Saturday, January 31, 2009

Which would you prefer? A computer or a gun?

Saturday, January 31, 2009 14
Oh you're getting your money's worth today folks and folkettes. Four hundred and seventy seconds of beautiful Jello Biafra barf. If, after about thirty of these fine units of time, you say to yourself 'I cannot listen to this shit.' and press the big old pause button, then you're cheating only yourself.

It has been, I believe, eighteen years since I heard the line 'Ever hear about the guy in New York, who's dick fell off in the bath after he shot it full of coke?' as sung by Mr. Biafra. After revisiting it today I can assure you that it has aged like a fine fucking wine.

You need to hear this whole song, ideally over and over and over again, ideallier as you writhe in the throes of adolescent romance. Do it, people. Eventually, you won't be sorry.

Friday, January 30, 2009

In an otherwise empty room

Friday, January 30, 2009 12
A Bridge Crew update? Do I have to? Fucking snore, like.

Riker's in big trouble. Two days in a row she's left a vital piece of homework apparatus in school. I'm running out of punishments. God be with days when I could have just clathered her across the head and hurled her into the coal shed. We don't have a coal shed, is the big problem with that. Instead, no pocket money, no tv. Next I guess we start removing digits.

She went to bed tonight complaining of a headache and a sore throat. Or a 'sore throath' as her grandmother calls it. Every time Mother in Common Law uses those words I want to gayly dance about the room, singing in my best soprano: 'It ends with a fucking T! It ends with a fucking T!' I have so far refrained. Riker, in contrast, is failing to refrain from faking. And she's faking in the hope of her not having to face her table, who will not get a star tomorrow because one of their number has fucked it up. I believe that I tire of this teacher and her clever enforcing exploitation of peer pressure.

Data's happy. Which is slightly weird. She's emerging from toddlerdom at last, I think, all reasonable and helpful and dying to contribute to the smooth running of the household. She's particularly big into cooking the dinner. Which has the happy side effect or her actually eating at dinner time. 'This is the best dinner ever!' she declared tonight. That may have been because the main ingredient was butter.

I know what's really up with her though. It's her mother being home during the day, playing with her, giving her guilt ice cream, letting her away with shit. Common Law'll be back in rehearsals soon enough and I'll be left with a bawling ball of heartsick miserabilty. I can't fucking wait.

Enough? Enough.

Thursday, January 29, 2009

Seasick Sarah had a golden nose, hobnail boots wrapped around her toes

Thursday, January 29, 2009 12
Daniel-Day Christy Brown and his foot can fuck right off because I got my own left body part bit going on and it is this that we shall discuss today.

It's a bit of a Goldilocks cunt, this left knee of mine. This concrete is toooo hard! This damp grass is toooo soft! This tarmac is just right! Any variation during what appears to now be my regular four mile run from this knee's surface of choice produces little dissatisfied squeals and squawks, minute mutterings of rebellion. And so I'm trying my best to tough it out on the tarmac and cling to the occasional and equally acceptable stretch of firm trail.

But I'm running. Running, like I say, regularly. Not a great week, last week, just managing to get out once and in Januarys past that would have been the death of the experiment. But I've come back strong this week, banging out eight solid miles at an acceptable 7'40 pace between Monday and Wednesday. Out again on Friday is the plan and the first two in a row on Saturday.

And now I dream as I run. Dream of glories past and the vague, vague possibility of races future. Oh so very, very vague. I have no idea what kicking it all up to even 6'30 is going to do. But in April, folks, all those many moons away, there happens the oldest road race in Ireland and also the first race that I ever ran.

The Clonliffe 2 Mile. 2002. Through Glasnevin. I fucking hoor downhill for the first three quarters of mile thinking to myself 'Ha! This racing lark, what a fucking breeze! Easy peasy lemon squeezy!' I pass old lady after old lady cackling internally. And then I hit the other side of the valley and my lungs weep and my feet wail and my legs turn to sticky shit as old lady after old lady takes me back, cackling externally.

13'20 it took me. And now all I want, seven years later, oh Jesus how can it be seven years, is to beat that time. I could do it tomorrow if my left knee, my stupid fucking career wrecking left knee, wasn't almost certain to irreparably explode at the very idea.

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

That's not a knife, this is a knife

Wednesday, January 28, 2009 17
Oh Jesus cunting Christ on a no speed Chipper. Yes, a fucking Chipper. A Chipper, folks, was a Chopper for losers. It's what I had when I was a kid. A loser kid, as it happens. A big fat ugly loser bespectacled kid on a Chipper. So my first bike was a cheap knock off, and cheap knock offs are what I now do.

This off knocking though, is not about bikes. Would you like to guess what it is about? I shall begin again, without the distracting Chipper shit:

Oh Jesus cunting Christ on any kind of wheel based transport. You people just don't fucking get it, do you? After all these days, months, years. After all my sterling and euro efforts, you still don't fucking get it. IT. IS. ABOUT. ME. Really, I hate to be all cappy and full stoppy but you fuckers have forced my hand. That banner, that banner that has caused such stupid baseless bitching and sniping, pissing and moaning, and so many ill-formed, pointless and badly constructed sentences over the past twenty-four, that was ABOUT ME. I am the one with few friends, I am the one with the self-promotion penchant and in my desperation to win I am the one who is desperate for you all to think that it is desperate that I am not.

Can you hear me? Do I need to speak more slowly? More biggly?

So if you could all shut the fuck up and let a guy get some swimming lesson watching done I would very much fucking appreciate it. Gimme does not approve of your idolatry, your obtuseness, or even your threatened face-punching be it facetious or no.

There is only one face that Gimme would punch and it is the fat one of the faux pregnant Roisín Ingle.

You fucking heard me. Faux pregnant. I'm not kidding you. Here's the scoop:

Knowing that even the penis-brained numbskulls who read her weakly weekly drivel were beginning to bore of her boyfriend bashing, her privileged posturing and her pathetic attempt at a life of quirk, Ingle has been forced to invent a pregnancy. 'But how does one comfortably fake gestation?' she must surely have asked herself but with shorter, simpler words. 'Those fake bumps look awfully pokey!' The answer was not long in coming. 'I'll just eat myself pregnant! More pies! More cakes! More piecakes for my massive gaping maw! I eat for art! I gorge for my gorgeous gouty words!' And so it came to pass.

Sure, she's most likely going to produce some baby-shaped things in or around the appropriate time but I reckon it'll just be a couple of those life-like latex numbers that we all saw on that Channel Four documentary.

It's fucking fact, folks, it happened, it's happening, it is going to happen. Now fuck off and get your meaninglessly bitching faces around that shit. And yeah, give me my fucking award.

Tuesday, January 27, 2009

I don't have the right

Tuesday, January 27, 2009 18
I'm only writing this because I told this guy in work that I was going to.* I filled my twenty in a month quota ages ago. I owe you bastards nothing. But this guy you see, he reads, from time to time. Reads Stranded, I mean. Probably that was clear.



Little squeal.

It's going to be that sort of post today, folks. Hours out of the last twelve spent exercising? Five. You don't want to know. I want to tell you, but you don't want to know and what's more, I know that you don't want to know. So I'll refrain. My gist, my grist, is that I'm lacking the brain glycogen to properly construct, a point, elaborate, point, elaborate, point a lab rat at a conclusion post. That's just the way it fucking is.

Where was I?

That guy in the gym. Actually I thought I scared the poor fucker away. He's a semi-regular in the spin studio, an exerciser who mixes and matches, does his own thing, and maintains a varied and therefore doubtlessly much more effective fitness routine. So not a die hard, attend every class that Gimme gives, spinner. Sometime back in November I mentioned to him that I bleughed and he asked for the address. I gave it out. He hasn't been back to my class since. Until this evening.

He asked some polite questions about how hard I found it post everyday, and I went on and on about myself, as I am wont to do in these situations. One of the things that emerged from the uncontrollably babbling brook of my mouth was how I had only just let my New Year's posting resolution slip. (12.01 every weekday morning, stupid clip on Saturday, day off Sunday, occasional lapses allowed but always the bare minimum of 20 a month) but that I knew what I was going to wrote tonight.

I don't know why I said that. I don't know why I lie to almost strangers for no good reason. So in apology and recompense, gym guy, this one's for you:

Yeah, no, that was it.

*Can I end a sentence like that? To do so hurts my eyes and my brain.

Monday, January 26, 2009

We're the poison in your human machine

Monday, January 26, 2009 13
Oh Finbar. Finbar, Finber, Finbar. What the finbar have you done?

I quite like my dad. I really do. I could give you lots of reasons why I shouldn't, and you'd be unlikely to blame me if I was to despise the very ground he walked on. You might try to talk me out of it, a little, but you'd understand, I'm sure of it.

We got a cheese photo in the electronic post just before Christmas, of the entire Away Team (father plus second family) all made up in maple leaves, symbolically mounted by Mounties, if you will. Grinning hugely, the lot of them, all officially Canadian at long last. I was happy for them. Better than being Irish for sure. Certainly better than being English, as my stepmother Janice has been for too many a long year. Canadan, that's okay, right? Harmless enough, like. And who knows, maybe one of these days they'll sharpen up their ice skates and invade the fuck out of the US, providing us all with a big laugh.

Let me just point out the one more upside here before it all turns horribly sour. I think this might mean that I can be a Canadian too. It will certainly ease my passage into the Canuck world should I ever decide that I cannot take even one more day of this hideous, apologetic, back-stabbing Irishness.

Oh, but Finbar, what have you done? I read the truth in Saturday's Irish Toss. To become a Canadian citizen one must take an oath. One must pledge, as it would appear that my father has done 'to be faithful and bear true allegiance to her majesty queen Elizabeth the second queen of Canada, her heirs and successors.'

Oh Lordy.

'It's just words!' you cry.

'It doesn't necessarily mean that your paternal parent is falling down and licking the boots of an institution that stands for the mass murder of the Irish people, institutionalized racism and just being a pack of inbred, pointless cunts!' you howl.

Cry away. Howl on. I still feel dirty, dirtied.

Saturday, January 24, 2009

I want the freedom and I want the guile

Saturday, January 24, 2009 5
Not as good as an actual post but somewhat better than 79 minutes of blue screened mutterings.

And while I have you, bastard youTube widescreen shite.

Thursday, January 22, 2009

People tend to pass you over cause you're not standing out like flashy sparkles in the water

Thursday, January 22, 2009 12
Yay! Go Bronwen! I mean clearly a little fucking tardy but better now than never, right? Truly the time for herself and every other Green with even the whisperiest of little white angels atop their right shoulders to beat a hasty retreat was when Goebbels Gormley stood bravely holding back the tears behind Bertie's resignation bit while the entire Fianna Fáil cabinet struggled to suppress grateful gales of giggling.

Bronwen's my lady, you see. She's always calling to the door, I'm always assuring of my support. Given the fact that she's failed in her bid for a Dáil seat in the last three general elections I was most likely the only one doing so and even that single vote was lost to her when I learned that the Greens were happy to take their principles, lube them up with chilli sauce and roughly insert them into the asses of all their supporters just to obtain the flimsiest of grips on what can be barely described as power.

Now you know where I live. Feel free to stalk. I could do with the attention.

It all means nothing, of course. We're all still fucked and Miss B.M. has left herself open to all sorts of accusations of sinking rat ship desertion, but screw it, at least I can now see one of her leaflets coming in the door without being overwhelmed by nausea. It is all about me and I'm sick enough as it is.

By the by, did you know that you can get Goebbels figurines? Google Ads tell me so. Not being able to spell stuff can really expose you to some interesting facts.

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

I don't want to talk about the things we've gone through

Wednesday, January 21, 2009 18
Everyone appears to be under the impression that my last post was somehow related to the Irish Blog Awards, taking place not in Dublin, on some day that is once again the birthday of some chick I know. This was not the case. And so I would like to respond to my nomination in much the same way as I responded to last year's long listing, but with a little more provided by Rosie panache:

You know I have to make them dividends

Jesus, but some people are so fucking full of themselves and so fucking shameless about it too. It's the lack of shame that really gets to me, I think. I mean, I believe that I am fucking marvellous, I'm secure in the knowledge of my extreme talent and physical beauty but you don't hear me going on and fucking on about it. And if you do, it's with shame as a subtext, self-revulsion as a backdrop and insecurity as an all-encompassing blanket.

It's the latest thing in self-expression, apparently. Telling the world how great you are, how important. How wonderful your relationship, how fulfilling your job, how satisfyingly salty your gooch. And always with that pinch of self-deprecation. How I hate the self-deprecation, the false modesty, the I broke my arse, I'm not really going to win the award, I do have this one leetle flaw bit. Just fuck off. Fuck off and shut up.

I'm too busy watching President Obama trying to get himself shot to be dealing with the likes of you. Also I should admit to having eaten an entire packet of Lady Fingers (not what you think) and I have what is either a sugar-induced headache or a well-deserved brain tumour. This may have informed my annoyance at whatever it is that I'm annoyed about.

But probably not, you stupid, self-deluding fucks.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Thank god he's cracking down on steroids

Tuesday, January 20, 2009 9
From, I don't know, some Drudge-linked bastion of truth and fairness:

'It didn't take long for Barack Obama to make the first mistake of his presidency.

In the third sentence of his inaugural speech Tuesday, the newly sworn-in president said, "Forty-four Americans have now taken the presidential oath."

While there have been 44 presidential administrations, there have been only 43 presidents; Grover Cleveland served two nonconsecutive terms in the late 1800s.'

Impeach the useless, lying cunt! Impeach him now!

I wonder what they'll do about the oak tree swing

The most recent addition to the gym's personal training staff appears to be not talking to me, to have not taken to me. I genuinely do not know what this is about. She covered a class for me even before we met in person and I was my usual breathtakingly charming self on the telephone. I even used my Voice. My Voice, I firmly believe, is my greatest, my sexiest attribute, and when you've got cheekbones like mine that is saying some serious shit.

And then we met, this PT and me, had a brief discussion on how the class had gone and went our separate ways.

And now she blanks me. Blanks me like Wogan, Dawson and Savage going at it hardcore atop the Blankety Blank set. I just don't get it. Really. Did I fall into one of my inadvertently racist rants? (She is American and not entirely Caucasian) Did she hear me slagging off her name? (Her name is Mimi, which is not a name for a grown woman, American or not) Or does she just fucking fancy me?

It's gotta be the last one, huh? Either way, I'm totally going to confront her as such a confrontation can only lead to hilariousness and yet another you've only got four minutes to post a post, post.

Monday, January 19, 2009

I've only known careless love

Monday, January 19, 2009 16
I'm struggling here. The first week was a fucking doddle. Really. Not a problem. And as you read this, I am, at the B.F.M., half an hour past the two week mark. And I reckon I could have just the one. Yup. Just the one little one. I've earned it. All this commuting by bike, all this running, all this fucking not smoking. Surely I've earned myself just one little cigarette?

But I know, though I'm trying so hard to self-deny, that there is no such bleeding thing. Isn't it supposed to get easier the longer you go?

Again with the rhetorical: has my day been so rough? It may not require it, but I dole it out nonetheless. Yes. Yes, it has. Tesco at eight-thirty, children in tow, then almost instantly to work a spin class where I was certainly not feeling it, strong as I was, and where my relating of a dream of Paula Radcliffe fell as flat as any tale I've ever told. Despite turning away a tide of wannabe participants, despite some fulsome post-class praise, it all just felt a little bit shit. Then Yoga. Snore. Then home and instant employment in the tipless taxi trade, firstly for the Mother in Common Birthday Law and then for the chosen one, her chosen son.

And now, finally, dinner is done and all are gone. Bridge Crew sequestered. Clothes folded, sandwiches made. And all I want is to smoke. Just the one. Oh, just the one. Right now, right this second as I type, I can whiff the sickly sweet smell of Common Law's apparently guiltless, gorgeous habit, wafting. I never noticed, before I stopped, before I started, that the smell drifts, like the hideous chatter of Terry Christian on Celebrity Big Brother, even through a sealed door.

So yes, I feel my day has been rough, though not much rougher than most days. And yes, I believe that I deserve a fucking break. But fortunately, unfortunately, I also believe that the best break I can have is the one which involves me not reaching for that delightfully tubular top shelf, not going outside and feeding my dragon, not hating the taste, hating the failure, hating myself.

Fuck you, dragon cunt, if the waiter can do it, then so can I.

I'm keeping moving on.

Saturday, January 17, 2009

You made a plaything out of romance

Saturday, January 17, 2009 6
This fine suddenly shitty Saturday morning, from Billy Cotton, the most sexual predatorest-looking band leader of them all, I present an heart-felt ode to the love between a stalker and his stalkee:

Friday, January 16, 2009

To be pursued, but never obtained

Friday, January 16, 2009 19
You know this bit the Israeli apologists come out with when it is suggested to them that the current operation in Gaza might be considered just a little disproportionate? This bit about their right to defend themselves? Their 'country' and their people are being attacked? If it was our country we wouldn't stand for it? If Denmark was fucking fireworks at us then we'd go and kill us a whole fuck load of Danish kids? Well, Alexandra, Leonard, Jeff, and John folks, because it looks like that's exactly what just happened. Except what the fuck do you know, it weren't the Denmarkians what done it. It were Israel! Who the fuck would have thunk it?

I try to get an 'I know fuck all about this' precursor into all my political posts. Here you go: I know fuck all about this. But folks, let it be known that I speak from my ignorant heart.

Ireland, we're a whatdjacallit, a nation, right? Sure we are. I know this because we have a National Anthem and a National Concert Hall where we play our National Anthem and a National History Museum. where we keep this big stuffed deer yoke. Oh, and there's that song, 'A Nation Once Again'. Although maybe that's about England. Who knows? Anyway, we're a nation, I'm sure of it.

So one of the things that nations do is be in the United Nations. Or some nations anyway. Again, who the fuck knows? Not me. But this I do know: Ireland is one of the some nations. And Israel just bombed the UN compound. On purpose. Repeatedly. With phosphorus. So as far as Gimme is concerned Israel just bombed Ireland. On purpose. Repeatedly. With phosphorus.

Pop quiz, shit hots:

Small occasionally fatal rockets are to a 20 day aerial and ground assault using the most modern tanks and artillery resulting in the deaths of more than 1,000 people as phosphorous bombs are to what? What's that you say? A nuked Tel Aviv?

But wouldn't that be a little disproportionate?

Thursday, January 15, 2009

I'll take my bongos and go

Thursday, January 15, 2009 12
Here's what I hate about the stupid internet: you can always get what you want. Sexy bicycle videos? You fucking betcha. You would not believe how difficult it used to be to get sexy bicycle videos. One time you might even have rented a sexy bicycle video and discovered it was a very wrong type of sexy bicycle video and been forced to send a brazen V back to the video shop to demand a refund.

I also have access to every single fucking song that I've ever heard and as I prefer listening to songs that I've already heard I haven't liked a new song in about four years. I listen to songs from my twenties, songs from my teens and increasingly, songs from my childhood.

I found 'All Aboard', you see. I've been looking for this for some time on the pretext that even if the Bridge Crew refuse to open their minds and ear holes to the delights of Dylan, the wonders of Waits and the sublimity of Shakira then they will surely appreciate the tunes of my toddlerdom. And so it has proved.

'Right Said Fred' is a favourite. 'Ernie' is popular too. The casual racism in 'My Boomerang Won't Come Back' is being generously overlooked. But how about this particular version of 'The Banana Boat Song'? (Please ignore video).I post that fucker everywhere. My sole contribution to the Twenty Forum, it was greeted with a tumbling silence. I put it up here to little more response. I'm always fucking quoting it. I think it's the greatest, funniest, most profound piece of perfection in the world. I deeply relate to that uptight, stoned, bongo-drumming hippy. I didn't want to make this gig in the first place either! I don't dig spiders neither! My ears! Like, my ears! It's the Life of Gimme in a song.

The Bridge Crew can take it or leave it.



I got one more.


Wednesday, January 14, 2009

I have met them at close of day

Wednesday, January 14, 2009 27
More vaguely non-smoking related wonderfulness. Cycling to and from work at least once a day now. The hot and sweaty yet freezing fucking cold combo can be more than a little uncomfortable but the thrills and not only spills but frills of a crosstown fixed gear commute are not to be underestimated. The anticipation, the wayward weaving, the very rush of it all. I discover more smoothness and control with every flown by kilometre, but folks, still I lack the skills.

I cannot truly track stand. I can go so slowly as to be almost standing still. I rarely have to unclip at a traffic light. Yet still the backward and forward scooching eludes me. I don't get that much opportunity to practise, is my weak excuse. I need some quality, heavily padded midnight time on the cul de sac, I reckon, where I'm happy to do a whole lot of teeter toppling. I'll get it, I know that I'll get it, I'll totally sort this tricky track stand out.

But there is a whole load of other shit about which I am not nearly so confident. Yesterday, just past the concert hall, I spotted a courier stopped, foot grounded out of strap at a red light. Too late in the day for a showy move, I guessed. Or maybe he can't do a trackstand either, the useless fuck, I mused. Either way, I pissed passed him through a generous gap in the oncoming traffic. Too fast to be sure of the kind of bike he was working, but slow enough to see that it was certainly fixed and that he had incidentally magnificent hair. For dust I left him as I turned towards Charlemont Bridge.

He passed me on Ranelagh Road. I jumped, somewhat irked, into his slipstream. We both sped along for a moment or two before he veered off to the right and performed some of the sweetest, the most effortlessly graceful shit that I've ever seen. Unweighting his back wheel, this street knight stopped pedals and back wheel, using the ensuing skid not to come to a standard and unimpressive stop, but merely as a means of deceleration, before lightly bunny-hopping onto the pavement and resuming his impossibly smooth pedal stroke. I gasped. I gaped. I drew in breath to shout 'You're so fucking cool!' but realised that this in itself would be somewhat uncool, and that I was about to rear end a slow moving Saab. It was a beautiful thing folks, I wish you could have been there to see it, you would have been blown away.

These are the kind of skills, you see, skills that I would possess but doubt that I ever will.

Monday, January 12, 2009

Thought that we'd be last to go

Monday, January 12, 2009 21
I like it when I can feel it all coming back together. The effortless steadiness, the lack of silent cries for a cessation, most of all the constant knowledge that yes, there is a little more there. And all this with a heavy, heavy workload. More voluntary volume and velocity than I have even attempted in more than a year.

What? What's he talking about? The broken dishwasher? He's washing up a lot? He washes up really fast? Fucking hell, this is even boringer than the avocuntingcados.

No, I wash up really slowly.

What? I'm confused. I'm bored. I want a cigarette. I want some smack, some crack, a rub on the back.

We're discussing exercise.

Oh. That's not much better.

If I may?

Go on then.

Thank you. Last week I ran twice. I cycled to work four times. 80k. Peanuts of course, but more peanuts than I've shelled in many a month. And I ran. Ran for 25 minutes, twice. Really fucking slowly but reasonably comfortably. Did maybe 10k in total. Weird to be covering that distance on foot. Lifted the big boys in pump. Progressively stronger in the week's seven spin.

Would you get to the fucking point?

I stopped smoking. There you go. I don't know why the fuck I started again, (I do) but I now know that I've stopped. I didn't mention it before for fear of the jinxiness. But I pretty much knew when I woke up on Monday that it was doable, oh yeah, I could do this shit again. And I did. And I feel good for it. In fact I feel so good that I think the best course of action is to wait another seven years and then start again just so I can get another hit off this happy, smug, newly non-smoking high. But then I'm thinking there's no way this energy and hideous positivity can last for seven weeks, let alone seven years. Fuck it, maybe I'll just start again now. Bum a smoke, dude?


Saturday, January 10, 2009

I tried hard to swallow, the lump just wouldn't stay down

Saturday, January 10, 2009 11
Via Verona's Journal, a dark tale of pre-internet chatroom grooming.

'Well, you better believe I took my turn at riding Teddy Bear.'


Friday, January 9, 2009

Long Jimmy Lee

Friday, January 9, 2009 27
I bet you have yet to tackle a rightly ripe avocado. Always over or under, one way or another. Not that they aren't incredibly tasty either way for a couple of happy days. But there must be a sliver of a second, an infinitesimal moment where perfect ripeness is reached.

And so to the meat:

If your avocado is under-ripe I'm guessing that you peel it with a potato peeler. Over-ripe? You use a knife to crack a little section open and then remove bit by bit with my fingers. Right? Uh-uh. Wrong. Mister, Lady, you got that shit all messed up.

'Fucking guacamole' is how I opened the chat that led to this latest in a long line of learnings. Whatshername over at whatsitcalled was the chattee, and she wanted to know what the huge fucking deal was. I explained. 'What a pain to peel these prisons of pulp!' Or words to that effect. There was some internet silence. Then the Spanish one patiently explained the cutting in half, the stone-removing, the scooping. The simple and tidy freeing of the fruit. And then she did a lot of fucking laughing.

The bint.

I would rather have continued happily in my awkward messy ignorance than have had my occasional avocado peeling simplified and my idiocy so frightfully exposed.

Thursday, January 8, 2009

I want roses in my garden bower; dig?

Thursday, January 8, 2009 16

This woman I know, this family member of mine, is dying. She's got lung cancer. Her daughter is getting married in August. But the mother won't be there. Want to know why? Yes, yes, because she's going to die. But you want to know why she's going to die? Yes, yes, because she has lung cancer.

But. Fucking but.

It was caught pretty early, this just below the clavicle tumour and I get the impression that they could well have hacked the motherfucker out and radiated the crap out of the surrounding area. Prognosis in this instance? Probably pretty shitty, but chances are she would have made it to August. August and beyond, I guess. I'm guessing, clearly, unclearly.

Here's why she won't make to to August, no way, no fucking how. She is treating her lung cancer with a macrobiotic diet and reiki. Oh yes she is. Did you know that the most famous proponent of macrobiotics as cancer treatment, Michio Kushi, also considers smoking to be a valuable treatment for various lung disorders? And were you aware that a macrobiotic diet is essentially a fuck load of brown rice and various legumes? So not only is this woman going to die horribly before she gets to see her daughter wed, but she doesn't even get to eat the rich pasta sauces that she has spent the last forty years fattening herself up on while she does it.

She's also broke. She just took one thousand euro from her sister to pay for reiki treatments. And maybe she believes these treatments will work. Maybe she does. But the cunt who's taking the money doesn't believe that. No he fucking doesn't, dude. Fatmammycat calls it woo, but I, because I'm a fucking drama queen, think it's a whole lot closer to murder.

She's not so young that her death can be considered tragic. Wings where we had shoulders smooth as raven’s claws, innit? But it's still fucking sick, is what it is. Sick that a seemingly rational woman could be so fucking stupid and dare I say, oh yes I fucking dare, selfish, sick that someone would conspire with this stupidity, this selfishness, for financial gain.

Too many stupid, needless deaths in this family. I swear to fuck, if I still smoked, I would murder a healthy cigarette right about now.

Wednesday, January 7, 2009

I'm just a crosshair

Wednesday, January 7, 2009 7

My four-year-old is often extremely angry with me, and while Common Law normally takes her pearl-handled pistol to work, Data knows where the kitchen knives live.

She's totally going to stab me as I sweep.

One of these days I gotta get myself organizized

Here's my big concern, shouted from another evening past. I do not know how child prostitutes dress. The only child prostitute I've ever come across is the fictional Jodie Foster in Taxi Driver. I'm not, for so very many reasons, about to enter 'child prostitute' into google's image search...

Ever start a paragraph, get a couple of sentences in, and realise that there is no way to bring it to a happy, hilarious or even vaguely acceptable conclusion? Best thing to do is just delete the whole fucking thing and start again without the kiddy hooker hook. Better still ditch the whole post. It's all wrong and there's no way to make it right.

It's Riker's night-time attire that has me in this mess. It's essentially Foster's Taxi Driver get-up, minus the hat. She was wearing her new much adored Ugg slippers when she stood in the bathroom last night brushing her teeth and protruding her ten year old tummy as she critically assessed herself in the mirror. I was reading Data's stories and the first born, I assume, was unaware that she was in my eye line as she tilted one hip in a horribly grown-up manner, doing the Three Puhs: Posing and Pouting and Preening. She's not even ten, though I have been describing her as such for some time now in order to soften the double-digit blow which is due in mid-February. Nine she is, and already at the mirror in the bathroom, trying to be not nine, trying, in fact, to be sexy. Maybe I'm paranoid, maybe I'm sick, but I believe that I know it when I see it. Because I do them myself, all the fucking time, those Three Puhs. Oh, how I Preen.

She has to grow up, I know, I know. But why does she have to? And why now? And why in front of me?

Tuesday, January 6, 2009

Everybody sees you, everybody looks and stares

Tuesday, January 6, 2009 14
I got big plans for today.

We got a little time-travel telepathy gig going on here, you and me, because it's not today as I write this, it's yesterday evening. My big plans are for tomorrow and by the time you read this shit, today, I'll have a much better idea as to how all these plans are proceeding. With difficulty but success is the highest of my hopes. None of this these schemes will be easy but if nothing else they'll be a huge fucking change from the norm. Change, rest, blah de fucking blah.

You want some more details on these plans? Not going to happen, folks. Today, tomorrow, I am a tremendous tosspot of a tease.

But here's a little hint. I'm ejecting some shit and picking some other shit up. I'm setting goals and shooting for the stars. I'm being all Sergeant Scattergun, Brigadier Blunderbuss when it comes to these resolutions. Not that doings are you know, New Year's Resolutions. Fuck that. They are merely things that I have resolved to do early in January of the year of our Lord 2009. If I'm going to turn this double decker of self doubt about, in this alleyway an inch wider than the bus itself, I may as well fucking start today. Tommorrow. Yesterday.

I know now, as I edit before I post just how well it's gone so far. But I'm not going to tell you that either. I'll only jinx it.

There. I've totally gone and fucking jinxed it. Bastards.

Monday, January 5, 2009

Afternoon delight

Monday, January 5, 2009 6
She holds the small hand in her own, gently thumbing the knuckles, gently sighing. The crumpled duvet rises heavy on her shoulders as she breathes. She is in this room everyday. This room with its beige walls, its tasteful sketches, its badly constructed, built-in wardrobe. Despite having been recently and meticulously put in order, the space feels untidy. Her eyes drift from an askew curtain corner to a sink heavy with toothbrushes. Untidy too is her very presence. She should not be here, though it is the bedroom that she shares with her husband.

Five more minutes, she thinks, still stroking the held hand.

An hour later, with the room now darkening, she pushes herself groaningly up from the low, wide futon and begins to dress. She pulls jeans too loose and a blouse too tight over the underwear she has worn for the last twenty-four hours. Her lungs burn with the effort. She turns and gazes at the grey fingers peeping out from under the covers.

Coffee first, she thinks, leaving the bloodied stump to weep its final drops upon the browning linen sheet.

Saturday, January 3, 2009

I wanna see you shake your hips and learn

Saturday, January 3, 2009 4
Dishwasher's broken. Overloaded and constantly on the run over the Christmas period, the poor cunt has just had enough. It'll still turn on and shit, but remains blanketed in a refusal to draw water. 'I'm not thirsty,' it groans despite its demonstrable dehydration. 'Wash them your fucking self,' it whines while emitting a worryingly burny smell.

And so I went to washing them my fucking self. This brought me briefly back to the bygone days before we had a dish dirt disposer at our disposal. I did a lot of washing up back then. And always they created more, these women.

Not this time, I have decided. No more. A representative of Mastercare is due on Monday but until then I have them drinking from carton or tap, and eating from a trough that I have lovingly constructed from bits of sawn-off Christmas tree and Hannah Montana art project packaging. They look so sweet, my girls, kneeling outside in the bitter cold, their cute faces buried in a rapidly cooling swill of carbonara, Nicoise and trifle.

I may cancel Mastercare Man.

Friday, January 2, 2009

Give me crack and anal sex

Friday, January 2, 2009 6
Ones to watch in 2009:

Captain Smack. He's back from his year long, drug-induced coma, the big pussy and my world is a happier place. Nobody does it better, to get all Thom Yorke sings Carly Simon on your asses.

Tuesday Kid. He's talking about giving up the crack. Hopefully he's full of shit.

Sweary. Another resurrecter. Another belly full of proper writing. She got it all wrong on 'Stop the Cavalry', but.

Radge. He's grown on me, this guy, grown on me like the itchy, painful, allegedly not skin cancer patches of dry skin on my left shoulder and upper arm. I'm not saying he's fatal, but he's certainly worthy of a psychosomatic stopping by.

Any random fucker turning their bleugh into an illiterate Sitonmyfacebook love-in where everything is just fucking peachy all the time.

Probably you just want to concern yourself with that last one. They, like economic collapse and the dumbing down of anything that you might once have held sacred, are what the future holds.

Today's massive hit producing Title
◄Design by Pocket