Friday, June 22, 2012

Excerpt 2: New York, baby!

Here we go - three years later, my attempt at writing the world's worst chick-lit novel runs on (not exactly) apace.

The first part is here.

To be quite honest, I don't know if they even call it chick-lit anymore. They did in 2009. I comfort myself in the fact that these things go in cycles.

This one goes out to 5X, who emailed me last night wanting to know what the fuck happened to Bryan? Well, I don't know the answer to that question yet, but my guess is that he's currently on his way to work, balancing a frappé and an Android. I'll get to him later.


Roisín gets the bill. She had left me waiting there, like a spanner on my own, but I know she wants to leave an extra large tip for Ramon, or a phone number, or both. Leave her off. She's loaded anyway.

So much to do, so much to plan, so much to think about. Is this the right thing to do, to just up and leave and say 'screw you' to that bastard, Bryan?

"He's such a dirtbag." I love him. "He'll break your heart!" I love him. "You so need closure, to get away, to blow off the cobwebs, forget about that prick." But I love him I love him I love him.

But enough. If he wants to screw around, let him screw around, two can play at that game, mister.

I hear from Maddy. She's in. "Fuck yeah!" she screams down the phone. Time off is never a problem for Maddy, she never seems to have 'time on' anyway.

So much to do, so much to plan, but we're going. I'm in charge of flights and I pick out the best deal I can find. Morning flights, ugh, but it'll be so worth it. Just means an early night and the girls will stay with me - we're not banging down Roisín's door at 5 in the morning, that bitch could sleep through a hurricane.

He's in there though, still needling away at my brain, with the goofy side that I'm sure he only shows to me. Sure he can be cold, and dismissive, and he can't keep his lad in his jeans for more than five minutes, but there's a reason to everything...

I check my phone, no missed calls. I think about ringing him to tell him to go fuck himself, or to call over, and I want to tell him what I really think of him but there's only one problem. I know what I think of him, and it isn't going to do me any good.

No, enough.

New York. New places, new people, just me and the girls and a sea of men who know how to show a group of three Irish girls a good time.

I may not even bring my phone.

Thursday, June 14, 2012



You've seen one alien baby bursting forth from a human tummy, you have seen them all.

Stringer Bell with a Texan drawl. Fuck's that about?

Not being able to decide whether Noomi Rapace looks like Rafael Nadal, or is actually quite attractive.

The realisation, at the finish, that it's really just a po-faced Independence Day.

Charlize Theron's daddy issues.

The fact that 'Pete Vs. Life' is in it. And he's crap.

The irascible geologist, who "isn't here to make friends."

Dubbing creatures from another planet 'engineers.' Fuck's that about? Structural? Mechanical? ELECTRICAL?

Stringer singing 'Love The One You're With.' Avon Barksdale would've had him got for that alone.


I like Michael Fassbender in films, which he carefully divides between himself and Ryan Gosling nowadays. I was particularly pleased that he spared us the sight of his mickey.

Thursday, June 07, 2012

The crackpot

Had it not been for the Gods of these times, such as they are, I wouldn't have known what to do with myself. O Twitter, O Facebook, you beautiful scrolling bastards.

I post the following to Facebook...

Wake. Decide on another half an hour's sleep. Reach for phone/alarm to reset it. Find pint of water on bedside locker. Pint of water swoons a bit, wipes its feet, drops. Water water everywhere. Wake in blind panic. Cuss wildly, loudly, vituperatively. Hold head in hands. Walk to bathroom. Find toilet roll. Return to find doused documents and brand new Empire magazine. Cuss again. Wipe, soak, weep and get dressed.

I take out my knife, my fork to anchor it, and cut the update into three bite-sized tweets, losing a couple of adjectival flourishes here and there, and post it back to front.

I imagine this to be the piece of honeyed prose to break down the wall between couched Thursday afternoons and sombreros on some imagined beach, and wait for the 'Share' icon, that luscious little piece of code, to go blip blip blip at the mastery of my careless grasping, made verbose.

Then the inevitable. The little red lad in the top left hand corner signalling comments from my sister, my father, my mother, and not a one of them registering the least surprise at my early morning fumbling. The latter went so far as to label me a gobshite. Even Milhouse's mother thought he was 'cool,' whatever the blazes that word means. A few other sympathisers, but the cognoscenti silent.

I pick up not one new Twitter follower, nor do I follow anyone else, and it is only now that I wonder what the great man, my grandfather, would have thought of such preoccupations as social media, social networking, social being without the social doing.

He'd laugh, fix his paper, say "you're some crackpot!" and go back to the crossword. Then ask how to sign up.