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 or Gaghappy 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.

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

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
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duh duh duuuuuuuuuuh....
why?

x
Con

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...

Quost with Lassie

Aloha,

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

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.

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People aside, what are your true loves?

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

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.

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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

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.

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.
:)

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

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