Tuesday, December 30, 2008
The father and son played hurriedly, looking for the win even when the win was nowhere to be found. Better players than the friends, more polished, more practised, more poised. But in a rush. Eager to put these Jackeen interlopers to bed so that they too might rest their fuzzy New Year heads. But this eagerness led to a slackness of shot, a closing carelessness. The friends, in contrast, played slowly, carefully, often poorly and yet still pulled definitively ahead. Long, dramatic pauses over simple pots slowly wore down their increasingly frustrated opposition until, with the Dublin team still far ahead, a last game was called.
A tight frame it proves to be, with few errors. The father misses the final black, and fucks his cue across the room. Gav, for he was that friend, regards the position, a straightforward corner pocket drop. James, for he was that son, unzips his trousers. Methodically Gav addresses the ball, lining up the cut. Methodically James removes his tackle from the safety of his pants and places both meat and two veg into the nominated pocket.
This not the first distraction technique of the night, but it is certainly the most bold.
'I'm going to take the shot.'
'So take the fucking shot.'
'I'm going to hit it now.'
'So fucking hit it now.'
Gav hits it, resisting the temptation to transfer every ounce of power that remains in his weakened arm to this final cue action. He strokes the white gently, caressing it toward the pocket. The black bobbles against James' jiggling junk until, with a deft pelvic thrust, he penis-flicks the ball back onto the table.
The result of that final frame is disputed to this day.
This charming tale occurred on the occasion of my last childless visit to the greatest pub in the universe and this year a tradition is reborn.
Time to step up, Jimmy.
Monday, December 29, 2008
But even outside of this space of spin there are those that can shockingly stand me. And as I say, I think I've worked out why. It's to do with something I do, something I do because I don't know what else to do. But I'm not going to tell you what it is. Because you might well be one of those likers and I don't want to ruin it for myself. I quite like being liked when it doesn't involve any work on my part and as I stare down the barrel of another year of crushed hopes and self-inflicted inertia, I can't help but believe that other people not thinking I'm a cunt might eventually have me arriving at the same conclusion.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Thank fuck that's over. Over apart from the lake of leftover booze and the riotous reclamation of living space and fridge.
Monday, December 22, 2008
'You can't do that Catherine! It will destroy my family!'
The show went ahead today, our family remains intact.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
'Horses sweat, Gimme!' I hear Mammy Zealot, my ex-grandmother shriek at me from beyond the grave. 'Men perspire! Women glow!'
Watch me break free from the hanging down hang-ups of my childhood: I sweat many different kinds of sweat. There's exercise sweat, naturally. The sweat of fear. Cold sweats, nervy sweats, sexy sweats. But there is one sweat like no other, a sticky sickly horrific gloop of a glow. It is caused by the combination of fear of parenting failure, extreme shoulder, bicep and finger ouchiness and rapid changes of temperature. Yes, folks, it is the sweat of Smyth's and Toymaster, the sweat of Santa shopping, the sweat of Christmas cold and a Christmas cold.
But it's done now and the globules of gunge with the consistency of honey that pumped themselves into the armpits of my t-shirt have now stinkingly dried. The Santa deal is put to bed and it's just those bits and cunting pieces to do. And the food. Did I mention that Christmas dinner is in our house this year?
Fucking kill me now before I develop a whole new sweat stain strain.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
But now that Common Law has stopped her jobble dubbing and is no longer working nights, I lack even fake excuses. It's time to get out there, sink the pints, bomb the jaegers, blow the chunks. Be fucking festive. My liver and bitterness both refuse to take more than one night and so it looks like the six weeks of Yuletide yuck yuck that you normal folks manage to get through is all going to be compressed into a single depth-charge of debauchery which I shall ceremoniously pitch over the port side of my mental health. To land where? There's the question.
You wouldn't believe what V wants to do with this night. I can't even tell you, it's that fucking weird. It involves strangers, is about all I can say. And my mammy said I never should, play with the strangers in the pub. Although if I'm going to be shit-faced I'd rather it wasn't around people I have to face on a daily basis. That's the problem with going out these days. It's just not done to sit by yourself in a trendy city centre spot, reading a book and getting slowly arseholed. It looks creepy and sad. I save that shit for my increasingly fraught relationship with Twitter.
I guess strangers and V is the next best thing.
Monday, December 15, 2008
The Scroogey, Grinchy, Cantankerous Cunt pose that I have been maintaining for the last twenty years may be getting a little old. Perhaps this year, I should drop the facade and wholearmedly embrace Christmas and its fat torso of faux jollity and being all about the children and aren't twinkling lights just the greatest fucking thing ever. I could do that, sure I could. I could do that, if I could also start drinking and doing drugs as soon as I awoke each morning, if I could get presents that aren't Simpsons slippers every day between now and the 25th, if I could have my brain and my heart and my very soul ripped out and replaced with those of one of those cheery cunts who actually does like Christmas, who isn't just faking it like the rest of us, then for sure, I could do that.
But I'm not going to. Because I don't believe in it. I don't mean Christmas. It's hard not to believe in Christmas such is its unrelenting ubiquity. But merriness, good cheer, happiness generally. They are a load of bollox, all three, and I refuse to buy into them. Maybe you think you're merry, of good cheer, happy. Well, you're fucking wrong. Think about it for a second. Think about your shattered dreams, your unfulfilled promise, the endless trudge and drudge of your life.
There you go. Now have a Merry Christmas.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
But three examples off the top of the Gimme head: Junk mail, chuggers, shops that for quite some time I was convinced sold only paisley-patterned clothes and homeware. And then there's the way I hate giving people stuff. That just makes it stuff that I don't have any more. Nothing fucks stuff up like it not being mine.
And yet I find myself in a charitable book. I didn't actually have to do much, which was sweet, but there I am nonetheless, being accidentally charitable. Should you buy this book? Yes, you should. Why? Oh, I don't fucking know. Because it's for charity, I suppose. And a quick glance down the list of contributors reveals one or two names who have been known to string a moderately successful sentence together. And reading a book on Christmas Day will appear less offensive to the gathered hordes than sitting in front of the laptop re-reading Twenty Major posts of Christmas past. Yeah, he's in there. And they put me right after him, the fuckers. Might as well have Bill Hicks opening for Harry Hill. Thanks for that.
Here's where you buy it. You should go and do that now.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Do you know what I'm singing? Well, you fucking should.
1) You're cooking dinner. Squeezing a lemon as it happens. Your four year old approaches. She bears your beige baseball hat.
'Why must there be a beige?' you ask yourself.
'Here you go, Daddy,' she says.
'Thank you,' you say, quizzically.
'It's cold outside,' she says.
'Oh, okay,' you say, acceptingly.
You put on the hat. She moves away, satisfied. She goes to her sister in the sunless sun room.
'Now he's handsome,' she says.
2) You begin a spin class with a reasonably big barnet, somewhat offset by a burgeoning beard. You spin. You enjoy occasionally pushing a sweat dampened hank of hair behind your ear. The class ends. You turn and see yourself in the studio mirror. Your blood turns to freeze pop in your veins. Your head pubes are now considerably larger than your head. There is a lot of frizzage. You look, in fact, like a strung-out Art Garfunkel, but an Art who has been beaten up, trodden down, fucked over.
So I guess it's time. I'm going to walk into the first rug-rethink joint I can find and ask the following question:
'What can I get for 10 dollar?'
And if I don't get the answer I'm looking for then I'm walking the fuck back out.
I really want long hair, you see.
The pleasure of winning a meaningless internet competition, and as the only person to have scored a 'Bad Ambassador The Friday Album Cover' hat-trick, I can assure you that this is a very deep pleasure indeed, goes to the commenter who can successfully answer the aforequestioned question.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
My eyes are all fucked up, I accurately conclude.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Then it was into Purple Danger with the lot of us, to drop the matriarch in for her matinee. The Bridge Crew and I proceeded to proceed across town. As it was much too early to deliver Riker to her High School Musical Dance workshop, I thought I'd call unexpectedly in on my long-suffering sister. She was surprisingly unperturbed, so we did some more hanging out, eating sandwiches, admiring my iPhone, shooting the shit. Ellie decided she'd join myself and Data on the dreaded Rathmines shopping trip.
We delivered Riker to her three hour dance fest, did some recycling, then fought our way around Dunnes Stores. I mostly pushed the trolley as Ellie mostly controlled the Data. Next they hit the chemist while I shopped for Christmas books, scoring big time with an 'Atlas of Cunt' I mean 'Golf' for the Brinkerman. I covered a couple of other bases too. We hooked back up and belted up to Boots, bought the tedious 3 for 2's for the inlaws and finally returned to the Swan Centre for Data's much anticipated peanut butter and banana smoothie. I took a beautiful picture of my sister and my daughter. It still adorns my phone.
Another brief chill in the flat and it was time to pick up Riker. She burst out of the class, happy, having danced her heart out and made a friend. 'My feet are really sore!' she said, joyously. We decided on a stop by Daddy Rocket's on the way home. We ate and drank and knocked stuff over and laughed and peed and paid and jumped back in Purple and coasted home.
It was late by now, so we skipped the baths, and went straight to teeth and stories. Data and I read 'The Magic Porridge Pot', then me and Riker settled into 'Huckleberry Finn'. My Pakistani drawl drifted her off to sleep and I sat there watching her for a few minutes, breathing in her beauty and my love for her. I dropped in to Data to do the same.
And that, folks, tedious as it may be, is my definition of a successful day, and yes, a successful life.
Friday, December 5, 2008
What's your plan now, you fuck? Rhetorical question, prick, we know that too. You're going to fucking lurk about with your ridiculous, 'Look Ma, I can grow facial hair, I'm so fucking wise!' beard, until Trapp dies or we fail to qualify for the World Cup, at which point you reckon you can sidle into the job, take us to the Europeans, and then fuck off back to your dog boyfriend when every fucking little thing doesn't go your way.
You're such a winner, Roy. Because if you quit then you can't lose. Isn't that right, you yellow-bellied wank stain?
Thursday, December 4, 2008
She could have gone back yesterday, I reckon, but she woke up and tetched so hard that the decision was made that she was, if no longer under the weather, then still so tired that she was over the weather, stomping through the clouds, unleashing lightning bolts on all who fell beneath her baleful gaze. Interestingly, as soon as Common Law and Riker had quit the house, she switched right over to sweetness and light, spending a happy morning running about and performing self-choreographed gymnastics. I put this sudden mood swing down to her having gotten her own, no school way.
But despite my spending a good deal of yesterday driving home the 'Montessori in the morning, won't it be great to see your mates, you are so going to school tomorrow' point to an accepting air, we got exactly the same shit this morning.
She refused to get dressed. I dressed her anyway through screams of crystal shattering rage. There was hitting on her part, bold step threats on the part of her parents and amused Hannah Montana type stoicism from her sister. Sweet niblets, indeed. Conclusively clothed, Data was released from my not entirely composed grip. She went straight to her bedroom, slammed her door as best she could, and was heard to holler 'I hate everyone!' I know the fucking feeling, Data. She was given a few minutes to calm down and then her mother ventured upstairs, to find the second born naked, and back under the duvet.
And so it unfolded.
But here's the thing. Once again, as soon the two other ladies left the homestead, the change happened. She became polite and pliable and went happily off to school, glad as usual to be getting away from her comical dad.
It's Common Law, you see. For the next two weeks she runs rehearsals from nine to six, then pilots another play from six to ten-thirty. And so this morning half hour is the only time she sees the Bridge Crew. This is hard, I'm sure, for the children, but if Data persists with the rage response it's going to get a whole lot harder for the already maxed-out yet amazingly calm and collected Common Law.
As for me, I believe I will now take off all my clothes and climb under the duvet.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Warning! You know that question thing that folks do at the end of their posts to try and elicit comments? I'm going to place that right here, in an untraditionally early on in the entry position:
What kind of face do YOU make when you exercise intensely?
I hate those fucking questions. Fuck off and mind your own business. If I want to comment, I'll fucking comment. Your as an afterthought, feigning of interest in my opinion is not going to have any effect on my commently affectations. You wanker.
So what kind of face do YOU make when you exercise intensely?
Let me clue the non-exercising porkers in here: it may well be the one you make as, bored, bedraggled and debased you crack out your fifth of the day in the cubicle of your office jacks. Or, you know, as you simultaneously hit the perfect orgasm jackpot with the one true love of your life who you've been going out with since yesterday and who is the only guy for you. One of those.
Or it may well not be. Me, I sneer. I'm pink of face, sure, and trembly of limb. But as well as I can remember the sardonic, bitter countenance that I saw in the studio mirror last night is completely unlike the one I glimpsed that one time during the ceiling mirror episode. Which is good because the latter weren't purdy.
As for the rest of the class, there's a wide range going on. Lots of money shot faces for sure, but a similar number of more subtle grimacing. Many a vomity visage too and plenty of profiles a pooping. The odd smile that gets broader as effort level increases. Yeah, those smilers were a little disconcerting at first but I got used to them. But then came Canadian Chick and her unique exercise aspect.
She's new but already regular, this North American lass, and she is of the smiling breed. But she's a gazer too, one of those people who just refuse to look at anything but the instructor for the duration of the class. And the smile, folks, is bemused. As the gradient rises and the tempo peaks out, it is more bemused that it becomes, until the point when her maximum is reached, she moves beyond her perceived physical limits and her whole being screams at me 'You silly, silly little man!'
Which is quite upsetting.
So what kind of face do YOU make when you exercise intensely?
Monday, December 1, 2008
You know where I'm going with this, right? Correctimundo. I got me a Twitter account.
Is it fucking deadly? It is not. Another ass and time sucking energy pit is what it is, lacking even the all too rare wit and insight of the occasional bleugh post. Upsides? Not a one. Slightly less down sides? I'm stalking both Lance and the great Stephen Fry. The word the twits use is 'follow' but bollox to that. It may be permitted and even encouraged to monitor the every move of minor celebrities in this manner but it feels just as dirty and exciting as all the real life stalking that I do. That is very, very dirty and almost totally lacking in excitement. I have also started following random strangers off of the public stream in the hope that they might feel a little more stalked than Messers Armstrong and Fry. I'm just trying to spread the twisted love.
Also provided by this most pointless of services is the confirmation that my life is, as I have long suspected, both banal and meaningless. The Twittosphere now knows that in the last twelve hours or so I have watched Return of The Jedi, taught a Yoga class and done the shopping. It must now be ready to top itself with the tedium of it all.
I guess I'll stick with it for a day or two. It can only help with the seasonal present procrastination.
In the unlikely event of your being both a reader of mine and a Twitter type, and if this is the case then you are indeed large, you sure do contain multitudes, then you can find and follow me here. And even if the concept sickens you to your sickly core then you will still want to use the same link to read up on the minutiae of the Minute mindset.
Fucking tweet tweet.
Friday, November 28, 2008
I can tape it. We have the fucking technology. I'll be taping it for Data either way. I don't see how either of us are going to be able to stay awake that late. I'm too old. She's too young. It's not like it's McCain's concession speech or anything. I'm not going to be rewarded by the shedding of joyous tears of fatigued schadenfreude. And unless some misdirected Pakistani Brit terrorist starts lobbing grenades about, there will be no live witnessing of history. If I want to cringe with embarrassment and boredom I can just sit up reading my old bleugh entries like I do most Friday nights. Really, I should just fucking tape it and send her sulking to bed. She'll get over it.
I'm staying up, amn't I? Le fucking sigh, folks, part fucking a bizillion.
UPDATE: Read my live bleughing of this occurence here. You'll need to scroll down and work up.
'I knew November 26th was something,' said Common Law.
Good for her. I had no such niggling brain itches. It wasn't until this morning when I found myself gazing at an unopened box of cotton buds that the relevancy of this two days past date occurred to me. Why cotton buds? Once, in fucking Cork of all places, and before we hooked up, we both needed cotton buds. She doesn't remember this. She utilises her memory box for tastier tidbits.
Twelve years? Twelve years. Jesus. That seems way longer than ten years, or even eleven years. And much. much longer than six weeks or so. Twelve years is a long time. For sure, it's not as long as thirteen years, and not nearly as long as 4.55 billion years. But it's still a pretty long time.
The gemstone for a twelve year anniversary is jade. Yes, I did know that off the top of my head. Of course, we're not married so I don't suppose that this has any bearing on our lives. Which is a good thing as the word 'jade' no longer brings to Gimme's mind a pretty lump of rock, but rather an ugly lump of pig-faced moronic racism.
But despite there being no piece of paper floating about in the equation, I still firmly believe that we deserve presents. Her for putting up with me. Me for putting up with her putting up with me.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
People kept flashing their lights at me. I happily toodled on down the road, thinking to myself: 'It's honk if you think I'm sexy, sillies!'
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
I called my dormant exercise bleugh, that one for which I wrote four entries, 'The fuck am I doing this for?'. And never is that question more pertinent than when I throw my leg over the spin saddle at 6.50 and attempt to coax some warmth into my cold, dead legs.
I know what I tell the punters to prise them into the gym at that insane hour. 'Empty stomach, no carbs stored, more time in fat burning zone, sets you up for the day.' I say this jollily and without any inflection that suggests 'Are you fucking insane? Get up an hour early to listen to me shouting at you over M.I.A.? Seriously, dude, if you're happy to get up at 6.15 or so, then you're not going to bed late enough.' Nothing in my tone betrays this, the truest of my bright and breezy beliefs.
I quite like my job, such as it is. I get paid to keep reasonably fit, allowing me to eat and drink lots and lots of unmitigated crap without turning into fat five-chinned porker like the rest of the fucking country. And I get to be the centre of attention. And as far as attention goes, that's exactly where I like to be. But at the same time, this up at 5.45, this hurting by 7.05, this is making me consider yet another fake career.
I was all set up for begging, what with my straggly reborn beard, my wide range of frayed tracksuits, and my lifelessly aggressive eyes but the cunts went and changed the fucking law. You're not allowed to be intimidating any more, apparently. What a fucking gip. All I had apart from the beard, the tracksuit and the eyes was a penchant for sitting on concrete, intimidatingly. Cunts, I say again.
I guess I'll just get up at the putrid, genitally warted crack of fucking dawn instead.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
'What's for dinner tonight? Who's minding me tonight? Is it Friday today?'
'It is not Friday, Data, it is Tuesday.'
'It's Tuesday, Data, there's nothing I can do about it.'
'Not Data! Super Princess Leia!'
'Oh. Sorry. I forgot.'
'Is it Friday?'
'Is it Friday on the other day?'
'Yes, on the other day. Not today. Not tomorrow.'
'What's for dinner?'
'Macaroni cheese and peas?'
'No. Chicken. And carrots. You like carrots.'
'I hate carrots.'
'You like carrots. Turkish carrots.'
'In ice cream?'
'In natural yoghurt, but yeah ok, we can call it ice cream.'
'I like ice cream.'
'Who's minding me tonight?'
I swear to fuck you'd think I shunted her from relative to babysitter to relative every night of the fucking week.
'Yes, well, I'm still minding you.'
'Data? I mean, Super Princess Leia?'
'Who's minding me tonight?'
'You mean nobody?'
'Aren't you going to mind me?'
Data sighs, like she's seriously fucking tired of explaining this to me. As indeed she is.
'You're a daddy, Daddy.'
'Is it Friday today?'
I often feel aggrieved. Slightly slighted. Put upon, perhaps. Clearly condescended to. And mostly it's my imagination hard at work, nose to the grindstone, desperate in its need to seek out an offence that will justify my anger with this stupid fucking planet and this clownish fucking life. And when my imagination lights upon this offence, then I can rant and rave and rage and rail and find, however briefly, relief.
On occasions like this, however, when I know myself to have been genuinely and purposefully wounded, right there in my dangly feelings, I cannot summon up my beast of bluster. I just sit here stunned, longing for the time when I didn't give a fuck what people did with their pathetically dramatic lives.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Maybe you haven't read everything that I've written. Poor fucking you. Here's the scoop: we live beside our Germanic landspeople. They own both houses and rent to us. Once we went to their gaff for dinner. The best that can be said about that evening is that it was a short walk home.
So to my overhearing, my dropping of these eaves. It was Lady Land who spoke, to some guy I don't know as he quit their house and said his goodbyes.
'I see that house is still up for sale.'
I know the one he means, four doors down, on the market since the dinosaurs roamed the Earth.
Lady keeps it simple.
'Yes, it is.'
And then Lady gets heavy, oh so very heavy.
'We're going to have to sell this one.'
You fucking what?
'Yes, inaudible mortgage inaudible.'
I don't know what the fuck she meant by inaudible, but I do know that they plan to sell our house and unless that elderly spin chick who fancies me decides to express her love with a €600,000 bag of cash instead of a sparse diet of admiring glances then they will not be selling it to us. Which is an awful pity.
It's a great road, this road we live on. We're on the deep corner of an L-shaped cul de sac. It's safe and quiet. Plenty of kids with whom The Bridge Crew can consort. I like it as much as I've liked anywhere that I've had to stay put in for more than five minutes. My roaming chilhood left me restless and unfocussed, but this place I could see myself sticking with for a while.
It's not that massive a problem. A quick check on Daft reveals that plenty of people around and about are looking for a nice family to not murder chickens in their attics, and rents, thank recession, are way down. But the moving, even a short distance, is something I just do not want to contemplate. I'm going to stop contemplating it now.
Of course, this may not happen for a long time. No one's buying, right? The place down the road is evidence of that. But we're due to sign a new lease in the coming weeks and I suspect that there'll be some procrastination on that one from our loveable Prussian masters. Either way, I'm really looking forward to being that guy who attempts to freak out potential buyers with tales of eerie noises and putrid stenches. I can supply the latter myself.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
The book on how long it takes me to break it is now open.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
I learned the truth at seventeen, that love was meant for beauty queens, but the Santa truth came to me at seven. I was first down, way before my three year old sister and it seemed right to me that I should have the pick of the potential presents. There wasn't a whole lot of shit in Ellie's stocking that I wanted for my own, but a pretty green frog purse instantly caught my eye. Sometimes I wonder at my alleged sexuality. I moved the purse from her sock to mine. My bustedness thirty minutes later combined with my having caught a glimpse of hastily shut wardrobe doors led me to the inevitable conclusion that this was all a load of shit and that my parents were once again, lying to me.
Ans so to the much older and wiser Riker. She related the story this morning of her friend who had already written to Santa, without the knowledge of her parents, and asked for a mobile phone. Because her parents said she couldn't have one. This was a water-testing tale, I could tell. I remained non-commital, threw out a couple of 'Oh's and gently suggested that Santa was as privy to the wishes and wants of parents as to those of the kiddies.
Riker is getting a bike for Christmas. To go with the new outrageously expensive swimming lessons. Soon I'll have her running around the block too, determined as I am that this be her fate. You should watch that shit. Fatmammycat had it up a while back but the hilarity of the wobbly walk bit never fails to bring howls of laughter to my jaded throat.
So how's the bike thing going to work? Clearly we, her long-suffering parents, are the ones forking out the cash. But the trouble that it will take to pretend to hide this unalterable fact just so that we can make her feel better about making us feel better seems both too pointed and too pointless. And yet, I expect, until she utters the magic, long yearned for words 'Santa's not real, is he?' then that is exactly how it's going to go down.
Good thing I drummed all that Jesus shit out of her early doors.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Or maybe I just got lucky. Again. I could have been going faster. Purple's brakes could have been even crappier and less responsive than they actually are. He could have pulled out that little bit later. Lucky, lucky, and thrice lucky, that's me.
But it has to run out, right? Or run free at least, untethered from my safety and emotional well-being. It has to happen. Law of fucking averages, innit?
And so, I suspect, a terrible doom awaits. An archaic terrible doom. You know what I mean by that, right? I don't have to explain this shit. You're not stupid. Nor ignorant. I should avoid projecting my own stupidity and ignorance onto other people. It pisses them off something rotten.
But what do I fucking care? Here, ignoramuses, is what I mean: Terrible, in the 'formidably great' sense. Doom, in the 'fate, not necessarily negative' sense. A terrible doom awaits, I say again. All these near misses, these bust-ups with the animate and inanimate, they're leading down the road to something big, and when it comes I just hope that I'll be fourth, fifth, sixth time lucky.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Gimme: Do you like Bob Dylan?
Gimme: So you don't know his song 'Who killed Davy Moore?'
Gimme: It's about this boxer who dies in the ring.
Gimme: So I thought you might know it.
Kenny: I don't.
Gimme: It's great.
Kenny: Is it?
Gimme: Oh, yeah. It's on the first bootleg album. And I just found a cool live version on youTube.
Kenny: Deadly. Do you have any other questions?
Kenny: You don't?
Gimme: No, no, I do.
Gimme: I forget.
Gimme: But you should listen to that song, it's great.
Gimme: I'll burn you a copy.
Gimme: You want to come over on Friday? We can listen to it together.
Kenny: No thanks.
Gimme: I like your biceps.
Gimme: I mean your face is a bit of a mess, but I guess that's from getting hit all the time, right?
Kenny: Are you fucking with me?
Gimme: No. Not at all. I really do like your biceps.
Kenny: I think that's it now for the interview.
Gimme: Oh. Okay, right. Sure you're not free Friday night?
Kenny: I'm sure.
Gimme: So I'll see you Friday, then?
Kenny: Ma! We're going.
Gimme: Okay. Thanks for your time.
Kenny: You're welcome.
Gimme: Friday, then? I'll drop my address over to your house.
Kenny: Don't you come anywhere near my fuckin' gaff.
Gimme: Ah. Right so. Bye so.
Kenny: See ya.
Gimme: See ya Friday!
A real gentleman, that Kenny. I'll let you know how Friday goes.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
It's only a mercy that I make so very few mistakes.
Friday, November 14, 2008
The drive up until now has been uneventful. I spend most of it fretting over my performance in the spin class that I have just completed. For the last fifteen minutes I had been barely able to turn the pedals. As I speed over the speed bumps on Palmerston Road, I tick off the excuses in my head.
Didn't eat enough today.
You ate your body weight in pasta, you twit.
Five spin in 48 hours at the start of the week.
You've done that before, tosser.
Yesteray's crash, delayed shock.
What kind of pussy do you take yourself for?
Bump, bump, bump.
John Wesley Harding is blasting magically from Riker's discman through an FM transmitter as I fly down Morehampton Road. Previously I used the laptop for driving music but the battery is fucked. Onto the list a new battery goes, along with teaching clothes without pinhole burns and a fucking haircut. I have it with me anyway, the laptop, as it has become essential for spin, with all its music, its inspirational Tour clips and its big shiny stopwatch display.
I am forced to stop suddenly at yet another fucking red light. Should have cycled. Yeah, that would have helped. I feel the imminent total physical collapse in my bones.
It is at the next lights that the paths of myself and Mr Faceless SUV finally cross. I buzz down the window, and as it descends, the man in question is already pointing above my head, towards Purple's roof. The window is down. He speaks to me in a shocked, barely audible voice as he continues to weakly indicate to the space above my tiny, tiny brain.
Can you guess? Can you? Can you? What's on the roof, folks? What has been perched happily atop Purple for the last three miles, through hill and dale, over bumps and potholes?
Yeah, I thought you'd get it. It is, indeed. Oh yes, it is. It's my fucking laptop.
So many emotions. So little time. Still dominating, even now, is the joy I feel at having have provided my readers, my children and most of all, Common Law, with yet another reason to hold me in contempt.
Those non-existent Gods smile upon me, but they do so with a terrible disdain.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
This spilling of Jesus, this spilling of me, bore quite the resemblance to my own, non-figurative cherry-popping, in that it took place on wet ground and was unremarkable in just about every conceivable way. A quick turn into the park, wet leaves, fucking down we go. I'm still sore. Left shoulder. Right knee. Heel of my left hand. Ouchy, ouchy, ouchy. Jesus remains relatively unscathed.
The irony of my being helped up by a bus driver was not lost on me, nor should it be lost on you. These fuckers seem to spend most of their working day attempting to make orphans of my children and yet it would seem that if you take them from behind their oversized wheels they become quite the gentle men and women.
'Wet leaves, was it?' It was, Mr Bus Driver Man, it was.
But I want to talk briefly about the moment. On this occasion, it was but a brief moment, though once it lasted longer. When, during my second ever ride upon Hardcore Motherfucker, I slammed on the brakes and flew through the air with greatest of ease, landing on outstretched arms, and shattering my right elbow, I must have been in the air for a good three seconds. Yesterday, it was just the blink of eye, the flash between feeling the wheels go and the grounding itself. But in both cases there was the moment, that seems somehow to last forever. The moment when control is lost and the burdens of this cursed life become no longer mine. Instinct is doing the fall breaking, the arm outstretching, the face protecting and the mind is left to wander free in a kind of nirvana. I don't even think with hopeful relief that maybe this time I'll die or even just get a couple of weeks in hospital. I think of nothing, which is oh so very rare. I can see totally see the attraction of jumping, if only I didn't have to make the decision to jump.
I disagree with you Hubert. For me, my fictional French friend, l'important, c'est pas l'atterissage, c'est la chute.
And so far so fucking good.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
I have few enemies. Fewer friends, naturally, but still few enemies. If I had some kind of gnarly, mutated, twenty tentacled claws on the end of my arms then I could certainly count them on one hand. This lady is one of them. For more than a year now, since her misguided and tragically futile attempt to humiliate me in front of a room full of spinners, we have been firm foes. She has been giving it loads in the dressing room, on the gym floor. Bitching about me, dissing my hugely popular, over-subscribed classes, being the mad as a box of hammers cunt basket that she was surely born to be. I know this because of all my female allies and spies, the gym ladies who would be Gimme's were Gimme not already given. For my part, I have restricted myself to the entertainment of countless tyre-slashing, protein-poisoning fantasies.
And now, out of the filthy grey, she's changed her fucking tune. She's started showing up at my classes, saying hello, not spending the entire hour sighing dramatically at her disappointment at having voluntarily submitted herself to my exercisily whims.
So clearly the thing to do here is to maintain a professional demeanour. Speak politely when spoken to. Not tell her to fuck off you horrible shit-kicking bully. And this I have done. Not once since this Bush-like flip flop have I called her a cunt or asked her why, if she spends so much time exercising, she's still such a horribly fat fuck. And that should be enough, right?
Nu huh. Not for Gimme. I haven't been fawning. Not quite. But pretty fucking close. Compliments. Personalised encouragement. The playing of tracks that I'm aware she likes. It's pathetic, but the feeling of being intensely, intensively disliked has bothered me so much that I find myself doing everything in my power to prevent it from happening again. I justify this to myself by thinking 'Bygones, dude. She's not so bad. It's okay to give her a chance', when clearly these gones are still very much present, she remains a horrible harridan who deserves not so much a chance but a swift axe to the nose bridge.
This is no mellowing. This is a pathetic weakening, a surrendering of a core belief that I hold dear.
If I cannot hold on to my hate, then what's left?
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
In contrast, today's filthy rich criminal class, (I cannot speak on the scum of yore, shielded as I was by wealth and power) are committed to one of two physical types. The scrawny skinny little cunt look or the dripping with globules of greasy fat fashion. Both classes are pale, acne-encased and sickly looking, unlike their glowing with good food and barely legal drugs, meathead counterparts.
It's not purely shape-based either, this contrast. Athletes walk tall, abdominals engaged, drug dealers slouch, limbs akimbo. One struts, the other sidles. Grunting on the hand, snarlingon the foot.
Can anyone guess where I'm going with this?
You'll get righteous rage and delusional demands for solutions elsewhere. Here on Stranded, the main question raised by the shooting of the unfortunate Shane Geoghegan in Limerick is 'How the fuck do you mistake a rugby player for a scumbag?'
Monday, November 10, 2008
'You can't put art in a competition, man.'
'It's not about awards, I do it all for love and hate and self-aggrandisement.'
'Thanks to all who nominated me, or maybe just that one person who did so on my express request.'
I cannot. For my genuine reaction is 'Thank fuck for that.' Having ponderously proved that 18 is the magic number when it comes to the amount of times one can drop a Blackberry on a wooden floor before it ceases to function, I've been carrying this piece of Hans Brinker donated shit around for the last three months. It was getting to the point where I was being forced to choose between self-respect and contactability.
And while the cynical exploitation of a personal tragedy may rankle with some, some must also admit that half a smart phone is a whole lot better than one really fucking stupid one.
I sat between the Bridge Crew last night at my sister's birthday dinner. Riker, who daily grows in confidence and poise, was holding forth, regaling the company with genius jokes such as 'What's brown and sticky? A brown stick!'. Data, for once, did not appear to feel the need to compete, intent as she was on hoovering the birthday girl's mozzarella into her gaping maw. And yet.
I don't think I seemed down, particularly. I made the decision early on to dump Purple and cab it home, and was at this point working my way steadily through the bountiful red wine. I was joining in the conversation, I was not being openly hostile to Hans, I was most certainly not holding my head in my hands, rocking with racked and shuddering sobs. And yet.
Data, momentarily sated by casein, turned to me. As Riker and my sister wrangled over which tosspot deserved elimination from the cunting X-Factor, my four year old looked me in the eye and asked with genuine concern, 'Are you ok?'
I thought I must have misheard her, or at minimum misunderstood the feeling in which the question was mired, so I said, 'What did you say, sweetie?' She repeated herself, with no let up in the worry, the empathy.
'I'm fine, Data, I'm fine. Have some more mozzarella.'
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Two of a kind, the first of which has been on my mind, what with the whole wanting to fuck then abandon Obama thing:
And the second of which reminds that it is Christopher Walken's Duane that I really want to be when I grow up:
On these wet and windy, high speed nights as Purple Danger tickles fifth, those on-coming headlights become ever more appealing.
Update: Turns out it wasn't an ex-girlfriend that wrote that shit on the Harry card, it was Common Law. Is my face red. Am I cold now, sleeping on the couch.
Friday, November 7, 2008
I do my best work, drunk and inexplicably cheerful at four in the morning.
Today's Title and Lyrics - No one does prescience like our Bob.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
And yet I am incredibly protective of my personal space. You know those fuckers who stand really close when they're talking to you? Who get right in your face with their enthusiasm for life and all its alleged joys? This guy is one of those and he is representative of his type. That's the kind of shit that really gets to me, makes me want to get going with the pushing, the wild flailing, the screwdriver in the eyeing. Or maybe it's just assholes. I don't like them touching me, being near me, even fucking thinking about me. Assholes.
I bring this up like so much regurgitated risotto because I've been threatened with a hugging. You heard right. Some guy thinks I need a hug, and for some non-sexual, fucked up reason he wants to be the hugger. I know little about this wannabe embracer, but I have it on good authority that he's no asshole. I, of course, will be the fucking judge of that. Oh how I will judge. But were he to come even close to my ridiculously low standards, I might just take this proffered hug. Fuck knows I could do with one.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
That was fucking great.
For a minute there I lost myself, if you will, having fortuitously woken just as he went over the 270 waterfall. And thus followed a two hour teary orgasm, beginning with McCain’s concession and waving, waving hard, all the way to the end of Barrack’s unsurprisingly solemn victory speech. I fell asleep then, with BBC analysis whispering love in my ear, and came to life still glowing, despite somehow still not believing. I glow even now, though it will surely fade as tiredness overtakes me and I approach a mountain of ignored clothes folding.
And so to the major question of the day, with fulsome apologies to Nora Ephron. Having just squirted my hot man juice all over Barrack's skinny tits, how long am I expected to lie here holding him? Is a week enough? A month? A whole term? There’s my problem, somewhere between one week and a whole term is my problem. Because I'm already over it really. It's time to move on. In winning he's become just another fucking politician cunt and I desperately need to once more charge back to cynicism and the comfort of constant despair, endless apathy. He's given me what I want and the sooner the black bastard invades France or Canada or even fucking Liechenstein, the sooner I can get up and go to that early squash game.
Monday, November 3, 2008
I did my election spin tonight and Obama Girl is in my head, shaking her booty in my brain, forgetting to vote in the primary of my frontal lobe. I wanted to do South Park's P Diddy singing 'Vote or Die' too, but the lines 'I like it when you vote bitch, shake them titties when you vote bitch, I slam my jimmy through your mouth roof, now get yo’ big ass in the polling booth' gave me rare pause. What a pussy I am.
He's going to win, right? Right? Right?
Yeah, yeah, I fucking know, it makes no difference. They're both owned by the corporations, they'll both continue to pump cash they don't have into the Israeli military, they're both fucking Christians. But still, but still. I don't fucking know, I have hope, I guess. I'm a sucker for that hope shit. I think maybe the world would just be a slighly better place if the man from Moneygall got the gig. And really, the idea of President Palin is something of clincher for any person with an ounce of human fucking decency.
I find it so much easier to care about shit over which I have no control. Football. Fáilte Towers. My fragile mental health. And so, I care. I care an awful lot and if these cunts somehow manage to steal my pointless hope, then my grumpiness of the past two weeks is going to look like a fucking Care Bear stare.
His Granny just died. Check fucking mate.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Attacking the last climbing interval of the day after a week of excessive mileage is a good hurt. The sighing at the relentless aging of my Bridge Crew is another. But let me learn you this, chowheads, teaching yoga in that place between still drunk and heart-breakingly hungover is a very bad hurt indeed.
Bourbon at midnight. Caucasian nightcap. What was I thinking? I was thinking, 'I'm full of pints but I would very much like one more drink.' I was thinking, 'I think I'll have me a Whitey.' And then twelve hours later, I was thinking, 'I am completely going to throw up on this nice lady's spin shoes.'
I needed holding, and stroking and soothing, I got reeking and screaming and downward dogging. 'Ease into the stretch,' I advised, 'ease into the stretch as I would now like to ease my head down the toilet bowl in the adjacent capper toilets. And breathe, breathe deeply like I cannot, for fear of a putrid puddle upon the studio floor. '
I'll say this for desperate nausea though, as I hold my hands up to eye-gouging headaches: They distract from the pain of thought. Thinking, self-awareness, now there's a hurt that barrels beyond the bad.
Friday, October 31, 2008
I have plenty to write about. My life is packed with incident. Incident after fucking incident. But what care you, or indeed I, of a grey sky that matches yet enhances the dubious beauty of Dublin's oldest and newest buildings? Not a fucking jot. And who wants to hear of the glistening arms of Zac Efron and the interminable nature of High School Musical 3: The Quickening? Not me. Not you. Perhaps you folks yearn for a line or two around this week's homesick alien moment? How I was transported to a different time and place, a white place of perfect blinding nothingness, where I was finally freed from this weight of terror that hangs so heavy on my soul? Pale and probed, I returned and sickened to be back. No? Nor I, nor I.
High School Musical it is.
It never looked like ending, this plotlessly life-affirming, character-free epic. And so it seems reasonable to assume that it never did. I am still there, in all likelihood, shifting in my chair, and hoping beyond hope that Data, filled full of Fanta as she is, will need, just one more time, to take a bathroom break. The typing that I do now is but a dream, images projected by my subconscious mind in a desperate attempt to distract from the reality of my having to spend the rest of this hopefully short life watching a tertiary sequel to a pair of straight -to-video vats of nastiness.
I cannot take another song. These songs, they keep on fucking coming. They all sound the same, these songs, they all look the same. It may just be the same song, over and over and over again. Duet, group bit. Duet, group bit. I can tell the difference only by the number of people on the screen. This song, this single song, this soon to be ten singles song, is not a good song. It is a bad song. I do not like it. I want to die.
But when there is no singing, there is no plot where the plot should be. Nothing's fucking happening. Where are the teen pregnancies? Is the story not set in America? It's senior year. Why is nobody drunk at this party? Where are all the fucking drugs? Why the fuck is nothing fucking happening? It doesn't have to be Elephant, or even Dazed and Confused, (though it should be Dazed and Confused, why isn't it Dazed and Confused? I'm dazed and confused by its not being Dazed and Confused) but any slight, virtually imperceptible nod to the human condition would bring me much relief. Folks, I get no such nod.
Yes, the children love it. Of course they love it. It is made for them. It is designed to turn them happily into willing servants of The Man, believers in the holy trinity of The Banal, The Brand and The Bland. Servants who already raise their eyes to heaven at any slight suggestion that the entire High School Musical phenomena might be morally bankrupt. I'll learn them. Learn them all the way to their putting me in a home, nappied up, with peeling paint and dodgy drugs. This is what High School Musical 3 is to me, a long, lonely, helpless death, lacking in revelation or dignity. This is all I have look forward to as I squirm, once more, in my seat.
Go see! Go see and I'll doubtlessly see you there.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
And so an overdose dose is what I just shot up, shot through. A bank holiday and an awol Jim from the gym led to six Spin, three Body Pumps and one stretchtastic Yoga class, all within two days. Normally with this kind of schedule I go light on the weights in pump and stay off the bike for the majority of the spins. But 'fuck it', I thought at the bottom of this muscular mountain, and 'fuck it', I thought all the way to the top. I threw on the big plates, hammered out every single sprint and stretched till I wretchedly retched. And as I collapsed on the bars last night after one last rage-filled, psychotically-screaming Alpine attack to the mashing of Daft Punk and Bon Jovi, I felt both a groundless peace and a reckless ha'ppiness creep over my person.
Today of course, I'm more fucked off than ever and incapable of separating walking from groaning. Worth it, though, for those few moments and the knowledge that they are sure to visit again.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Friday, October 24, 2008
I know that this, this it, is related to rage. It is conversant with confusion. It dallies, no doubt, with depression. But it lacks any solidity, this it, being centred around shit that may not even have happened or, if it did, may not have been intended. All these happenings and non-happenings, they have me riled, addled, down. I cannot separate the three. They writhe together on the grubby kitchen floor that is my mind, addled fucking riled as riled goes down on down, a sweaty mass of squirming flesh. I try to pull them apart, force them to cease their joyless fucking but I am but one to their three, and I'm not trying too hard because really, it's making me hard, this self-composed poisoned porn of mine. It disgusts me, but I cannot tear myself away. I like too much to watch.
As expected, I have nowhere to go with this. With this, or much else.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
You know that joke?
Combine that with every sick 'baby with a spear through its head having difficulty negotiating a revolving door' joke you can think of, and there, right there, you have my stupid fucking life. And I'm laughing. Hear me laugh.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
It turned out that the reason Common Law didn't have any dinner that night was that she had pneumonia and a collapsed lung. Excuses, ex-fucking-cuses, right? Not my finest moment. I am just a little self-absorbed, it must be said. In fact, any day now I'm going to absorb so far into myself that all that will remain is a little toxic puddle of self-pity, globbing gently upon the kitchen floor. They can use it to make the soffitto.
But I've done better since, and more occasionally, done worse.
Therefore tonight, so many months later, I'm going to go at it again. I've already pre-cooked the chicken and mushrooms and when we get back from swimming lessons, I'll be chopping, warming and preparing to ladle and stir, ladle and stir, until creamy perfection is reached.
Maybe the Bridge Crew will spurn it once again, or perhaps my cunning plan of not allowing them eat anything between now and dinner time shall come to fruition. I have, of course, no such control over Common Law's intake, but I can only hope for the best. Hope that she hasn't re-contracted pneumonia or some other, even more exotic and life-threatening ailment. Hope that she remembers how much she used to like risotto back in the pre-pneumatic days. Hope, most of all, that I don't fuck it up and serve up some inedible mush.
Because I really don't think that I can live a life without risotto.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Not fourteen cups of espresso, not left-over chickpea salad. Not the love of three good women, not even finding my tumble-drier bent laser and visa cards.
My face is all melty, my eyes are all droopy, my weak brain appears to be enveloped in vinegar soaked candy-floss. But on the upside, I do have the use of my limbs.
Finbar was on the phone last night. We exchanged children stories for a while. His youngest daughter is on course to represent her country in hockey, mine is, as yet, unincarcerated. We're both rambling mumblers so we filled many more minutes talking about fuck all. And as the converstation stumbled to its usual conclusion, we arrived, by way of my other sister's imminent milestone, upon the topic of a colleague of his, a 57 year old sub-11 hour Ironman.
This guy, this man of undoubted iron, was out mountain-biking on a popular Penticton trail when he had himself a leetle crash. He was not descending at any death-defying speed. No, he was climbing, slowly. Hit a sliver of early ice and was tossed gently over his handlebars. Landed on his chin. Hyper-extended his neck, violently. His friends, all medical men, kept him alive for three hours as they waited for the helicopter. He came out of the coma in a matter of days. And now he can blink. That's it. Just with the blinking.
And how does this tragedy make the all-important I feel? What do I take from this tale? What can I learn? That I should embrace life, surely. That I must now cut out the whinging, the whining, the moaning. Stop feeling sorry for myself and get out there and enjoy every minute with my family and friends.
No. That's not what I take from it at all.