'A description of the least memorable sexual encounter would still fill a book.' This is a misquote, from 'Time Pressure' by Spider Robinson. I can't find my copy. Fucker is almost certainly boxed. But I've gotten the sentiment right. Couldn't say that I agree, though. I can't remember my least memorable sexual encounter so I couldn't write as much as a haiku about it. A serial monogamist like myself tends to have a whole load of unmemorable sex. Better than nothing, of course. Better than nothing.
The dinner party on the other hand, is without doubt worthy of an epic poem. Being a tone deaf lout lacking in any lyricism I am incapable of writing po-ems be they epic or otherwise but nonetheless this anti-social gathering had all the required elements.
Tragedy it had, in that Common Law missed Peep Show.
Romance too, with Data's proposal to the snotty little four year old from the big house on the corner. And bucket loads of comedy provided mostly by the horrifically side parted, blackberry hanging from hip and unholstered at every opportunity, suit wearing to a casual dinner, hurling obsessed dickwad with his skewed and loudly voiced opinions on everything from film, to sport, to parenting.
We can take a moment to note that this twat knew precisely fuck all about movies, not having actually seen any, yet still was felt well-versed enough to regale us all with his cuntberry contained list of the cinema he intended watching as soon as he had the time. 'When I retire!' he cackled. And we cackled along with him.
Of sport he was equally ignorant. He was a major fucking expert on hurling. But it's a bit of a fucking stretch to call that a sport. Wikipedia notes its prehistoric origins. Damn straight Wiki boys. Hurling essentially involves pack of retarded caveman bogtrotters belting each other with sticks, hewn from the traditional Neanderthal clubs. There was some snooze-inducing talk wherein it was maintained that you can't get a sense of what's happening on the 'telly'. If one has not seen the iomáinaíocht live then can have no understanding of the game. Unless the fuckers that are off-screen at any given moment are performing an interpretive dance version of The Mayor of Casterbridge' I don't see how the fuck I'm going to be any more enlightened.
And so we come to parenting. Behold child-rearing 101 by Stiopháin the Bore: See your children rarely. When you do, make them play hurling or if they have the misfortune to be female, make them play camogie (what kind of fucking game gives a different name to itself when it's played by women? A crazy caveman chick-hating kind of a game). Parenting outside of sports bullying is for na bitchíní, dontcha know? If your nine year old is misbehaving, repeatedly kicking a ball against a neighbouring wall say, then call the guards. They've fuck all better to be doing than scaring chldren at the whim of their influential father. However if the misbehaving takes the form of beating up the neighbourhood children in the back garden during a dinner party then best to ignore, and then scold your wife for interfering because they (the beatees) need to be aware that he (the beater) will 'sometimes play rough'.
Like I say there were a whole lot of facets to this dinner party, many different strands to keep in my addled head. The proposition, the chilli and indeed the opposing viewpoint must wait for another day.
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