Even The Best Laid Plans…

Sometimes, life is very disappointing.

Every week, my foolproof lotto- winning strategy fails to net me the millions I need to finally create the hoverskateboard, and that is a disappointment not only to me, but for the rest of the world. 2015 is getting closer every day, and yet Marty McFly’s vision of the future is slipping more and more out of reach. It’s a crying shame [although it has to be said, at no point in his trip to the future did he get to record live TV]. Also disappointing is the fact that no matter how many hours I spend trying, or having the process explained to me, I have never once gotten a single cryptic crossword clue right. I just can’t do it, you guys, and it seems like I am wasting my Times. [SIDE NOTE: that pun was not disappointing at all]

But worse that these things, worse than any other disappointment I have ever suffered in my whole entire life [including all of those times when I was a kid and Ais got The Thing That I Wanted And It Wasn’t Fair] is the fact that, through no fault of my own, I’ve gone and turned into an Angry Lesbian. With an Angry Lesbian Blog.

I didn’t want this you guys. I tried everything I could not to become the stereotype. All I wanted was a place where I could tell ridiculously mundane stories about stuff that isn’t that important, but then some Dick had to go and write some article in the Mail today, and I had to be teased about it a lot, and who suffers? You guys do. I was planning on telling the story of the guy who came into the shop during the week and tried to have a conversation without listening to anything anybody said to him-   truly, the greatest conversation of all time. I also wanted to relate the Incredible adventure I had handing out CVs in the rain/ hail thing that happened on Saturday, but no, alas, it is not to be. You gotta suffer through another blog post about a guy whose opinions are so ridiculous they shouldn’t ever be commented on, for fear of him getting credit for having them.

We will never know exactly when I became an Angry Lesbian. It could have been hiding under the surface since childhood. Maybe it happened at one of those hundred thousand Equality things I went to last year. Maybe it happened when I got my hair all cut off,  or is it a direct response to my medicinal baggy-ass jeans? We can only guess. Much like the famous ‘What The Hell Was Going On When Tupac Was Shot Anyway, It Was A Busy Street In Daytime And Nobody Saw?’ question, speculation will always be rife.

Anyway, onwards to the point. I’m not linking you guys to the story, because I couldn’t be arsed finding it online and I ripped the page out of a newspaper [Rebel YEAH], but it was an opinion piece in the Irish Daily Mail Today by a guy called Richard Waghorne. I happen to think that the Gay Marriage Issue is not actually an issue. I have always thought that marriage is pretty much only important to two people who happen to be getting married, and thus, I don’t really care who is doing it, but I do think everyone should be allowed to do it. I am of the opinion that telling somebody they can’t do something everyone else can do because of a cultural construct like sexuality or religion is ticking the Pretty Lame box on the Things You Are Doing census. Also, it is totally pointless, because anyone who has ever seen an episode of anything on the telly, or has met a 5 year old, will tell you that duh, if you ban something it only makes it more tempting. That’s why weightwatchers sell so many toffee yoghurts you guys, it’s basic Being A Person.

I also think that everyone who doesn’t agree with Gay Marriage should definitely consider not getting gay married, and stop worrying about it so damn much. It’s like when men are anti-abortion:  Dudes, it’s all cool, you can keep any babies you are growing for as long as you want, nobody will ever stop you. You could be like Arnold Schwarzenegger- pretty rad you guys! What I don’t understand at all is why people think their opinion should be my opinion. Or should be more important than my opinion. It isn’t [very few people have an opinion more important than I do, maybe God and Stephen Fry sometimes].

Anyway, this Waghorne chap is a total gayer  -1000 life points – who doesn’t believe in gay marriage -minus 500000000 life points. I’m not trying to say his opinion is stupid-  I really would like to, it is pretty ridiculous after all- I just don’t understand why he doesn’t just ‘not get married’, and move on with his life. That’s what I would do. He’s all ‘chaps, look, marriage is supposed to be for kids, and yeah, alright so gayers can have kids and sometimes straight people don’t, but still like, society will suffer if gayers get married or something’, and I swear to god, my translation there is marginally more lucid than his entire piece. But whatever, if his train of thought got stuck in the convoluted mess that is the whole Gay Marriage thing, I can’t blame him. It must be hard to come out looking in the right when clearly you have proved yourself entirely wrong.

Another hilarious thing he does is claim homophobia is dead, which, alright, some gay people never experience homophobia, the legends, but this made me laugh because the only reason I read the article was because Homophobic Customer A pointed it out to me as soon as I arrived in work, in order to laugh at me for being a gayer and being wrong about everything because the man in the paper said so. I was like ‘Richard Waghorne, stop being such a dick and keep your internalised homophobia to yourself like the rest of us, jeez’, and I’m pretty sure that is still how I feel about the whole thing right now.

If you are a gayer who doesn’t believe in Marriage, shut the hell up, basically. You guys are trying to make your beliefs my beliefs, and that’s well harsh. If I can get married someday, I promise not to invite anybody who doesn’t like it, and to hide all the pictures on Facebook from them and never introduce them to any kids/ pets I may accumulate after the fact. In fact, I promise all you guys who don’t believe in Gay Marriage to never even introduce you guys to my future wife. In exchange for this fantastic offer, kindly return the favour and stop talking about it. It’s regressive, and regressive shit is boring unless it’s clothes, in which case it’s retro and obviously awesome.

 

And I promise to try harder not to be a MASSIVE LESBIAN next time too you guys, stupid annoying LGBT issues gotta keep coming up and ruining my nice clean blog [I have such an awesome sex joke for this exact space it’s not even funny, but Imma rise above it]

[THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID]

[BOOM]

If You Open Your Mind Too Much, Your Brain Will Fall Out

Is it heterophobic to dislike straight people who complain about heterophobia? I am struggling to believe it is a Real And Serious Problem. I am usually pretty good at looking at a problem from both sides, but I have searched the whole of the internet and have come up with no recorded circumstances of somebody being beaten up due to a serious case of heterosexuality. It just does not seem like something that has ever happened, unless that straight guy was being a dick about it. But now I gotta listen to straight people complaining about ‘that one gay guy, and he was like- why are you here- and I was like, dude, I can drink where I want like, what a dick like, jesus, I hate that’*. I don’t wanna be controversial or anything [heaven forbid], but when I go into a bar and get hassled because of my sexuality, it’s usually a lot worse than that.

Unfortunately, Straight People Who Complain About Heterophobia [or Breeders, as they like to be known] don’t think my complaints are as valid. ‘No, like, you don’t understand, Sinead, this guy was being A DICK about it’ they say. ‘All I asked him was if he was a top or a bottom like, it was just a question’. Man, that story takes me back to the time I went to a straight people club with my girlfriend and that crowd of men sleazed all over us, tried to touch my lady friend up and then followed us home and tried to get into my house so they could watch us do it. Or the time I got punched in the face for being a dyke by those teenagers when I was walking home from college. Oh wait, hang on, no it doesn’t. Because what happened to you was Not A Big Deal, and you were kind of a dick.

The next time a really drunkstraight girl in the G asks me how lesbians REALLY have sex [as opposed to pretend to have sex, I assume], do I have to give her a straight answer? Because that seems like a total waste of the years I have spent collecting hilarious one- liners for just such an occasion. And where am I supposed to use my withering look now? Man, I think I need some kind of workshop on this topic. I clearly do not understand how hard it is to be a straight person in a gay bar- How Embarrassing for me.

Speaking of really annoying straight people, my Dad is in serious need of a job, or Imma cut a bitch. The absolute boredom that has enveloped him appears to have reached critical mass, and now he has to spread that boredom around or he will explode from it. The man is leaking really terrible anecdotes you guys. It’s pretty upsetting.

It started out innocently enough, with a preoccupation with What Everyone He Has Ever Met/ Is Standing Beside Is Going To Eat Today. That is vaguely annoying, but whatever, you figure, he’s just starting a conversation. Then it’s like he was possessed. Instead of casually asking what you were cooking when he came into the room, he started to appear suddenly from around corners and ask you what you were making for lunch. Ambushing people on their way into the kitchen with  a ‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING WILL IT BE NICE YES THAT SOUNDS LOVELY’, culminating in him waking up especially the other morning at eight just so he could ask me what I was getting in the Chinese twelve hours later. Dad, I have no idea, all I want right now are Nut Flakers.

I think it’s time for an intervention.

Earlier in the week, he ended up spending a lot of time out of the house, and so obviously hadn’t gotten a chance to release the monotony via kitchen based enquiries. This terrible chain of events led to an hour long lecture for me and my sister on the riveting subject of ‘How I Stopped My Head From Getting Sunburned And Giving Me Headaches’. Don’t rush out and buy the book you guys, Imma tell you the secret right now- turns out you gotta take your hat off for a little bit every hour while you’re on holiday.

I’ve been a teenager, and I’ve been bored, but my lord, I have never seen a 15 year old actually lose the will to live. Breathing became a conscious effort for my sister. It was intense. The hardest part was when he mimed taking his hat on and off- complete with sound effects- for what felt like a hundred years. I thought she was gone for sure. Luckily he stopped before I had to call an ambulance or put on a Desperate Housewives box set or something, but it was touch and go there for a bit. I’m pretty sure my face melted slightly, trying to escape the room. It definitely seems lower.

A NOTE: The views expressed in this blog are not expressive of the entire heterophobic community- some of those guys really love hearing about my Dad and his mad hat skillz. Go figure.

*Some straight people who are in fact Pretty Rad are hassled by gay people for no reason, but that is not because of a difference in sexuality I think, more because gay people can be Dickheads too. Being hassled by a douche is not a fun thing, but it’s sure as hell not a hate crime either. It’s just god’s way of telling you you’re better than other people- Good Times!

Tea-hab is a bitch

I am officially bored of being sick. Especially of having a Mystery Illness. Mystery Illness sucks ass, because everyone has an opinion about it. An old lady at work yesterday noticed I was doubled over in pain and recommended a hot water bottle. She said a hot water bottle was the best cure for anything, and I can see what she means, if by ‘anything’ she meant ‘being cold and in bed’. Otherwise it’s pretty much the most impractical thing. Strapping a hot water bottle to my abdomen until I get better is definitely not the best way to deal with Mystery Illness, unless when I go to the doctor again tomorrow she diagnoses me with abdominal freezing. How embarrassing for me if she does. But it hasn’t come up yet.

So far, my Mystery Illness shortlist is: A Peptic Ulcer has exploded, A hernia has exploded/whatever it is that  hernias actually do, my stomach is torn or some kind of ovarian cyst exploded. Every illness has it’s fan at this stage, I’m almost afraid to find out for sure because I feel like I’ll be disappointing someone. I feel like Dermot O Leary on the X Factor, basically, except without the trendy suits and money. My family have for some reason all come down on the side of some kind of cyst, I suppose because it’s the most fun thing to stage whisper across a living room.

‘IS SINEAD ALRIGHT?’

NO, I HEAR SHE MIGHT HAVE A *look dramatically around, as if there are secret health spies hiding behind the sofa* [whisper loudly] CYST’

‘OH LORD. SINEAD ARE YOU ALRIGHT?’

‘Who are you and why are you looking behind my couch?’

 

It’s a weird feeling, having your entire family talking about your ovaries. It’s hard to get used to. No matter how blasé a person is about personal issues, I don’t think there’s a single human being in the entire world who cabe comfortable when their grandfather asks them ‘how’re you doing, you know, ovarianly?’ Granddad, I have no idea how to answer that question. Who told you I have a reproductive system?

Luckily for me, the doctor lady thinks it was my stomach that has exploded now, so I don’t have to deny the existence of my ovaries to save embarrassment anymore. Unluckily, the doctor- lady also thinks I am allergic to my life, so I’m banned from doing everything I love forever. I mean, being banned from some things I love would be fine- it’s lent, self-denial is totally in season right now, I could be like one of those cool kids with their not eating crisps and belief in some kind of god character- but giving up everything? Harsh times. I’ve found that I don’t know what to do with myself when I’m not drinking tea, wearing tight pants and smoking. That’s pretty much my default state. Seriously, go back in time two weeks, drop me at a bus stop, or in a town somewhere, and within ten minutes I’ll be doing two out of those three things, if not them all. Drop me at a bus stop now and I’ll just crouch there in pain, baggy-pantsed and uncomfortably unaware of what to do next.

Also, I have discovered a pet peeve I have about decaf anything- why does it have to taste like arse? What is it about people who like to have their beverages without caffeine or sugar or milk that makes them also want it to taste like a cat drank it first? Is it some kind of masochism, are there people in the world who are getting off on the fact that they have a cup of tea that is basically wrong? Is decaf tea in fact the tea Arthur Dent was stuck with, because it does taste almost- but not quite- entirely unlike tea? These are the questions that I ponder now, instead of wearing tight pants and smoking. I’m pretty much officially Not Cool Anymore.

And you know what, it’s a pretty terrible time to be desperately uncool, because there are teenagers drinking all over the place after our Paddy’s day parade, which, in true, time- honoured tradition, we are having nowhere near the actual Paddy’s day ‘in case it clashes’. Pretty sure parades that are supposed to happen on the same day are supposed to clash, you guys. Way to think outside the box though. I’m sure the whole world is grateful that you gave them the chance to look at a hundred tractors a week before everywhere else in the country.

Parades in Banagher have really gone downhill lately. The first one we had here was hilarious, thanks to the fantastic drunk people on the Supervalu float, dressed- for no reason at all- like they were at a rave in 1976. Comedy gold. The year after that the comedy got more intense almost by accident, thanks to the fantastic Unwed Mothers float [no, I’m serious]. Unwed Mother’s marching together down Main St. is going down in history as the closest real life has ever gotten to an episode of Father Ted. And now all we have are about fifty thousand different varieties of boy scouts and tractors. What was once a hilarious day out for all the family has now become an event that is only enjoyable for rural paeophiles. With tractor- envy.

How embarrassing.

 

Some people will do anything for a day off

Last week, my insides decided that I was taking advantage of them. I had become complacent about working correctly, and they felt I needed to stop for a minute and consider the effort they go to every day, just so I can eat all of the hula hoops.

Anyway, long story short, I got out of bed, chipper as ever, put my uniform on, and then something inside me exploded.

It was pretty intense.

A normal person at this point would probably have screamed out in agony, demanded cold compresses and ambulances and all manner of over the top exclamations from dearest family members. Maybe even a silently weeping child in the background somewhere, for atmosphere. I am not such a person. I thought it was hilarious.

 

Being unable to stand because of crippling pain is comedy gold, whether you like it or not. I had to hobble downstairs like a little old lady. There is nothing about trying to walk in the foetal position that isn’t inherently funny when you’re 21.

Downstairs, I think the pain took over my brain, and instead of being obnoxious and loud as usual, I turned into some kind of Elizabeth Bennet character. I hobbled into my living room, collapsed on the floor in front of my parents and said, quite politely

‘I seem to have exploded’

 

My parents were non-plussed.

‘Really?’ said my mother, who was watching a game of bridge on the internet. ‘What do you mean exploded?’

I writhed a bit with agony, regained my composure and returned flippantly ‘Oh, somewhere in my stomach region, just seems to have had a bit of an explosion’

‘Will you be able for work?’ She asked, not really listening.

My Dad at this point realised that, though he doesn’t know all that much about me and my habits, I don’t usually lie on the carpet, moaning slightly, and so he rang the doctor for me. I called work and explained to them that I had a bit of a possibly serious explosion issue, and was going to have it checked out.

‘Probably the ‘flu’, said work.

 

I got a lift up to the doctor, and hobbled in, scaring the entire waiting room. An old woman who was coughing melodramatically took against me because she was no longer The Worst Patient Waiting To Be Seen, and everyone knows there’s nothing like being the sickest person at the doctors. Through the pain, I was quite enjoying it.

‘Oh this?’, I said to everyone who asked, ‘No idea. Just exploded this morning. Thought I’d check it out’.

Everyone was really impressed.

 

The doctor called me in, and it was a new chap, from South Africa, which is a lovely accent. I felt like telling him about my experience pretending to be South African, but then I thought no, stick to the pain thing, if he think’s you’re being racist he might not fix it.

The doctor made me lie on the bed thing, poked me in the stomach a few times until I thought I was going to pass out, and then asked me was I on birth control.

‘No, I’m a gayer’ didn’t seem to clear things up for him, and, after a horrendously embarrassing conversation about sexuality ensued, he called my mother in and explained to her what was going on.

‘She’s exploded inside.’ He said. ‘It could be appendix, or an ulcer, or an ectopic pregnancy or anything’

‘It’s not an ectopic pregnancy’ I assured him.

‘It could be’, he insisted. ‘The pain is in the right area’

‘It’s not, trust me’  I said.

My mother butted in at that point to ask him what they would have to do if it WAS an ectopic pregnancy, and they were having a lovely time talking about how they would remove it, when the pain got the better of me and I yelled  ‘LOOK CHAPS, I AM NOT CARRYING ECTOPIC JESUS’, and, after they had looked at me as if I was mad for a bit, the doctor sent me to hospital.

 

Hospital has changed since I was last there. Apparently, in A&E, a man with a broken wrist is more important than a woman who might have had a stroke, and a child who needs some stiches is of a higher priority than me, doubled over in agony, unable to concentrate on Home and Away. But eventually they let me in. Grudgingly.

The nurse took out the pain scale chart, and asked me where I was on it, and- not for the first time that day- I thought about how much better the pain scale on Hyperbole and A Half is. The nurse decided I was at least a 12, which; I appreciate that you can see I am in great pain, but please, just write ten because doctors are stupid and don’t appreciate jokes.

Due to my intense pain, I got my own cubicle thing with a bed to lie in, and a nurse came around with painkillers for me, which were nowhere near adequate, and she left and I lay there, out of sight for three long hours of agony. I suddenly realised why trolleys in the hallway were actually a good idea- put me on one of those, I’d have been given amazing medication. Maybe even a scan to see where the explosion was, or at the very least a lollipop and a sticker with a lion on it [for being brave].

The doctor arrived, and it was clear he didn’t think there was anything wrong with me. He said it was probably period pain, even though I didn’t have my period, but it sure made me want to smack him around a bit. Luckily for him I was embracing the foetal position.

The nurses convinced him I probably wasn’t just having some hormones, and he did some more poking and then did the most glorious thing ever- he hooked me up with superdrugs. I got the biggest bottle of painkilling medication I have ever seen hooked up to my arm, and it was glorious. I immediately forgave him for thinking I had a bit of a cramp.

And then the fool went and got a specialist. Now, here is some advice for doctors everywhere: If you want a specialist to look at your patient, then get him in BEFORE you medicate the person, otherwise it’s a collosal waste of time. The chap basically had to punch me in the ovaries before I could feel anything, it was very embarrassing for us all. But he said probably it wasn’t my appendix, and sent me home. Not until after I had convinced him and the regular doctor about a million times that yes, I was quite sure it wasn’t an ectopic pregnancy.

It took a few hours for the painillers to wear off, at which point I returned to crippling agony, which these fancy tablets I have now get rid of, along with my appetite and ability  to not slur my words, but I’m happy to sacrifice grammar for not feeling the explosion. It’s the best trade ever.

And alright, so there are only 2 days worth of painkiller left, and they didn’t do anything to fix the problem so there is still a part of me that has exploded and may well explode again, but at least we are now all pretty sure that it is

1:Not my appendix

2: Not an ectopic pregnancy [though I think I’m the only one who is sure about that]

 

Basically, everyone who has ever said anything bad about our health service is a fool. It took 12 hours of intense pain, a bottle of painkillers and cost me probably lots of money, but look at that- we know 2 things I have that haven’t exploded.

Good job, HSE!

 

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.