My Christmas Tradition - Vlog Post from Conor Darrall on Vimeo.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Monday, December 28, 2009
Here's to 2010...an en masse resolution
Okay, so can I find anyone who actually liked 2009? Actually, can anyone say they actually enjoyed the Noughties?
(btw - i'm gonna swear like a fucking cunt in this post, and because I'm watching American Psycho at the same time, I might also kill a hooker...just saying)
I've realised that this year has been a fucking shit-show of a bollocks-fest, a drawn-out, melodramatic pile of itchy goat testicles. The only relative positive to this putrid, mediocre year is that we can throw a helluva massive hoolie to wake this horrible fucking decade to the Underworld.
There have been a few highlights of course, little things have made the year quite nice at times, and downright hilarious at others. A few classics spring to mind:
-the many happy hours with my partner Dr McQuillan writing, presenting and editing our radio shows ‘The Conor(s) Show’. We were nominated for an award for it, but the best times we had were the off-air moments when we’d stuff our faces with chocolate, wine and crisps.
-visiting my brother in the Czech Republic and hill walking with the boys in France.
-somehow graduating without losing all my hair or killing anyone
I’m sure there are more but I can’t think of them right away. There were a few bad times too, but let’s not go into them, any more whining Fort Boloxi nonsense on this old Pizza Box and things’ll get fucking ridiculous.
There have been a few really cool things that changed my perspective. These life-defining moments have given me a weird insight into how I look at the world and have changed my attitude in their own ways. The ‘Boom Boom Pow’, the crazy tumble-drier fall down the escalator at Waterloo Station both taught me to toughen up and helped give rise to Mr Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive, and his little brother The Pizza Devil. The mad snow and horrible fucking flight schedule have made me realise that I love and miss my family, and the sheer fucking horribleness of October-December have made me want to get a job and start being productive with my time, and make sure that because I have the next 6 months free means that I have to make something of my time.
There was one great thing that happened recently though, which I believe is a hugely good omen for the year to come. My flatmate, Sparky (Mark) recently had a spot of good news. On Christmas Eve, he took his girlfriend for a drive to Navan Fort, a lovely ancient fort in Ireland, covered in snow and looking absolutely beautiful. He got down on the knee and popped the question...and of course, she said yes. I’m absolutely delighted for them both, and I know that 2010 will be a phenomenal year for them both. I’m going to make it a great year for me too, it’ll just take a bit of work.
So now, with one of my best friends getting married (at some wonderful undisclosed future point) and with the crazy humming noise in my head spurring me on, I’m going to make a resolution. Not some vague ‘eat less, work more’ promise to myself, just a promise to say (in the words of Jay) bollocks to the middle and make the year a great one.
So, we're going to have a great year okay? All of us. There'll be low points too, obviously, and we'll feel the normal highs, and lows, but let's make a resolution to actually try and make ourselves happy this year, to live proactively and make a productive difference. Let's take this next decade by the balls, us 20-somethings, and try to make the Tweenies (my name for the next, looming decade) as fucking happy and good as possible...WHO'S WITH ME???
Oh, and here is a great song about what I like about this time of the year, it makes me cry every time...
Here's to 2010, folks...
(btw - i'm gonna swear like a fucking cunt in this post, and because I'm watching American Psycho at the same time, I might also kill a hooker...just saying)
I've realised that this year has been a fucking shit-show of a bollocks-fest, a drawn-out, melodramatic pile of itchy goat testicles. The only relative positive to this putrid, mediocre year is that we can throw a helluva massive hoolie to wake this horrible fucking decade to the Underworld.
There have been a few highlights of course, little things have made the year quite nice at times, and downright hilarious at others. A few classics spring to mind:
-the many happy hours with my partner Dr McQuillan writing, presenting and editing our radio shows ‘The Conor(s) Show’. We were nominated for an award for it, but the best times we had were the off-air moments when we’d stuff our faces with chocolate, wine and crisps.
-visiting my brother in the Czech Republic and hill walking with the boys in France.
-somehow graduating without losing all my hair or killing anyone
I’m sure there are more but I can’t think of them right away. There were a few bad times too, but let’s not go into them, any more whining Fort Boloxi nonsense on this old Pizza Box and things’ll get fucking ridiculous.
There have been a few really cool things that changed my perspective. These life-defining moments have given me a weird insight into how I look at the world and have changed my attitude in their own ways. The ‘Boom Boom Pow’, the crazy tumble-drier fall down the escalator at Waterloo Station both taught me to toughen up and helped give rise to Mr Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive, and his little brother The Pizza Devil. The mad snow and horrible fucking flight schedule have made me realise that I love and miss my family, and the sheer fucking horribleness of October-December have made me want to get a job and start being productive with my time, and make sure that because I have the next 6 months free means that I have to make something of my time.
There was one great thing that happened recently though, which I believe is a hugely good omen for the year to come. My flatmate, Sparky (Mark) recently had a spot of good news. On Christmas Eve, he took his girlfriend for a drive to Navan Fort, a lovely ancient fort in Ireland, covered in snow and looking absolutely beautiful. He got down on the knee and popped the question...and of course, she said yes. I’m absolutely delighted for them both, and I know that 2010 will be a phenomenal year for them both. I’m going to make it a great year for me too, it’ll just take a bit of work.
So now, with one of my best friends getting married (at some wonderful undisclosed future point) and with the crazy humming noise in my head spurring me on, I’m going to make a resolution. Not some vague ‘eat less, work more’ promise to myself, just a promise to say (in the words of Jay) bollocks to the middle and make the year a great one.
So, we're going to have a great year okay? All of us. There'll be low points too, obviously, and we'll feel the normal highs, and lows, but let's make a resolution to actually try and make ourselves happy this year, to live proactively and make a productive difference. Let's take this next decade by the balls, us 20-somethings, and try to make the Tweenies (my name for the next, looming decade) as fucking happy and good as possible...WHO'S WITH ME???
Oh, and here is a great song about what I like about this time of the year, it makes me cry every time...
Here's to 2010, folks...
Friday, December 25, 2009
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Black-eyed Freeze - an anecdote within an anecdote within an anecdote...
So I’m currently sitting in Birmingham International Airport (BHX for you international airport designation fetishists) doing a wee bit of typing, because people keep staring at me. There’s a chance that I may be called away for my flight soon, but unless I say otherwise, assume I wrote this post here, also this post is going to be FUCKING MASSIVE)
-funny fact-ette, I’m at a Costa coffee adding to my future massive heart-attack and people keep staring at me. The place is packed with home-goers, all sharing tables, but I’m the fat girl at the party with icing on her chin that no-one wants to dance with. Awwww.
First of all, why am I in Birmingham when, cor blimey Mary Poppins, I live in London?
Good question reader! Well, yesterday (22nd) I left my little Uberflat in the wee hours, slipping and sliding with my luggage and Lassie as I tried to walk up my little street which was glazed with ice. I somehow made it to the train station, looking like a plum that someone had jizzed on, got the train and after a half-hour journey, found myself in Luton airport.
Now, I was a bit hungover yesterday. On Monday I went to the jobcentre and then found out that my dole application had been rejected. That’s right, I’m so awesome that I can’t even sign on properly. Anyway, I was walking back from the Dole office, feeling somewhat dejected about how the week had been when I passed a joke shop with ‘Help Wanted’ written on it. I bounded in, shaking myself like a dog (it was snowing ridiculously heavily) and met the manager. I gave him my CV, heavily implied I would give him oral sex, and went on my way, somewhat bouyed by how I may have just gotten a job, and choosing to ignore that it was in no way a Law job or that no-one else seemed to be interested in having it.
(Quick question out there: Who thinks I should work in a joke shop?)
I went to the pub to say goodbye to my barfly friends (the cool pub I drink at, not the shit hole I sometimes work at...) and had a few whiskeys (Yes ‘whiskey’ not ‘whisky’, based on the Irish word Uisce Bheatha – Water of Life. Thank god/Darwin for St. Jameson) by the fire. It was lovely, a perfect warm respite from the freezing evening outside.
I had to cancel a date with ‘the girl that I’m seeing’ (which was really annoying cos she’s great) because I was going to have to leave the house at four or five to get the train because of the snow. Therefore the evening became a bit of a nothing-to-do affair so I stayed by the fire and chatted to my friends.
When I say ‘a few whiskeys’, I can’t really quantify how many. I drink doubles, because singles seem lonely, and there were definitely a few. Then people heard the ‘Boom Boom Pow’ story of my black eye and grew to love my sparkling repartee, and a few kind souls started buying me Christmas drinks. At that point I may have gone next door to the shithole and chatted for a while, because I distinctly remember drinking Guinness with a few of the grrrrrr locals and there was definitely more boozing there. I had a pizza at some point, then went back to the cool bar.
Scene deleted (I just called my friend Beatriz who works in the Cool Bar to find out what happened, and she said she’ll find out for me. I was good though, didn’t do anything bad at least)
I woke up at about 4, feeling grand. The birds were singing, the trees were saying and I definitely was not hungover. Yes, there was a distinct taste of vomit, and at least six hours were missing, but I hadn’t been raped and was in my own house, ready to get ready to try and get ready to go home...
CUT TO:
I was in Luton airport with a hangover. The worst snowstorm for the last 15 years was still raging, and quelle fucking surprise, like the sword of Damocles hanging over our holiday ambitions, the world-weary Easyjet crone-in-chief announced the flight was cancelled.
-Rather miffed, as you might imagine, I approaced the desk and asked whether there was any chance of transferring to a later flight.
No.
-I asked was the any point in trying to wait to see if the status changed (cos I imagine airport announcements to be rather like Facebook updates- “Luton Airpost is: So psyched for the snowwwwww!!! lololololo xx <3”)
No.
-I asked could I pay cash-money to buy a ticket on a later flight
Yes, sir (she didn’t say sir)
-I asked when the next available flight was.
January 2nd.
Fuck sake. I waited for about four or five hours and when it was patently clear that NOTHING was gonna happen, I went home.
(N.B. There was ‘an American’ present. ‘An American’ in travel terms for people who live outside the US, is the one American customer who makes a fuss about service. Usually middle-aged women in mountain-climbing boots and clothes woven from hemp, drinking from an unnecessarily large nalgene, her hair streaked liberally with grey. The usual response to ‘There was an American on my flight’ is to say ‘Ugh’. This is not an insult to Americans btw, it’s an inconvenient truth. My ‘American’ jumped up on the counter and sat, shouting at Easyjet Staff about her rights. I didn’t bother pointing out the finer aspects of consumer rights law to her, I couldn’t betray the sisterhood.)
I went to the Uberflat again and freaked out, there may or may not have been a few tears. My parents sprung into action. There were three options.
1) Spend Christmas and New Year with my lovely family in Kent (with whom I spent most of the Summer)
2) Take a 13 journey by train to Scotland, get the ferry to Belfast and teh Bus home. I favoured this because of the clear ‘adventure’ aspect.
3) Get the train tomorrow to Birmingham and get a flight to Derry, my home.
My mum bought the ticket, and this morning I once again got on the train. It cost £66 from London to Birmingham. That is more that the original (cancelled return flight to Belfast) cost.
Anyway, I’m in Birmingham airport:
For some reason people seem to fundamentally change their personalities when they’re about to travel, and not for the better. First of all, they overdress, to the extreme. Dowdy middle-aged women slap enough powder to represent modern art masterpieces (or fake-tan homages to spider web collections) and men, clearly dressed by their wives, adorn themselves with stone-washed denim, brown leather brogues, and whichever middle aged cry-for-help Esquire magazine has tricked them into buying.
(That’s not a swipe at Esquire, but it IS bit offputting to see men as old as my Dad trying to dress trendier than I do...not that the bar is set extremely high)
Also, because they’re about to do the unthinkable and jump on a plane, they think they’re superior to everyone. It’s the same from Forks, Washington to Ulaan Bataar (Twilight AND Mongol Rally ref. Tasty) people leave their manners with their packed liquids at the security queue.
Example!
I was in the queue for security when a little kid tripped over and started crying, his parents were about a foot or so in front and had sorta missed him for a second, as clearly happens when you’re running through an airport with the whole family. I love kids, and stooped down and scooped the wee blighter up, gave him a sorta half smile/half giggle and walked him to his Dad who had noticed. The wee fella grabbed my hand and I walked him over to his dad and did that ‘oh he had a fall’ thing and the Dad smiled his thanks. Then, the Mum, basically shoved the husband aside and wrenched the boy to her, glaring at me.
(I’m sorry, mea culpa, I clearly didn’t get the memo saying that if you help a kid who’s tripped you’ve become a foaming-at-the-mouth paedophile. I’ll just step over him next time)
The dad was mortified and I walked on.
So now I sit, with 20 minutes until my gate opens and the effects of the coffee kicking in. The place has quietened down a little and a feeling like le petit mort has settled in. For one I am glad to be going home, even if the flight is a little delayed.
See y’all on the other side folks.
xx
ps - I'm in Ireland now, after many hours of travel. The flight was diverted, then on arrival at a different airport, the buses were delayed. I'm now finally home, drinking red wine by the fire and watching Bridget Jones 2- The Edge of Reason with my wee sis and mum. They're perturbed by how much of the dialogue I know. I'm gonna sleep for a fucking week (hadn't sworn enough) and then have a fan dabby dozy Christmas. I'm gonna forget the worst week ever
1) The Boom Boom Pow
2) The No Job
3) The dole rejection
4) The missed flight
5) The mammoth journey home.
all that is going to be offset by
AN AMAZING FUCKING CHRISTMAS WITH THE PEOPLE I LOVE.
-funny fact-ette, I’m at a Costa coffee adding to my future massive heart-attack and people keep staring at me. The place is packed with home-goers, all sharing tables, but I’m the fat girl at the party with icing on her chin that no-one wants to dance with. Awwww.
First of all, why am I in Birmingham when, cor blimey Mary Poppins, I live in London?
Good question reader! Well, yesterday (22nd) I left my little Uberflat in the wee hours, slipping and sliding with my luggage and Lassie as I tried to walk up my little street which was glazed with ice. I somehow made it to the train station, looking like a plum that someone had jizzed on, got the train and after a half-hour journey, found myself in Luton airport.
Now, I was a bit hungover yesterday. On Monday I went to the jobcentre and then found out that my dole application had been rejected. That’s right, I’m so awesome that I can’t even sign on properly. Anyway, I was walking back from the Dole office, feeling somewhat dejected about how the week had been when I passed a joke shop with ‘Help Wanted’ written on it. I bounded in, shaking myself like a dog (it was snowing ridiculously heavily) and met the manager. I gave him my CV, heavily implied I would give him oral sex, and went on my way, somewhat bouyed by how I may have just gotten a job, and choosing to ignore that it was in no way a Law job or that no-one else seemed to be interested in having it.
(Quick question out there: Who thinks I should work in a joke shop?)
I went to the pub to say goodbye to my barfly friends (the cool pub I drink at, not the shit hole I sometimes work at...) and had a few whiskeys (Yes ‘whiskey’ not ‘whisky’, based on the Irish word Uisce Bheatha – Water of Life. Thank god/Darwin for St. Jameson) by the fire. It was lovely, a perfect warm respite from the freezing evening outside.
I had to cancel a date with ‘the girl that I’m seeing’ (which was really annoying cos she’s great) because I was going to have to leave the house at four or five to get the train because of the snow. Therefore the evening became a bit of a nothing-to-do affair so I stayed by the fire and chatted to my friends.
When I say ‘a few whiskeys’, I can’t really quantify how many. I drink doubles, because singles seem lonely, and there were definitely a few. Then people heard the ‘Boom Boom Pow’ story of my black eye and grew to love my sparkling repartee, and a few kind souls started buying me Christmas drinks. At that point I may have gone next door to the shithole and chatted for a while, because I distinctly remember drinking Guinness with a few of the grrrrrr locals and there was definitely more boozing there. I had a pizza at some point, then went back to the cool bar.
Scene deleted (I just called my friend Beatriz who works in the Cool Bar to find out what happened, and she said she’ll find out for me. I was good though, didn’t do anything bad at least)
I woke up at about 4, feeling grand. The birds were singing, the trees were saying and I definitely was not hungover. Yes, there was a distinct taste of vomit, and at least six hours were missing, but I hadn’t been raped and was in my own house, ready to get ready to try and get ready to go home...
CUT TO:
I was in Luton airport with a hangover. The worst snowstorm for the last 15 years was still raging, and quelle fucking surprise, like the sword of Damocles hanging over our holiday ambitions, the world-weary Easyjet crone-in-chief announced the flight was cancelled.
-Rather miffed, as you might imagine, I approaced the desk and asked whether there was any chance of transferring to a later flight.
No.
-I asked was the any point in trying to wait to see if the status changed (cos I imagine airport announcements to be rather like Facebook updates- “Luton Airpost is: So psyched for the snowwwwww!!! lololololo xx <3”)
No.
-I asked could I pay cash-money to buy a ticket on a later flight
Yes, sir (she didn’t say sir)
-I asked when the next available flight was.
January 2nd.
Fuck sake. I waited for about four or five hours and when it was patently clear that NOTHING was gonna happen, I went home.
(N.B. There was ‘an American’ present. ‘An American’ in travel terms for people who live outside the US, is the one American customer who makes a fuss about service. Usually middle-aged women in mountain-climbing boots and clothes woven from hemp, drinking from an unnecessarily large nalgene, her hair streaked liberally with grey. The usual response to ‘There was an American on my flight’ is to say ‘Ugh’. This is not an insult to Americans btw, it’s an inconvenient truth. My ‘American’ jumped up on the counter and sat, shouting at Easyjet Staff about her rights. I didn’t bother pointing out the finer aspects of consumer rights law to her, I couldn’t betray the sisterhood.)
I went to the Uberflat again and freaked out, there may or may not have been a few tears. My parents sprung into action. There were three options.
1) Spend Christmas and New Year with my lovely family in Kent (with whom I spent most of the Summer)
2) Take a 13 journey by train to Scotland, get the ferry to Belfast and teh Bus home. I favoured this because of the clear ‘adventure’ aspect.
3) Get the train tomorrow to Birmingham and get a flight to Derry, my home.
My mum bought the ticket, and this morning I once again got on the train. It cost £66 from London to Birmingham. That is more that the original (cancelled return flight to Belfast) cost.
Anyway, I’m in Birmingham airport:
For some reason people seem to fundamentally change their personalities when they’re about to travel, and not for the better. First of all, they overdress, to the extreme. Dowdy middle-aged women slap enough powder to represent modern art masterpieces (or fake-tan homages to spider web collections) and men, clearly dressed by their wives, adorn themselves with stone-washed denim, brown leather brogues, and whichever middle aged cry-for-help Esquire magazine has tricked them into buying.
(That’s not a swipe at Esquire, but it IS bit offputting to see men as old as my Dad trying to dress trendier than I do...not that the bar is set extremely high)
Also, because they’re about to do the unthinkable and jump on a plane, they think they’re superior to everyone. It’s the same from Forks, Washington to Ulaan Bataar (Twilight AND Mongol Rally ref. Tasty) people leave their manners with their packed liquids at the security queue.
Example!
I was in the queue for security when a little kid tripped over and started crying, his parents were about a foot or so in front and had sorta missed him for a second, as clearly happens when you’re running through an airport with the whole family. I love kids, and stooped down and scooped the wee blighter up, gave him a sorta half smile/half giggle and walked him to his Dad who had noticed. The wee fella grabbed my hand and I walked him over to his dad and did that ‘oh he had a fall’ thing and the Dad smiled his thanks. Then, the Mum, basically shoved the husband aside and wrenched the boy to her, glaring at me.
(I’m sorry, mea culpa, I clearly didn’t get the memo saying that if you help a kid who’s tripped you’ve become a foaming-at-the-mouth paedophile. I’ll just step over him next time)
The dad was mortified and I walked on.
So now I sit, with 20 minutes until my gate opens and the effects of the coffee kicking in. The place has quietened down a little and a feeling like le petit mort has settled in. For one I am glad to be going home, even if the flight is a little delayed.
See y’all on the other side folks.
xx
ps - I'm in Ireland now, after many hours of travel. The flight was diverted, then on arrival at a different airport, the buses were delayed. I'm now finally home, drinking red wine by the fire and watching Bridget Jones 2- The Edge of Reason with my wee sis and mum. They're perturbed by how much of the dialogue I know. I'm gonna sleep for a fucking week (hadn't sworn enough) and then have a fan dabby dozy Christmas. I'm gonna forget the worst week ever
1) The Boom Boom Pow
2) The No Job
3) The dole rejection
4) The missed flight
5) The mammoth journey home.
all that is going to be offset by
AN AMAZING FUCKING CHRISTMAS WITH THE PEOPLE I LOVE.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
A Blogger Salute
Hey y'all,
So I just wanted to put this up, as a means of thanking the people who were so helpful and supportive of me. There are too many to mention but Jay, Jen, Sara, Laurie, Mel and Lopez come to mind immediately, as well as the many others who were so kind, but who I can't remember. I'm incredibly lucky to have such good blog-mates
Here's how I say thanks...
Con
xx
So I just wanted to put this up, as a means of thanking the people who were so helpful and supportive of me. There are too many to mention but Jay, Jen, Sara, Laurie, Mel and Lopez come to mind immediately, as well as the many others who were so kind, but who I can't remember. I'm incredibly lucky to have such good blog-mates
Here's how I say thanks...
Salute to the Blogging Community from Conor Darrall on Vimeo.
Con
xx
Acting Class
I saw this today, and it made me laugh so much it hurts. Girls, get ready for an exclamation of "Awwwwww, so cute!"
Friday, December 18, 2009
Self-censorship
Howdy,
I've decided to delete a certain post that I made early this morning. For obvious reasons, I don't really want to be reminded the entire time, and would rather not get down in the dumps again, when I am inexplicably cheery today.
Thanks to everyone for being really kind and cool, and I might do a wee video post sometime in the future once my mango face has stopped being all gross
Thanks
Con
x
I've decided to delete a certain post that I made early this morning. For obvious reasons, I don't really want to be reminded the entire time, and would rather not get down in the dumps again, when I am inexplicably cheery today.
Thanks to everyone for being really kind and cool, and I might do a wee video post sometime in the future once my mango face has stopped being all gross
Thanks
Con
x
Backstage Silliness
The next installment of My Video Life, this is a very short video I made with the other guys who were doing the music with me in that play I did during the summer.
Please excuse the rambling and giggling, we were all pretty exhausted.
Still, it was amazing fun.
Please excuse the rambling and giggling, we were all pretty exhausted.
Still, it was amazing fun.
Backstage Silliness from Conor Darrall on Vimeo.
This has been in my head all day
Howdy!
I've been walking about the house today (with a rather puffy face) singing this song to myself without realising. Now I hope it sticks in all your heads too.
Still a bit weirded out by last night, and a wee bit embarrassed by the whole ordeal, but I'll leave the post up. I'll laugh about it at some point in the future.
Hope you're all having a good one!
x
I've been walking about the house today (with a rather puffy face) singing this song to myself without realising. Now I hope it sticks in all your heads too.
Still a bit weirded out by last night, and a wee bit embarrassed by the whole ordeal, but I'll leave the post up. I'll laugh about it at some point in the future.
Hope you're all having a good one!
x
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Quick Update
Just to let you know that I had a bath there, something which I've been apprehensive about doing since the 'Razor Incident' and it's aftermath.
It went well...I didn't feel the (conscious or subconscious) need to shave anything off.
Guess I can cancel that therapy course, "So you think you get too bored in the bath?''
Phew
It went well...I didn't feel the (conscious or subconscious) need to shave anything off.
Guess I can cancel that therapy course, "So you think you get too bored in the bath?''
Phew
It's very cold here
Yes, very cold.
London had snow today, and I've never been more thankful for central heating, or for thermal socks.
I was going through my video file today, and found this little video I made during my Man Adventures in France over the summer. I watched it and remembered the weather being so hot, us being so drunk, and the days being so long, that it very briefly made me forget how ball-numbingly cold it is here.
The glazed look is due to all the beer and wine that we were drinking. Excuse the beer belly.
Also, my Connect-i-cut galpal Spanky has gone on hiatus from her blog in order to finish off reading Breaking Dawn, so why not go over and catch up on her blog so that you're nice and ready by the time she's finished. Luvs it.
London had snow today, and I've never been more thankful for central heating, or for thermal socks.
I was going through my video file today, and found this little video I made during my Man Adventures in France over the summer. I watched it and remembered the weather being so hot, us being so drunk, and the days being so long, that it very briefly made me forget how ball-numbingly cold it is here.
The glazed look is due to all the beer and wine that we were drinking. Excuse the beer belly.
Also, my Connect-i-cut galpal Spanky has gone on hiatus from her blog in order to finish off reading Breaking Dawn, so why not go over and catch up on her blog so that you're nice and ready by the time she's finished. Luvs it.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
In which I inadvertantly join the sex industry, win an award and pimp a wheelchair.
Right, so this definitely not a Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive post. The last two days have been rather weird.
As you may (or more like may not, and don't care) be aware. I have been unemployed now for about a month, after the whole boss-getting-me-drunk-and-cheating-money-off-me thing, and I've been a bit...bored. Well, as a tonic to that I went to the jobcentre in Kilburn yesterday to sign on (free money = ka-ching!) and start as a 'jobseeker'. I hadn't slept in like 30 hours when this happened, so yesterday was fun.
Now first of all, the whole dole thing is depressing. Very depressing. They ask you a million questions ("Now Mr D, when was the last time you shat on a toadstool" etc etc) that make you think about how broke you are, then they patronise the fuck out of you. ("Can you read? Oh, you can? Good for you") in a manner that clearly says "Well, I have a job, I'm better than you".
So, after three hours of that, I walked home, and decided to stop in the bank to open an account. The lady who I was dealing with was a beautiful Iranian lady called Shihraz, and she had a wheelchair. I didn't even notice this, as she was busy telling me about the Super Deluxe Multi Omni Hyper Gold-plate Account. I'm not sure how, but we began chatting about how it would be great to be wealthy, and me, trying to be funny, suggested that she could pimp out her wheelchair. That did it, forgetting the account, we went into a fifteen minute conversation talking about how great she could make her wheels, with platinum plating, sub-woofer speakers, bling. The works. It was the best bank-trip ever, and she's my new bff bank buddy. She spent the whole time giggling, and is the best bank person I've ever met, so I'm opening an account there.
Also, I did a shift in the pub last night..while almost crying with tiredness....fun.
-----
Yesterday was also a great day for me (tiredness and unemployment aside) because, the ever-cool Novelista Barista has given me an award. Ironically called the Coffee Cup Award I'm very honoured for the recognition and would like to thank NB for her words, she's very kind! Also, as a complete coffee addict, it's very gratifying to know that my future massive heart attack will be caused by something that I love so much.
Now, the porn thing. As part of my attempts to find work, I applied to loads of radio stations and voiceover companies; hoping against hope that someone would pluck me out of the ether and give me a prime-time breakfast slot. Well, they didn't. The only people who got back to me were a specialist fiction company.
Here's what happened :
(ps - by looking at the screen, I'm not trying to be intense or anything, the script is on screen at the time of recording)
So yeah, I've accidentally become a sex-worker. The pay's not atrociously bad, and I can dress like an unshaven bum but...here's the question...does that technically make me a form of hooker, or is it okay for me to do that and keep my head on high?? Responses please. Also, my laughably bad attempt to sound sexy is bound to return to haunt me at some point.
We'll see...
Anyway, I hope you're all well, what've y'all been up to?
x
As you may (or more like may not, and don't care) be aware. I have been unemployed now for about a month, after the whole boss-getting-me-drunk-and-cheating-money-off-me thing, and I've been a bit...bored. Well, as a tonic to that I went to the jobcentre in Kilburn yesterday to sign on (free money = ka-ching!) and start as a 'jobseeker'. I hadn't slept in like 30 hours when this happened, so yesterday was fun.
Now first of all, the whole dole thing is depressing. Very depressing. They ask you a million questions ("Now Mr D, when was the last time you shat on a toadstool" etc etc) that make you think about how broke you are, then they patronise the fuck out of you. ("Can you read? Oh, you can? Good for you") in a manner that clearly says "Well, I have a job, I'm better than you".
So, after three hours of that, I walked home, and decided to stop in the bank to open an account. The lady who I was dealing with was a beautiful Iranian lady called Shihraz, and she had a wheelchair. I didn't even notice this, as she was busy telling me about the Super Deluxe Multi Omni Hyper Gold-plate Account. I'm not sure how, but we began chatting about how it would be great to be wealthy, and me, trying to be funny, suggested that she could pimp out her wheelchair. That did it, forgetting the account, we went into a fifteen minute conversation talking about how great she could make her wheels, with platinum plating, sub-woofer speakers, bling. The works. It was the best bank-trip ever, and she's my new bff bank buddy. She spent the whole time giggling, and is the best bank person I've ever met, so I'm opening an account there.
Also, I did a shift in the pub last night..while almost crying with tiredness....fun.
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Yesterday was also a great day for me (tiredness and unemployment aside) because, the ever-cool Novelista Barista has given me an award. Ironically called the Coffee Cup Award I'm very honoured for the recognition and would like to thank NB for her words, she's very kind! Also, as a complete coffee addict, it's very gratifying to know that my future massive heart attack will be caused by something that I love so much.
Now, the porn thing. As part of my attempts to find work, I applied to loads of radio stations and voiceover companies; hoping against hope that someone would pluck me out of the ether and give me a prime-time breakfast slot. Well, they didn't. The only people who got back to me were a specialist fiction company.
Here's what happened :
(ps - by looking at the screen, I'm not trying to be intense or anything, the script is on screen at the time of recording)
So yeah, I've accidentally become a sex-worker. The pay's not atrociously bad, and I can dress like an unshaven bum but...here's the question...does that technically make me a form of hooker, or is it okay for me to do that and keep my head on high?? Responses please. Also, my laughably bad attempt to sound sexy is bound to return to haunt me at some point.
We'll see...
Anyway, I hope you're all well, what've y'all been up to?
x
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Why Irish Politicians are more fun than most other...
Okay, so as a nation, the Republic of Ireland is never going to be as internationally powerful as say, the US, or Britain, in any sense other than cultural or from an 'intellectual economy' point of view, thanks to the ridiculous amount of job stealing graduates....Thanks, modern Ireland!
Also, unlike the US and UK, which are (actually for the US, and in practice for the UK) two party nations; Ireland has a much wider variance in it's political spectrum, no doubt due to the proportionate representation method of election. While it is arguably more democratic, it inevitably leads to a mosaic of different parties, and thus, the political landscape becomes quite complex. The five main parties (Fianna Fáil, Fine Gael, The Green Party, Labour and Sinn Féin) and a number of independents make up the members of the two houses of the Oireachtas; the Dáil and the Seanad. What's more, the government (the Taoiseach -Prime Minister- etc) has traditionally been a coalition, as the votes of one individual party will rarely be enough to make a majority.
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As a result of these two facts, there are two consequences, which are both desireable and often problematic:
1) All the passion and vim that other nations have for international affairs gets compounded down to a national level. Issues like social welfare, healthcare and the Budget become political parodies of dystopic nuclear battlefields. The little things matter, and we'll let you know, dammit!
2) Because of the itty-bitty nature of representation, a largely differing political spectrum and the nature of the coalition government, things can get a little...bitchy. Everyone scrambling to say what they mean, and getting into petty squabbles in the wee hours.
So, when Deputy Paul Gogarty was debating a very small claus-ette to a very small article of a (very important, I'll admit) proposed Bill, he went into a bit of a strop when his sincerity was called into question, and...well....he may have overreacted...
Ooh er, well, okay. Calm down, man.
Apart from seeming like a seven year old who doesn't know how to return smack-talk to some neighbourhood youths, this is pretty funny stuff from the Deputy from Lucan.
Still, at least we're not as bad as the Bolivians....
Grrrrrrrrrrr, passion!
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What really annoys me about this video is the response from...yes, you've guessed it, facebook cunts. These oxygen thiefs were quick to comment when the video of Gogarty was posted:
These people are what is wrong with the country and with politics, not some Deputy who gets a little over excited and swears. These fucking bits of dead skin with nothing valid to add. Fuck me, I mean, I sorta respect the fact that he was passionate and reckless enough to take the risk and lose his temper. How many people are going to know about this man and listen to what he has to say from now on? Everyone.
Fucking Facebook parasites.
Anyway, my rant aside, this is why Irish Politicians are a little more fun than every other country (except Bolivia) If you excuse the manic glint in his eye, this guy is good...even if I don't agree with his politics
Also, unlike the US and UK, which are (actually for the US, and in practice for the UK) two party nations; Ireland has a much wider variance in it's political spectrum, no doubt due to the proportionate representation method of election. While it is arguably more democratic, it inevitably leads to a mosaic of different parties, and thus, the political landscape becomes quite complex. The five main parties (Fianna Fáil, Fine Gael, The Green Party, Labour and Sinn Féin) and a number of independents make up the members of the two houses of the Oireachtas; the Dáil and the Seanad. What's more, the government (the Taoiseach -Prime Minister- etc) has traditionally been a coalition, as the votes of one individual party will rarely be enough to make a majority.
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As a result of these two facts, there are two consequences, which are both desireable and often problematic:
1) All the passion and vim that other nations have for international affairs gets compounded down to a national level. Issues like social welfare, healthcare and the Budget become political parodies of dystopic nuclear battlefields. The little things matter, and we'll let you know, dammit!
2) Because of the itty-bitty nature of representation, a largely differing political spectrum and the nature of the coalition government, things can get a little...bitchy. Everyone scrambling to say what they mean, and getting into petty squabbles in the wee hours.
So, when Deputy Paul Gogarty was debating a very small claus-ette to a very small article of a (very important, I'll admit) proposed Bill, he went into a bit of a strop when his sincerity was called into question, and...well....he may have overreacted...
Ooh er, well, okay. Calm down, man.
Apart from seeming like a seven year old who doesn't know how to return smack-talk to some neighbourhood youths, this is pretty funny stuff from the Deputy from Lucan.
Still, at least we're not as bad as the Bolivians....
Grrrrrrrrrrr, passion!
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What really annoys me about this video is the response from...yes, you've guessed it, facebook cunts. These oxygen thiefs were quick to comment when the video of Gogarty was posted:
18 hours ago
Emily B
what a twat. you'd know he was a green.
17 hours ago
Aaron M.
He should have been booted through the front door.
13 hours ago
Amy D
sounds like something you'd hear in the pub- twat, i second that.
12 hours ago
Megan Mc L
12 hours ago
Megan Mc L
twat
6 hours ago
Jane McG
Whatta plonker! deV would be rolling around in his grave!
5 hours ago
Emma L
and we wonder why we're in the mess we're in...who the hell voted for this man!!
2 hours ago
These people are what is wrong with the country and with politics, not some Deputy who gets a little over excited and swears. These fucking bits of dead skin with nothing valid to add. Fuck me, I mean, I sorta respect the fact that he was passionate and reckless enough to take the risk and lose his temper. How many people are going to know about this man and listen to what he has to say from now on? Everyone.
Fucking Facebook parasites.
Anyway, my rant aside, this is why Irish Politicians are a little more fun than every other country (except Bolivia) If you excuse the manic glint in his eye, this guy is good...even if I don't agree with his politics
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Awards!!!
For the first time ever, I have some awards that I'd like to offer to those bloggers with whom I have developed a connection. This is a humane award, for people who embrace all aspects of what it is that makes us who we are.In July of this year, my uber-cool NY gal-pal, the Novelista Barista gave me one of these (thanks!!) and now it's time for me to pass on a few myself...
This is for those thoughtful, intelligent people whose blogs make me smile, give me pause for thought, stir up interesting debate, or are just completely honest. I am glad to have met you all, and look forward to more from you in 2010.
(Okay...drumroll.)
Nikki, who apart from being a new friend (and one of the only redeeming features of this year) is also an excellent funny blogger. Her FML quosts and her irrational love of tea and writing make for excellent reading.
Jay, whose thoughts (ranging from poetry and love to the zombie apocalypse) are as scattered as my own, but infinitely more interesting.
Shinay, a writer whose beautiful poetry gives me pause for thought every day.
Melanie, who, for a person who describes herself as 'lost', is a lot more clued-up than most other people and makes me ponder life, and
Mr Apron, whose blog is snarky, opinionated, stubborn, intelligent, and infinitely more commendable than 99% of all the blogs out there. He raises issues of debate, and is one of those enlightened individuals for whom identicality of opinion is not a precursor for friendship, but who values reason.
I've only given 5 out because I think it's better to be selective. There'll be lots more to follow I'm sure.
Congratulations guys, you really make blogging a joy for me.
Con
x
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive and the Law Degree
SO now, at last, I officially have some vague letters after my name, denoting my learnedness in law (*stifle laughter*). Ladies and Gentlemen, please say hello to Conor B. C. Darrall, LL.B.
Thank you.
The day was the longest in a long long time. I had to get up at 3.30 am in time to get ready and drive from Derry to Dublin. Then after 19 coffees, being dressed in wizard's robes (which felt simultaneously bitchin', thrash, gnarly and awesome to wear) organising photos and saying hi to friends, we were all led into a massive hall, spoken to in Latin for about an hour, then called up to receive ourcatskins sheepskins. Sparky (Mark) my flatmate was there, and he received the highest mark in the class, I am very proud of him. My folks were there, looking cool and everything, and after the ceremony we got to hang around and chat to each other, and catch up with friends we hadn't seen in a half-year.
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Then the boozing. Wine for breakfast...followed by a day of drinking cosmopolitans and whiskey...for almost 18 hours.
We went on a MONUMENTAL bender, drinking in a few bars until going clubbing (still tux'd) until about 5 or 6 when I stumbled back to my hotel to greet the night. I had to get up at 10 this morning to drive back to Derry with the parents. Needless to say, I'm still feeling quite rough...
I'd been convinced that I didn't miss Trinity, or Dublin, but being back yesterday really made me glad that I'd gone there and met the people and friends I've been lucky enough to know.
So, now I'm happy, and with things going well and having a great time with the someone who I've 'kinda sorta started seeing' (she's great; smart kind and beautiful, but I'm not going to talk about her here at the moment) it's really hard to be in a bad mood.
I'm flying back to London tomorrow, then I'm going to sleep for a month.
Here are a few wee photos of the day:
Maw, Paw and I
Home-Blondie, my best friend.
Me and Spark, the flatmate. Ever increasing the persistent rumours that we're a couple.
Very very drunk at 4am in Envy Nightclub, Dublin.
Oh also, with another friend of mine (Home-Blondie and Sparkie were with me when we lived in the USA for a year, as was --) Cíara, and other friends, we had tapas before we went out. Lady GeeGaw and I (and GG's boyf, Nick, who is a cool ginger guy with dreadlocks) made a video on Grafton Street for my blog, this blog.
They are awesome, such good sports.
My camera skills are not, but here we go:
Anyway, hope you're all well.
x
Con
(ps - interesting fact about Trinity College Dublin. Only women wear mortarboard caps on the day of their graduation, the reason being because it is supposedly symbolic of the degree being a 'cap on their education', meaning they could traditionally rise no higher than an undergraduate degree. Problem with this theory is that our class was 85% female, and of the 14 people who got First class honours degrees, the was only one male amongst them -Sparky...take that chauvinism!!)
Thank you.
The day was the longest in a long long time. I had to get up at 3.30 am in time to get ready and drive from Derry to Dublin. Then after 19 coffees, being dressed in wizard's robes (which felt simultaneously bitchin', thrash, gnarly and awesome to wear) organising photos and saying hi to friends, we were all led into a massive hall, spoken to in Latin for about an hour, then called up to receive our
----------
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--
-
Then the boozing. Wine for breakfast...followed by a day of drinking cosmopolitans and whiskey...for almost 18 hours.
We went on a MONUMENTAL bender, drinking in a few bars until going clubbing (still tux'd) until about 5 or 6 when I stumbled back to my hotel to greet the night. I had to get up at 10 this morning to drive back to Derry with the parents. Needless to say, I'm still feeling quite rough...
I'd been convinced that I didn't miss Trinity, or Dublin, but being back yesterday really made me glad that I'd gone there and met the people and friends I've been lucky enough to know.
So, now I'm happy, and with things going well and having a great time with the someone who I've 'kinda sorta started seeing' (she's great; smart kind and beautiful, but I'm not going to talk about her here at the moment) it's really hard to be in a bad mood.
I'm flying back to London tomorrow, then I'm going to sleep for a month.
Here are a few wee photos of the day:
Maw, Paw and I
Home-Blondie, my best friend.
Me and Spark, the flatmate. Ever increasing the persistent rumours that we're a couple.
Very very drunk at 4am in Envy Nightclub, Dublin.
Oh also, with another friend of mine (Home-Blondie and Sparkie were with me when we lived in the USA for a year, as was --) Cíara, and other friends, we had tapas before we went out. Lady GeeGaw and I (and GG's boyf, Nick, who is a cool ginger guy with dreadlocks) made a video on Grafton Street for my blog, this blog.
They are awesome, such good sports.
My camera skills are not, but here we go:
Anyway, hope you're all well.
x
Con
(ps - interesting fact about Trinity College Dublin. Only women wear mortarboard caps on the day of their graduation, the reason being because it is supposedly symbolic of the degree being a 'cap on their education', meaning they could traditionally rise no higher than an undergraduate degree. Problem with this theory is that our class was 85% female, and of the 14 people who got First class honours degrees, the was only one male amongst them -Sparky...take that chauvinism!!)
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Coffee Cup Giveaway...
My uber-cool galpal over at the Novelista Barista is having a giveaway!
Go leave a comment, and you could win some free cups!
x
Go leave a comment, and you could win some free cups!
x
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive and the Curse of the Hairy Man-Bra Part 2
So, yeah, I made a video right after accidentally shaving my chest...
I must warn you, I have paaaaaaale skin, so if there's any chance that the glare may damage your eyes, please put on some sunglasses and sun-lotion.
Also, yeah, my hair looks like Christopher Walken's.
So yeah, seriously...never have a razor in the bath when you're bored.
In other news, I've flown back to my parents' place, getting ready for graduation on Monday. I know it's a big solemn ceremony and we all have to act lawerly etc, but I just know that at some point I'm going to have to do a little sprint, just to feel my robes swoosh about. I'll be like a wizard.
"Arigh Harry?" I'll get one of my bigger, hairier friends to say.
"Hello Hagrid" I'll reply.
Then we'll laugh, and get drunk.
Oh, oh, also, I've been idiot baiting this week, seeing as it's frowned upon when you do it to bears. Some absolutely fucking feeble-minded lady-face (I shall dub her Bonkers McFucking-Idiot-who-overcompensates-for-her-dull-life-and-lack-of-imagination-by-loving-god-a-bit-too-much) has written this post about Twilight (the series of teen vampiric romance novels - don't worry if you haven't heard of them, they're quite obscure..) and how it is evil and a tool of the devil. She claims that the books possessed her and other completely logical things. Totally has nothing to do with the faint whiff of erotica that clearly was too much for her. Anyway, her family burned the books.
Bookburning's not really kosher with me.
Anyway, read the blog, actually read it from front to end, and try not to say 'what the fuck?' loudly as you go through.
Then the comments section...it's just...it's too much fun. Some guy called Pizza Devil keeps adding more and more silly comments, obviously having far too much fun haha. I think he might be a friend of Happy-go-fucking-lucky - perhaps.
(Ps - I totally have nothing against people with any sort of faith, it's something which I probably envy at some level. People are free to worship whatever they like, be it Yahweh, RPatz or East-German Olympic female shot put champion Margitta Gummel-Helmboldt, and there's no call to judge them for that...BUT...read the article, and the comments, and see for yourself.)
I must warn you, I have paaaaaaale skin, so if there's any chance that the glare may damage your eyes, please put on some sunglasses and sun-lotion.
Also, yeah, my hair looks like Christopher Walken's.
So yeah, seriously...never have a razor in the bath when you're bored.
In other news, I've flown back to my parents' place, getting ready for graduation on Monday. I know it's a big solemn ceremony and we all have to act lawerly etc, but I just know that at some point I'm going to have to do a little sprint, just to feel my robes swoosh about. I'll be like a wizard.
"Arigh Harry?" I'll get one of my bigger, hairier friends to say.
"Hello Hagrid" I'll reply.
Then we'll laugh, and get drunk.
Oh, oh, also, I've been idiot baiting this week, seeing as it's frowned upon when you do it to bears. Some absolutely fucking feeble-minded lady-face (I shall dub her Bonkers McFucking-Idiot-who-overcompensates-for-her-dull-life-and-lack-of-imagination-by-loving-god-a-bit-too-much) has written this post about Twilight (the series of teen vampiric romance novels - don't worry if you haven't heard of them, they're quite obscure..) and how it is evil and a tool of the devil. She claims that the books possessed her and other completely logical things. Totally has nothing to do with the faint whiff of erotica that clearly was too much for her. Anyway, her family burned the books.
Bookburning's not really kosher with me.
Anyway, read the blog, actually read it from front to end, and try not to say 'what the fuck?' loudly as you go through.
Then the comments section...it's just...it's too much fun. Some guy called Pizza Devil keeps adding more and more silly comments, obviously having far too much fun haha. I think he might be a friend of Happy-go-fucking-lucky - perhaps.
(Ps - I totally have nothing against people with any sort of faith, it's something which I probably envy at some level. People are free to worship whatever they like, be it Yahweh, RPatz or East-German Olympic female shot put champion Margitta Gummel-Helmboldt, and there's no call to judge them for that...BUT...read the article, and the comments, and see for yourself.)
Monday, November 30, 2009
Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive and the Curse of the Hairy Man-Bra
The Devil makes work...
Being the 70-year-old retired widow that I am, I’ve begun to have a bath a few days a week instead of a shower. Basically, I read in some important man’s magazine (like Elle or Cosmo orGaghappy Cumdumpster Cheerleaders something) that if you have trouble sleeping, you should have a bath.
Apparently, your body relaxes in the hour following a bath; your heartbeat slows, your blood pressure drops and you become sleepy. As I have pretty heavy-duty insomnia, I desperately try most old wives’ remedies and have started having a regular radox hour…plus, baths are fucking thrash!
(ps, when I say I’ve started having baths, I mean that I’ve started having a bath in lieu of my usual shower. I’ve not just learned how to clean myself or anything, it’s okay… also, when I say I try everything to sleep, that may or may not include using an lavender linen spray for my pillow – surely that’s worthy of a TMIT)
So tonight was no different. After my penultimate (37th) cup of tea of the day, I drew a ridiculously over-hot bath, brought in my laptop to listen to music (it sits on the toilet-I have a system, critics) and sang ‘I am what I am’ as the mirrors steamed up.
It. Was. Awesome.
Overheated Conor, listening to the Ricky Gervais podcast, drinking soda. Fucking bliss.
Anyway, there I was, listening away, soaking in the steaming water, and letting my mind wander when I realised that I was holding my razor. They say that ‘the Devil makes work for idle hands’, and that’s definitely true because, without realizing it, as I listened and chuckled away, I had sorta begun to shave my belly. Why? I have no idea, but for some reason I had subconsciously begun to shear my happy trail.
(happy trail = the little desire line of hair from a guy’s belly button to his man-candy)
“Okay, my right hand has, without recourse to conscious thought, begun the process of de-hairing my body. That’s a bit odd.” I thought, but I let it run.
Before long I was hooked. Maybe it’s a guy thing, but I can get absolutely obsessed with little simple things. Give me a tap and an empty bottle, and I can spend ages refilling and emptying it, like I was a six year old doing science. Within ten minutes, the Trail was gone, and the area where well-toned people have abs (what I call my ‘Guinness Baby’) was hairless, pale and looking somewhat forlorn.
I panicked. WTF? Grown-ups don’t do this do they? They don’t experiment with shaving themselves. I mean, all guys do it to some extent when they’re drunk, giving themselves handlebar moustaches and falling asleep to wake and realise they look like daft pricks, but I was sober. Perhaps the hours and hours of free time I have, the empty hours of insomnia and the listless days of unemployment, those 165 free hours a week have gotten to me? I mean, instead of working on writing, or practicing music, here I was…shaving my belly in the bath. What if my Mother called tomorrow?
[‘Hello Con?’
‘Hi Mum!’
‘How’s the job hunt going?’
‘Not the best Mum, it’s harder to find work than I thought’
‘Oh well, just keep at it..’
‘Okay, I will’
‘So, how are you spending your days, are you volunteering? Studying? Writing?’
‘No, Mum, I spend my days waiting for free internet and eating cherry bakewell tart then I buy the paper, have a bath, and shave my torso’
‘Oh, good lad, we’re so proud son.’
‘Thanks mum, I do try.’]
So I had a bald pink belly…what next?
Even as the thought manifested itself, my hand had begun to inch up my sternum (is that the word? Maybe thorax?) and was shaving shapes and patterns into the trail of hair leading to my tits.
So far so cool.
Before long, I had a white belly, a pink sternum and a sorta man-boob bra, made of hair.
Single file,ladies…single file. No pushing, please.
Anyway, by that stage I was legitimately fucked. Seriously. How could I ever risk anyone, anywhere, ever seeing the hair-bra? Not that I imagine I’ll ever be taking my top off (despite the obvious sex-appeal of the hair-bra) but on the off chance of one of the following two potential scenarios happening:
1) Being caught in a nuclear explosion and in the millisecond between the shockwave from the blast ripping my clothes off and my skin catching on fire, someone seeing the wispy, underwired home for my bosom, distinctive only because of the Casper whiteness of the rest of my torso. Even a nuclear holocaust deserves to be as non-socially-awkward as possible, right?
And,
2) A horse eating my shirt because, as I suspect, horses have a vendetta for something I did when I was young but can’t remember.
The hair-bra had to go.
Now, the razor was (as all guys out there will understand) near the end of the several-shave razor cycle; that very finite, but unwritten, time period during which a razor blade will go from Gillette to ruthless Guillotine, from multi-blade face-smoothation system to bona fide nipple remover. Anyway, it was fucking awful. It was pain dot com forwardslash holy fuck forward slash ouch.
I had my chest waxed for charity last year. There wasn’t a helluva lot to remove I’ll admit, but the process was made bearable and fun by the fact that I was being toughish in public, and that it was for cancer research (and also because it was in the ‘nice’ spectrum of pain, like when I got my tattoo or used to get punched in boxing, that I’ll admit to actually liking – btw, no, I’m not a perv, you know what I mean). After the waxing, I had gone home to shave the remaining wax tears out of my chest and wash off the fake tan that the girl had rubbed over me (we really know how to raise money for charity the fun way in Ireland!)
This bath shave required a steel jaw, it was like strolling merrily towards the German trenches during the Somme. Dragging an ever-blunter razor across my chest and willing the hair to disappear, all the while waiting for that little slice that meant that I had cut off a nipple, and trying desperately not to clog the little balde-ettes with hair or dead skin. At the very least, it was a fucking great way to exfoliate…by removing a layer of skin.
So now, I sit, at 3 am, having just recorded a video. I’m trying to sleep but my belly and chest feel wrong. My only consolation is this: I’ve maybe potentially kinda sorta started seeing someone, and she’s great. I really don’t ever want to take my top off for at least two months now because of the pale stubbly itchy blotchy meringue of a mess that it will be, so I think I might as well strap the chastity belt on til February. I'll take it slowly, and hope to Christ that no horses come anywhere near me.
So yeah, tomorrow/today is Monday, and I’ve GOT to find work, and maybe hide the razor when I’m in the bath. Otherwise, who knows…maybe next time I’ll end up with Venus ‘oh baby you’ve got it’ silky legs, or a DIY bris.
Being the 70-year-old retired widow that I am, I’ve begun to have a bath a few days a week instead of a shower. Basically, I read in some important man’s magazine (like Elle or Cosmo or
Apparently, your body relaxes in the hour following a bath; your heartbeat slows, your blood pressure drops and you become sleepy. As I have pretty heavy-duty insomnia, I desperately try most old wives’ remedies and have started having a regular radox hour…plus, baths are fucking thrash!
(ps, when I say I’ve started having baths, I mean that I’ve started having a bath in lieu of my usual shower. I’ve not just learned how to clean myself or anything, it’s okay… also, when I say I try everything to sleep, that may or may not include using an lavender linen spray for my pillow – surely that’s worthy of a TMIT)
So tonight was no different. After my penultimate (37th) cup of tea of the day, I drew a ridiculously over-hot bath, brought in my laptop to listen to music (it sits on the toilet-I have a system, critics) and sang ‘I am what I am’ as the mirrors steamed up.
It. Was. Awesome.
Overheated Conor, listening to the Ricky Gervais podcast, drinking soda. Fucking bliss.
Anyway, there I was, listening away, soaking in the steaming water, and letting my mind wander when I realised that I was holding my razor. They say that ‘the Devil makes work for idle hands’, and that’s definitely true because, without realizing it, as I listened and chuckled away, I had sorta begun to shave my belly. Why? I have no idea, but for some reason I had subconsciously begun to shear my happy trail.
(happy trail = the little desire line of hair from a guy’s belly button to his man-candy)
“Okay, my right hand has, without recourse to conscious thought, begun the process of de-hairing my body. That’s a bit odd.” I thought, but I let it run.
Before long I was hooked. Maybe it’s a guy thing, but I can get absolutely obsessed with little simple things. Give me a tap and an empty bottle, and I can spend ages refilling and emptying it, like I was a six year old doing science. Within ten minutes, the Trail was gone, and the area where well-toned people have abs (what I call my ‘Guinness Baby’) was hairless, pale and looking somewhat forlorn.
I panicked. WTF? Grown-ups don’t do this do they? They don’t experiment with shaving themselves. I mean, all guys do it to some extent when they’re drunk, giving themselves handlebar moustaches and falling asleep to wake and realise they look like daft pricks, but I was sober. Perhaps the hours and hours of free time I have, the empty hours of insomnia and the listless days of unemployment, those 165 free hours a week have gotten to me? I mean, instead of working on writing, or practicing music, here I was…shaving my belly in the bath. What if my Mother called tomorrow?
[‘Hello Con?’
‘Hi Mum!’
‘How’s the job hunt going?’
‘Not the best Mum, it’s harder to find work than I thought’
‘Oh well, just keep at it..’
‘Okay, I will’
‘So, how are you spending your days, are you volunteering? Studying? Writing?’
‘No, Mum, I spend my days waiting for free internet and eating cherry bakewell tart then I buy the paper, have a bath, and shave my torso’
‘Oh, good lad, we’re so proud son.’
‘Thanks mum, I do try.’]
So I had a bald pink belly…what next?
Even as the thought manifested itself, my hand had begun to inch up my sternum (is that the word? Maybe thorax?) and was shaving shapes and patterns into the trail of hair leading to my tits.
So far so cool.
Before long, I had a white belly, a pink sternum and a sorta man-boob bra, made of hair.
Single file,ladies…single file. No pushing, please.
Anyway, by that stage I was legitimately fucked. Seriously. How could I ever risk anyone, anywhere, ever seeing the hair-bra? Not that I imagine I’ll ever be taking my top off (despite the obvious sex-appeal of the hair-bra) but on the off chance of one of the following two potential scenarios happening:
1) Being caught in a nuclear explosion and in the millisecond between the shockwave from the blast ripping my clothes off and my skin catching on fire, someone seeing the wispy, underwired home for my bosom, distinctive only because of the Casper whiteness of the rest of my torso. Even a nuclear holocaust deserves to be as non-socially-awkward as possible, right?
And,
2) A horse eating my shirt because, as I suspect, horses have a vendetta for something I did when I was young but can’t remember.
The hair-bra had to go.
Now, the razor was (as all guys out there will understand) near the end of the several-shave razor cycle; that very finite, but unwritten, time period during which a razor blade will go from Gillette to ruthless Guillotine, from multi-blade face-smoothation system to bona fide nipple remover. Anyway, it was fucking awful. It was pain dot com forwardslash holy fuck forward slash ouch.
I had my chest waxed for charity last year. There wasn’t a helluva lot to remove I’ll admit, but the process was made bearable and fun by the fact that I was being toughish in public, and that it was for cancer research (and also because it was in the ‘nice’ spectrum of pain, like when I got my tattoo or used to get punched in boxing, that I’ll admit to actually liking – btw, no, I’m not a perv, you know what I mean). After the waxing, I had gone home to shave the remaining wax tears out of my chest and wash off the fake tan that the girl had rubbed over me (we really know how to raise money for charity the fun way in Ireland!)
This bath shave required a steel jaw, it was like strolling merrily towards the German trenches during the Somme. Dragging an ever-blunter razor across my chest and willing the hair to disappear, all the while waiting for that little slice that meant that I had cut off a nipple, and trying desperately not to clog the little balde-ettes with hair or dead skin. At the very least, it was a fucking great way to exfoliate…by removing a layer of skin.
So now, I sit, at 3 am, having just recorded a video. I’m trying to sleep but my belly and chest feel wrong. My only consolation is this: I’ve maybe potentially kinda sorta started seeing someone, and she’s great. I really don’t ever want to take my top off for at least two months now because of the pale stubbly itchy blotchy meringue of a mess that it will be, so I think I might as well strap the chastity belt on til February. I'll take it slowly, and hope to Christ that no horses come anywhere near me.
So yeah, tomorrow/today is Monday, and I’ve GOT to find work, and maybe hide the razor when I’m in the bath. Otherwise, who knows…maybe next time I’ll end up with Venus ‘oh baby you’ve got it’ silky legs, or a DIY bris.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
To all my friends in the U.S.....
Happy Thanksgiving, Yankees (and Dixies)!
Hope you have a helluva Turkey Day, and that all you gorge yourselves on the meat of slain fowl.
Now, what are all thankful for? (and don't say porn)
x
Con
Hope you have a helluva Turkey Day, and that all you gorge yourselves on the meat of slain fowl.
Now, what are all thankful for? (and don't say porn)
x
Con
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive and the Facebook JobApp Smile
So my friend John from school is a prospective lawyer like me, but I haven't seen him since I was 18, apart from chatting to him once on the phone to make plans for a meeting in a pub that inevitably didn't happen.
Thanks to the glories of Facebook however, we're both able to somewhat keep up to date, occasionally making fleeting contact on status updates, with the odd wall post, and by the overly-gratuitous invitation of ultimately meaningless applications that we both sorta hate ourselves for sending.
As I've talked about before, FB can sometimes throw up a rare gem, a myriad times more amazing than '__________ is totally all about the weekend woot! lololo xxx babeeeeezzzzz'
The other day (very late at night), I came perilously close to fulfilling one of my 101 things to do, by getting into a two-inches-between-the-face blazing argument with a racist. This task (#39 of 101- punch a racist in the kisser) is the only one which could ever prevent me from becoming a lawyer (cos legal chaps in Britain/Ireland cannot ever have a crim-rec) but which I believe I'll have to only talk about in the abstract if ever if happens.......
Anyway, he voted for the BNP, and we spent a few hours yelling. It was about 5am, and I was at a lock-in the bar I used to work in (and occasionally still do). The landlady: Senorina Menopause sat nervously as a skinny drunk arrogant young prick with a long coat(me) yelled into the equally shouty face of a skinny drunk arrogant middle-aged prick with dyed red hair (Mr BNP) about politics. We were within a kittens hiccup of exchanging blows when a one-armed man asked loudly whether men could get thrush. That sorta diffused the situation, as it's hard to throw a punch when you're laughing so hard you feel you might vomit.
I drunkenly returned to my house, found some free wifi, watched a nature documentary on insects, and cried at the beauty of butterflies. Then I emailed a friend to tell them I loved them and passed out.
Sometime during that drunken haze I updated my status on Facebook. It was awful, a self-aggrandising, arrogant warning to all my friends. When I woke, I had to change it.
My new status says: 'I just simultaneously filled in 13 applications to recruitment agencies, if I get no responses I'm gonna go postal with the molotovs...' was a venting of my frustration.
John, said something of glory
'the Dear John letter has been replaced by the ignored applications of recruiters,'
thus making me smile, as the truth, humour and comfort of his words were welcome.
Now, I like facebook. I think that for someone like me who, up until a few months ago travelled around a lot, it's important to have a forum to keep in touch with my displaced friends and family. Most of the content on it is awful, vacuous and inane, but sometimes...and I mean once in a blue moon, people can say things to make you smile.
As ever, I pose a questions to the three people who read my blog...
What facebook posts, status updates or comments have lodged in your memory and
-----
----
---
--
-
duh duh duuuuuuuuuuh....
why?
x
Con
Thanks to the glories of Facebook however, we're both able to somewhat keep up to date, occasionally making fleeting contact on status updates, with the odd wall post, and by the overly-gratuitous invitation of ultimately meaningless applications that we both sorta hate ourselves for sending.
As I've talked about before, FB can sometimes throw up a rare gem, a myriad times more amazing than '__________ is totally all about the weekend woot! lololo xxx babeeeeezzzzz'
The other day (very late at night), I came perilously close to fulfilling one of my 101 things to do, by getting into a two-inches-between-the-face blazing argument with a racist. This task (#39 of 101- punch a racist in the kisser) is the only one which could ever prevent me from becoming a lawyer (cos legal chaps in Britain/Ireland cannot ever have a crim-rec) but which I believe I'll have to only talk about in the abstract if ever if happens.......
Anyway, he voted for the BNP, and we spent a few hours yelling. It was about 5am, and I was at a lock-in the bar I used to work in (and occasionally still do). The landlady: Senorina Menopause sat nervously as a skinny drunk arrogant young prick with a long coat(me) yelled into the equally shouty face of a skinny drunk arrogant middle-aged prick with dyed red hair (Mr BNP) about politics. We were within a kittens hiccup of exchanging blows when a one-armed man asked loudly whether men could get thrush. That sorta diffused the situation, as it's hard to throw a punch when you're laughing so hard you feel you might vomit.
I drunkenly returned to my house, found some free wifi, watched a nature documentary on insects, and cried at the beauty of butterflies. Then I emailed a friend to tell them I loved them and passed out.
Sometime during that drunken haze I updated my status on Facebook. It was awful, a self-aggrandising, arrogant warning to all my friends. When I woke, I had to change it.
My new status says: 'I just simultaneously filled in 13 applications to recruitment agencies, if I get no responses I'm gonna go postal with the molotovs...' was a venting of my frustration.
John, said something of glory
'the Dear John letter has been replaced by the ignored applications of recruiters,'
thus making me smile, as the truth, humour and comfort of his words were welcome.
Now, I like facebook. I think that for someone like me who, up until a few months ago travelled around a lot, it's important to have a forum to keep in touch with my displaced friends and family. Most of the content on it is awful, vacuous and inane, but sometimes...and I mean once in a blue moon, people can say things to make you smile.
As ever, I pose a questions to the three people who read my blog...
What facebook posts, status updates or comments have lodged in your memory and
-----
----
---
--
-
duh duh duuuuuuuuuuh....
why?
x
Con
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
101 Update.
Aloha,
Just a quick update. In my unemployed state, I have still managed to finish three more of my 101 Things to Do. Huzzah!
No. 11: Submit a completed script for review by a production company.
No. 41: Begin, and maintain a letter-writing correspondence with GO'M and J-AS.
No. 64: Find a ‘local’ in London that does a good Guinness and a good pint of bitter.
Completed 5/101
Slow and steady etc etc...
Just a quick update. In my unemployed state, I have still managed to finish three more of my 101 Things to Do. Huzzah!
No. 11: Submit a completed script for review by a production company.
No. 41: Begin, and maintain a letter-writing correspondence with GO'M and J-AS.
No. 64: Find a ‘local’ in London that does a good Guinness and a good pint of bitter.
Completed 5/101
Slow and steady etc etc...
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Quost with Lassie
Aloha,
I thought I'd post with Lasairfhiona, so y'all could get introduced...
I thought I'd post with Lasairfhiona, so y'all could get introduced...
(this is quite late, and I was very tired, hence the manic glint in my eye)
Enjoy.
x
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Lasairfhíona, my one true love.
Okay, so I've made it abundantly clear in some of my posts that I'm a single gentleman. More than just single, I have to be honest and admit that the longest relationship I've ever been in is about 3 months. Wow, I'm clearly a successful boyfriend. Single file, ladies, single file, no pushing in the queue...
Despite that confession, I've been fairly obsessed since I was 11 and I fell in love when I was 18 and have been in a committed relationship since I was 18. Her name is Lasairfhíona, the flame of the wine. To tell her story, I have to tell the story of a man called Séamus O'Kane.
When I was nearly 12, I went to the Frankie Kennedy winter school in the Ionad Cois Locha and met Seamus O'Kane, who introduced me to one of my obsessions - the bodhrán.
A bit about Seamus: He's a tough sonamabitch (having lived through illness for years and triumphed) who revolutionised how the bodhrán was made and played in Irish traditional music. His drums are played by the most successful players in the world, and they are generally considered to be the best of the best of drums. Imagine the reputation that Stradivarius has for stringed instruments. In the smaller, more intimate and expanding world of Irish trad, a Seamus O'Kane bodhrán has that reputation. His website is here, and you can see a documentary that was made about him for Irish television. He is a humble, incredibly talented man, and his reputation is such that it is a surprise for people who meet him to learn that he is so down-to-earth. The videos on his site hardly do justive to the hypnotic, compelling nature of his playing. The word which I would use to describe him as a musician is mealltach. Being a Gaelgeoir, I've always know this word to roughly mean 'enticing', something that draws you in. The trendy kids now use this word as synonymous with 'sexy' so I'll have to abandon that. Anyway, he's the best, and as a 12 year old, to see him playing, eyes closed, as if head and hand where not connected, I was blown away.
(Actually, if you watch the youtube video on his site, the programme has him travelling to Inis Oírr for the bodhrán festival. I am very briefly in those scenes in the pub and at the summit, but it was YEARS ago, maybe 5 or 6, so I'm rather young)
I had received a bodhrán for Christmas (I usually just call it a drum) a beginner's drum that I christened Áine. When I had my first lesson with Séamus (in a 19th century cottage in the mountains at the Ionad Cois Locha) he took the drum, which was overly taut because of the the roaring fire and trudged outside. Grabbing a handful of snow, he rubbed the inside of the skin with it, and then taped the outside of the rim to reduce too much dissonance. He taught me how to play and after a week, I had it. Over the next few years, I began to play more and more, and by the time I was 17, I had bought a new drum (Clár) , had attended a few more of his Winter classes, and was playing in national competitions. Séamus and I had met many times since then at sessions, and he would always make a big deal out of seating me right in the circle, beside world-renowned players, so that I could get my confidence up and learn how to play live. His reputation is such that he can seat a skinny little git like me (when I was even underage in the pub) and the other players would oblige him by letting me play. It still happens to this day, when I get the odd chance to play, that some of those same players will let me join in, thanks to his help when I was younger.
Anyway, that summer, when I was 17, he went to the bodhrán festival (where the documentary was made) and we spent a lot of time together. Other people played his drum, and it was amazing to see how many excellent players where using his drums. I had been bugging him for years to make me a drum, or to let me buy one off him, but he always deftly avoided the question and changed the subject. There was a singer at one of the all-night sessions once, a woman called Lasairfhíona Ní Chonaola (who also went to TCD) was there. The festival, in Inis Oírr (an island so small there are no police) consists of classes, then real learning in one of three pubs. Lasairfhíona is a seán-nós singer (the 'old style') and an incredibly beautiful vocalist, she sang this song, at 4am, the lot of us drunk and exhausted, a strange magic of timelessness surrounding us:
I was 17, and I instantly fell in love with her voice.
A few months later, when it was coming up to my 18th birthday, my father told me we were going for a drive. We drove about half and hour out of Derry, into the hills, and came to a house. Séamous came out to greet us, and brought us into the workshop in the videos. He had three drums laying on a benchtop, and told me to play them. It felt like an interview with Mr Ollivander, and as I sampled the three exquisite drums, I was practically shaking. They were all excellent, but the middle drum felt right. I'm not religious or very spiritual, but it felt comfortable and welcoming to the touch, and I fell in love. When my Dad asked him how much it would cost, Séamus just shook his head, unconcerned.
You see, he hadn't thought I was ready. That's why he made me wait, and he was right. It was a gift to me, and it was priceless. When it came to naming her, I didn't really have a choice, I wanted a drum that could sing, and having found one, she became Lasairfhíona.
Since then, Lassie and I have been through the wars together. She's come with me from Ireland to Spain, France (when I was still a chinless wonder, the outfit is a bit weird, not my idea), the Czech Republic and the US. We've played with orchestras and in shacks, for presidents and for the homeless, and she's always been perfect. Sadly, at Uni, I didn't play as much as I should and sometimes I neglected her somewhat.
Now, I have started to play more, and this summer I had one of my first professional gigs. This is me and Lassie back stage rehearsing for the play that I helped do the music for. Since then I've made plans to form a band and do some touring during the summer. Last night, I played my first session in months and felt exhilirated. It was excellent fun. Walking home, the pounding rain soaking me to the skin in seconds, I laughed my head off like a lunatic, remembering how many times we'd walked home together in the wee hours, and how I was the one who was ageing and changing. I haven't felt so alive in what seems like years, and even though I had a hangover today and I went to sleep with wet hair, I can't help but smile at the thought of the thousands of times that I've tottered home, Lassie safely by my side in the darkness.
She's still as beautiful and perfect as the first day I got her, I'm incredibly lucky.
-----
----
---
--
-
People aside, what are your true loves?
Despite that confession, I've been fairly obsessed since I was 11 and I fell in love when I was 18 and have been in a committed relationship since I was 18. Her name is Lasairfhíona, the flame of the wine. To tell her story, I have to tell the story of a man called Séamus O'Kane.
When I was nearly 12, I went to the Frankie Kennedy winter school in the Ionad Cois Locha and met Seamus O'Kane, who introduced me to one of my obsessions - the bodhrán.
A bit about Seamus: He's a tough sonamabitch (having lived through illness for years and triumphed) who revolutionised how the bodhrán was made and played in Irish traditional music. His drums are played by the most successful players in the world, and they are generally considered to be the best of the best of drums. Imagine the reputation that Stradivarius has for stringed instruments. In the smaller, more intimate and expanding world of Irish trad, a Seamus O'Kane bodhrán has that reputation. His website is here, and you can see a documentary that was made about him for Irish television. He is a humble, incredibly talented man, and his reputation is such that it is a surprise for people who meet him to learn that he is so down-to-earth. The videos on his site hardly do justive to the hypnotic, compelling nature of his playing. The word which I would use to describe him as a musician is mealltach. Being a Gaelgeoir, I've always know this word to roughly mean 'enticing', something that draws you in. The trendy kids now use this word as synonymous with 'sexy' so I'll have to abandon that. Anyway, he's the best, and as a 12 year old, to see him playing, eyes closed, as if head and hand where not connected, I was blown away.
(Actually, if you watch the youtube video on his site, the programme has him travelling to Inis Oírr for the bodhrán festival. I am very briefly in those scenes in the pub and at the summit, but it was YEARS ago, maybe 5 or 6, so I'm rather young)
I had received a bodhrán for Christmas (I usually just call it a drum) a beginner's drum that I christened Áine. When I had my first lesson with Séamus (in a 19th century cottage in the mountains at the Ionad Cois Locha) he took the drum, which was overly taut because of the the roaring fire and trudged outside. Grabbing a handful of snow, he rubbed the inside of the skin with it, and then taped the outside of the rim to reduce too much dissonance. He taught me how to play and after a week, I had it. Over the next few years, I began to play more and more, and by the time I was 17, I had bought a new drum (Clár) , had attended a few more of his Winter classes, and was playing in national competitions. Séamus and I had met many times since then at sessions, and he would always make a big deal out of seating me right in the circle, beside world-renowned players, so that I could get my confidence up and learn how to play live. His reputation is such that he can seat a skinny little git like me (when I was even underage in the pub) and the other players would oblige him by letting me play. It still happens to this day, when I get the odd chance to play, that some of those same players will let me join in, thanks to his help when I was younger.
Anyway, that summer, when I was 17, he went to the bodhrán festival (where the documentary was made) and we spent a lot of time together. Other people played his drum, and it was amazing to see how many excellent players where using his drums. I had been bugging him for years to make me a drum, or to let me buy one off him, but he always deftly avoided the question and changed the subject. There was a singer at one of the all-night sessions once, a woman called Lasairfhíona Ní Chonaola (who also went to TCD) was there. The festival, in Inis Oírr (an island so small there are no police) consists of classes, then real learning in one of three pubs. Lasairfhíona is a seán-nós singer (the 'old style') and an incredibly beautiful vocalist, she sang this song, at 4am, the lot of us drunk and exhausted, a strange magic of timelessness surrounding us:
I was 17, and I instantly fell in love with her voice.
A few months later, when it was coming up to my 18th birthday, my father told me we were going for a drive. We drove about half and hour out of Derry, into the hills, and came to a house. Séamous came out to greet us, and brought us into the workshop in the videos. He had three drums laying on a benchtop, and told me to play them. It felt like an interview with Mr Ollivander, and as I sampled the three exquisite drums, I was practically shaking. They were all excellent, but the middle drum felt right. I'm not religious or very spiritual, but it felt comfortable and welcoming to the touch, and I fell in love. When my Dad asked him how much it would cost, Séamus just shook his head, unconcerned.
You see, he hadn't thought I was ready. That's why he made me wait, and he was right. It was a gift to me, and it was priceless. When it came to naming her, I didn't really have a choice, I wanted a drum that could sing, and having found one, she became Lasairfhíona.
Since then, Lassie and I have been through the wars together. She's come with me from Ireland to Spain, France (when I was still a chinless wonder, the outfit is a bit weird, not my idea), the Czech Republic and the US. We've played with orchestras and in shacks, for presidents and for the homeless, and she's always been perfect. Sadly, at Uni, I didn't play as much as I should and sometimes I neglected her somewhat.
Now, I have started to play more, and this summer I had one of my first professional gigs. This is me and Lassie back stage rehearsing for the play that I helped do the music for. Since then I've made plans to form a band and do some touring during the summer. Last night, I played my first session in months and felt exhilirated. It was excellent fun. Walking home, the pounding rain soaking me to the skin in seconds, I laughed my head off like a lunatic, remembering how many times we'd walked home together in the wee hours, and how I was the one who was ageing and changing. I haven't felt so alive in what seems like years, and even though I had a hangover today and I went to sleep with wet hair, I can't help but smile at the thought of the thousands of times that I've tottered home, Lassie safely by my side in the darkness.
She's still as beautiful and perfect as the first day I got her, I'm incredibly lucky.
-----
----
---
--
-
People aside, what are your true loves?
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive and the Chink in the Armour
Yeah, I can totally sell as many of these as the Harry Potter books. Here's some sample titles
-Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive and the Cloak of Positivity
-Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive and the Cancelled Credit Card
-Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive and the Revenge of the Moving Stair
-Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive and the Raging Tertiary Syphillis
-Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive and the Balding Hobbit Pervert
NY Times Bestseller List here I fucking come! Oh, and the raging tertiary syphillis thing is a joke. I'm clean....ladies.
Well today's been a hard one for old Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive and his cloak of positivity, the chink in the armour being that sometimes it's just a wee bit too hard to be so fucking cheery all the time. The job front is, like the Western front, as desireable to walk in as a pair of Crocs made of acid and rusty nails. Yep, unemployment is still being a houseguest who doesn't understand that he's overstayed his welcome and doesn't seem to be in any rush to take the hint.
Apart from that though, today was okay. I panicked a bit about not having booked my flights home for graduation (December 7th) or for Christmas (December 25th) and also about the usual big three (money/career/love life) but I had the radio on in the kitchen and that cheered me up. I also had a ridiculously long bath and listened to Lark Ascending by Ralph Vaughn Williams, which calmed me down a bit. Lovely piece (forgive the cheesy video, just turn off your screen and listen to it)
Now, I'm still a bit down, and it's raining outside, a fierce gale blowing in accompaniment. So, keeping true to the promise of Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive, I'm going to go out an walk in the rain for a bit - something that always cheers me up.
Ciaooooooo
xx
-Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive and the Cloak of Positivity
-Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive and the Cancelled Credit Card
-Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive and the Revenge of the Moving Stair
-Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive and the Raging Tertiary Syphillis
-Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive and the Balding Hobbit Pervert
NY Times Bestseller List here I fucking come! Oh, and the raging tertiary syphillis thing is a joke. I'm clean....ladies.
Well today's been a hard one for old Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive and his cloak of positivity, the chink in the armour being that sometimes it's just a wee bit too hard to be so fucking cheery all the time. The job front is, like the Western front, as desireable to walk in as a pair of Crocs made of acid and rusty nails. Yep, unemployment is still being a houseguest who doesn't understand that he's overstayed his welcome and doesn't seem to be in any rush to take the hint.
Apart from that though, today was okay. I panicked a bit about not having booked my flights home for graduation (December 7th) or for Christmas (December 25th) and also about the usual big three (money/career/love life) but I had the radio on in the kitchen and that cheered me up. I also had a ridiculously long bath and listened to Lark Ascending by Ralph Vaughn Williams, which calmed me down a bit. Lovely piece (forgive the cheesy video, just turn off your screen and listen to it)
Now, I'm still a bit down, and it's raining outside, a fierce gale blowing in accompaniment. So, keeping true to the promise of Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive, I'm going to go out an walk in the rain for a bit - something that always cheers me up.
Ciaooooooo
xx
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Venting My Spleen on a Bald Hobbit or Why I’m Currently Unemployed
Okay, so I know that this week is Mr Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive Week here in the Uberflat, but something has recently been building in stress terms for some time, and it finally Krakatoa’d last night. I think that it’s because I’ve been making myself be in a good mood that this event happened and I’m actually very cheerful!
Background:
Recently, I was working in a rather grim office, a modelling agency in Farringdon in central London. I recently quit and am now unemployed. Here’s why:
When I learned that I was going to be working all day with models in chixy (a mixture of chic and sexy) Farringdon, I was agreeable to the prospect of employment, and my happiness was compounded when I arrived at work to be greeted by a flock of statuesque eye-poppers all waiting nonchalantly in the stylish and airy reception area, made-up and dressed provocatively.
‘Yes,’ I thought ‘this is a good job’.
Then a side door opened and a little bald hobbit scruffled up to me, putting out his hand, and introduced himself as Neel, my new boss. He led my through the side-door and down some steps, to the basement (or the dungeons) where the admin team worked. With each step my heart sank, as I knew that the absolutely impractical nature of the models’ heels, erection-inspiring though they may be were unlikely to ever try and pick their way downstairs for a pow-wow with us shitheels.
The ‘office’ was a 15x20’ sweatbox with no windows and sweat’n’breath covered red paint over the walls. I was shown to my (tbh lovely) chair and desk and given six sheets of paper, all of which were lists of names, phone-numbers, emails address and post-codes.
“Bit creepy, but let’s just roll with it.” I thought.
My job was not exactly as secretarial or administrative as I’d thought. I had to call every number on the list and read from a script
“Hi, is that _______? Hi, _____, my name is Conor and I’m calling you from XXXXXX Studios here in Farringdon in Central London. How are you today?
Good to hear (chuckle)
Well, the reason that I’m calling is that we recently ran a huge promotion online in conjunction with ______, _________ and __________ .com and you clicked on one of our online banners indicating that you might be interested in coming in for a complimentary VIP make-over and fashion photoshoot, do you remember?
You do? Oh good, well, I’m very pleased to announce...”
You get the idea. I had to seduce the person on the other line before telling them the terms and conditions, and had to try and convince them to give me their credit card details.
About 15 minutes into the first day, I had a moment of clarity and thought “Hey, wait a minute, this isn’t a secretary job....this is fucking TELESALES!”
Now, if truth be told, I wasn’t very good at it. I could never really muster the enthusiasm to try and make my pitch when I was calling people at midday with ‘Loose Women’ on in the background and a screaming child beside them. Most of the people I called couldn’t afford the (refundable) deposit, and some were downright hostile, which I can understand. I was encouraged to ‘make friends’ with the customer. The only problem being that I don’t usually try to fuck my friends right in the financial arsehole within seconds of making their acquaintance...it’s just not kosher is it?
I did have some lovely phonecalls, chatting to genuinely fascinating people. Some people I flirted with, some people I was frankly intimidated by (always women incidentally, male callers are usually cool) and others were just lonely and eager for a chat.
What made the job unbearable was the athmosphere on my side of the line. As I’ve said, the room was (lovely chair and iMac aside) less-than-perfect. The Bald Hobbit was used to warm weather, as was the rest of the staff. Being Irish, anything above 0.5 degrees C is considered frankly tropical, and so I spent most of my working day sweating like a priest in a primary school. Moreover, in an attempt for the customer to hear how cool and happening we were, there was always some blaring Ministry of Sound Ibiza dance track playing in the background (which although kinda cool, eventually became irksome). The combination of thumping beats, high caffiene, booking targets (which had to be reached) and the heat made the room into some hysterical down-ward plummeting carnival.
More than anything though...the boss. Neel the fucking Bald Hobbit. This guy is about 20 cms high and still thinks he’s hard as nails. He would smile and be really happy, then start shouting abuse at you. He once came over to me, and standing about an inch from my face started to yell. I just sat there politely bemused by this tanked-up little shit screaming about targets, trying desperately not to laugh.
Anyway, Neel spends/spent most of his time fighting with his girlfriend A---- who sat beside me. Oh btw, he’s 38 and she’s 22. Ew. He would take us all out after work (there were a staff of 4, all girls apart from me, none older than 23) and try to fit in with the youth. He told me on the first night he thought I was his ‘brother’ and that he loved me. He spent half the time yelling at A---- and the rest telling me and my friend Bouf (her name is Shona, but is a ‘BOUF’ apparently and a really great friend from Klburn) anecdotes about how well connected he was before attempting (and failing) to get us into every nightclub.
Now, whilst drunk one night he borrowed some money off me, and that’s were the trouble started. Apparently Neel has had a LOT of ‘bad luck’ the past while and needed a sub til payday. Me being drunk gave him some. This being a time when I was INCREDIBLY drunk.
This occurred a few times until it came to be that he owed me a good ole whack of cash. He chatted to me one day and told me, over a beer, that he had been in jail and that he was making a new life with his girlf and that he would get the bosses of the studio to pay me directly on payday. I told him he was okay to wait a few days to get his head together, and (rather hypocritically) suggested he cut-down on the booze.
Yesterday:
I left my job soon after that. Neel’s oppressive “You’re my best pal and I love/Make some fucking bookings” swings got the better of me and I walked out mid conversation. I told him some lie about the Firm only wanting me to have a legal-based job, but that was a crock of it.
Anyway, he’s been promising to give me my money back, and always having a problem. The cheque didn’t clear. His pay hadn’t come through. He needed more time. Then, he promised me that he’d meet me on Friday. That turned into Sunday, which turned into yesterday evening (Monday 9th November 2009) Then I got a text yesterday. His new boss handed him a cheque to cahs, he had no money on him til tomorrow. Could he see me then.
Now, ever since my Waterloo Fail, I’ve been a bit strapped for cash. As my new ATM card has yet to reach my folks’ place in Derry, it’ll be a few days til I have access to cash, and I can’t exactly sponge off Spark (my flatmate) for the rest of my life.
I fucking exploded. I text him telling him what a pathetic SOB he was, how I was gonna call the Firm if he didn’t pay me back in 24 hours. He phoned, calling me ‘Buddy’. I spent about 15 minutes flat out shouting at him down the phone, and by the end he sounded on the verge of tears. In retrospect, I should be guilty for losing my temper, but to be honest it was great. I love exploding every so often and I think that it was perfectly warranted in this situation. Not everyday do I have the opportunity to make a 38 year old man cry, less often the opportunity to feel justified.
So now, Tuesday 10th of November Anno Domini 2009, I’m walking to my local tube station to pick up an envelope. I got a call from Neel today, all smiles and ‘Buddy’ talk, but maybe it’s time for a Neelectomy. In one hour I’m walking to meet him, then I’m going to my local to use the wifi and drink (soda water) and blog. I’ll let you know how it goes.
---
--
-
20:40
Okay so it turns out he was reliable this time. Brought the money and the apology and knew that I was still furious with him. Somehow he knew that I knew that he had been drinking every night that he owed me the money and somehow he didn't really feel like having too much of an argument about how his 'hands had been tied'. I got the money and strode off into the night, coat flapping and trying hard not to a) swagger or b) feel guilty.
Either way, I'm glad that it's over and that I'll now be able to move on, a wee touch wiser.
THINGS I'VE LEARNED: Never lend money to someone. Ever. Unless you trust them, and especially not when you're drunk.
Oh, despite this post I’ve been very positive today and had some good leads for jobs. Hope you’ve all had a good one !
x
Background:
Recently, I was working in a rather grim office, a modelling agency in Farringdon in central London. I recently quit and am now unemployed. Here’s why:
When I learned that I was going to be working all day with models in chixy (a mixture of chic and sexy) Farringdon, I was agreeable to the prospect of employment, and my happiness was compounded when I arrived at work to be greeted by a flock of statuesque eye-poppers all waiting nonchalantly in the stylish and airy reception area, made-up and dressed provocatively.
‘Yes,’ I thought ‘this is a good job’.
Then a side door opened and a little bald hobbit scruffled up to me, putting out his hand, and introduced himself as Neel, my new boss. He led my through the side-door and down some steps, to the basement (or the dungeons) where the admin team worked. With each step my heart sank, as I knew that the absolutely impractical nature of the models’ heels, erection-inspiring though they may be were unlikely to ever try and pick their way downstairs for a pow-wow with us shitheels.
The ‘office’ was a 15x20’ sweatbox with no windows and sweat’n’breath covered red paint over the walls. I was shown to my (tbh lovely) chair and desk and given six sheets of paper, all of which were lists of names, phone-numbers, emails address and post-codes.
“Bit creepy, but let’s just roll with it.” I thought.
My job was not exactly as secretarial or administrative as I’d thought. I had to call every number on the list and read from a script
“Hi, is that _______? Hi, _____, my name is Conor and I’m calling you from XXXXXX Studios here in Farringdon in Central London. How are you today?
Good to hear (chuckle)
Well, the reason that I’m calling is that we recently ran a huge promotion online in conjunction with ______, _________ and __________ .com and you clicked on one of our online banners indicating that you might be interested in coming in for a complimentary VIP make-over and fashion photoshoot, do you remember?
You do? Oh good, well, I’m very pleased to announce...”
You get the idea. I had to seduce the person on the other line before telling them the terms and conditions, and had to try and convince them to give me their credit card details.
About 15 minutes into the first day, I had a moment of clarity and thought “Hey, wait a minute, this isn’t a secretary job....this is fucking TELESALES!”
Now, if truth be told, I wasn’t very good at it. I could never really muster the enthusiasm to try and make my pitch when I was calling people at midday with ‘Loose Women’ on in the background and a screaming child beside them. Most of the people I called couldn’t afford the (refundable) deposit, and some were downright hostile, which I can understand. I was encouraged to ‘make friends’ with the customer. The only problem being that I don’t usually try to fuck my friends right in the financial arsehole within seconds of making their acquaintance...it’s just not kosher is it?
I did have some lovely phonecalls, chatting to genuinely fascinating people. Some people I flirted with, some people I was frankly intimidated by (always women incidentally, male callers are usually cool) and others were just lonely and eager for a chat.
What made the job unbearable was the athmosphere on my side of the line. As I’ve said, the room was (lovely chair and iMac aside) less-than-perfect. The Bald Hobbit was used to warm weather, as was the rest of the staff. Being Irish, anything above 0.5 degrees C is considered frankly tropical, and so I spent most of my working day sweating like a priest in a primary school. Moreover, in an attempt for the customer to hear how cool and happening we were, there was always some blaring Ministry of Sound Ibiza dance track playing in the background (which although kinda cool, eventually became irksome). The combination of thumping beats, high caffiene, booking targets (which had to be reached) and the heat made the room into some hysterical down-ward plummeting carnival.
More than anything though...the boss. Neel the fucking Bald Hobbit. This guy is about 20 cms high and still thinks he’s hard as nails. He would smile and be really happy, then start shouting abuse at you. He once came over to me, and standing about an inch from my face started to yell. I just sat there politely bemused by this tanked-up little shit screaming about targets, trying desperately not to laugh.
Anyway, Neel spends/spent most of his time fighting with his girlfriend A---- who sat beside me. Oh btw, he’s 38 and she’s 22. Ew. He would take us all out after work (there were a staff of 4, all girls apart from me, none older than 23) and try to fit in with the youth. He told me on the first night he thought I was his ‘brother’ and that he loved me. He spent half the time yelling at A---- and the rest telling me and my friend Bouf (her name is Shona, but is a ‘BOUF’ apparently and a really great friend from Klburn) anecdotes about how well connected he was before attempting (and failing) to get us into every nightclub.
Now, whilst drunk one night he borrowed some money off me, and that’s were the trouble started. Apparently Neel has had a LOT of ‘bad luck’ the past while and needed a sub til payday. Me being drunk gave him some. This being a time when I was INCREDIBLY drunk.
This occurred a few times until it came to be that he owed me a good ole whack of cash. He chatted to me one day and told me, over a beer, that he had been in jail and that he was making a new life with his girlf and that he would get the bosses of the studio to pay me directly on payday. I told him he was okay to wait a few days to get his head together, and (rather hypocritically) suggested he cut-down on the booze.
Yesterday:
I left my job soon after that. Neel’s oppressive “You’re my best pal and I love/Make some fucking bookings” swings got the better of me and I walked out mid conversation. I told him some lie about the Firm only wanting me to have a legal-based job, but that was a crock of it.
Anyway, he’s been promising to give me my money back, and always having a problem. The cheque didn’t clear. His pay hadn’t come through. He needed more time. Then, he promised me that he’d meet me on Friday. That turned into Sunday, which turned into yesterday evening (Monday 9th November 2009) Then I got a text yesterday. His new boss handed him a cheque to cahs, he had no money on him til tomorrow. Could he see me then.
Now, ever since my Waterloo Fail, I’ve been a bit strapped for cash. As my new ATM card has yet to reach my folks’ place in Derry, it’ll be a few days til I have access to cash, and I can’t exactly sponge off Spark (my flatmate) for the rest of my life.
I fucking exploded. I text him telling him what a pathetic SOB he was, how I was gonna call the Firm if he didn’t pay me back in 24 hours. He phoned, calling me ‘Buddy’. I spent about 15 minutes flat out shouting at him down the phone, and by the end he sounded on the verge of tears. In retrospect, I should be guilty for losing my temper, but to be honest it was great. I love exploding every so often and I think that it was perfectly warranted in this situation. Not everyday do I have the opportunity to make a 38 year old man cry, less often the opportunity to feel justified.
So now, Tuesday 10th of November Anno Domini 2009, I’m walking to my local tube station to pick up an envelope. I got a call from Neel today, all smiles and ‘Buddy’ talk, but maybe it’s time for a Neelectomy. In one hour I’m walking to meet him, then I’m going to my local to use the wifi and drink (soda water) and blog. I’ll let you know how it goes.
---
--
-
20:40
Okay so it turns out he was reliable this time. Brought the money and the apology and knew that I was still furious with him. Somehow he knew that I knew that he had been drinking every night that he owed me the money and somehow he didn't really feel like having too much of an argument about how his 'hands had been tied'. I got the money and strode off into the night, coat flapping and trying hard not to a) swagger or b) feel guilty.
Either way, I'm glad that it's over and that I'll now be able to move on, a wee touch wiser.
THINGS I'VE LEARNED: Never lend money to someone. Ever. Unless you trust them, and especially not when you're drunk.
Oh, despite this post I’ve been very positive today and had some good leads for jobs. Hope you’ve all had a good one !
x
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Positivity!!
Okay, so I've made a few wee resolutions about this week
Basically, I've been looking over my posts from the past while and they've all been a bit...well, whiney. Whingeing and moaning is fun, but I've been rather self-indulgent with it, and should maybe man up a little and repress those little (and large) negative feelings down, only allowing them to re-emerge in later life as a massive stroke or a shooting spree with an automatic weapon.
So from now on, well, for this week anyway, I'm going to be known as Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive, my new name for the week starting Monday 9th of November. I'm going to make a physical effort to smile, to be happy and to make light of stressful situations.When something bad happens (like falling down an escalator and losing my wallet, or being mugged by a flock of pigeons or something) I'll laugh it off, it's all going to be a massively hilarious joke.
I'm also going to see if I can refrain from drinking and smoking for the week. I probably have had more than enough chemicals in my body for the last couple of months for my liver to have earned a week's respite. If I manage to get a job and actually seem to have kept it by Friday, then I'll reward myself with a pint, but not before that.
I've been watching The Thick of It quite a lot recently, and have to admit that I massively admire Malcolm Tucker; the absolutely apoplectic Scottish 'Enforcer to the PM' who goes around telling the entire political world what a cunt they are. Other than being a huge fan of Peter Capaldi thanks to the amazing 'Local Hero', I think that he's one of the greatest comic creations in the last decade, and defintely Armando Iannucci's greatest since Alan Partridge. I'm going to be like him for the week; infallible, but slightly less crazy-angry.
So, to begin the week, I've got a really random quote from a conversation I had earlier today. I was chatting to a friend (with whom I had gotten apocalyptically drunk with on Hallowe'en) who had laughed at my 'Waterloo Fail' story and invited me to a party. She had mentions it before and this was my response:
"What, the farmyard theatre with the he-she stripper and the dwarf pole dancer who spits piss at people?"
So yeah, I didn't go, but that sentence reminds me that life is bizarre and potentially amazing, even if it's just to sit back and wonder who wants to have dwarf-piss spat at them.
Maybe the week will answer the question...who knows?
Have a good 'un :)
ps - Actually I do know, at no point this week will I have any interaction with dwarf piss. If my internet arrives, as it should do on the 12th, I will celebrate by watching a dwarf-piss porn vid, or maybe by just pretending to watch it while closing my eyes tightly and trying to remember the contents of section 2 of the Irish Non-Fatal Offences Against the Person Act.
Basically, I've been looking over my posts from the past while and they've all been a bit...well, whiney. Whingeing and moaning is fun, but I've been rather self-indulgent with it, and should maybe man up a little and repress those little (and large) negative feelings down, only allowing them to re-emerge in later life as a massive stroke or a shooting spree with an automatic weapon.
So from now on, well, for this week anyway, I'm going to be known as Happy-go-fucking-lucky McPositive, my new name for the week starting Monday 9th of November. I'm going to make a physical effort to smile, to be happy and to make light of stressful situations.When something bad happens (like falling down an escalator and losing my wallet, or being mugged by a flock of pigeons or something) I'll laugh it off, it's all going to be a massively hilarious joke.
I'm also going to see if I can refrain from drinking and smoking for the week. I probably have had more than enough chemicals in my body for the last couple of months for my liver to have earned a week's respite. If I manage to get a job and actually seem to have kept it by Friday, then I'll reward myself with a pint, but not before that.
I've been watching The Thick of It quite a lot recently, and have to admit that I massively admire Malcolm Tucker; the absolutely apoplectic Scottish 'Enforcer to the PM' who goes around telling the entire political world what a cunt they are. Other than being a huge fan of Peter Capaldi thanks to the amazing 'Local Hero', I think that he's one of the greatest comic creations in the last decade, and defintely Armando Iannucci's greatest since Alan Partridge. I'm going to be like him for the week; infallible, but slightly less crazy-angry.
So, to begin the week, I've got a really random quote from a conversation I had earlier today. I was chatting to a friend (with whom I had gotten apocalyptically drunk with on Hallowe'en) who had laughed at my 'Waterloo Fail' story and invited me to a party. She had mentions it before and this was my response:
"What, the farmyard theatre with the he-she stripper and the dwarf pole dancer who spits piss at people?"
So yeah, I didn't go, but that sentence reminds me that life is bizarre and potentially amazing, even if it's just to sit back and wonder who wants to have dwarf-piss spat at them.
Maybe the week will answer the question...who knows?
Have a good 'un :)
ps - Actually I do know, at no point this week will I have any interaction with dwarf piss. If my internet arrives, as it should do on the 12th, I will celebrate by watching a dwarf-piss porn vid, or maybe by just pretending to watch it while closing my eyes tightly and trying to remember the contents of section 2 of the Irish Non-Fatal Offences Against the Person Act.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Smiling Again
Okay, so more bad stuff happened, but it's so funny that I've been chuckling about it for a while, and it's put things in perspective and made me happy.
So yesterday, I was in Waterloo Station, just from a meeting with the future co-lawyers. I went down the escalator and, somewhat merry and listening to King Crimson's epic In the Wake of Poseidon (another example of their genius) I was not really paying attention.
This song is obviously amazing. When I, being far too involved in the sheer awesomeness of the song, suddenly found myself tumbling down the bottom of the escalator, it was most sincerely not amazing. I've been a semi-professional walkist since about the age of 2 (is that what age kids learn to walk??) but for some reason my calf muscle in the right leg just spasmed and suddenly I was doing the tumble-dryer act in front of what seemed like half of London.
Then in my suddenly leg-pain/pride-pain scramble to get upright (which failed because of my continually cramping calf-muscle) a flock of pretty ladies walked past, and a busker stopped playing. I tried to laugh it off, but shaking harder than a paint mixer, it wasn't very convincing.
Anyway, I found my way home without either crying or laughing too loudly, and went to the burger-joint by the top of my street. Feeling that a half-pound of dead cow-flesh would cheer me up, I reached for my wallet in my inside pocket and...nope, it wasn't there.
So, apart from falling like a dick and making a tool of myself, I also lost my wallet. Nice one.
Today though, when I woke up, I was greeted with a mad feeling of hilarity. Every time I think of what happened I burst out laughing. I was chatting to my mum and we had a giggle about it.
So I'm sitting now, without a wallet, a girlfriend, a job or legs that aren't killing me, and for some reason I'm unexpectedly bouyant and happy. Life is strange no?
Maybe I hit my head haha.
:)
So yesterday, I was in Waterloo Station, just from a meeting with the future co-lawyers. I went down the escalator and, somewhat merry and listening to King Crimson's epic In the Wake of Poseidon (another example of their genius) I was not really paying attention.
This song is obviously amazing. When I, being far too involved in the sheer awesomeness of the song, suddenly found myself tumbling down the bottom of the escalator, it was most sincerely not amazing. I've been a semi-professional walkist since about the age of 2 (is that what age kids learn to walk??) but for some reason my calf muscle in the right leg just spasmed and suddenly I was doing the tumble-dryer act in front of what seemed like half of London.
Then in my suddenly leg-pain/pride-pain scramble to get upright (which failed because of my continually cramping calf-muscle) a flock of pretty ladies walked past, and a busker stopped playing. I tried to laugh it off, but shaking harder than a paint mixer, it wasn't very convincing.
Anyway, I found my way home without either crying or laughing too loudly, and went to the burger-joint by the top of my street. Feeling that a half-pound of dead cow-flesh would cheer me up, I reached for my wallet in my inside pocket and...nope, it wasn't there.
So, apart from falling like a dick and making a tool of myself, I also lost my wallet. Nice one.
Today though, when I woke up, I was greeted with a mad feeling of hilarity. Every time I think of what happened I burst out laughing. I was chatting to my mum and we had a giggle about it.
So I'm sitting now, without a wallet, a girlfriend, a job or legs that aren't killing me, and for some reason I'm unexpectedly bouyant and happy. Life is strange no?
Maybe I hit my head haha.
:)
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Down in the Dumps
Holy Shit!
Okay, so usually a little bit of being down and self-pitying is okay, but this week has been ridiculous. I guess it has something to do with the fact that I left my job AND I'm totally broke. I've been looking for proper work all week, and have yet to have any success. Perhaps the funniest moment was hearing that I was OVER qualified to work in one office. What? Overqualified? WTF?
I'm trying everything I can think of not to have to go back to the barwork, because it really depresses me. Apart from becoming a big ole prostitute, I'm sort of at a loss as to what else I can do. The 60 CVs I printed last week are almost done, and I'm no nearer to having an interim law-ish job than I am being voted Milf of the Month.
Fucking hell.
How are you all?
x
Okay, so usually a little bit of being down and self-pitying is okay, but this week has been ridiculous. I guess it has something to do with the fact that I left my job AND I'm totally broke. I've been looking for proper work all week, and have yet to have any success. Perhaps the funniest moment was hearing that I was OVER qualified to work in one office. What? Overqualified? WTF?
I'm trying everything I can think of not to have to go back to the barwork, because it really depresses me. Apart from becoming a big ole prostitute, I'm sort of at a loss as to what else I can do. The 60 CVs I printed last week are almost done, and I'm no nearer to having an interim law-ish job than I am being voted Milf of the Month.
Fucking hell.
How are you all?
x
Monday, November 2, 2009
What I did last night
Just a short note from an internet cafe about what happened last night.
-i woke up with a hangover
-stumbled around the house looking for the bathroom and had to sit in the shower cos my legs felt like they were going to shatter like sugar-glass
-went into town to meet my amazing friend TV-Girl (not her real name) and her mates
-spent 2 hours on the Underground because of line closures
-arrived at the pub (2.30pm)
-had a glass of Coke and chatted to TV-Girl and her cool friend, Indian-Guy.
-had a pint of Guinness
-had another pint of Guinness
-scene deleted
-scene deleted
-TV-G's boyfriend arrives
-we drink Guinness.
-TV-G and Boyf leave
-Indian Guy and I drink Guinness - turns out he works in special effects.
-Indian Guy and I discuss geopolitics, we decide that by the time we're 75 years old India and China will be the Kings of the World because China makes goods and India 'makes people'. Europe will guide and the East will drive. South America will be a huge force under Brazil and North America will lose its 'I'm in charge' attitude. We both like Obama.
-I decide that Cuba will become a one of the more significant countries. 'The Switzerland of the Caribbean' (me circa 8.30pm)
-CuteTherapist Lady and her 'date' sit beside us at the table
-Indian-guy and I instantly start flirting with her, we discuss a ring she's wearing, her grandmother, Judaism in the UK and Vienna 1928.
-'Date' (who looks like an Asian Severus Snape) leaves in a huff, turns out he's a film-maker, but a massive bell-end who sponges off people. We all toast his departure.
-We drink Guinness
-CTL, IG and I discuss death, mortality, Catholicism, psychoanalysis, psychotherapy, Karma, religion and literature.
-CTL, IG and I drink Guinness (we seem to have forgotten that before this we'd never met)
-Turns out both CTL and I both went to Trinity and both speak French. She displays surprise that I'm only 22 and she's a bit older. We speak French some more.
-CTL, IG and I practice psychotherapy on a drunk woman, it works.
-CTL's friend, Kennedy (actually his name) arrives, he is too cool for school. He wears blue spectacles.
-CTL, IG, Kennedy and I talk about death and music. We show each other our tattoos.
-CTL likes that I have a tattoo of a Yew tree on my arm, tells me she has planned to get a tatoo of a yew on her arm. I offer to share the design.
-The bar closes.
-CTL (who is part-Irish and interested in trad music) exchanges numbers and goes on with Kennedy. Tells me to ring her.
-IG and I find another, later bar.
-CTL and Blue Specs show up too. We laugh at this.
-We drink Guinness.
-I dance the Twist with a 60 year old lady.
-Blue Specs gives me a title for my script (Masquerade) which I like.
-We go out to smoke and chat to old gangsters.
-We come in and CTL does the Twist with a 60 year old lady.
-CTL and I go out for a smoke and chat about life. She is definitely not Blue Specs' girlf (thanks to my subtle question of 'Is he your boyfriend then?' and her response of 'No.' We beging to dance in the street. Then we kiss. It's very nice.
-I go back inside and find IG almost passed out, he decides it's time to go home.
-Blue Specs and CTL leave, she kisses me and tells me to call her.
-I stay and drink until the bar closes, it is 2.30 am.
-It takes me hours to get home by bus.
-I can't find any change but the bus driver lets me on anyway because he doesn't want to break a note. We talk about prog-rock.
-I take the street chariot home in style.
-I try to grant a wish for the driver (not in a sexual way, I think more in a Genie/Casting a Spell way)
-The driver laughs and stops right at the top of my street.
-I stumble home listening to King Crimson.
-I watch 'The Good The Bad and the Ugly' until I fall asleep at 5.
Today I woke up and I'm afraid. Also got a text from CTL. She's really cool, but I think the age thing worries her, so I'm not sure if she really wants to go out.
So now, with rivulets of boozy sweat lashing off my back, I can only smile at what was a freaking amazing weekend. I've drunk too much, quit my job, met a few nice girls and made some new friends. Also Halloween happened. More to come on that.
I think I'm still a little drunk. Probably should leave the bank trip til tomorrow. I'm going to walk home and go back to bed.
Lots of love.
xx
-i woke up with a hangover
-stumbled around the house looking for the bathroom and had to sit in the shower cos my legs felt like they were going to shatter like sugar-glass
-went into town to meet my amazing friend TV-Girl (not her real name) and her mates
-spent 2 hours on the Underground because of line closures
-arrived at the pub (2.30pm)
-had a glass of Coke and chatted to TV-Girl and her cool friend, Indian-Guy.
-had a pint of Guinness
-had another pint of Guinness
-scene deleted
-scene deleted
-TV-G's boyfriend arrives
-we drink Guinness.
-TV-G and Boyf leave
-Indian Guy and I drink Guinness - turns out he works in special effects.
-Indian Guy and I discuss geopolitics, we decide that by the time we're 75 years old India and China will be the Kings of the World because China makes goods and India 'makes people'. Europe will guide and the East will drive. South America will be a huge force under Brazil and North America will lose its 'I'm in charge' attitude. We both like Obama.
-I decide that Cuba will become a one of the more significant countries. 'The Switzerland of the Caribbean' (me circa 8.30pm)
-CuteTherapist Lady and her 'date' sit beside us at the table
-Indian-guy and I instantly start flirting with her, we discuss a ring she's wearing, her grandmother, Judaism in the UK and Vienna 1928.
-'Date' (who looks like an Asian Severus Snape) leaves in a huff, turns out he's a film-maker, but a massive bell-end who sponges off people. We all toast his departure.
-We drink Guinness
-CTL, IG and I discuss death, mortality, Catholicism, psychoanalysis, psychotherapy, Karma, religion and literature.
-CTL, IG and I drink Guinness (we seem to have forgotten that before this we'd never met)
-Turns out both CTL and I both went to Trinity and both speak French. She displays surprise that I'm only 22 and she's a bit older. We speak French some more.
-CTL, IG and I practice psychotherapy on a drunk woman, it works.
-CTL's friend, Kennedy (actually his name) arrives, he is too cool for school. He wears blue spectacles.
-CTL, IG, Kennedy and I talk about death and music. We show each other our tattoos.
-CTL likes that I have a tattoo of a Yew tree on my arm, tells me she has planned to get a tatoo of a yew on her arm. I offer to share the design.
-The bar closes.
-CTL (who is part-Irish and interested in trad music) exchanges numbers and goes on with Kennedy. Tells me to ring her.
-IG and I find another, later bar.
-CTL and Blue Specs show up too. We laugh at this.
-We drink Guinness.
-I dance the Twist with a 60 year old lady.
-Blue Specs gives me a title for my script (Masquerade) which I like.
-We go out to smoke and chat to old gangsters.
-We come in and CTL does the Twist with a 60 year old lady.
-CTL and I go out for a smoke and chat about life. She is definitely not Blue Specs' girlf (thanks to my subtle question of 'Is he your boyfriend then?' and her response of 'No.' We beging to dance in the street. Then we kiss. It's very nice.
-I go back inside and find IG almost passed out, he decides it's time to go home.
-Blue Specs and CTL leave, she kisses me and tells me to call her.
-I stay and drink until the bar closes, it is 2.30 am.
-It takes me hours to get home by bus.
-I can't find any change but the bus driver lets me on anyway because he doesn't want to break a note. We talk about prog-rock.
-I take the street chariot home in style.
-I try to grant a wish for the driver (not in a sexual way, I think more in a Genie/Casting a Spell way)
-The driver laughs and stops right at the top of my street.
-I stumble home listening to King Crimson.
-I watch 'The Good The Bad and the Ugly' until I fall asleep at 5.
Today I woke up and I'm afraid. Also got a text from CTL. She's really cool, but I think the age thing worries her, so I'm not sure if she really wants to go out.
So now, with rivulets of boozy sweat lashing off my back, I can only smile at what was a freaking amazing weekend. I've drunk too much, quit my job, met a few nice girls and made some new friends. Also Halloween happened. More to come on that.
I think I'm still a little drunk. Probably should leave the bank trip til tomorrow. I'm going to walk home and go back to bed.
Lots of love.
xx
Friday, October 30, 2009
Announcing my Triumphant return to the Internet!! (sort of)
Greetings, strangers. Time for a big long blog-post. Following my bloma (blog coma - thanks SpankyLuvsIt!!) I have a lot of news...
Well, it was a bit hit-or-miss there as to whether or not I’d ever be allowed to return to the joys of the blogosphere, but yes, after much wrangling, internet caféing and free wifi-ing, the cool cats from TalkTalk Internet have come into the Über Flat, drilled a shitload of little holes, had some fibre-optic fun and viola, the miracle of (second) life continues.
Well, sorta. I’m still obliged to steal wifi from my neighbour, because, well, the hyper-efficient technicians won’t be ready til THE 12TH OF NOVEMBER to finish the job (!!!!!!) which is a rather poor show. Apparently it's thanks to the postal strike which is currently ravaging Britain. I don't really understand how slow letter delivery stops mewatching porn studying online.
So how the bally heck have I been? Well, thanks for asking Mum, but basically since I’ve moved to facking Landin my life has taken a turn for the hectic. I made the move, bad back and all, got settled, and lay on my bed, relishing the fact that I had an apartment. Being the crazy son-of-a-gun that I am, my flat-mate Sparky and I decided to have a ‘crazy housewarming party' a video from which I will put up soon :)
Then, London life began. To begin with, let me just inform you that my post-grad course takes up an oppressive six hours...every other Saturday. That’s right, I’m so hardcore my course can’t even be on a weekly basis. Using the power of mathematics that this means I (theoretically) have, on average, 165 hours free every week.
Things I’ve learned #1: Con + 165 hours of free time = Con the Weird Sociopathic Caveman.
For a week I lived a weird sorta-unemployed/sorta-kept man existence, tottering about, unshaven and feral, trying to capture urban foxes and rogue pigeons in my nocturnal haze. Too much time in a city where I really have very few friends meant that I was alone, with my thoughts, all the time. Not good.
I did actually go on a date (as mentioned below) with a lovely young lady who I drunkenly met on the bus (see story above) but after a rather eventful evening, she turned the gender table round and played the ‘That Bastard who never called me” card that I have previously played in my life, allowing Karma to amble up to me, laugh coldly, then kick me square in the bollocks.
Ugh, women are pigs.
Anyway, yeah, so I had tonnes of free time (I had so much free time, I weighed how much free time I had: 178.64 metric tonnes of time, to be precise) and had turned into nocturnal savage (or rather reverted to my truer, nocturnal savagey self) big deal. Sparky, with infinite patience took me to Ikea, and tried firmly to nail the final hetero man-love nail into our tiny gay coffin and I became a housewife. Now my house is filled with flat-pack furniture that all has a name. My desk is called Kistrud, the soft furnishings in the living room all have names like Scandanavian popstars and there was once a famous tennis star called Bjorn Borg.
So yeah, following the advice of the man-wife, the mother, several ex-girlfriends (who still ‘look out for me’) and my thrash NY gal-pal, the Novelista Barista, I decided to get a job.
Job #1: BARWORK
Okay, so I tended bar all through college. It’s a perfectly good job, and I'd never for one second look down my nose at anyone who decided to do it for a living. It’s pretty tough, and despite all the hype, it’s not glamourous in the slightest. On the plus side; there’s always work for a trained bartender, and the induction to a new job doesn’t tend to take longer than inspecting the beer cellar to see which pump system works with the kegs, and becoming acclimatised with the Cash Register. However, picking WHERE to work is often the most important thing. I’m Irish, and I live beside an area called Kilburn. 20 years ago that would have been the start of a joke, but now thankfully the area’s a little more diverse. The remaining Irish community are typically a little older, the majority in their 40’s-50’s, and I went to work in their pub.
Yep, not some trendy gastro-pub, or an understated favela, I choose one of the only proper Irish pubs in Kilburn; a dark, sordid grief hole that caters to the local expat community. Three things about the expat community in Kilburn:
1) They’re tough, very tough. Most of them came over as construction workers in the 60’s and 70’s and spent the years since working 15 hours days, drinking themselves blind and spending the rest of the time getting arrested by the charming not-at-all-anti-Irish constables of the Metropolitan Police during an era when the Irish in Britain were viewed the same way that ANYONE Arabic/Middle Eastern is viewed by the gun-toting chaps in US airport security – with deep suspicion. These expats are of a slightly more sturdy breed.
2) They drink. A lot. Most are what we would now call ‘functioning alcoholics’. I did a few of the not-at-all-depressing morning shifts, and for a while I was convinced that some of the customers were suffering from severe Parkinson’s disease, they shook so much. These same people would drink a few pints and after a while be as eloquent and witty as an Oscar Wilde/Charles Bukowski smoothie. Most of the punters would come in straight after work and sit, drinking with an assembly-belt efficiency before tottering home hours later.
3) They don’t like change. I was the youngest of the barstaff, a little sprat of a thing, and I was also a very obvious interloper. Being professionally not-very-tough and also coming as a graduate with a weird hybrid accent meant that I was very obviously not ‘one of the lads’. When people asked what I did, and I said either ‘Trainee Lawyer’ or ‘Writer’ I’d either be called a bastard or a queer, before getting a cuff on the shoulder and having something growled at me to the effect that I ‘was alright for a Northerner’.
Anyway, I liked working there, but the hours weren’t enough to financially sustain me and I kinda spent two weeks in the habit of drinking every day after work, which is something I’d rather avoid if I don’t want the old ‘drunken Irish’ stereotype thrown in with the rest. Also, in a bizarre twist, a man calling me a 'cunt' came in one day waving a saw around because I had apparently refused to serve him...live is made up of the little spontaneous moments though eh? The boss also was a bit unpredictable, a 51 year old hormone-grenade preoccupied with The Change. She’d either be incredibly sweet or yell at me for nothing at all (eg – shouting at me for the amount of overspill caused by too much pressure from the gas system. Seeing as I’m not really qualified to tamper with an elaborate underground gas system, I was at a bit of a loss to respond.). When I told her I was quitting, she sulked with me for 6 hours, then gave me a hug and told me I was welcome to drink there any time. Crazy Menopause.
Job #2 TELESALES.
Do you have a soul? Feel like it’s a little too much of a burden? Fancy having little pieces chipped away on a daily basis? Then you should try telesales. Ugh. I can’t even begin to tell you how much I enjoy spending 8 hours a day in an overheated underground office calling strangers, so to get paid for it is a treat.
---
--
-
Ps – unsurprisingly, I quit this job too. That’s right, yesterday I left the place, and I don’t ever think I’m likely to cold-call an unsuspecting member of the public to persuade them to do ____________.
So here I am, right back where started, a bum. I still have my soul though, and there’s a really cool girl I met recently at a party. We’ve texted a bit, and I’m gonna be loosey goosey and keep it cool.
So, how are y’all?
Ps – I know this is a helluva long post, but I’ve been away for too long . I’ve missed you so much, faceless void of hyperspace...let’s never spend so much time apart again, okay?
Well, it was a bit hit-or-miss there as to whether or not I’d ever be allowed to return to the joys of the blogosphere, but yes, after much wrangling, internet caféing and free wifi-ing, the cool cats from TalkTalk Internet have come into the Über Flat, drilled a shitload of little holes, had some fibre-optic fun and viola, the miracle of (second) life continues.
Well, sorta. I’m still obliged to steal wifi from my neighbour, because, well, the hyper-efficient technicians won’t be ready til THE 12TH OF NOVEMBER to finish the job (!!!!!!) which is a rather poor show. Apparently it's thanks to the postal strike which is currently ravaging Britain. I don't really understand how slow letter delivery stops me
So how the bally heck have I been? Well, thanks for asking Mum, but basically since I’ve moved to facking Landin my life has taken a turn for the hectic. I made the move, bad back and all, got settled, and lay on my bed, relishing the fact that I had an apartment. Being the crazy son-of-a-gun that I am, my flat-mate Sparky and I decided to have a ‘crazy housewarming party' a video from which I will put up soon :)
Then, London life began. To begin with, let me just inform you that my post-grad course takes up an oppressive six hours...every other Saturday. That’s right, I’m so hardcore my course can’t even be on a weekly basis. Using the power of mathematics that this means I (theoretically) have, on average, 165 hours free every week.
Things I’ve learned #1: Con + 165 hours of free time = Con the Weird Sociopathic Caveman.
For a week I lived a weird sorta-unemployed/sorta-kept man existence, tottering about, unshaven and feral, trying to capture urban foxes and rogue pigeons in my nocturnal haze. Too much time in a city where I really have very few friends meant that I was alone, with my thoughts, all the time. Not good.
I did actually go on a date (as mentioned below) with a lovely young lady who I drunkenly met on the bus (see story above) but after a rather eventful evening, she turned the gender table round and played the ‘That Bastard who never called me” card that I have previously played in my life, allowing Karma to amble up to me, laugh coldly, then kick me square in the bollocks.
Ugh, women are pigs.
Anyway, yeah, so I had tonnes of free time (I had so much free time, I weighed how much free time I had: 178.64 metric tonnes of time, to be precise) and had turned into nocturnal savage (or rather reverted to my truer, nocturnal savagey self) big deal. Sparky, with infinite patience took me to Ikea, and tried firmly to nail the final hetero man-love nail into our tiny gay coffin and I became a housewife. Now my house is filled with flat-pack furniture that all has a name. My desk is called Kistrud, the soft furnishings in the living room all have names like Scandanavian popstars and there was once a famous tennis star called Bjorn Borg.
So yeah, following the advice of the man-wife, the mother, several ex-girlfriends (who still ‘look out for me’) and my thrash NY gal-pal, the Novelista Barista, I decided to get a job.
Job #1: BARWORK
Okay, so I tended bar all through college. It’s a perfectly good job, and I'd never for one second look down my nose at anyone who decided to do it for a living. It’s pretty tough, and despite all the hype, it’s not glamourous in the slightest. On the plus side; there’s always work for a trained bartender, and the induction to a new job doesn’t tend to take longer than inspecting the beer cellar to see which pump system works with the kegs, and becoming acclimatised with the Cash Register. However, picking WHERE to work is often the most important thing. I’m Irish, and I live beside an area called Kilburn. 20 years ago that would have been the start of a joke, but now thankfully the area’s a little more diverse. The remaining Irish community are typically a little older, the majority in their 40’s-50’s, and I went to work in their pub.
Yep, not some trendy gastro-pub, or an understated favela, I choose one of the only proper Irish pubs in Kilburn; a dark, sordid grief hole that caters to the local expat community. Three things about the expat community in Kilburn:
1) They’re tough, very tough. Most of them came over as construction workers in the 60’s and 70’s and spent the years since working 15 hours days, drinking themselves blind and spending the rest of the time getting arrested by the charming not-at-all-anti-Irish constables of the Metropolitan Police during an era when the Irish in Britain were viewed the same way that ANYONE Arabic/Middle Eastern is viewed by the gun-toting chaps in US airport security – with deep suspicion. These expats are of a slightly more sturdy breed.
2) They drink. A lot. Most are what we would now call ‘functioning alcoholics’. I did a few of the not-at-all-depressing morning shifts, and for a while I was convinced that some of the customers were suffering from severe Parkinson’s disease, they shook so much. These same people would drink a few pints and after a while be as eloquent and witty as an Oscar Wilde/Charles Bukowski smoothie. Most of the punters would come in straight after work and sit, drinking with an assembly-belt efficiency before tottering home hours later.
3) They don’t like change. I was the youngest of the barstaff, a little sprat of a thing, and I was also a very obvious interloper. Being professionally not-very-tough and also coming as a graduate with a weird hybrid accent meant that I was very obviously not ‘one of the lads’. When people asked what I did, and I said either ‘Trainee Lawyer’ or ‘Writer’ I’d either be called a bastard or a queer, before getting a cuff on the shoulder and having something growled at me to the effect that I ‘was alright for a Northerner’.
Anyway, I liked working there, but the hours weren’t enough to financially sustain me and I kinda spent two weeks in the habit of drinking every day after work, which is something I’d rather avoid if I don’t want the old ‘drunken Irish’ stereotype thrown in with the rest. Also, in a bizarre twist, a man calling me a 'cunt' came in one day waving a saw around because I had apparently refused to serve him...live is made up of the little spontaneous moments though eh? The boss also was a bit unpredictable, a 51 year old hormone-grenade preoccupied with The Change. She’d either be incredibly sweet or yell at me for nothing at all (eg – shouting at me for the amount of overspill caused by too much pressure from the gas system. Seeing as I’m not really qualified to tamper with an elaborate underground gas system, I was at a bit of a loss to respond.). When I told her I was quitting, she sulked with me for 6 hours, then gave me a hug and told me I was welcome to drink there any time. Crazy Menopause.
Job #2 TELESALES.
Do you have a soul? Feel like it’s a little too much of a burden? Fancy having little pieces chipped away on a daily basis? Then you should try telesales. Ugh. I can’t even begin to tell you how much I enjoy spending 8 hours a day in an overheated underground office calling strangers, so to get paid for it is a treat.
---
--
-
Ps – unsurprisingly, I quit this job too. That’s right, yesterday I left the place, and I don’t ever think I’m likely to cold-call an unsuspecting member of the public to persuade them to do ____________.
So here I am, right back where started, a bum. I still have my soul though, and there’s a really cool girl I met recently at a party. We’ve texted a bit, and I’m gonna be loosey goosey and keep it cool.
So, how are y’all?
Ps – I know this is a helluva long post, but I’ve been away for too long . I’ve missed you so much, faceless void of hyperspace...let’s never spend so much time apart again, okay?
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Monday, October 5, 2009
Quost about London so far.
Yes, quost! My internet is so precarious that I barely have time to write full words, so they run into each other. This is a quick post.
So, the last time I blogged, I was a pathetic cripple. Now my back is all fine, and I have a lovely apartment. The only problem is that my internet is not yet set up and I have to rely on the unintentional altruism of 'homa', the only wifi that my computer can freely pick up on. Homa is only available from about 6pm - 9pm, so I wait, all day, eagerly trying not to refresh the useless Firefox startpage, counting down the seconds til I can productively procrastinate. Homa also does not allow me to upload photos or videos...so any 80's doing-up-the-house montages will have to wait til we're set with our own hub.
I've been job-hunting. Like flat-hunting, but with less self-esteem. So far, the only luck with the search has been for some really random ones. An example of the type of mental jobs that I only seem to be fit for:
-Lollipop man,
-Shop Assistant at a military surplus store.
-Doorman at an experimental theatre.
-Male escort (disn't really look into that one, just saw lots of ads...)
I was told that I couldn't be hired at one place (despite the ad saying 'Help Wanted') because I wasn't "a hot girl innit?" which was rather a blow to the old self-image.
Damn body fascists.
Anyway, tomorrow is another day, and I can go print off a million CV's and be a bloody job-hunt fairy.
As soon as I get the internet for true, I'll definitely put up some videos (or vlog posts, as the kids call them) for all to enjoy.
ps - I had a date last night. It went well. Possibly more to come.
So, the last time I blogged, I was a pathetic cripple. Now my back is all fine, and I have a lovely apartment. The only problem is that my internet is not yet set up and I have to rely on the unintentional altruism of 'homa', the only wifi that my computer can freely pick up on. Homa is only available from about 6pm - 9pm, so I wait, all day, eagerly trying not to refresh the useless Firefox startpage, counting down the seconds til I can productively procrastinate. Homa also does not allow me to upload photos or videos...so any 80's doing-up-the-house montages will have to wait til we're set with our own hub.
I've been job-hunting. Like flat-hunting, but with less self-esteem. So far, the only luck with the search has been for some really random ones. An example of the type of mental jobs that I only seem to be fit for:
-Lollipop man,
-Shop Assistant at a military surplus store.
-Doorman at an experimental theatre.
-Male escort (disn't really look into that one, just saw lots of ads...)
I was told that I couldn't be hired at one place (despite the ad saying 'Help Wanted') because I wasn't "a hot girl innit?" which was rather a blow to the old self-image.
Damn body fascists.
Anyway, tomorrow is another day, and I can go print off a million CV's and be a bloody job-hunt fairy.
As soon as I get the internet for true, I'll definitely put up some videos (or vlog posts, as the kids call them) for all to enjoy.
ps - I had a date last night. It went well. Possibly more to come.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Brokeback Luggage...bested by a sock!
Okay, no, before you ask, I haven't been having sex with my suitcase. Whilst my bags and I are good close friends and often go into the mountains at the weekend, I've never had a night-time fumble with any of them.
On the contrary, today I fucking hate my all my luggage. To paraphrase the great Popeye,
'I can't stands (it) no more!!"
As I've made it abundantly clear, the whole 'moving into the new flat' event is something that I'm rather looking forward to. I've spent so much of the last four years moving about, that I've never had a chance to put down any roots. Although I've loved the slightly nomadic life I've led, it has been a bit hard to have any longterm relationships as there's always been a very finite amount of time that I'd been around. Now, I'll be living in London for at least five years, and have a chance to settle down an little bit. Call it some inkling of maturity, but a slightly slower pace will be welcome.
What I don't like, hate actually, and find frankly horrifying, is the process of packing. To paraphrase the great Perry Cox, I megaloathe it. First of all, clothes folding is tedious, and somehow I've failed to learn the male knack of packing light. No matter how cleverly I plan and scheme, or how deviously I try to fold and compress, I nearly always overpack.
This time was no exception.
My suitcase and rucksack weigh more than I do, and yep, right in the middle of packing, my back went. Not in the comical 'oh crumbs, I seem to have nonced my back' but rather in the 'oh crumbs, I think I'm dying' way.
How it happened: The room (which until my arrival at S&D's house had belonged to my little cousin, Mollie) resembled Dresden after the bombing, and I had to collect all the socks and clothes on the floor. I was just out of the shower, in a fetching 70's-avocado-esque towel and staring round the room at the work to be done.
My itunes on random, Venus in Furs was blaring and I set about nakedly picking up my socks. I bent over to fetch a particularly comfortable stocking and with a (shamelessly feminine) gasp of pain, the Lumbar God stabbed me in the back. Lou Reed singing about sado-masochism and me paralysed on the bed, forced to sit bolt upright, it was terrifying and hilarious in equal measures. There I was; beer-bellied, pale and still more-or-less in the buck, gasping with pain and trying my hardest not to laugh. A wall-length mirror gave me a nice view of my own suffering and it was very hard not to point and snigger at the skinny, pale victim: half-scarecrow, half-jellyfish who grimaced back at me.
It got almost hysterical. Several songs passed by and I literally had no idea what I was gonna do. I couldn't even shift my weight or raise my arms enough so that when I slipped off the edge of the bed and landed on the floor, seemingly in slow motion, it was with an almost obscene thud.
Okay, so finally I got up, managed to find some Western Medicine and manned up to the extent that I could get dressed, finish packing, shave (!!) and carry my stuff out to the car. I'm staying in my Nan's again, close to the train station, and I'm getting the 7.30 train in the morning.
So now, as I sit here, a cocoon of pillows around my lower back, I'm still excited about the move, but I'm less than eager to have to deal with the Tube and buses tomorrow with my eight tonnes of junk. I'll be offline for a few days (unless the flat has wireless which it blatantly won't) and will take a few photos when I get settled.
Until then, adieu, I'll post soon.
x
On the contrary, today I fucking hate my all my luggage. To paraphrase the great Popeye,
'I can't stands (it) no more!!"
As I've made it abundantly clear, the whole 'moving into the new flat' event is something that I'm rather looking forward to. I've spent so much of the last four years moving about, that I've never had a chance to put down any roots. Although I've loved the slightly nomadic life I've led, it has been a bit hard to have any longterm relationships as there's always been a very finite amount of time that I'd been around. Now, I'll be living in London for at least five years, and have a chance to settle down an little bit. Call it some inkling of maturity, but a slightly slower pace will be welcome.
What I don't like, hate actually, and find frankly horrifying, is the process of packing. To paraphrase the great Perry Cox, I megaloathe it. First of all, clothes folding is tedious, and somehow I've failed to learn the male knack of packing light. No matter how cleverly I plan and scheme, or how deviously I try to fold and compress, I nearly always overpack.
This time was no exception.
My suitcase and rucksack weigh more than I do, and yep, right in the middle of packing, my back went. Not in the comical 'oh crumbs, I seem to have nonced my back' but rather in the 'oh crumbs, I think I'm dying' way.
How it happened: The room (which until my arrival at S&D's house had belonged to my little cousin, Mollie) resembled Dresden after the bombing, and I had to collect all the socks and clothes on the floor. I was just out of the shower, in a fetching 70's-avocado-esque towel and staring round the room at the work to be done.
My itunes on random, Venus in Furs was blaring and I set about nakedly picking up my socks. I bent over to fetch a particularly comfortable stocking and with a (shamelessly feminine) gasp of pain, the Lumbar God stabbed me in the back. Lou Reed singing about sado-masochism and me paralysed on the bed, forced to sit bolt upright, it was terrifying and hilarious in equal measures. There I was; beer-bellied, pale and still more-or-less in the buck, gasping with pain and trying my hardest not to laugh. A wall-length mirror gave me a nice view of my own suffering and it was very hard not to point and snigger at the skinny, pale victim: half-scarecrow, half-jellyfish who grimaced back at me.
It got almost hysterical. Several songs passed by and I literally had no idea what I was gonna do. I couldn't even shift my weight or raise my arms enough so that when I slipped off the edge of the bed and landed on the floor, seemingly in slow motion, it was with an almost obscene thud.
Okay, so finally I got up, managed to find some Western Medicine and manned up to the extent that I could get dressed, finish packing, shave (!!) and carry my stuff out to the car. I'm staying in my Nan's again, close to the train station, and I'm getting the 7.30 train in the morning.
So now, as I sit here, a cocoon of pillows around my lower back, I'm still excited about the move, but I'm less than eager to have to deal with the Tube and buses tomorrow with my eight tonnes of junk. I'll be offline for a few days (unless the flat has wireless which it blatantly won't) and will take a few photos when I get settled.
Until then, adieu, I'll post soon.
x
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The funniest thing is that the only thing my ma could say was "yer man sounds exactly like Jedward with that Dub accent". Eh, what?! Jedward sound more like they're from Malibu than Dublin!