the fucking hummus. Not hard but certainly not as attractive as some well earned and serious slumping. But I did it anyway. Go fucking me. And so by 9.50am, Gimme has achieved. The kitchen looks like downtown Basra and there is the fake sick child who will no doubt be requiring attention but basically the big shit that I would normally avoid until minutes before the dinner and the great Gimme/Common Law children handover is done and dusted. Or done, at least.

Leaving me with some free time.

Which I spent eating nine of the eighteen chicken pieces (they are so very, very tasty) and regularly dipping my finger into the hummus, just to check the seasoning. Over and over and over again. The seasoning is fine, but the hummus is much diminished. Or all fucking gone, if you prefer.

So here is my conclusion, folks, my learning for the day: leave everything till the last minute because you'll only end up eating it and having to do it all again.

Wiser it is that I am as the evening draws in.

Thursday, October 11, 2007

Not my bongo drums, man

Thursday, October 11, 2007 6
This afternoon Riker's homework includes her first attempt at practising the recorder. The piece in question is entitled 'Busy Bee'. I'm not sure of the composer. But I can tell you this much folks, that composer has composed just the one fucking note. It's b, b, b all the way home. And if practise makes perfect then Riker is seeking perfection with an unstinting dedication that will surely one day lead her to a place on 'Classical Stars'.

My ears, my ears, like my ears.

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

They're selling postcards of the hanging

Wednesday, October 10, 2007 5
There is now a reality TV programme in the X-Factor style of things about young classical musicians. I saw a trailer the other night. I forget what it's called and I couldn't be arsed looking, but I can tell you this much, folks, it makes Gimme fucking sick.

Sick only, not enraged. The Diana second story on the BBC News at 10 thing drained all the rage out of me, remember? So I'm just going to stick with the nausea until it returns.

The contestants are between 15 and 19 years of age. Just a smidge of impressionabilty going on there. They must have a least a Grade 8 in their chosen instrument. Huzzah. Talented and impressionable, then. And they're standing these poor fuckers up in front of the classical music equivalent of Simon Cowell and Sharon Osbourne to be rated, quantified and judged.

Why must there be people standing in front of people being judged all the time? Why is this all that is on my television? Judging. Judgement. Judgery. The drudgery of judgery. Forget Judgement Day, you crazy left behind Christians, it's already fucking Judgement Month, Judgement Year, Judgement fucking Life.

And there we have what's so wonderful about reality television and why I can now never, ever consider living without it.

It's the relief, folks. The relief provided by that sweet fifty-five minutes where it's not Gimme that's being judged, it's some other poor cunt who, let's face it, deserves it more than me. Because why should I be judged? I'm fucking perfect.

You want to know who it is that I think is judging me all the time? Like, 'you arrogant prick, you think anybody is paying you that much attention?' Bang on folks, I'm right with you. Here's who's judging me: I'm fucking judging me. Every minute of the live-long day. And Lionel Hutz is my attorney. So it ain't looking good for Gimme.

It kills me that every single little thing in the world is all about me and how fucked up I am.

But to return to 'Classical Star'. Yeah, I looked up the name. I guess I was arsed after all. I shouldn't have though. It's made me feel more queasy.

So, it's one thing to be exploiting talentless losers who will doubtless soon be flashing their doodles and she-doodles on webcams the world wide over, such is their desperation to be noticed by anybody at all, for anything at all. People whose favourite fucking song is either 'Everything I Do' by Bryan Adams or that cunting Titanic one by Celine Dion? Exploit away! Exploit their asses off, so long as I don't have to watch it or hear it or deal with it on any level whatsoever. But it ain't so cool to be fucking over the genuinely talented or even the reasonably talented and genuinely dedicated.

There's some snobbish Jesuit inspired elitism for you. Classical music is better than Celine Dion. I know this because my southside middle class upbringing tells me so. And everything my southside middle class upbringing has told me so far has turned out to be entirely accurate.

Listen to this though: 'The winner must have that extra-special something to impress the prestigious judging panel'.

That extra special something. Oh good fucking Jesus Christ crucified on a cross. You know what extra special something we're really talking about here, don't you folks? We're talking about that extra zany haircut or that special personality disorder that manifests itself in uncontrolable and inappropriate weeping or the something that is the being of a tit. Just a fucking loud, self serving tit.

You reckon the humiliation inherent in this piece of BBC (again) commissioned shit would have killed off a Grappelli back in the day? Or a Menhuin? (I do only do violinists, folks, every other instrument sucks the big one) Almost certainly not. But how about all those apparent failures who got torn to shreds in the preliminary stages and who instead of scraping a happy living in some shitty provincial orchestra will now turn to marketing and the maximising of the misery of the world? What the fuck about them?

And what the fuck about us? Or, let's face it, me? What the fuck about me, BBC?

Tuesday, October 9, 2007

The only good actor is a dead actor

Tuesday, October 9, 2007 6
I wanted to open this with 'I hate fucking actors.' Because it's all about me. But I won't. I'll save it for a little later. So here comes the real opening line:

Tom Murphy is dead.

I hate fucking actors. I may have said that before. If I haven't, it's an omission. They're insecure and loud, or insecure and belligerent, or insecure and insane. Or most commonly, all fucking three. They fuck me off, they really do. But there were always one or two exceptions and now I'm down to one or one.

Though I was in two radio plays with Murphy, we knew each to other to say hello to from auditions and shit more than anything. He seemed to be a quiet, unassuming guy. He's dead now. Hodgkin's disease. So maybe you're thinking all this shit I'm going to tell you about him is just me being nice because he's dead. You can shut the fuck up and keep your opinion to yourself if that's what you're thinking because it ain't so.

This dude had it. On stage anyway. If you know him at all, you'll know him as the short one in 'Adam and Paul', and if that's all you know then you don't know shit. If you're a culturally elitist Yank then you might possibly be aware of him because he won a Tony. But he had it nonetheless. He had truth. Big truth, big fat fucking truth.

I saw him first in Andrew's Lane Studio in 'True Lines', a devised piece produced by Bickerstaffe. Charlize Theron's boyfriend was in it too. I only know this because I googled the play to find out who the producer was. I have no memory of Townsend or either of the chicks or even much of the play. What I remember is Murphy's psycho truck driver who just fucking sat there and freaked out very cunt in the audience. Presence like I'd only previously witnessed in Donal McCann. And now the fucker is dead. They're both fucking dead. But mostly Tom Murphy is dead.

One of the radio plays was 'Red Roses and Petrol'. He played the part that I wanted. The twisted, father despising misanthrope. But truthfully folks, he fucking killed so hard that I was glad I didn't have it because that way I got to see him do it. And that is one stunning admission for an actor with my range of bitterness and capacity for schadenfreude. He could speak it too, the bastard. The bastard spake truth. And now he's dead.

And you know, folks, he wasn't a cunt, neither. I never saw or heard of him having one of those common actor's tantrums, he never made a mealy-mouthed sideways word about anyone else in my presence. He seemed like a sweet, modest guy. Not like a fucking actor at all.

And now he's dead. What a stupid fucking waste.

Monday, October 8, 2007

My home is the lowlands and always will be

Monday, October 8, 2007 8
Am I a sprinter or a climber? I fear that I am a sprinter. I hope and pray that I am a climber. 'Les Grimpeurs': a sacred and romantic bunch. Sprinters? A pack of talentless, brutish wheel suckers who might as well be fucking rugby players. There is little poetry in a sprint and little else in a perfectly executed climb.

My fear is born from this fact:

Once I was a runner. Nothing like running, nothing like being a runner. Those hours of solitude where the consciousness shrinks. I am so much smarter, so much brighter when I run over a long distance. Only then can I multiply big numbers Matilda-like in my usually addled mind. But as a competitive runner I had my talents and my loves. And never the fucking twain.

I loved, adored the distances, the ten milers, the half marathons. Most of all the half marathons. The slow steady degradation of mind and body over the space of eighty minutes, the sustained maintenance of big fat fuck off effort culminating in a painful but exhilarating final six minutes where my pace increases as the line approaches or a heartbreaking bonk (not the good kind) where the wheels come off and I'm left wishing that I could be struck down by the nearest suv rather than having to struggle through that last 800m.

But despite my once kind of almost winning a half (first in age group, (25-29) hahaha stupid North Americans (specifically Canadians) and their 'everybody's a winner' tiny little age group categories) my stupid fat medium twitch fibered body was really built for the mile. And the mile fucking sucks. Right from the gun you're suffering, suffering physical pain and suffering Shining levels of fear and anxiety in relation to the pain to come. I know, I know. People get bitten by poisonous snakes, they shatter their pelvises in car crashes, they do that whole fucking childbirth thing, all that shit. But folks, the worst pain I have ever suffered or am likely too was at the end of a mile race on the ALSAA track on a dark wet and windy night some three years ago. Pipped the motherfucker though, so it was almost worth it.

So it was the mile at which I excelled, the brutal brutish short shit that I despised. Stupid fucking genes. Diseased and degenerative on one side and not a fiber twitching slowly on the other. There's not one disappointment in my life that I cannot blame on my dodgy ancestry.

So really I know how it's going to turn out on the bike. No flying through the mountains for me. No kissing the clouds, no Pantani-like quickenings to altitude. I'm going to be horrible wheel whore, a clod with a burst of pace and a reluctant willingness to hurt myself for the sake of it, essentially a cyclist lacking in even a shred of natural talent.

Let us take a moment to thank the Lord for his gift of EPO.

Friday, October 5, 2007

A place where there is no pain of birth

Friday, October 5, 2007 14
Melpomene crouches on O'Connell Bridge with a large cardboard sign propped up against her gnarled knees. Her dagger and mask lie to her left and right respectively. The sign, written in blood and shit, declares 'Both arms hacked off by these modern times, by this desperate compulsion to be distracted by the banal. Spare a thought for the inspirationally bereft'.

I'm a dead inside fluffy fucking kitten. Just like that camel back breaking straw, that wank that finally turns you blind (and that's in the post, folks, three or four times a day now my vision goes all blurry) last night's Ten O'Clock News on the BBC pushed me past my rage limits to a place where nothing remains but acceptance and mind numbing ennui.

First story: four new polls showing Labour's lead cut to fuck. The Tories and their nausea inducing 'leader' David Cameron will now be hoping that the Brownies go to the country. 'Bring it on', says Cameron. 'Shut the fuck up, you ponce', says Gimme. I had to call Common Law into the room so that I wouldn't feel quite as much like an old miserable grouch shouting at the young people on the telly. When I explained that this was why I had wrenched her away from her obsessive Facebooking, she sighed and left the room. As she does. So I muttered to myself a little.

And then the second story. What do you think that might have been, folks? Iraq? Afghanistan? Fucking Darfur? No. It was CCTV footage of some drunken bint and her Jihadi boyfriend waiting for a car. The segment must have lasted at least three minutes. I rail and I rage, yes. I hurl words of abuse and cries of castigation but folks, after about forty five seconds I feel my anger, my passion, my very life force drain from my body and soul. I have nothing left. I relax back into my armchair and let the comforting meaninglessness of celebrity culture wash over me. I shed a tear for the beautiful princess and her unborn child (and she was pregnant folks, you can see her glowing through the grainy security camera pictures) cut down in her prime by an evil Skeletoresque Prince of Darkness. Poor Diana, poor Pacifier. But lucky Gimme. All I had to do to find peace was to accept that only the shit worth caring about is the shit that doesn't fucking matter.

Ans so it is with the self assurance of the born again that I can skip lightly past that bridge-bound, toothless, armless whore with the throwaway admonishment, 'Get a job, Melpomene, you lazy bitch. Get a fucking job.'

Tuesday, October 2, 2007

Feliz cumpleaños a Data!

Tuesday, October 2, 2007 14
(Gimme is sitting on the couch in his front room. The doorbell rings. Gimme struggles to his feet and exits left to answer the door.)

Postman: Minute, is it?

Gimme: Uh-huh. Oh cool, thanks. Hmmph. Bit of a fucking miracle this, huh?

Postman: What?

Gimme: You delivering a package, I mean.

Postman: Whaddya talkin' about?

Gimme:
Oh, nothing, doesn't matter.

Postman: No. I wanna know whatcha mean.

Gimme: Really? You really want to know what I mean?

Postman: Yeah.

Gimme: Alrighty, then. Here we go. This, Mr Postman, is what I mean. I have lived in this area for eight years, and in this house for one. And An Post have never deigned to deliver anything bigger than a standard A5 sized letter to either of these two abodes in which I have aboded in this time period. If any piece of postage weighs more that fifty fucking grammes you fuckers stick a shitty piece of paper in my door informing my that I have to locate a dark and brilliantly camouflaged office completely out of my cunting way nowhere within walking distance of any form of public transport to pick up said package or slightly beefcaked letter but only between the hours of 11.15 and 11.17 Tuesday to Tuesday except every other week when the office doesn't open at all. So you can appreciate my surprise that you are delivering an admittedly light, but nonetheless most packagy package containing, I surmise Columbo like from the handwriting, a present for my daughter all the way from British Columbia, on the very day of her birthday. So to restate: bit of a fucking miracle, this.

Postman: Ah right. Fucking fuck you. Gimme back the package.

Gimme: Too late, postal worker!

Postman: We'll fucking see about that, ya little prick.

(a struggle ensues, grunting, ripping noises are to be heard. A shout of pain. A slamming door. Torrents of abuse continue as Gimme staggers back on stage sporting a slight cut just below his left eyebrow and bearing a ripped padded envelope from which protrude a number of gift wrapped items. Gimme throws the package onto the couch and sits down)

Gimme: (muttering to self) Last fucking package we get. Last fucking letter too, probably. (turns, addresses audience directly) Please don't tell Common Law. Please. (to himself again) No more fucking bills either, I suppose...

Monday, October 1, 2007

I don't want you catching your death of cold out walking in the rain

Monday, October 1, 2007 18
Nothing that I say is true. Nothing that I write has any meaning.

The post titles are simply song lyrics stolen from whatever tune happens to be going through my head at that moment and are thus, for all intents and purposes, irrelevant.

The posts themselves are lies. All fucking lies. I'm a black forty three year old lesbian orginally from Norfolk, living in Dublin, yes, but without any connection to the fitness or show business industries. In fact, I work in administration for a meat packaging company. I have no partner and no children. I am dangerously overweight.

And I fucking hate Bob Dylan. 'John Wesley Harding' in particular, fucks me right off.

I hate drugs and I hate people who do drugs. I went out with a girl for a little while back in May, let's call her May, who admitted to me early on that she sometimes took Ecstasy. I was quite clear in my disapproval and she agreed never to do anything like that in my presence. But after we were seeing each other for about six weeks, May insisted that we go clubbing (it had just been movies and dinner and cuddles in our respective flats up until then) and she came up to me halfway through the evening and said 'I did something bad', and her pupils were all big and she was chewing the mouth off herself so I just went home.

I went home and sat at my computer and pretended to be in a perfectly happy relationship with two wonderful daughters and at least one close friend. I pretended that my computer crashed, I pretended that my bike was stolen, I pretended that I disliked the Irish language.

This made me feel better about May and about being all alone in the world except for fake internet friends who think that I'm something I'm not.

Now you know. It's all fucking lies.
 
◄Design by Pocket