Archive for February, 2011

Jason Never Had To Put Up With This Shit

Leaving Dublin has never been something I’ve enjoyed doing. In the list of things I will look back on and enjoy in the future, getting the bus to Offaly is not going to feature. Or so I thought, until Wednesday.

Wednesday’s trip home will be a memory I shall cherish for the rest of my life. Much like My First Trip To Germany, Coco’s Fancy Dress party and My First Kiss With A Boy, that journey has ingrained itself into my head forever, to pop up just when I’m about to fall asleep and say ‘Hey, I know you’re comfortable now, but remember this time, when you weren’t at all? Lets dwell on that. Good Times!’


I left the house early because I hadn’t eaten all day because I’m cool [duh], and I wanted to go to Supermacs and have two burgers for less than a fiver. In my bag, I had a book that I’d just borrowed from Ais and The Little One, and I invisaged myself sitting all trendy like in the corner of  a train station reading it, like some kind of backpacking legend. That was my first mistake.

Good idea: Reading a book in public. Gives kids the right idea, stimulates the brain, good for avoiding conversations with junkies.

Bad idea: Reading Emma Donahue’s ‘Hood’ by yourself in public.

I need you to imagine a normal human being in Supermacs. Now contrast that image with me, shovelling cheeseburgers into my mouth between the sobs, blowing my nose on napkins and generally scaring the families rounding off their nice day in the big city. ‘DADDY WHY IS SHE CRYING? IS SHE SAD BECAUSE WE DIDN’T BRING HER TO THE ZOO?’

Yes, in part.


After doing that for a while, I collected the remains of my dignity, and went to wait for my bus about twenty minutes early [hanging around Supermacs when you look like you’ve had a breakdown and have no food left is not encouraged by the staff]. Because of that, I accidently caught the earlier bus, which had one seat left in the third to last row. This information is important. I took out the book again because the bus is full of commuters and they don’t notice emotions unless they are on graphs, and got comfortable. And then, it happened. The bus was puuling away, stopped, and opened the doors. I was thinking ‘I hope nobody pregnant gets on, then we’ll all have to do that awkward thing where nobody gives up their seat, then one person does, then we all do, and everyone feels guilty about not doing it straight away until we go home.’ That shit is th worst.

But a pregnant lady didn’t get on. A couple did. Called Francie and Jessie. They, they announced loudly ‘WERE MARRIED’

And everyone on the bus had a common thought. ‘Oh lord, they are piiiiiiiiiiissed. I hope they get off in Enfield.’

But they didn’t. Instead Francie yelled at Jessie for three hours. And it was awful. Oh my lord, it was awful. Even more awkward than pregnant ladies standing, we had 64 people on a bus who were witnessing abuse. It was super hard for the guy next to me to read his paper. I felt really bad for the woman who was conducting a business meeting on her mobile, whispering so as not to draw attention from the crazy man, but trying to make the people on the other end of the phone not hear him yelling ‘I’LL BUY FIFTY EURO’S WORTH OF HEROIN AND PUT IT STRAIGHT INTO MY VEINS IF YOU TELL ME THAT CHILD ISN’T MINE’ or ‘I SOLD MY ARSE OUTSIDE CROKE PARK FOR THAT RING’

Side note- How expensive is heroin nowadays? Is fifty quid a lethal dose like, or was he counting on us all not to know?


Anyway, we finally made it to Enfield, and the bus driver [a short, balding man with a high pitched Kerry accent] told the man to calm down or he’d kick him off. The man said he would and that the bus driver was ‘a hunnerd percent’. The most important thing that happened at this point was that everyone at the back of the bus got off. Except me and two skinny boys from UCD. So now the line- up on this bus is; Back seat empty, Francie, then Jessie, then me, across the way, two boys, three empty rows, then old people.

Things did not look good for Emma Donahue appreciation at that point.

As soon as the bus pulled away, Francie decided he needed to whazz. In my head, I had a terrible thought. But surely not. Francie walked up the bus, but the driver couldn’t pull in for a half an hour. I sighed with relief. Half an hour isn’t a long time. But I picked my bag up just in case.

And then I heard it.

Like a water feature.

Right behind me.



Francie was peeing on the bus.


Society has prepared me for many things. I can deal with it when strangers stroke my head on the luas. If a junkie gives me life advice at a bus stop, I can work that situation like nobodies business.

But nobody had taught me the correct social response for when an angry drunk man urinates on a bus that is two hours away from my destination.


Do you tell the driver?


If you are a skinny boy from UCD, you swear under your breath, say it’s disgusting, and get up to move. Then Francie looks at you until you sit. The fuck. Back. Down.


If you’re me, you try to concentrate on the grief of a fictional lesbian woman, but fail miserably and spend the next hour pretending you do not exist.

Then the absolute unthinkable happened. Francie sat next to me. And he asked me for a cigarette. So I had to do something.


Clearly you can’t give him one, or be nice to him, he’s a terrible person. But he also said he was a rape victim [though the more I think about it, the rape he described was eerily similar to the one that happens in The Shawshank Redemption]. So what do you do?

You have to give him a look that sums up your emotions. So I shot him my ‘ I think you are a terrible person and I don’t want to speak to you because being abusive is wrong but I’m also sorry you said you were raped in jail and I don’t want to fight with you please’ face. It looks a little something like this

The emotion is hard to convey on a computer

My face is very expressive. And round.


Luckily, he got it and moved on. I felt pretty fucking bad ass to be honest. Yeah, ok, so I didn’t kick his ass, but I totally judged him, and I think he learned from that. He certainly didn’t ask anyone else for a cigarette, or pee on me. He just spent a while spitting at his wife and insulting everyone again until the police got on the bus and made him sit down and then presumably took him to jail in Birr. So I didn’t get to beat him up like he offered, but I definitely could have. Guns of steel like. Chap wouldn’t have had a chance.



I’m a machine.





Irlande, nil point

Man, spending all night looking up shit Justin Bieber has said is no way to live your life.

That stupid fringe effect has got me, I think Beebz is maybe the Canadian version of Jedward, only nobody has noticed yet because there’s only one of him [unless you count Tegan and Sara, in which case he’s actually better than Jedward]. I mean, they’re both young and stupid in interviews, they both dance like Ellen on crack, both of them are like marmite… in fact, I think the only reason Beebz gets away with it is because he looks like a lesbian, and Jedward do not. They look like a couple of pastry brushes in high tops. Why has nobody dipped them in an egg, that’s what I want to know.


Speaking of Jedward, I’m getting very excited for the eurovision. Maybe it’s all that Dana exposure I’ve been getting from the All Ireland Talent show . It’s exactly like Britains Got Talent, except instead of having a giant budget and hundreds of talented contestants, there’s like one group who can sing every week, and Blaithnead Ni Chofaigh is a sexy beast with Grainne Seoige, shooting filthy looks at  Amanda Brunker’s tits. And Dana is also there, being class as usual. I think she should represent us next year. I mean, I defy the eastern block to stick together in the face of  Dana in a cream pants suit, looking fly. The swagg on her, like. No chance.

Good friends enjoy a spot of popular culture, what ho!

The increasingly mad cap adventures of J.M. Barrie and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

SIDE NOTE: Why is it that I am never around for the dramatics? I feel like somebodies mother on Skins, like I come in at the end of the episode and I’m like ‘What’s up?’, and I’ve totally missed a giant emotional explosion somewhere. I love dramatic explosions, especially of the hilarious kind that’ll never effect my life in the slightest. Let me now when they’re happening so I can pop popcorn over the heat of the moment, in some kind of symbolic yet crunchy manner. That shit is my favourite like.






I’m not funny

And lo, it came to pass, that she became too bored even for Facebook…

I think I have had the same conversation roughly twelve billion times a day for the entire time I’ve been working in the shop. It goes;

ME: ‘Hi’ [sometimes, I mix it up with a jovial ‘howaya’, or, if I have taken against a customer because they smell bad or yelled at me once, a deadpan ‘Hello’]

CUSTOMER: ‘Howya’ [This never changes, ever. Customers as a group are notorious for sticking to the script]

ME: ‘Flying it sure, and yourself?’ [ This can be replaced with any emphatic statement of contentment, really]

CUSTOMER: ‘Ara sure struggling on. No point in complaining, no one listens’

ME: ‘Ah sure, you get very little for it’

CUSTOMER: *laughs like this is the funniest thing anyone has ever said to them in their whole lives*

Now, I’m no judge of comedy, and I know I am never going to be crowned King Of The Funny Things, but I’ve been having this conversation with the same people for a long time now, and I still don’t understand where the joke is. Nobody is wearing an elaborate hairpiece or moustache, I don’t follow up with my Winning Smile [patent pending], hell, nobody falls over even a little bit. The above conversation is definitely not my best material. It’s not even Ed Byrne’s best material.

Here is an example of a joke from Victorian times, as told by those masters of wit, J.M. Barrie and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle-

Oh those crazy kids, what will they do next?!

The Amazing Adventure of J.M. Barrie and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

I think it is a fundamental flaw in my character that I will never understand why acknowledging that the suffering of an elderly shopper is futile is much funnier than nineteenth century wordplay.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I shall never be a comedian.