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.

Egypt, a Frenchman, the Bay and our well travelled son.

In a rare moments clarity of thought and conviction, he holds all our attention. Captain Jordash has returned, and he has a story to tell. Egypt, a Frenchman, the Bay and our well travelled son.

It was a bet we’re told. Though its respective roots and reward remain a vague unimportant irrelevant, but gaping, plot-hole. He carries on regardless, and we listen willingly, because a story is as much about how it’s told as anything else. And this one is told well.

The one who could swim over and back across the bay the most times would be declared winner. There was no time limit. A small detail which, though easily overlooked, completely negated any athletic ability. What had been intended as a race had now become a simple test of wills.

After forty five minutes the Frenchman called it a day, satisfied that his six laps were enough to see off the beer guzzling Irish lobster. He had good reason, our lobster was only on his second lap at the time. And struggling.

While the hare lazed in the sun, our tortoise approached the home dock. His shoulders ached, his legs were sinking and his lungs were carrying more than their share of ballast. It was only the second lap, he’d have to go through the ordeal another five times just to draw. A moment of truth was upon him. A decision had to be taken, all in or all over.

It took every inch of strength but a hand eventually reached the flat surface on the end of the pier, and held on for dear life. A gasping breadth in, a long breadth out, a pause and a splash. For pride, the least he could do was try. He kicked away from the pier, and toiled for a further two hours.

At various points his arms had turned to lead and his legs to jelly. Front stroke, back stroke, breast stroke and doggy paddle were all tried, tested, abandoned and re-adopted multiple times. He encountered religious interventions and visions at a rate that would leave Moses blushing. Though, despite numerous conversions, there was no sign of a miracle. This was a slog, a sodden salty slog. Through fire and ice, the sun and the sea.

But eventually he emerged victorious, on the opposite bank, with just six and a half laps. Taken aback by such dogged determination, the Frenchman had no choice but to respectfully concede. While our hero lay exhausted, like a starfish, in the sand.

Two hours after finishing the story, exhausted again, he was found curled up on a couch in the living room. A few well aimed tokes and a half bottle of vodka will do that. Such things, so easily, make children of heroes.

The kindness of strangers

Blinded with only a chicken roll for company I stumble back into Temple Bar and sit on the steps beside a hobo. I can’t remember what I said to him, but we got into chat anyway. He was a classic Irish blood, English heart recovering alcoholic cliché. But sound, we met as equals, like people always should. I gave him a bit of my chicken roll, then bought him a whole one.

Up walks this trendy pretty boy, leaving his gaggle behind a few yards away. He was well-meaning, I think, but his tone earned him no favors. He talked down to us, and then proceeded to give yer man a pep talk. I stayed shtum throughout, too drunk. Until he was gone and to my left I heard a vicious snarl ‘cunt’. Poor guy, misguided, you should never assume another man’s miserable. The English Heart left soon after that, I think he wanted to share the sambo with one of the other urchins. It’s rare for them not to sleep hungry. He thanked me for the roll, I thanked him for the education.

Later, I slobbered the story out to a taxi driver. Who, either to acknowledge a good turn or for fear of my safety if left unsupervised, insisted on dropping me to the door. I had told him to let me out all the way up at Foxrock because I was broke, he’d have none of it, and stopped the clock there and then.

Decency, it only costs what you have to spare.

amid serious concerns over the quality/quantity ratio it was published anyway

It’s dark out, I’m still dying from becoming eighteen again with the Canadians. They’re just the same as back then, I’m not, the hard nights depress me now. It’s not the night so much, as the day after. Or seeing the sun come up and knowing you won’t feel it on your skin today, because of what you’ve done to yourself yesterday.

Skin feels like it’s crawling and the wind’s found a hole between my scarf and hood. I call Dinga, she’s in town not Dun Laoghaire, poxy. I’m not going into town, I’m too hungover, too weak and too full of self pity. And I can’t go back to house, partly because I want chips and partly because I said goodbye to everyone not ten minutes ago. It’ll be embarrassing, my excuses had been exquisite.

My auntie’s in the gaff with her knew fella, she smiles with more of herself than usual. He moves like a thinking man, without using his body, she’ll like that. She likes thinking. My other aunties there with her still mischievous Limerick man. The conversation swung, at times dangerously, close to a scenario where my Da, uncle an self were left messing and farting at one end of the room while the women and new man talked of loftier things. Poor guy, picked the wrong corner. We, on the other hand, got to fill silences by sending a scout down to check how Munster were doing. They eventually won, so we had to switch over to the hurling and a texted joke about Limerick being hammered in the semi’s.

Croker had been dug up for U2 a few days before the match. The replacement sod came from England. An IRA statement read: “The Irish Republican Army would like to extend their thanks to the Limerick Senior Hurling Team. Their refusal to play on foreign soil is a fine example to us all.”

But I’m out in the cold now, shivering shaking and really just wanting to get back into bed. Bollox, I knew I should’ve called earlier. Feck it, I need chips, my stomach needs lining. So on down to the chipper I stroll. Along the way I text AAF and Diamond, both otherwise engaged. Probably for the best, I’d only be moaning anyway.

The pair of them go silent as I enter. A private dispute behind the counter is put on hold for the customer, ‘ just a bag of chips please’. My accent says I’m local, and my face is matched to their internal mental database of regulars, the dispute continues. The little ones calling the big one fat, the big ones calling the little one lazy. “Clean up will ye, I always clean up, why don’t you ever clean up” “Because when I clean up it stays clean so I only have to do it once”. He grabs a rag anyway and gives the fry a wipe, before scrunching it up and firing a perfect volley to the big fella’s face.

That didn’t go down too well. Black Betty comes on, the little one starts singing ‘Fat Belly’ and asking the big lad if he knows the band. It’s pretty funny. Salt, vinegar and a cadet cream soda later I’m outside. What to do? Down to the sea of course. Not the pier though, that’s for rentboys. Salthill and the end of the world, my favorite seat.

Not so cold now, I’m actually sweating. With the heat of the chips and a brisk pace the poison from last night is draining out. I sit down on the wall and look out to sea, a pair of German girls chortle past, shopping in toe. I overtook them on my way out of Dun Laoghaire. They were laughing then too, must get on.

A fat old man, maybe not so old, fifty maybe, but certainly fat, wheezes past. His pace is glacial. I’m petrified he’ll start talking to me. He doesn’t, but it was a scary five minutes.

Three gays come next, “give me a call tomorrow if you’re doing anything” lurches one as he goes up the steps of the rail bridge. In response, an enthusiastic “oh, we will”. Followed by a bitchy “not” as they pass behind me. A laugh snorts out of me, I think they heard that I heard. One looks at me with his peripheral, my eyes follow them for a while, until I get bored.

I turn back to the city’s lights, they breathe with me. Glowing warm, I imagine how I’d explain my love for this spot to a woman. Because I prefer professing my love for the sea to women than men. Men just fart and call you gay, women put up with it for a full fifteen minutes before telling you to fuck off.

From this spot you can see Dublins literary history. The Mortello Tower at Seapoint is Joyce, the chimney stacks across the bay are the twin towers Flann and Behan, the dirty warmth of the street lights is Doyle and somewhere out to sea; where the light cannot penetrate, tousled and turned in the darkest recesses of that infinite black-lies Beckett. But that isn’t why I’m here. I’m here for the wind, she whispers and howls, rasps and growls. She wraps herself around you in a blanket of cold air, before shooting up and screaming blank black murder in the bare black sky. Not even the stars shine from here.

I start seeing hoodies crouched in the grass behind me. They’re not really there mind, it’s just a trick of the light. But it’s time for me to go anyway. I take on last look at the sky, the city and the sea. It’s an orchestra of light and dark, with the wind dancing in the aisles.

I’m home in time to catch the aul ones. Still going strong, it’s another hour of wisecracks and knowing looks before they hit the road. And I finally make it to bed.

Eventful Day

Puked up blood this morning. Decided I hate drinking, drunks and being among their ranks. Remembered just how bad a bad hangover can be. Plugged in my new second hand wii and failed to get it working. Got very angry. Ate chips.

The Saints of Closing Time

I was shuffling them out, the stragglers, in a much more respectable a state than I’d been a few hours previous. Not that I didn’t want their company, legends all. But when the sun comes up and all the women are gone it’s time to say goodbye.

With a look of blank honesty and unpretentious good intentions himself, a last orders saint, turns to me “you gonn clean dis up all up by yourself?”. I nod reassuringly. He doesn’t look reassured, like he’s just considered the aftermath of nuclear fallout for the first time. Or being out of credit and facebook crashing on the same day, it’s hard to tell with some people.

“But the place is shhhhhhhhhhhhhtate! I inshish, NO, Ay Demanh, dah you take mah number”. It’s already in my phone, twice, but sure fuck it. He seems pretty determined. “Now you call me tomorrow when ye gerrup, Ahm in de moh(hic)tes gaff up de roah, anh I’ll help ye clean upsh”.

No he won’t, and given that he won’t remember this conversation, it wouldn’t be fair to call him on it. Poor pityful child, as helpless now as when…well…he wakes up tomorrow.

And besides, cleaning is it’s own reward. I found a half bottle of rum. And cigarrettes. The ultimate assault on a hangover, a perfect storm if you will. All that’s missing is a cup of tea and some songs from Northern Britain.

I took the rum out for a date that night, opened her up with some coke and lime, twas simply sublime. That was, until Banksy2 turned to me and said “is that my rum?”

“No, found it in the gaff”

“Ye, you said you’d find it and give it back to me. Remember?”

“Nuh…oh….bollox”

A terribly hazy flashback of a terribly generous and well meaning moment. I return the rum. Fucking drunks and their good intentions.

I cannot believe this site exists

http://guesshermuff.blogspot.com

I thought the name was some clever play on words, but no, it’s a perfectly apt description.

Pervy? Yes.

An indication of society’s imminent collapse? Yes.

Comedic Genius? Obviously.

Oh sweet Jesus, check out the comments section. Everyone’s anon. Gold.

This Neutrality Thing…

I resent the word, it offends me. Every time I hear it I weep, it sends shivers right down through my bones to the very marrow of my soul.

The founding fathers of this once brave nation would disown us if they could just see. See how we abstain from all responsibility, all adult debate and all the hard decisions by hiding behind the mothers apron of neutrality.

No, I don’t want us to join NATO. I don’t want an EU army. And I certainly don’t like the racist mess the Americans are making in the Middle East. I abhor violence. But you don’t need a gun to speak up. To look at the facts and say “No, this is wrong” to say “No, not in my name*” to say “No.” to all the nuclear bully’s out there in global politics.

Neutrality. Non-nazi Germans were neutral. They, as we, turned a blind eye. They, as we, took no part in the bloodshed but equally, crucially, raised no hand to stop it. We are implicated, our silence is an endorsement of evil unchecked.

All wars, at their heart, come from a breakdown in communication. We, as a small nonthreatening island nation, are in a privileged position to mediate. So let’s speak up every once in a while.

I simply cannot abide this cowards excuse any longer. We must demand strength from our leaders. We must demand real policy, real beliefs. And we must demand a willingness to engage with the world. To demand answers, to insist on honesty and to publicly shame injustice.

If nothing else, was the struggle for self-determination not rooted in a deep need to take our place amongst the free peoples of the world? To earn the right to speak for ourselves, and not to be spoken for by some bloodied bulldog?

And then we just throw it away, with the cowards excuse of neutrality.

“Sorry ma, I can’t play football because I’m too fat”.

*as a ‘Westerner’ even though we only officially became ‘white’ after U2 broke. Still not entirely sure if it was worth it.

Not that I don’t want to learn but…

I have serious problems studying. I find it very frustrating, knowing that I can plough through 50-60 pages of a novel in an hour, to drag myself over a mere 4 and half pages of textbook in just under 3 hours. And that’s just the first reading, to establish I understand everything, I haven’t even taken notes.

Its not even that the stuff is boring or objectionable. In principal at least. I like both thinking and learning, so it shouldn’t be boring. And I actually agree with most of the concepts, to the point where I consider many so obvious as to negate the need for a textbook in the first place. And the writing, though completely without rhythm, isn’t the worst. In fact, you occasionally find a wee gem of a sentence. A rare jewell, even, which may be elevated to the lofty status of ‘wit’.

But GOOD GOD is it hard going. It’s a bit like that first sentence on that first date with that first someone you really like, and you know she really likes you too, but the words simply won’t come. You have to drag them out, it becomes a chore. All enthusiasm in your voice is drained out by the shear effort of cognitively forming a sentence, sending a runner from your brain to your tongue and begging your mouth to make up with the lips and everyone please just work together……until the flem in the back of your throat (which, in the confusion of neurological industrial relations, you’d completely forgotten about) chokes the whole operation before it even begins.

So you cough, and start again, without so much as a laugh or some light banter. Just grim determination to finish a sentence on a subject which is possibly no longer relevant. It’s grown stale and boring, conceptually, without ever having been fresh. Like that pack of mince at the back of the fridge you’ve been looking at for a week, it goes off just when you want to cook it.

So here I am, writing a short alt of nonsense whilst waiting for the kettle to boil and chewing the lid off my highlighter. CLICK sssshhhhhhhhaaaawwwwwww, bollox, back to the grind…

I want a bagel, somebody get me a bagel, I can stall it for at least another twenty minutes by eating a bagel. If only there was football on, I could check the score. Gaaaaaaaah, I don’t want to leave the computer. I’m checking failblog.

It’ll happen every once in a while

Two years ago now, around early August, I was running alongside the rail lines just behind Monkstown Station. It’s a lovely spot, sandwiched between the sea and the tracks. Beauty and the beast, Arsenal and Wigan. It was nearing the end of my run, around the stage you choose between pushing harder, hardest, and giving up. A wheelchair incarcerated man came into view, probably had motor neuron or something.

I only stopped because I thought there was some emergency, he was interrupting my training. He looked panicked, squirming and noise making in a motorized wheelchair, he’d have grabbed my arm if he could. Sweating bullets, heaving and hauling air through any available opening, I reached around around and pulled out his letter board.

“D”. I was nearly delirious with fatigue. His hand flew to the other side of the board, overshooting the mark twice before resting on an “O”. I was looking at his fingers, all crooked and mangled, the muscles spasmically pulling them into inescapable cramps. It’s a short hop to the “N”. Poor bastard, I hope I’m not wasting his time. He’s struggling now, can’t reach the one he’s looking for, Jesus Christ this is cruel to watch. Eventually, “T”. He takes a breath and aims for the “G”. He then misses “I” three times.

I hope he’s not trying to write a novel. Then chastise myself internally for making a joke, then chastise myself internally for being such a little PC bitch. I’m so busy giving out to myself that I nearly miss his quest for the letter “V”. He doesn’t quite make the “E” but circles it enough for me to get it, I nod, he smiles. Swinging wildly across the board and back, “U” and “P” join the others.

I’m so tired I have to take a minute to add it all up. D-O-N-T-G-I-V-E-U-P. “Don’t Give Up”. I repeat it out loud. Then buckle and burst out laughing, it was either that or knees and tears. Bastard’s gotten me. He looks up at me with his big, manic, toothless smile. Fuck me, you’re some cunt.

Suddenly I have to get going, the wind is starting to catch and chill the sweat. And I’m inspired. Not in some wanky MTV way, with slow motion and coldplay. But genuinely, because I’ve met someone who might have more in the tank than me. Might, because I’ve never been tested like he has. I fold over his letter board, slot it in the back and say good bye. I don’t want to give him the chance to respond.

As I jog off I feel like I should do an extra few miles in his honor. Instead I just make it over the rail bridge before slowing to a walk, hands on hips, eyes to the ground. It’s not an extra lap that he wants from me, but another sentence. I know it, there’s no escaping it. I walk all the way home feeling cold and small.

I’ve never been so thankful for legs to carry me, arms to lift me and a mouth to speak for me. Some of us don’t get to choose the challenges we face. They’re, well, y’know what I mean.