Clouds that pierce the illusion that tomorrow would be as yesterday

Common Law has just walked out the door, using that hoary old "work" excuse, leaving me with Data, Riker and two of Riker's friends. How the good fuck did this come about? It's a Girl Guide, having a car, being a good neighbour thing and may well become a regular event. Four children and me at the dinner table. The noise, oh mother of fuck, the noise. One of them, known to regular readers as Olivia who says "crap" all the time, is perhaps the loudest person ever in the history of the world. Every word is a shout, whenever it is not a shriek. There is no statement, question or imperative that is unworthy of a hollered "Oh my God!" preface. And the other three, newly grown up Data in particular, feel the need to compete enthusiastically yet unsuccessfully, with this tornado of tone. Two more hours before I can drop them off and go to work. They finish and drift to another room, Olivia's dinner untouched as she is "allergic to potatoes", as well as, one assumes, chicken, spinach, cannellini beans and cherry tomatoes. I crank up the Rodriguez as I clear the table, but to no avail. Every exclamation drills through my frontal lobe, the usual comfort of hot water plate rinsing easing my tension not a jot. Worst of all though is the realisation that this is just the beginning, cut to one, two, three, four five years from now, and there's two sets of friends and they're louder and brasher and even more in my fucking face.

I believe I may have some kind of nervous condition. Most likely a touch of the vapours.

Such a cost

I had my heart broken when I was a child, multiple times, in quick succession. So I thought, fuck this, and decided not to do that any more. I cry when I'm bad, I cry out of anger, I cry at weddings. People don't make me cry any more. I just turn that shit off.

So it's hard to know how adults deal with these dealings. Lost love. Love lost. It's hard to know what they need from me at these times. These loved ones, these cherished ones. Because all I ever have to offer is rage. Data falls over on the way home. I feel rage. I snuggle her and try to make her laugh but all that I feel is rage. Rage at myself because I wasn't close enough to make the catch. Rage at the ground for daring to strike my daughter. Rage, most of all, at my endless impotency in the face of this world. But I know what Data needs. She needs the stuff that I'm giving, the hugging, the hilarity. I don't know what grown-ups need.

Perhaps, like me, they just need Snickereses.

I never thought that I would find myself in bed amongst the stones

I've had a little work done. Kept the hair though.

Day is done, gone the sun

Riker has started Girl Guides. I'm not sure how I feel about this. Except that I do. I feel uneasy. Very, very uneasy. She got her Guide book yesterday and contained within is just a little bit too much of that God shit of which I am so not a fan. I fear that what with this and all the compulsory gobbledegook that they're feeding her in school we may soon have a full fledged Christian on our hands. I wrote n/a under "religion" in the form we had to fill out but I bet that won't stop them.

"Tie the knot, Riker, but tie it with Jesus' love."

"Help the old lady cross the street, but don't worry if you fuck it up and she gets pulverised by an oncoming truck as she will be with the angels all the sooner."

"Light the camp fire, Riker, and let it burn the heresy in your soul. And then let it burn all the heretics, starting with your father."

But enough about Riker. Let's talk about me.When I lived in Britland as a child there were no normal Scout troops in my area. and so I was enlisted in the Boys Brigade. Essentially Hitler Youth for the Orange Order. I have no memory of attending meetings but I do retain a strong mental image of the uniform, sash and all. There I stand in the mirror, fat, bespectacled and ready to slay the filthy Micks. Given my outrageous Irish accent and clearly shouldered burden of Catholic guilt one has to wonder why I was even permitted to enter the Parish Hall. And when one wonders, one must inevitably come to the conclusion that they saw fit to use me as the supreme leader of a fifth column, sent back to Ireland as a sleeper agent, to be awakened by a haunting melody in the fashion of the Final Five so that I might bomb the fuck out of Dublin's city centre before going down in a hail of FCA bullets. It's coming folks. And soon. The only question remaining is what tune will set me off?

I'm guessing something from the new Chris de Burgh album, but I'm open to suggestions.

Words don't come easily

I both like and respect my next door neighbours. I do. Krauts to the left of me, woman and children to the right. I especially respect, and indeed like the woman to the right, who, in the face of disproportionately intense, albeit accidental hostility on my part has returned this hostility in a much more measured, though still pretty fucking hostile, fashion. I have taken down the offending, offensive posts and I look forward to us continuing our mutual pretending this all never happened and just getting on with it relationship. Maybe we could progress from an aggressive backwards nod to our erstwhile amiable hello, though? For the kids? No pressure, like. I am without doubt more sinning that sinned against.

Wow. I was just going to bang out another snarky segment about the other next door neighbours, specifically their trumpet playing of Christmas songs at 10pm on an early October evening son and all that came out instead. Oh well. This way I finally get to use a Gately sung lyric as a title.

Outside a glittering building of glittering glass and burning light

In the window of the local pharmacy.

Where to start? With the saddle? Well okay then. Sexy, huh? And a mere €25 in the tiny bike shop in Duras. It was the last one though, so your hastily formed plans of a flight to Bordeaux and a three hour cycle to that shuddering memory-filled castle town are all for naught.

And now. Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot.

Let us glide gracefully by the sickening deconstruction of the word "vanity" and concentrate on the sentiment. Isn't vanity a bad thing? Aren't vain people cunts? You can rhetoric the fuck out of those questions, folks, because it is and they are. I speak with knowledge. Narcissus ain't got shit on me. If I didn't have so much other dreary dross to do, I would happily spend my days gazing at my stunning visage as self-snapped on my phone, over and over again. And I am bad, I am a cunt, the mitigating circumstances of my intense beauty notwithstanding.

"Organic". Really? You fuckers are trying to make us believe that the colouring of ones skin to a fluorescent shade of Ulster says no is a natural act, perfectly in tune with the concept of Gaia? If it's organic, sure we can spray it in our eyes! My eyes have always lacked a decent tan, try as I might to stare down the sun.

"Make up by Smashbox." Apparently this is a well known brand of cosmetics. Well, fine. But it sounds to me very much like the makeover master intends to lay hands upon a hefty sledgehammer, dab it lightly with foundation and then repeatedly slam said hammer into the lucky débutante's face. Sure, you're choking on cheekbone fragments and the blood is making it difficult to see, but your nose is a lot smaller and golly but that's the perfect shade for your skin tone.

"False Eyelashes From €15". The "from" is somewhat suspicious, is it not? Are we talking €15 per eye? Per lash? Just how big are these glued on spiders anyway? Were I to be feeling creative might I have them applied to somewhere apart from my eyes? I'm thinking nostrils. There's a beauty trend to be started there, folks. If teenage girls can be convinced of the desirability of a skeletal frame and Uggs, then a bushy nasal hair trend must surely be imminent.

And so to the teeth. What would an eighteen year old have had to be doing with his or her life to be in need of laser whitening? Eschewing brushing? Avoiding all sources of calcium? Chewing baccy? The endless cud churning of gum just wasn't hitting the spot any more? I have no idea what this procedure involves, but I'm confidently guessing that it's intrusive, ineffective and ultimately bad for teeth. I will hear no scientific facts on this point.

In conclusion. What are we? Who has this kind of money to fuck away on such filth? How is this acceptable? By shelling out on all these servitudinal services for one's daughter one is effectively saying "My darling, your skin is the wrong colour, your plain face needs pimping, your lashes are like nasal hairs and Jesus Christ, but the state of your fucking teeth. You ugly, ugly loser bitch." We're all saying it, to all those young women. And by not putting a brick through that window I'm saying it too. You ugly, ugly loser bitches.

We carved our intials deep in the bark

My anger subsides as I start on my third bowl of something. Bowl One: Carbonara. Builders breakfast pasta. Made with slimy ricotta instead of parmesan. It's a recession, doncha know. Bowl Two: pea soup. We need to defrost the freezer and I have a penchant for the purchase of frozen peas. Buckets of the bastards to get through. Again with the ricotta substituting. Bowl Three: muesli. No ricotta. And finally the rage subsides.

It's the hunger. Hunger makes me crazy. Two commutes today for a yoga and a cover spin. 60k fixed, very little food. I'm passing through the Oktoberfest at the IFSC, as I have done for the last three days. Cunts, I think. Horrible, horrible cunts. Most of them are invisible, hidden beneath the bouncered, bouncing tent. There is a band. It plays 'Living next door to Alice'. The crowd shrieks the unofficial refrain: "Alice! Alice! Who the fuck is Alice?" Cunts. Cunts, cunts, cunts. I hate them. I hate them because they're at a beer festival, because they're drunk and unconcerned about tomorrow and three more spin, because they have more money, more time, more energy than I. But mostly I hate them because they're having a good time. The cunts. Would it be so much effort for the rest of the world to at least pretend to be having as miserable a life as I? Is that so much to ask? I pound the final 5k, each pedal stroke a kick to the temple of every happy person on the planet.

I eat. I retract. I repent. Food has dissipated my rage. But the eating, the eating has been hard. It's about a week now since I became aware of this bitter metallic taste in my mouth. Every time I ingest, it's like I'm licking a rusty saw. I think I'm going to have to stop eating. And then you're all fucked.

We used to talk about boys with missing spines

I can handle it. Except I can't. Handling's not my thing. I can ride pretty hard, fetchingly fast, for reasonable amount of time. I can certainly go faster than you. Provided I don't have to turn. I know. It's fucking tragic, right? I make myself out to be this big cycling guy, but I lack the only attribute outside of balance that is necessary to ride a bike, viz, the ability to steer. Steering, handling, not my things.

I'm getting better though. I finally counter steer. Like a patient elder step-brother quietly pointing out the booger hanging from his reluctant charge's nose, Mr M took me aside and gave me the low down. Counter steering. But of course. Pretty fucking obvious to anyone with even the most basic grasp of gyroscoposity. But not to the Gimme. I am, as I may have mentioned before, a physical, a physics dolt. My hate hate relationship with the world around me extends not just to the constant dropping, bumping into and breaking of stuff, but also to my inability to negotiate even the widest of bends at anything above a crawl. I have to get back to running. Straight lines. Self-inflicted anguish. Beating a tiny section of the word into momentary submission. No skill, no flair, just the monotonous grind. Monotonous grinding. Grinding monotony. These are the talents in which I am well versed.

So much younger than today

I need your help.

I don't say that often, master as I am of my own universe, a veritable Superman, in truth, capable of any task, no matter how Herculean. Aside from those annoying little ones like getting up in the morning, not screaming in frustration about a bizillion times a day and you know, being alive. But I'm sorted for everything else.

My eye was caught by this article which talks about bloggers getting free shit for good reviews. I should do that, I thought. So while I wait for Messrs Mars, Bianchi and Grasshopper to realise the massive purchasing power of my fourteen person readership I thought I could get in some practise by giving a glowing review to something shit. Or shittish. Or fucking wonderful, I don't care. It's not like I want to work hard at this. So some suggestions? A poem, an album, a very short book. A fillum, even. I'll find it myself. You won't have to send it to me. You don't even have to pay me or give me other random free stuff. Though I'm much more likely to pick your idea if you do.

A time to refrain from embracing

First full-fingered glove day. Stupid fucking seasons. Why can't they be more consistent? Why all the thoughtless twists of temperature, daily light allowance, mood? Why can't I live in San Andreas with Carl and his homies? Or at a fucking pole of one kind or another? Not a fucking pole, but a pole far from Poland, a top or bottom of the world ma pole. Here in Eire, or get fucked so you don't have to think about getting raped land, I am fed up with the seasonality of seasons. Suddenly my 10k commute now involves suiting up in full chilliness body armour. Cycle shorts, long johns, arse ripped out jeans, snuggly socks, bike shoes, over shoes, base layer, jacket. In addition to the usual helmet, shades and ever tattier backpack.

I bitch, but really I like. Any cunt can wear shorts and a t-shirt. Any prick can ride in a temperate September. The extra five minutes I now spend at the opening and closing of each two wheeled trip speaks of my genuine dedication to this cycling fetish. And I look better, skinnier in this get up. I had me a super sexy shadow this morning as I powered up Castle Ave. Svelte, he was, and thus was I. You may say that this was due more to the lowness of the sun in the sky, but then I may, nay, will say "Fuck you, science boy. Autumn makes me thinner. and just to prove it, I'm going to have a Snickers."

Stuff that up your nature hole, seasons.

Russian roulette is not the same without a gun

While, for my previous previous post, I was researching how many words are normally in an average novel so that I could work out how many years it would take me, at the established rate of one word a minute, to write such an average novel, if I never ate, shat or slept, while I did all that, I saw this, and thought of me:

"I am currently writing a Sci Fi book as there is very little good books in this section in the market place, I have various contact in the film industry that want to show my script to producers however i believe it would be better published as a book in the first instance. (one its a film i can sell books sure but believe its better for people to say, 'hey that was justlike the book', or 'it was not like the book at all')" If this book is inteneded to end up as a film how many words would i needs in my script (currently have 32,500)"

I'm going to send that guy Data's birthday cash and he can write my novel for me. Who needs literacy or a working knowledge of the current health of the science fiction genre? Not Dave, not with that sparkling wit, and no, not Gimme neither.

Baby's sleeping while its mother sighs

It's the fucking 'F' places effing with me again. There's Fairview, we all know about Fairview and it's big fat fucking hard on for my Death. There's France, which has fucked over holiday after holiday. When I was fourteen, I got in a dinner table fist-fight with this kid from La Croix Blanche. Arnaud. Little fucker. I get in a lot of fights in France. It's the French in me. But now, now there's Dundrum. Didn't see that coming, huh? That's because you didn't know that Dundrum begins with "F". No, it does.

I gently clear my throat.

Basically, Data got cash for a Hello Kitty Build-a-Bear off of Janice and Finbar. Dundrum is the only place in Dublin where one might construct and expensively purchase such an ursuline ass. So to Dundrum I drove Common Law and the Bridge Crew. And went to work. And missed all the drama. You'll have to quiz Common Law on the details. But this much I have garnered: some people still have way too much money and are still too way big on the bastardosity. Seriously, when's the fucking uprising? What will it take? When one Western country goes, do we all go? America looks close. It's due a nice civil war, big place like that. Whatever. This can't go on. We musn't go down without a fight. Look. Look what we're letting them do to us.

Hello Kitty Build-a Bear emerged snow white. It's been two days. Already looking a little grubby. It's going the way of my soul.

Belinda lived in a little white house, with a little black kitten and a little gray mouse

Inspiration is odd.

Jesus, this is why I never write. The above sentence had about five incarnations. I started off with something like:

"It's odd the things that inspire you."

Well, it's not about "you" is it? It's about me. It's always about me.

"It's odd the things that inspire me."

Ugh. Fucking car crash of a sentence. "It's"? Really? Fucking ugh.

"That which inspires me is odd."

Still has a "me". And a hideously pretentious opening.

"I am inspired by the odd".

Getting there stylistically, but a total corruption of any meaning that might have originally been intended. I am, in fact, inspired by the crashingly banal.

"Inspiration is odd".

Well, halefuckingjeula, you got it down to three words. This hackneyed, overly addressed, shitty little aphorism, is, if nothing else, short. And it only took you three minutes. Word a minute. For that.

And this is why I never write.