I call it purgatory

Yes, purgatory, just the word. It’s that awful period of time when you’re trapped inside the house, imprisoned if you will, until your boxers come out of the dryer. Only the virtuous(patient and undemanding) go to heaven, with warm crispy boxers. While the hasty, who say “No, I shall not wait my turn”, force the wheel and spend the day in hell. Removing and using undercooked boxers in a rush, as we all know, is well sign posted ticket to a day in hell. Sure, they might start off warm. In the begining even, you might not be able to tell the difference. But at the cool touch of the first stiff wind, as your petrified ghoulies retreat back to their pre-womb position, as your waistband turns red and sore with chafage-you know, oh you know alright. You know your boxers are still wet. And you know you have to spend the rest of the day in them.

Not me though, mine are in the dryer right now. While I sit, shivering patiently, in purgatory.

one flu over the cuckoos nest

I’ve had a bastard of a flu all week. It’s been the worst for a long time, I’ve even been slipping into delerium and having the maddest dreams ever.

At one point, Luke from Autoglass Repair delivered me flowers. He then proceeded to ramble some stilted nonsense about my windscreen, I woke up around then.

 

(Edit: Although this passage may give the impression that I have an unhealthy fascination with Autoglass repair, I assure you that it is not the case. Anyone who mixes lemsip, rubex and buttercup is liable to have some fucked up dreams. Unfortunately, and it is a great tragedy, my imagination, even when intoxicated, does not extend much further than Autoglass repair ads.)

another terrifically clichéd performance from the Irish male

The sweet burn of undiluted Bushmills wraps itself around my tongue. It steals along the top and trickles down the sides before  welling up underneath. Distracted by the strangest of feelings I whip it up and around once more. Before opening the hatch and banishing the heat down my throat.

Distracted is just the word. I could only think of him, my best friend. He’s a primary school teacher now, we hadn’t spoken since senior infants; na ní-ná-ní-ná-níneán. Seventeen years.

He was trying it on with that rare Red Penny, and I’d wandered out to see if I could nick a smoke off her. I barely even noticed him, completely taken up with my own importance. It was with a cautious half-squint in his eye that he first probed “Rua?”, we just stared at each other. Dumbfounded. How small a world we love in.

Dancing now; spins, thrills and spills. She laughs and squeals, but my head is still back there. Outside.

You couldn’t write it. This is my best friend, we haven’t seen each other in seventeen years. “Jays’ I don’t believe it!” “Me neither, this is mental” “17 years…..” (a noticeable silence) “Say hi to the parents for me will ye?” “Ye, sound, talk to ye inside”. And that was that.

It was weird.

“you’re such a stereotypical southsider”

There’s a squadcar pulled in just up the road, administering justice; attending the scourge that is bored fifteen year old lads around Halloween. I think he just gave them a slap on the wrist, followed by a good hard stare. So now the little cunts will be walking past me on their way home. Bollox. Young, hard and with something to prove, they’re anything but deflated. My movements are more measured than ever, giving nothing, no ammunition for them to engage me. ‘Why do I always wear such colorful clothes?’ says I, brickin’it.

They shape past, dragging their accents behind, like a ball and chain. I’ve escaped, about a hundered yards down the smallest and bravest of them turns to give me the finger. I don’t even acknowledge it, so they start kicking the shit into the nearest wheelie bin. There’s nothing for them, dreams being for ponces, but the joys of destruction.

The bus is empty when I get on. I decide to stay downstairs, wanting to avoid the brash stacatto which will presumably dominate the upstairs by the time we hit the dueller. Regally, I annex not one but two seats; for to serve my great anus in great comfort. Stopped at the lights of Foxrock Church you can see the kids in halloween costumes sprint for the bus stop. I pat myself on the back, well played, I shant be dealing with them.

Until we pull up, and they decide to sit downstairs.

Their accents could not be more different from the kids earlier. The same age, the same suburbs but a world apart. A short, tubby disaster with too much make-up and ripped tights sits in front of me. Why she’s sitting there is beyond me, it’s the single seat behind the stairs, and I seperate her from her friends. She asks for a tissue, I say sorry, and go back to my calculations on the worlds rotundity-or some other equally irrelevant distraction.

Then her mate, with the belt for a skirt and the surplus suspenders approaches. Moral support, they can’t fit on the same seat, and I simply won’t be hemmed in. “Sorry, can we swa…” “I’m going upstairs”. Of course it was rude, but then of course, I don’t care. I can’t stand the sound of their wide vowels and abbreviations any more than the short mean snarls of the ones at the bus stop. The lot can piss off, I want peace. Inner, outer or what’s outer inner. Any peace at all will do.

Then it’s the pub, the club, the whiskey and a quiet departure when it all gets too much.

I can’t really afford a taxi so I walk to Donnybrook. I fall into a leather passenger seat just before that club, y’know the one, the notorious one. The one with puberty’s worst excesses on display. God it’s awful, I try to spot the kids from earlier-overcome by a certain morose fascination.

The taxi driver is dumb, which suits me fine, as I’m over-run with thoughts tonight. I haven’t wanted to speak to anyone since I left the house. But stopped at the lights in silence with Shakira in the background, you gain an appreciation of how backward a policy that is.

Three interactions, three opportunities to learn about the world outside my head, shunned. “You’re such a typical southsider”.

(sigh)….if only

I felt obliged to put this up, it’s very simple and very true. But without the will…

http://www.ted.com/talks/karen_armstrong_let_s_revive_the_golden_rule.html

If I were to sum up Juno in one word;

Shit.

I bought it on DVD, didn’t get it.

I was then informed that I lack the correct ovaries to properly enjoy it. I was unaware that I even had ovaries, and a little concerned at the news they might be defective. But that doesn’t make it a good film.

It’s shit.

That’s just so….unexpected

The girls grab rolls while I plough purposefully through the aisles and aisles of food, towards the great hidden noodle counter. Plump, well lit and blemish free, tomatoes sit happily, fatly, alongside the pristine supermodels of the grape world. It’s the picture perfect antithesis to that whole ‘organic’ idea. Or as one vocal cynic described it to me “ye grab an egg, righ’?Slap a lump o’shite on it and call it organic. Righ?”. Right. Back to my noodles.

The counter is unmanned. I take a minute to look around for someone, anyone, wearing one of those terrible snot-green uniforms. I find a sentry in the corner by the sink, attending to woks wounded in the name of duty; the now distant lunch time rush. He’s not overly pleased to see me, but, over a short accent impeded exchange, we agree that I’ll be having the chicken noodles today. Lovely. Away he goes. Look at him there. Going off to finish cleaning the wok, the gent, my stomachs started eating itself, but hygene’s hygene. Hurry up, there’s a good chap. C’mon ye CUNT, what are you doin’to me? Finally, hob meets wok and wok meets oil. We’re one step closer to chicken meeting wok and the lot meeting tummy.

I wouldn’t quite call it a duffle coat, but that’s because I’m not entirely sure what a duffle coat looks like. Either way; it was long, black, hooded and warm looking. The thing that joined the queue behind me, that is. We got in chat, desperate for a distraction from our mutually impatient, eye reddenning, hunger.

It was all very civilised, talking about Western pallets, Eastern pallets, his Vietnamese wife and her deadly cooking. All with a hint of happy Geordie in his bubbly bouncey tone. I quite liked the man, even if he did look like someone who was not unfamiliar with the air-rifle section in Easons. We were on the subject of decent Asian food, whereupon I mentioned Hot Chilli and kebabs. He doesn’t like kebabs, but I was halfway through a sentence so continued on regardless.

He waited and repeated, he simply doesn’t like kebabs. He doesn’t like Chinese food, it’s all mank apparently, he’s been to China, it’s dirty, to be honest, “they’re a dirty race”. I drew a blank. Unsure wether to confront him or not because I genuinely don’t understand how the conversation arrived here, I was talking about kebabs. I mumble “few… mates….. China”. Noodles done, Rua’s gone.

Forgot to grab a fork. Rua’s back. No eye-contact. Rua’s gone.

Queueing at the till I grab a second to go over it in my head. Should I have said something? Disagreed, made a point, caused a scene. Or is a man who’s married a Vietnamee, and been to China, in a better position to judge these things than my left wing idealist self? Did he say ‘race’ by mistake? And is now kicking himself, ashamed. Does marrying a Vietnamee paint the Chinese in a certain light? Did I act in fear or pragmatism? Should I go back?

But as I hand over my fiver, a single question over powers them all, and stays with me for the rest of the day. The grumpy sentry was Eastern European, he’s surrounded by dirty Irish and the girl now serving me at the till is black. If this man really does get BNP logic, then he must really hate this shop, righ’? Because we’re all dirty something. Equally filthy mongrels, of equally inferior races. Essentially, we’re all organic, imperfect but that little bit tastier for it, righ? Right.

Can’t help but feel like I let him off the hook though, the least I could do would be to allow him defend himself.

bore-dozer*

She takes my hand and pulls me towards the counter “you don’t want to go home, that lollipops excuse isn’t very believable”. I give a weak smile from beneath lead-heavy eye-lids, it’s not believable because it was supposed to be funny. I just wasn’t arsed with the delivery, maybe you’re too drunk to see that. Or maybe I’m not that witty. But I do want to go home, that much is for certain. Any other day I’d feel different, tomorrow I’ll feel different, but tonight, tonight I need to sleep.

I don’t say this, mind, just proffer up a hug. Too tired to say it, and all too aware that I have to repeat this exact conversation a dozen times more before I leave. The icy rain drops outside, when it gets cold enough they fall alone, with maybe a second or two between each one. Miserable threatening bastards. That’s the smoking area done.

Upstairs, with it’s misshapen togas sewn using safety pins on the verge of surrender, looks like the scene of a failed orgy; or magdellan-themed porno. It’s all half-naked and lounging, but without a single pointed lunge. Still, I do my rounds. Taking time to slag the generically angsty emotions, pouring out of some seventeen year old in the far room. It’s shit, though it will get you laid, so the market for such tripe will never be exhausted. The cynics in the hall agree, give their blessing even, before I hugged and left them aswell. A strange kiss just below my jawline, where neck becomes face, that I think was meant for my cheek. Silly, drunk and covered in gold paint, I leave them to it.

Down through the kitchen again, I aim for the door. M’s there, we debate the mundane while I wait for Diamond. Then I wait outside. Because I want to hear the wind, and hope the raindrops might wake me up.

*new word I just made up, noun, a boring object that ploughs through parties crushing all life, light and happiness. Eventually the bore-dozer either collapses in a corner, goes home or traps some self-destructively polite soul in some insufferably boring  and utterly inescapable conversation. The company of a bore-dozer can thus be described as akin to watching grey paint dry, alone and in a room with neither furniture nor windows. We’ve all been a bore-dozer at least once in our lifetime. If you find yourself afflicted with such a condition it is simply best that extract yourself immediately, having alienated as few people as possible.

Forget about Lisbon…

I mean it, qualifying for the World Cup is a hundred times more important to our national financial recovery. Restoring some self-worth and the belief that ‘yes we can’. We can achieve, compete and punch above our weight. That’s what qualification will allow us to believe, but beating the Azzurri will prove.

This is so much more than a game of football, this is our redemption. We host the World Champions, the very very best, at home. We, a tiny island nation with mediocre players, tied together only by the most strained interpretations of kinship-facing the greatest the world has to offer. And this, with two of our most promising sons in exile.

In terms of talent, strategy or even athleticism the Italians are from a different world. They are the superstars, generals, poets and maestros of the game. Attached, not to clubs but institutions; like Juventus, or the red and blue bloods of Milan.

We, on the other hand, have workmen, miners and grafters. Brave men, honest men, hard working and loyal men. Nobody could ever question these traits; their valour or commitment, but they’re not artisans. They are not poets.

So what hope is there? For if the green is to be worn there must always be hope.

The only thing, THE ONLY THING, that gives us hope is the belief that we are different. Our people are not bound by logic, but ruled by passion. We are not enslaved by form, but liberated by a belief in miracles. A hero will come, our collective willpower demands it. Our unity forces it.

We stand together, we rise and fall together. We believe together. And we’ll slay giants together!

Or at least that’s the plan anyway. I have tickets; jealous much?

I was feeling good

Don’t know when it happened. I remember pushing the weight back, leaning into the machine, then a funny feeling in my legs like the muscles had just re-awoken for the first time in years, or torn themselves apart again. It didn’t hurt, I was too warmed up, so I chose to believe it was the former. Could you blame me? It’s been so long.

Got up and ran it out the next day, removing lactic acid after weights training is vital in order to avoid injury. And, like the doctor, the physio and pediatrician all suggested, no impact work. That’s cross trainers, bikes and rowing machines only. I made it through easy, felt good and strong, hungry for more-finally feeling like I could get myself back together. It was time, I’d been so disciplined, I’d earned this. That was nearly a week and a half ago. I haven’t been back to the gym since.

Because I’m scared. They ache at the end of every day. Sometimes even in the morning too.

I don’t understand, I’ve done everything right. I don’t even run for the bus, I stretch every day, and this cunting pain just keeps coming back. I had nearly a month free of it, and now, bleh, back to square one. It’s not fucking fair.

I’ve spent nearly a fortnight in denial. Before tonight when I caught myself making excuses not to move from one room to the other, and knew the game was up. I don’t know what to do from here, suppose go to the doctor, aim for another specialist. The VHI must love me; shins, shoulders and grip on reality while you’re at it.

If only they weren’t all so reliant on one another. I need my shins to stay fit enough to train my shoulders to stop them from dislocating at night so that I can get some sleep so I won’t start tripping again.

And now you know what’s really been bothering me for the last while.

But it’ll be grand, like always. You spend a few days givin’out, then pick yourself up and deal with it. Anything less simply wouldn’t be good enough.