So I'm drunk now. Way to go me, except I've got function of my typing and my imagination.
This may be the shortest post I've ever done. But there's one thing I'd like to put forward. Tomorrow is my 100th post and I am soooo happy. Perhaps it's truth that the best of attempts eventually get left by the wayside, but for one I'd rather waste my time than never have spent the time
Anyway - - - now at a mundane age I ponder. What a loser I am. But I'm actually okay, ao it's fine. I'm now 23.
I can't write anymore, I'm too drunk
xxxxxxx
Showing posts with label conor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label conor. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
You are my sunshiiiiiiiine
So I've had far too much coffee today, and I'm just back from a job interview. Here's what maaaaad insomnia mixed with maaaaaas caffeine addiction looks like. All while dressed in a suit. Huzzah!
You are my sunshine from Conor Darrall on Vimeo.
Friday, December 18, 2009
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
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.)
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?
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?
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Hospitality
Since Friday I've been staying with my grandmother, the English one. Before this summer I hadn't seen her in about six years, thanks to my galavanting around Ireland and the US, so it's nice to have the chance to catch up with her in her dust-free, granny-pad, drinking pots of tea and talking about all the weird ad whacky things on tv.
The weekend has been lovely; the sun is shining, my bed is unbelievably comfortable and I've even managed to hijack the wireless from the people next door, so I can write on my blog. The house is such a grandma house; as I type, there are little porcelain statuettes and collector plates staring at me from the mantelpiece while china dogs look dolefully out across the photo populated/tea-collection-storing cabinet set and the abundance of cushions and sofas that litter the living room. There are spindly little tables that don't seem to have a purpose, and a gargantuan tv with approximately seven billion channels.
This all sounds ideal, right? But there is a problem, I am on death's door.
The reason? My grandmother likes to feed me.
That's a good thing, I know. I'm also aware that it's a little bit silly to be complaining about being fed, but the sheer amount of food is awe inspiring.
It's a bit of a joke that I don't eat or sleep that much, and that I'm a bit pale and skinny. Now I'm staying in the 'land of perpetual sun' for a short time, I'm red and skinny. Enter the grandmother. If there's a lull in the conversation, or if the tv goes to commercials, inevitably the question will come, "do you want something to eat?".
Usually I try to say no as politely as possible, but today I thought I'd be a bit daring and call her bluff. So whenever any food was offered I accepted, like a culinary 'Yes Man'. Big mistake.
Between 2 and 9pm I had the following
1 - Bacon sandwich and tea.
2 - Another bacon sandwich and tea.
3 - Cheese roll with bottle of beer.
4 - Cup of tea and scone (and some biscuits)
4 - Several bottles of beer.
5 - Steak and Kidney Pie, with peas, roast potatoes, carrots, cauliflowers, gravy and bread.
6 - Bread and butter and tea.
7 - Several more bottles of beer.
Now, I'm absolutely stuffed to the gills. I feel like my weird innie/outie bellybutton is going to turn into an outie. As I sit hear watching 'Doc Martin' on television, I'm getting foodsweats and my feet are numb. That is scary, but I'm still drinking the beer.
My gran just offered me some pilchards on toast, I'm fucked.
The weekend has been lovely; the sun is shining, my bed is unbelievably comfortable and I've even managed to hijack the wireless from the people next door, so I can write on my blog. The house is such a grandma house; as I type, there are little porcelain statuettes and collector plates staring at me from the mantelpiece while china dogs look dolefully out across the photo populated/tea-collection-storing cabinet set and the abundance of cushions and sofas that litter the living room. There are spindly little tables that don't seem to have a purpose, and a gargantuan tv with approximately seven billion channels.
This all sounds ideal, right? But there is a problem, I am on death's door.
The reason? My grandmother likes to feed me.
That's a good thing, I know. I'm also aware that it's a little bit silly to be complaining about being fed, but the sheer amount of food is awe inspiring.
It's a bit of a joke that I don't eat or sleep that much, and that I'm a bit pale and skinny. Now I'm staying in the 'land of perpetual sun' for a short time, I'm red and skinny. Enter the grandmother. If there's a lull in the conversation, or if the tv goes to commercials, inevitably the question will come, "do you want something to eat?".
Usually I try to say no as politely as possible, but today I thought I'd be a bit daring and call her bluff. So whenever any food was offered I accepted, like a culinary 'Yes Man'. Big mistake.
Between 2 and 9pm I had the following
1 - Bacon sandwich and tea.
2 - Another bacon sandwich and tea.
3 - Cheese roll with bottle of beer.
4 - Cup of tea and scone (and some biscuits)
4 - Several bottles of beer.
5 - Steak and Kidney Pie, with peas, roast potatoes, carrots, cauliflowers, gravy and bread.
6 - Bread and butter and tea.
7 - Several more bottles of beer.
Now, I'm absolutely stuffed to the gills. I feel like my weird innie/outie bellybutton is going to turn into an outie. As I sit hear watching 'Doc Martin' on television, I'm getting foodsweats and my feet are numb. That is scary, but I'm still drinking the beer.
My gran just offered me some pilchards on toast, I'm fucked.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Off to the London!!
So World War Three. Whilst I love my family dearly, the arguments have been getting more frequent, the silences a bit frosty and a slight misunderstanding (caused last night where i got my brother drunk and then, this morning had a blazing row with my dad) today. Luckily, the little apocalyptic argument that occurred vented the 'stration and now all's kosher again.
However, now on to the big news. I'm leaving. It's not you it's me. I'm getting up at 6, getting a coach to Belfast City George Best Airport, getting an aeroplane to Heathrow and officially going 'over the water'...again. Moving away has me excited.
So, although this is a small post, and quite non-descript, it's actually a massive turning point for me.
I'll be offline for a few days while I settle on a flat, but I'll try to take lots of photos, and may be needing some commenting advice on flats.
Wish me luck!
Con
x
However, now on to the big news. I'm leaving. It's not you it's me. I'm getting up at 6, getting a coach to Belfast City George Best Airport, getting an aeroplane to Heathrow and officially going 'over the water'...again. Moving away has me excited.
So, although this is a small post, and quite non-descript, it's actually a massive turning point for me.
I'll be offline for a few days while I settle on a flat, but I'll try to take lots of photos, and may be needing some commenting advice on flats.
Wish me luck!
Con
x
Monday, September 7, 2009
101 THINGS TO DO IN 1001 DAYS
I got this idea from the lovely hostess of Live in Imagination who in turn got it from the Day Zero Project.
The Mission:
Complete 101 preset tasks in a period of 1001 days.
The Criteria:
Tasks must be specific (i.e. no ambiguity in the wording) with a result that is either measurable or clearly defined. Tasks must also be realistic and stretching (i.e. represent some amount of work on my part).
Italics - haven't started
Bold - In progress
Strikethrough – Completed
START DATE: Tuesday 8th September 2009
END DATE: Tuesday 5th June 2012
1. Quit Smoking Cigarettes
2. Run a marathon, preferably the London Marathon.
3. Enter the Mongol Rally
4. Complete the Mongol Rally…or failing that; get as far as physically possible without dying.
5. Raise £3000+ for charity
6. Get my driving license (before January 2010)
7. Get my first car. (Not the Mongol Rally one, that one will be held on trust for the person who’ll take possession of it when I finally reach Ulan Baatar)
8. Buy a fitted suit from a Saville Row tailor (this one is a bit ambitious, as the average SR suit costs about £5000)
9. Play, and win a game of vingt et un at the Monte Carlo Casino
10. Have a piece published in a big newspaper/magazine
11.Submit a completed script for review by a production company.
12. Submit a completed manuscript for a novel for review by a publishing house.
13. Begin either salsa or swing dancing classes.
14. Compose three new tunes that can be played by an Irish trad band.
15. Write and perform a 10-minute stand-up routine at the Comedy Store.
16. Have at least 1 more boxing match, for charity.
17. Read Wuthering Heights (and try not to root for Heathcliff.)
18. Shave my head.
19. Travel to Lexington VA, to visit my friends there (must be completed before March 2010)
20. See New York in winter.
21. Travel to Africa.
22. Try Speed Dating.
23. Begin to learn another language, and have made some progress in fluency by the end-date.
24. Learn how to play ‘Pink Moon’ by Nick Drake on guitar.
25. See Yann Tiersen in concert again.
26. See King Crimson perform ‘Court of the Crimson King’ live. Somehow.
27. Make peace with RK, for Karma reasons.
28. Return the books I borrowed from my friend John Lamont in May 2008 – that are sitting on a bookshelf right in front of me.
29. Have a conversation with either Stephen Fry or Will Self.
30. See 10 live stand-up gigs
31. Live nocturnally for a week.
32. Find the exact pub in which I helped my uncle install AV equipment this summer (when I was in England that’s what I did sometimes) It’s called ‘The Aviator” and it’s in some part of SW London.
33. Take a flying lesson.
34. Read The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy books again.
35. Get tickets to be in the audience for the radio recordings of what will be a TV comedy show. e.g. – That Mitchell and Webb Sound OR Get tickets to be in the audience for an episode of QI.
36. Meet Charlie Brooker.
37. Go vegetarian for a month.
38.Find a flat in London.
39. Punch a racist. Right in the kisser. Preferably a card-carrying member of the BNP.
40. Go to a normal mass (not a wedding/funeral etc) once again just to make sure I’m 100% about the atheism thing.
41.Begin and maintain a letter-writing correspondence with GO’M and J-AS.
42. Read War and Peace
43. Visit Edinburgh for a weekend.
44. Grow my hair long, just to see if I have to patience for it.
45. Get another tattoo.
46. Learn the Czech Song ‘Jozin z Bazin’.
47. Watch every film John Candy made.
48. Drive on highway 66.
49. See the original copydex scroll that ‘On the Road’ is written on.
50. Read Les Miserables by Victor Hugo.
51. Learn how to cook an haute cuisine three course meal
52. Visit a Turkish bath.
53. Find out how a car engine works, and get a basic knowledge of how to fix it when it cocks up.
54. Buy a hammock.
55.Find a nice tobacconists shop in London, with a nice blended pipe-tobacco to rival my favourite – Peterson’s Connoisseur’s Choice.
56. Visit Cuba and have a proper mojito.
57. Along with my Rally partner – Ruairí Ó Maolain – come up with a spec. outline for a television comedy.
58.Shave the beard…at some point.
59. Buy an overcoat, one that will last for years.
60. Watch the entire Stanley Kubrick back catalogue.
61. Fire a crossbow at a scarecrow, or some other equally alluring target.
62. Arrive at an airport and have someone waiting with a sign bearing my name.
63. Get thrown out of a posh restaurant.
64..Find a ‘local’ in London that does a good Guinness and a good pint of bitter..
65. Celebrate my 25th birthday in style. (Not too sure how to do this, but it can only be judged after the event.)
66. Attend a symphony performance of the Planets Suite by Gustav Holst. Must be accompanied by a date/friend.
67. Play a session with a bluegrass band.
68. Learn to play one song on the mandolin.
69. Watch every episode of The Wire
70. Read either Milton’s Paradise Lost or Dante’s Inferno
71. Shoot a Lee Enfield Mk3 .303 rifle, or a Thompson .45 SMG.
72. Have a reunion with two of the best friends I ever had: Gabrielle DeCourcy and Theresa Dougherty.
73. Plant and grow a lavender bush.
74. Try to blag my way into a gentleman’s Club to see what the fuss is all about.
75. Find a small, reasonably priced Italian restaurant in London that does delicious food.
76. Attend Margaret Thatcher’s funeral, just to make sure she’s dead.
77. See/Hear Itzhak Perlman perform live in concert.
78. Drive along the Blue Ridge Mountains, just once more. Preferably while listening to Fleet Foxes.
79. Buy a set of Christmas presents that have been 100% thought out, and bought at least a month before Christmas. OR, make a present.
80. Meet two of my online heroes: The Novelista Barista and Nik from Serendipi-tea.
81. Do ‘Morning pages’ for a whole month, to try and develop the habit of writing.
82. Sleep in a coffin, just for a few hours.
83. ‘Get in shape’, whatever that may mean (basically get back into the shape I was in around January/February when I was boxing except about 1 stone heavier and not as skinny)
84. Try to appear as ‘the man in the street’ on the news, but with a pirate voice and a previously unnoticed limp.
85. Teach a Minah Bird how to say a phrase in Irish, or make the noise of an extending lightsaber.
86. Attend a Ray Mears survival weekend.
87. Do something incredibly stupid but cool: skydive/bungee jump etc
88. Show something that I’ve written to my grandfather, great uncle Brian or ‘uncle’ Stephen for their professional opinion.
89. Qualify as an Attorney for the State of New York by passing the bar exam.
90. Meet Alexa Chung, Rosamund Pike or Gemma Arterton and try not to trip over my tongue. (The ‘stretch’ here is maintaining a conversation and not automatically hyperventilating or asking them to marry me.)
91. Drive an Aston Martin DB6.
92. Have my wee sis over to London to see a show for her 16th birthday.
93. Eat a fish that I’ve caught, cleaned and cooked. (Not a huge stretch, but must be a cod or mackerel, caught off Cruit Island in Co. Donegal, which is the greatest place in the world, but a place that I never see as often as I’d like.)
94. Win a pub quiz – in first place.
95. Become proficient with cryptic crosswords and be able to complete the Times crossword alone.
96. Start a vegetable patch or a herb garden.
97. Enter a Texas Hold’Em Competition
98. Read Ulysses again (now that I’m old enough to understand it)
99. Save 12.5% of what I earn for a year.
100. Qualify as a solicitor.
101. Write another list.
The Mission:
Complete 101 preset tasks in a period of 1001 days.
The Criteria:
Tasks must be specific (i.e. no ambiguity in the wording) with a result that is either measurable or clearly defined. Tasks must also be realistic and stretching (i.e. represent some amount of work on my part).
Italics - haven't started
Bold - In progress
Strikethrough – Completed
START DATE: Tuesday 8th September 2009
END DATE: Tuesday 5th June 2012
1.
2. Run a marathon, preferably the London Marathon.
3. Enter the Mongol Rally
4. Complete the Mongol Rally…or failing that; get as far as physically possible without dying.
5. Raise £3000+ for charity
6. Get my driving license (before January 2010)
7. Get my first car. (Not the Mongol Rally one, that one will be held on trust for the person who’ll take possession of it when I finally reach Ulan Baatar)
8. Buy a fitted suit from a Saville Row tailor (this one is a bit ambitious, as the average SR suit costs about £5000)
9. Play, and win a game of vingt et un at the Monte Carlo Casino
10. Have a piece published in a big newspaper/magazine
11.
12. Submit a completed manuscript for a novel for review by a publishing house.
13. Begin either salsa or swing dancing classes.
14. Compose three new tunes that can be played by an Irish trad band.
15. Write and perform a 10-minute stand-up routine at the Comedy Store.
16. Have at least 1 more boxing match, for charity.
17. Read Wuthering Heights (and try not to root for Heathcliff.)
18. Shave my head.
19. Travel to Lexington VA, to visit my friends there (must be completed before March 2010)
20. See New York in winter.
21. Travel to Africa.
22. Try Speed Dating.
23. Begin to learn another language, and have made some progress in fluency by the end-date.
24. Learn how to play ‘Pink Moon’ by Nick Drake on guitar.
25. See Yann Tiersen in concert again.
26. See King Crimson perform ‘Court of the Crimson King’ live. Somehow.
27. Make peace with RK, for Karma reasons.
28. Return the books I borrowed from my friend John Lamont in May 2008 – that are sitting on a bookshelf right in front of me.
29. Have a conversation with either Stephen Fry or Will Self.
30. See 10 live stand-up gigs
31. Live nocturnally for a week.
32. Find the exact pub in which I helped my uncle install AV equipment this summer (when I was in England that’s what I did sometimes) It’s called ‘The Aviator” and it’s in some part of SW London.
33. Take a flying lesson.
34. Read The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy books again.
35. Get tickets to be in the audience for the radio recordings of what will be a TV comedy show. e.g. – That Mitchell and Webb Sound OR Get tickets to be in the audience for an episode of QI.
36. Meet Charlie Brooker.
37. Go vegetarian for a month.
38.
39. Punch a racist. Right in the kisser. Preferably a card-carrying member of the BNP.
40. Go to a normal mass (not a wedding/funeral etc) once again just to make sure I’m 100% about the atheism thing.
41.
42. Read War and Peace
43. Visit Edinburgh for a weekend.
44. Grow my hair long, just to see if I have to patience for it.
45. Get another tattoo.
46. Learn the Czech Song ‘Jozin z Bazin’.
47. Watch every film John Candy made.
48. Drive on highway 66.
49. See the original copydex scroll that ‘On the Road’ is written on.
50. Read Les Miserables by Victor Hugo.
51. Learn how to cook an haute cuisine three course meal
52. Visit a Turkish bath.
53. Find out how a car engine works, and get a basic knowledge of how to fix it when it cocks up.
54. Buy a hammock.
55.
56. Visit Cuba and have a proper mojito.
57. Along with my Rally partner – Ruairí Ó Maolain – come up with a spec. outline for a television comedy.
58.
59. Buy an overcoat, one that will last for years.
60. Watch the entire Stanley Kubrick back catalogue.
61. Fire a crossbow at a scarecrow, or some other equally alluring target.
62. Arrive at an airport and have someone waiting with a sign bearing my name.
63. Get thrown out of a posh restaurant.
64.
65. Celebrate my 25th birthday in style. (Not too sure how to do this, but it can only be judged after the event.)
66. Attend a symphony performance of the Planets Suite by Gustav Holst. Must be accompanied by a date/friend.
67. Play a session with a bluegrass band.
68. Learn to play one song on the mandolin.
69. Watch every episode of The Wire
70. Read either Milton’s Paradise Lost or Dante’s Inferno
71. Shoot a Lee Enfield Mk3 .303 rifle, or a Thompson .45 SMG.
72. Have a reunion with two of the best friends I ever had: Gabrielle DeCourcy and Theresa Dougherty.
73. Plant and grow a lavender bush.
74. Try to blag my way into a gentleman’s Club to see what the fuss is all about.
75. Find a small, reasonably priced Italian restaurant in London that does delicious food.
76. Attend Margaret Thatcher’s funeral, just to make sure she’s dead.
77. See/Hear Itzhak Perlman perform live in concert.
78. Drive along the Blue Ridge Mountains, just once more. Preferably while listening to Fleet Foxes.
79. Buy a set of Christmas presents that have been 100% thought out, and bought at least a month before Christmas. OR, make a present.
80. Meet two of my online heroes: The Novelista Barista and Nik from Serendipi-tea.
81. Do ‘Morning pages’ for a whole month, to try and develop the habit of writing.
82. Sleep in a coffin, just for a few hours.
83. ‘Get in shape’, whatever that may mean (basically get back into the shape I was in around January/February when I was boxing except about 1 stone heavier and not as skinny)
84. Try to appear as ‘the man in the street’ on the news, but with a pirate voice and a previously unnoticed limp.
85. Teach a Minah Bird how to say a phrase in Irish, or make the noise of an extending lightsaber.
86. Attend a Ray Mears survival weekend.
87. Do something incredibly stupid but cool: skydive/bungee jump etc
88. Show something that I’ve written to my grandfather, great uncle Brian or ‘uncle’ Stephen for their professional opinion.
89. Qualify as an Attorney for the State of New York by passing the bar exam.
90. Meet Alexa Chung, Rosamund Pike or Gemma Arterton and try not to trip over my tongue. (The ‘stretch’ here is maintaining a conversation and not automatically hyperventilating or asking them to marry me.)
91. Drive an Aston Martin DB6.
92. Have my wee sis over to London to see a show for her 16th birthday.
93. Eat a fish that I’ve caught, cleaned and cooked. (Not a huge stretch, but must be a cod or mackerel, caught off Cruit Island in Co. Donegal, which is the greatest place in the world, but a place that I never see as often as I’d like.)
94. Win a pub quiz – in first place.
95. Become proficient with cryptic crosswords and be able to complete the Times crossword alone.
96. Start a vegetable patch or a herb garden.
97. Enter a Texas Hold’Em Competition
98. Read Ulysses again (now that I’m old enough to understand it)
99. Save 12.5% of what I earn for a year.
100. Qualify as a solicitor.
101. Write another list.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Obscure Porn #1 - Gun Porn
Over the past few years I've stumbled across some of the weird and vaguely hilarious shit that people secretly fetishise. It's remarkable but true that whatever you can think off, people will find a way to sexy up.
So here's one that has entertained me for ages. Gun porn.
Now, we've all seen the Jackie Brown scene that tells us what you do when you absolutely, positively have to kill every muthafucker in the goddamn room. The AK47 is seen let rip by a gaggle of bikini-clad tna models.
That's not gun porn. That's essentially tit models with guns.
THIS...is gun porn
That's right! Gun Porn
It's remarkable, but also unsurprising. Guns are, I admit, fascinating. I've always been interested in military history and I'm genuinely interested in guns and their historical progression...but this is fucking bonkers.
There are several reasons why this is mental. Firstly, it's clearly an ad for guns, which is odd. Secondly, it has a vaguely new age 'whale song'-ish type of soundtrack. Thirdly, there is a very unsubtle collection of shots of the phallus-shaped muzzle spewing smoke and bullets. Like a multi-orgasm money shot.
Anyway, I'll leave you to enjoy the gun porn and I'll go pour myself a glass of wine and open a box of Kleenex.
Dirty times.
So here's one that has entertained me for ages. Gun porn.
Now, we've all seen the Jackie Brown scene that tells us what you do when you absolutely, positively have to kill every muthafucker in the goddamn room. The AK47 is seen let rip by a gaggle of bikini-clad tna models.
That's not gun porn. That's essentially tit models with guns.
THIS...is gun porn
That's right! Gun Porn
It's remarkable, but also unsurprising. Guns are, I admit, fascinating. I've always been interested in military history and I'm genuinely interested in guns and their historical progression...but this is fucking bonkers.
There are several reasons why this is mental. Firstly, it's clearly an ad for guns, which is odd. Secondly, it has a vaguely new age 'whale song'-ish type of soundtrack. Thirdly, there is a very unsubtle collection of shots of the phallus-shaped muzzle spewing smoke and bullets. Like a multi-orgasm money shot.
Anyway, I'll leave you to enjoy the gun porn and I'll go pour myself a glass of wine and open a box of Kleenex.
Dirty times.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
A Late-Night Anecdote About My Mother
Okay, this one is a bit weird. I was watching the Jimmy Carr 'Live in Concert' show on Channel 4 with my mum and dad. Jimmy was up to his usual nonsense of a pile of extremely squeamish-inducing gags.
He was posing a lot of very awkward moral conundrum questions. These, he says, can show how an audience rate in terms of decency. There are no correct answers, but the answers usually raise a laugh.
One of them was, "Would you kill a whale to save two pandas?" and the audience yelled "Yes"
He continued this for a while as my parents and I laughed along. Suddenly something awful happened. Jimmy asked the ultimate question,
"Would you fuck your father to save your mother?"
There was silence...horrible silence in the living room. I chugged my wine with gusto, hoping that I wasn't blushing, and avoided my parents' eyes.
Suddenly my mother turned to me, and in deathly seriousness said, "You'd fucking better"
Priceless.
He was posing a lot of very awkward moral conundrum questions. These, he says, can show how an audience rate in terms of decency. There are no correct answers, but the answers usually raise a laugh.
One of them was, "Would you kill a whale to save two pandas?" and the audience yelled "Yes"
He continued this for a while as my parents and I laughed along. Suddenly something awful happened. Jimmy asked the ultimate question,
"Would you fuck your father to save your mother?"
There was silence...horrible silence in the living room. I chugged my wine with gusto, hoping that I wasn't blushing, and avoided my parents' eyes.
Suddenly my mother turned to me, and in deathly seriousness said, "You'd fucking better"
Priceless.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Acronym Invention
I've been really annoyed by the fact over the last few months that everyone is broke. Everyone. Myself included. That's the the 'current economic climate' my friends are losing jobs (or job security) being denied bank loans, facing a dole queue, or even just having to curtail their lives a great deal. What sucks most is that it's none of the 20something generation's fault...we have the Boomers and early X cats to thank for this, with their Gordon Gecko love-ins and overuse of Dynasty shoulder pads.
So, in the true spirit of the internet I've started using a new acronym. Fuck the Recession - FTR
eg:
"Hey man, are you coming out clubbing tonight?"
"I can't, I'm totally broke...FTR"
Please feel free to pass it on.
So, in the true spirit of the internet I've started using a new acronym. Fuck the Recession - FTR
eg:
"Hey man, are you coming out clubbing tonight?"
"I can't, I'm totally broke...FTR"
Please feel free to pass it on.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
(Actually) Back Home
My last post was a bit inaccurate. About three hours after I wrote it I was in a car speeding towards the northwest coast. The islands and coast area up there are like a second home to me, I was more-or-less half-raised there and it's my favourite place in the world. It's a gaeltacht region for the most part, with Irish being the main language spoken. It was a good place to go back to neutral after France, to fish, drink and walk. Actually, apart from the weather difference, it was almost exactly like France. As far as I'm concerned, I've finally returned back to Derry now, and my detox/rehab begins now.
Betcha it doesn't last.
Betcha it doesn't last.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
The Quiet Season
I've been back in Derry for less than a week, but there's not been much to write about. One or two evenings aside, life has been a torpid, heavy-lidded affair, and I've been itching to do some more travelling. So, I'm going to France at the weekend!
My friend Ste's parents own a lovely little house in the town of St. Paul de Fenouillet, in a vignoble region just outside Perpignan in the south. It's a really sleepy, Stella-Artois-Advert type of burg, with a largely comatose population and a really great little wineshop, aproximately eight metres from the front door of the house. It also has some beautiful scenery and landscape around it, with a great gorge, a huge valley and mountains and a million little swimming holes and mountain paths for exploration.
I have a huge amount of little stories from the last time I was there, and the 'Yearly France Trip' has become somewhat of a tradition.
The last time I was there, I had white blonde hair, and we would spend the day walking tens of miles, with litres of wine, exploring the countryside and swimming and eating when we felt like a break. It was bliss. There were a few crazy moments; like almost being kidnapped by two massive gay guys for a funboy party, or smoking weed with a crazy mountain man in his cave, or chatting over a muscat to the ancient (but vibrant and fascinating) ex-pat Irishman whom we nicknamed Treebeard, for his booming voice and knowledge, and who made us all so very welcome...but those are for another time. Maybe if I write them up I can post them. One reader recently commented that my blog was 'a bit long' (the schmuck) so I dunno if I can post the full story without injuring his fragile sensibilities. But fuck it, why not.
I'm going (with my five travel companions) to Belfast tomorrow, then from Belfast to Toulouse on Saturday. We're going to spend seven days drinking wine, getting some sun and doing a lot of rock-climbing and hill-walking. There's no internet, no computers, barely any phones and I'll be well and truly off the rader. What bliss. I'll have my notebook with me, and will hopefully return with some happy stories, a bit of scandal, a nice tan and a newly inked pocketbook.
Chat to you all soon, fingers crossed for the weather!
xx
My friend Ste's parents own a lovely little house in the town of St. Paul de Fenouillet, in a vignoble region just outside Perpignan in the south. It's a really sleepy, Stella-Artois-Advert type of burg, with a largely comatose population and a really great little wineshop, aproximately eight metres from the front door of the house. It also has some beautiful scenery and landscape around it, with a great gorge, a huge valley and mountains and a million little swimming holes and mountain paths for exploration.
I have a huge amount of little stories from the last time I was there, and the 'Yearly France Trip' has become somewhat of a tradition.
The last time I was there, I had white blonde hair, and we would spend the day walking tens of miles, with litres of wine, exploring the countryside and swimming and eating when we felt like a break. It was bliss. There were a few crazy moments; like almost being kidnapped by two massive gay guys for a funboy party, or smoking weed with a crazy mountain man in his cave, or chatting over a muscat to the ancient (but vibrant and fascinating) ex-pat Irishman whom we nicknamed Treebeard, for his booming voice and knowledge, and who made us all so very welcome...but those are for another time. Maybe if I write them up I can post them. One reader recently commented that my blog was 'a bit long' (the schmuck) so I dunno if I can post the full story without injuring his fragile sensibilities. But fuck it, why not.
I'm going (with my five travel companions) to Belfast tomorrow, then from Belfast to Toulouse on Saturday. We're going to spend seven days drinking wine, getting some sun and doing a lot of rock-climbing and hill-walking. There's no internet, no computers, barely any phones and I'll be well and truly off the rader. What bliss. I'll have my notebook with me, and will hopefully return with some happy stories, a bit of scandal, a nice tan and a newly inked pocketbook.
Chat to you all soon, fingers crossed for the weather!
xx
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
