Common Law likes her television. Likes her television indeed, to the point of happily subscribing to the Homer Simpson philosophy of 'What's on? It doesn't matter...' Which is just as fucking well seeing as in the backwoods of Clare her viewing pleasure was restricted to the arseholey trinity of RTEs One and Two, plus some weird foreign language station populated almost exclusively by inbreds in over- earnest, woolly-jumpered documentaries.
And so it was that Gimme watched Fáilte Towers. Many, many words have already been written about this televisual feast, my favourite combinations of which both come from this weekend's Irish Toss.
Shane Hegarty: 'a voting system that asks the public to decide if autistic children are more or less worthy than cancer victims'.
Donald Clarke: 'Like a moronically catchy Europop tune by Aqua or The Vengaboys, bad reality television has a way of boring into the skull and fastening itself to the cerebellum.'
I agree wholeheartedly with both sentiments. We should have more competition between charities. Egg and spoon races wherein the terminally limbless are pitted against the maniacally depressed. Boxing matches between homeless junkies and abandoned puppies. Scrabble tournaments featuring the dyslexic and the illiterate. Earn your fucking handouts, you lazy cunts.
And I can't but relate to (watch me drop the fuck out of this name, I'll have you know that I once had dinner at his gaff) Donald's description of the addictive nature of complete crap. I'm addicted to lots of crap. Or more accurately, I garner massive amounts of pleasure from much unhealthy, unedifying, unsanitary crap by making use of the convenient excuse of addiction.
I had a whole lot more to write about Fáilte Towers. It was going to be the kind of fucking genius that would have had you charging to your television and detuning all the channels but RTE 1. However, I appear to have contracted some class of flesh-eating virus and I now need to go and lie down.
It been a while since I've written a shit post. Yes, I bet that you're begging to fucking differ on that baby. How about the last one, Gimme? How about the last 200, come to that?
Damn straight, I'm with you. But to clarify: as well as being shit, this post is about shit.
Data's been holding it in.
I did this too. I was most likely a little older, a little less hysterical, but on a dumped by my parents holiday with cousins in Rosscuntinglare (that's the Irish spelling), having been deeply ashamed of most bodily functions by my psychotic grandmother, I was unable to poop in the unlockable toilet of the holiday home. After about a week I weepingly crapped my little toddler speedos during a quiet beach moment. Pulled my Dunnes holiday shorts over the mess and walked the half mile home, stinkingly trailing behind my 400 cousins. My auntie caught me trying to empty the enormous turd into the toilet. Childhood memories fucking rock.
Data has a similar gig going on, though I would hope that with her it's down to lacking of familiarity with her defecating domain that has her all screwed up. I certainly don't recall tacitly informing her of the eternal link between bowel movements and burning in hell. However, the last time my second born went this long without a poo I got shot in the face with a turd torpedo. True fucking story.
We're off tomorrow. Road trip, baby. Many questions now pose themselves. Will I be allowed to play 'Thunder Road' for the entire four hours? Just how many times can Data throw up within this short time-frame? And at what point will my 'Are we there yet?' inspired fantasies of steering swiftly over the white line and plowing into an oncoming truck become a shocking reality?
We're going to Clare. There's a beach, some caves and The Burren. I vaguely remember studying The Burren in fourth class geography and failing to buy into the whole 'This is a reeeally interesting place, honest goys!' bit that was being peddled by the uber-trendy teacher who was to subsequently organise an assembly in order that the entire school might listen to The Joshua Tree on the day of its release. Make of that what you will.
So what's The Burren again? Some flat rocks made from citrus fruit? Flora and fauna? Grikes and clints? And given that we're not talking the Eastwood kind here, I am already fucking snoring. I anticipate standing in a visitor's centre learning about rare flowers with approximately the same amount enthusiasm that I normally reserve for the idea of a good sound sounding.
The caves may have proved more interesting, what with the endlessly diverting conversations about whether stalagmites grow up, down or into oddly El Grecan representations of Roisin Ingle's form. And I am reliably informed by some gym randomer that a sudden illumination of one particular section is nothing short of spectacular. I won't get to see this though, as it has been decided that Data might find the experience too frightening and I have volunteered to be the responsible adult who will be taking her for a consolation ice-cream. Although, if she's going to be such a pussy about it, she should be sorting out her own alternative arrangements. What kind of three year old are we raising up here?
Also on offer for Gimme is the inarguably exciting prospect of cleaning up a different collection of rooms, tidying up a whole new mountain of cheap plastic crap and patriarchy pimping children's magazines, and his very, very favourite, washing up a set of dishes never before washed by his expert washing-up hands.
'This holiday is not about you', I have been informed by Common Law.
Holiday shopping today, which I mostly escaped due to the elaborate hoax that I refer to as 'work'. Poor deluded Common Law, secure in the belief that my paltry contribution to the household finances is produced by exercise and shouting, when the truth is considerably more sordid. I'm lacking the wherewithal to construct this truth at the moment so we'll just let that bad boy lie. Saves me from doing it.
We met up in Korky's. Data bore a balloon. It has been foisted upon her by yet another Pro Clump-of-Cells, Anti-Life scumbucket.
'Would she like a balloon?' Common Law was asked, pre-foisting.
'No, but when she hits puberty she'd like a modicum of control over her own body, you fucked up fascist cunt,' Common Law would doubtless have replied, had she seen the inscription which was being cunningly obscured by the fuckbag in question. Or not. Because when I suggested this as a possible response my goodly not-wife opined:
'Like you're going to want them to have that.'
Too fucking shay.
If I am to successfully self-identify as a feminist, and I'm trying, Ringo, I'm trying really hard, then locking the Bridge Crew in a tall tower away from the prying eyes and sweaty groping grasps of teenage boys may smack a little of hypocrisy. Purple, bloated and bruised of buttock from hypocrisy's spankings as I already am, I suspect that this will not prove a major obstacle.
Or I could ditch this faux feminism, join Cóir and shove foetus photos in the faces of children. Foetus photos and pathetically phallical balloons.
Don't you just love those childhood smells? The little whiff of something or other that transports you back to happier times, to brief moments of innocence, simplicity and peace?
Yesterday afternoon, as I prepared to get myself the fuck together, out the door and in the direction of Tom, I was thusly moved through time to a pleasant afternoon, oft repeated, in the house of my grandparents. There I would sit contentedly cross-legged before an electric bar heater, meticulously melting biros and my uncle's plastic toy soldiers. 'Die, motherfuckers, die', I would have thought to myself had 'motherfuckers' been a word of which I was aware. Perfect placement of the military men in question allowed for a drawn-out death, a slow, dramatic dissolution to a blob of green. And gradually the pleasantly acrid stench would drift to my awaiting nostrils, filling me with a Zen-like universal oneness.
I woke up yesterday morning wishing that I hadn't. I don't know exactly why. Cock. Of course I know why. It was the morning of the day of the evening that I would finally witness my musical idol play live. and any excitement that I allowed myself was sure to result in nothing but more disillusionment with both my heroes and my existence. With my strandedness. Here's a life tip: when faced with the possibility of a special or defining moment in your life, hurl yourself into a monumental depression to ensure that while your overwhelming emotion at the time of the event may be a desperate sadness and loneliness you will yet remain untouched by disappointment.
All day I moped and moaned, therefore. Wheedled and whined my way through work. Ungratefully accepted an afternoon nap. And then I arose, bid a grumpy farewell to an exiting Common Law, put on some coffee to brew and went to take a shower.
And as I stepped out refreshed and almost looking forward to skinning up a big fat one, I found myself back in '84, back in 63. Oh, sweet scent of melting plastic. I flowed freely down the stairs to be greeted by yet another kitchen engulfing inferno of my own making. In a truly Pinteresque moment I had not put on, but lit, the kettle. Lit it was and oozing artistically across the ceramic hob.
I paused briefly to inhale my childhood and admire this slowly bubbling installation and then reluctantly snapped into smoke alarm soundtracked action.
My usual inanimate object addressed howl is 'What's in it for them?' But as the count of self-induced incidents of domestic tragedy mounts up, increasingly the question becomes 'What's in it for me?'
So you're back are you? Back like so many humiliation and degradation seeking children of the night, so many zebra-striped vampire zombies. Back to peer through, to hammer at, the bordered-up windows of my soul, the multi-bolted doors of my misery?
I cannot take the pressure of this 272nd post.
In July, I gave up bleughing. I did not give up beer. I did not give up being a fat cunt. And as Mr. Loaf tells us, one out of three is a load of shit. It's August now, so I am, once again, a fat, beer-drinking cunt who bleughs.
Tentatively, nervously, I bleugh. Tentatively, nervously, I am.