Me: I don't know how I'd tell them.
Her: How you'd tell them what?
Me: My folks. I don't how I'd tell them that I'm... y'know...
Her: No. I don't know.
Me: Even telling you is really hard, and you're one of the most easy going people I know.
Her: You can tell me anything. You know that.
Me: I've never been able to tell my parents that I'm.... straight.
Her: Holy fuck!
Me: Yeah, it's true. I fancy women. I love women. Fuck, it feels so good to say it out loud.
Her: Your parents would understand.
Me: No they fucking wouldn't.
Her: Look. They love you. They'll accept you for what you are. You're just going to have to be honest with them.
Me: But, I mean, my father... my father's father before him.... All gays. There's no way they'd get it.
Her: I'd come with you, for moral support.
Me: You're joking, aren't you? First of all I tell them I'm straight, then they see me with you! I would never put you through that. Fuck it, I wouldn't put myself through it.
Her: Well, I'm here if you need me. I'm a bit shocked, myself... But, y'know, it'll be ok. There are plenty of straight bars around. It's nothing to be ashamed of nowadays.
Me: Thanks. You've been a rock through this entire ordeal.
Monday, July 13, 2009
The tricolour woman
Those fucking portaloos, is it any wonder I never frequented Oxegen or Witness or Glastonbury or Woodstock or the Newport Folk Festival? It is not.
I missed 'The Ghost Of Tom Joad,' missed the opportunity to drift off into the world of my 15-year-old leafing through 'The Grapes Of Wrath' looking for symbolism.
Instead I was eating greasy chips and two sausages that had been recooked 17 times, queueing with the other ponchos in the pissings of rain.
I offered a chip to the couple in front of me. She took one, he didn't, he just glared at me, like the proffering of potato-subsitute to his missus was an invite to coitus.
He left her there, though, heading back to his seat and I got talking to his better, blonder half.
"I'm 27," she said, shaking my hand. "I'm dying for a piss."
I think she was drunk.
"I'm 30," I replied. "I had one too many banana daiquiries."
Nothing from her.
"The gig's shite, isn't it? I don't even like Bruce Springsteen."
"Ah, no, I think it's good. I just wish this fucking queue wasn't so long."
A girl fell out of our kabin, puke trailing down her face and a muddle on her shoes.
"Holy fuck," said the girl. "I don't think we should use that one."
"Well I'm not queueing again."
She looked me up and down.
"Are you single?"
"Come again?"
"Are you here with someone, like? I'm from Monaghan."
"Yeah I'm here with someone. Was that not your fella?"
"Yeah, my husband," she told me. "I was just asking, like. I'm from Monaghan."
"Well that explains.... nothing at all really. Want to finish my chips?"
She took them, she ate them greedily.
"Does he not feed you?"
Again, she didn't laugh.
"Ach, he's in shite form. Leave him off. We've been fightin' all day. What's your name?"
"Radge. What's yours?"
"Elaine. Radge is a funny name. You don't look Indian."
"Well, Michael Jackson didn't look black, did he?"
Again, she didn't laugh.
"My husband would kill me if he saw me talking to you. He gets very jealous."
Nothing from me.
We got to the top of the queue, I wished her luck. Aeons later and she was still inside, I'd grown a beard in my standing, so I gave her a knock. The door opened and she reappeared, her green face off-setting her golden hair nicely.
"Oh look, you're a tricolour!"
She laughed at that one.
I missed 'The Ghost Of Tom Joad,' missed the opportunity to drift off into the world of my 15-year-old leafing through 'The Grapes Of Wrath' looking for symbolism.
Instead I was eating greasy chips and two sausages that had been recooked 17 times, queueing with the other ponchos in the pissings of rain.
I offered a chip to the couple in front of me. She took one, he didn't, he just glared at me, like the proffering of potato-subsitute to his missus was an invite to coitus.
He left her there, though, heading back to his seat and I got talking to his better, blonder half.
"I'm 27," she said, shaking my hand. "I'm dying for a piss."
I think she was drunk.
"I'm 30," I replied. "I had one too many banana daiquiries."
Nothing from her.
"The gig's shite, isn't it? I don't even like Bruce Springsteen."
"Ah, no, I think it's good. I just wish this fucking queue wasn't so long."
A girl fell out of our kabin, puke trailing down her face and a muddle on her shoes.
"Holy fuck," said the girl. "I don't think we should use that one."
"Well I'm not queueing again."
She looked me up and down.
"Are you single?"
"Come again?"
"Are you here with someone, like? I'm from Monaghan."
"Yeah I'm here with someone. Was that not your fella?"
"Yeah, my husband," she told me. "I was just asking, like. I'm from Monaghan."
"Well that explains.... nothing at all really. Want to finish my chips?"
She took them, she ate them greedily.
"Does he not feed you?"
Again, she didn't laugh.
"Ach, he's in shite form. Leave him off. We've been fightin' all day. What's your name?"
"Radge. What's yours?"
"Elaine. Radge is a funny name. You don't look Indian."
"Well, Michael Jackson didn't look black, did he?"
Again, she didn't laugh.
"My husband would kill me if he saw me talking to you. He gets very jealous."
Nothing from me.
We got to the top of the queue, I wished her luck. Aeons later and she was still inside, I'd grown a beard in my standing, so I gave her a knock. The door opened and she reappeared, her green face off-setting her golden hair nicely.
"Oh look, you're a tricolour!"
She laughed at that one.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Status Report
I've just finished watching 'Burn After Reading'. What a steaming puddle of piss that film is. I should have learned my lesson after 'Intolerable Cruelty'.
Moving on, and things are looking up on the job front/redundancy front/me feeding my addiction to cheap (and crap) DVDs front, more of which anon because I'm not about to jinx the fucker.
It's a doler's life for me, I've been busily exploring avenues of employment and the pubs of Dublin with relish. One begets the other. I'm off to the RDS tomorrow night to see if Bruce Springsteen can hold a candle to the Funderland of my formative years, I've barely been back since.
And, well, that's all really. This really has just been one long Facebook status report. My apologies.
Moving on, and things are looking up on the job front/redundancy front/me feeding my addiction to cheap (and crap) DVDs front, more of which anon because I'm not about to jinx the fucker.
It's a doler's life for me, I've been busily exploring avenues of employment and the pubs of Dublin with relish. One begets the other. I'm off to the RDS tomorrow night to see if Bruce Springsteen can hold a candle to the Funderland of my formative years, I've barely been back since.
And, well, that's all really. This really has just been one long Facebook status report. My apologies.
Thursday, July 09, 2009
Death By Chocolate
A man has died in New Jersey after falling into a vat of melting chocolate.
Yep, I'm only writing this so I can use that headline.
= = =
Post Scriptum: A quick Google search and The Mail got in there before me. Another reason to hate the bastards.
Yep, I'm only writing this so I can use that headline.
= = =
Post Scriptum: A quick Google search and The Mail got in there before me. Another reason to hate the bastards.
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
Fairfield Road
I was on Fairfield Road last night, visiting a friend of mine who still lives there, the street I grew up on.
You probably know it. Drive from Phibsborough towards Glasnevin, head down Botanic Road and it's down there on your right with a Bank Of Ireland as a landmark. You've probably passed it.
I haven't been down there much lately, maybe twice or three times in the five years since I left the area. Feels like longer. It was quiet last night and I was slightly annoyed I didn't get to meet any of the old neighbours.
"What are you doing with yourself?"
"Well, I'm still in Seta... actually, no, I'm not. I have to stop telling people that. I'm dolerising. You?"
Nobody was about though.
I wanted to kick a ball into the Leahy's garden, knock on the window and run away. I wanted to do a knick-knack on Leo's house next door. I wanted to give my one fingered salute to Donal Gunn across the road. I wanted to run and trip and bleed, just very slightly. I wanted to knock into Kev's to see if he was playing heads and volleys or last man back. I wanted to see my grandmother walking down the street from her sitting room window, looking stately and careful in her beige coat.
I rang Austin's bell, many things the same as when his family lived there. The back garden with toys for his brothers' children, where we used to convene and kick each other accidentally.
He told me about the neighbours, who has been scandalised by this and that, who has died or moved out and the people that have taken their place. I went outside to the front for another look. The trees that were never there before and nobody stirring, still.
I left close to 1am, drunk, walking up to the bank on the right-hand side and in a certain split second I was seven, I was 12, I was 22, I was home.
You probably know it. Drive from Phibsborough towards Glasnevin, head down Botanic Road and it's down there on your right with a Bank Of Ireland as a landmark. You've probably passed it.
I haven't been down there much lately, maybe twice or three times in the five years since I left the area. Feels like longer. It was quiet last night and I was slightly annoyed I didn't get to meet any of the old neighbours.
"What are you doing with yourself?"
"Well, I'm still in Seta... actually, no, I'm not. I have to stop telling people that. I'm dolerising. You?"
Nobody was about though.
I wanted to kick a ball into the Leahy's garden, knock on the window and run away. I wanted to do a knick-knack on Leo's house next door. I wanted to give my one fingered salute to Donal Gunn across the road. I wanted to run and trip and bleed, just very slightly. I wanted to knock into Kev's to see if he was playing heads and volleys or last man back. I wanted to see my grandmother walking down the street from her sitting room window, looking stately and careful in her beige coat.
I rang Austin's bell, many things the same as when his family lived there. The back garden with toys for his brothers' children, where we used to convene and kick each other accidentally.
He told me about the neighbours, who has been scandalised by this and that, who has died or moved out and the people that have taken their place. I went outside to the front for another look. The trees that were never there before and nobody stirring, still.
I left close to 1am, drunk, walking up to the bank on the right-hand side and in a certain split second I was seven, I was 12, I was 22, I was home.
Saturday, July 04, 2009
Ollie's 30th
I'm supping in Dick Mack's snug, starting it all off, inviting drunkenness.
I'm eating monkfish and toasting Oliver.
I'm falling a little bit in love with a barefooted chanteuse.
I'm requesting Paddy's Green Shamrock Shore from Fergus O'Flaherty who lives on Grey's Lane.
I'm whirring and stomping and moving on to the whiskey.
I'm handing over my jacket in a deluge, lamenting immediately my chivalry.
I'm applying the shirt to the hand-dryer, naked from the waist up.
I'm being filmed dancing a foxtrot with unsolicited hands on my arse.
I'm...
I'm waking up, cursing my exit after one spectacular night.
I'm eating monkfish and toasting Oliver.
I'm falling a little bit in love with a barefooted chanteuse.
I'm requesting Paddy's Green Shamrock Shore from Fergus O'Flaherty who lives on Grey's Lane.
I'm whirring and stomping and moving on to the whiskey.
I'm handing over my jacket in a deluge, lamenting immediately my chivalry.
I'm applying the shirt to the hand-dryer, naked from the waist up.
I'm being filmed dancing a foxtrot with unsolicited hands on my arse.
I'm...
I'm waking up, cursing my exit after one spectacular night.
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
Ings
Who knew?
Who knew unemployment could be so all-consuming?
I've been harassing and emailing and updating and replenishing and queueing and form-filling-outing and unionising and...
Fuck, even that sentence took more out of me than my last three months of work and I'm sure it was a bitch to read, too.
I take my leave tomorrow for a couple of days down the country, spending my few remaining shekels in Dingle and Limerick and Kilkenny before I return to the great unhoovered carpet that lies underfoot.
Who has the time for vacuuming? WHO?
I need to cook now. Another fucking 'ing'.
Who knew unemployment could be so all-consuming?
I've been harassing and emailing and updating and replenishing and queueing and form-filling-outing and unionising and...
Fuck, even that sentence took more out of me than my last three months of work and I'm sure it was a bitch to read, too.
I take my leave tomorrow for a couple of days down the country, spending my few remaining shekels in Dingle and Limerick and Kilkenny before I return to the great unhoovered carpet that lies underfoot.
Who has the time for vacuuming? WHO?
I need to cook now. Another fucking 'ing'.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Out of his way! He's gonna blow!
I sit here scuppered by the chicken goujons I had at lunch. What about the six pints last night?
No.
Definitely the goujons.
Anyway, the nice people at culch.ie have asked me to join their coterie of reviewers, a role I plan to take on with all the zeal of a man frantically seeking a City Centre throne in the middle of the afternoon.
Brings me back to my days doing the old 'Loop' reviews. 10.30am in the Savoy or Denzille Lane or Fairview, mixing the tepid ('Veronica Guerin') with the good ('21 Grams') with the doggerel ('Cradle 2 The Grave'). Many more besides.
Every single film turned into a three-hour epic as I'd shimmy back to my office chair in the middle of the afternoon, pretending that this business of critiquing was the ultimate chore, swatting at my brow like the Earl Of Rochester himself.
I'm going to enjoy this.
No.
Definitely the goujons.
Anyway, the nice people at culch.ie have asked me to join their coterie of reviewers, a role I plan to take on with all the zeal of a man frantically seeking a City Centre throne in the middle of the afternoon.
Brings me back to my days doing the old 'Loop' reviews. 10.30am in the Savoy or Denzille Lane or Fairview, mixing the tepid ('Veronica Guerin') with the good ('21 Grams') with the doggerel ('Cradle 2 The Grave'). Many more besides.
Every single film turned into a three-hour epic as I'd shimmy back to my office chair in the middle of the afternoon, pretending that this business of critiquing was the ultimate chore, swatting at my brow like the Earl Of Rochester himself.
I'm going to enjoy this.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
