It’s half two in the morning, I’m starving. Oh hello, what’s this? A near full pack of cream crackers, excellent. But wait, it’s Wednesday. That’s a full four days after the shopping’s been done. Cream crackers rarely last more than a few hours, somethings wrong.
I check for mould, they’re good. I check the fridge. My worst fears are confirmed. There is no butter. God Dammit! We may as well throw the whole lot out….
Sorry about the amount of videos I’ve been throwing up. In my defence, if you’ve never listened to Scott Walker before then you owe me. And I had to share this
We have net emmigration for the first time since 1995. Lucky diggers, I want off of this fucking island too! I realised this morning that I haven’t advanced as a person since the age of seventeen. In fact, I’d say that I’ve regressed. Gotten a bit better at writing maybe, certainly gotten hungrier*, but that’s about it.
Now that I’m within touching distance of a degree though, Japan has once more become an option. It’s so gloriously far away, quite possibly the only place left which is far enough away to still be considered exotic. I don’t particularly care about their culture, history or people-I just see air miles. I’m straining at the leash here, desperate, to get away.
Dublins depressing me, it’s the same old shit all the time. I feel like I’m stuck, and starting to get resentful. Got angry enough to give up the sup, seriously, bar two shit pints on Arthurs Day and a can yesterday I haven’t had a drop in a fortnight. Since this hangover to be precise. And I haven’t looked back. I may have the odd glass of Black Bush but, for now at least, I’m done with the stuff.
This circular lifestyle and the associated depression also carries with it a certain sense of doom. I’m too young to be this bored, I’m 22 for fucks sake! I’m too young to feel like I’m wasting my life, which is how I feel. Get so angry with myself sometimes. I’m supposed to be better than this.
There’s a form of depression that sets in among people who grow up during an economic boom. It was first documented in Canada, where an entire generation were brought up to believe in endless possibilities only to graduate at the end of a doll queue. The force of collective disappointment brought on, often crushing, cynicism and disillusion.
Now, I’m not moping on about suffering from this. What I am saying however, is that if things don’t change radically in the next two years I’ll be a very unhappy person. I say two years only because I’ve resigned myself to the next six or seven months of hard graft being shit, and there being absolutely nothing I can do about it.
Which maybe speaks of a broader problem, I can’t do anything about anything. I feel helpless and it’s getting me down. Cunts all, enough moping for one day. Sorry about this terrible post, and the last few terrible posts.
*I haven’t actually eaten since December 2002
…a chief after my own heart
Legendary.
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.
There’s at least one in September, every year it seems, that’s worth getting up for. Bring it on, even if they’re both from Munster.
I shall be referencing this exclusively.
From Africa, we get tough immoveable earth. The ground itself, solid.
From North America, fire. Fire burns, no fuckin’with you boss.
From the Soviet Union, wind and hot blondes. Either way you’ll just do what you’re told.
From Asia, water and surfing. I’ll drown you and look cool doing it, respect.
And from South America….
Heart. Ah bless.
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.
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.
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.
