I have no idea why anyone would still be checking up on this (clearly and shamefully) abandoned blog, but God bless you, whoever you are. It’s much appreciated and I hope your good karma comes back to you in the forms of sunshine and sparkly things.
I have no real excuse, the simple truth is life got a whole lot busier there for a while and now I’ve attempted a fresh start at the blogging thing. Which is the same as saying I wanted to get back into it but was bored of how mine looked, really…
Today, I encountered an interesting phenomenon named Plinky.
Plinky wants to be my friend. Plinky tells me that it will make my writer’s block go away and make it easy for me to
“create inspired content”.
Wow, thanks Plinky. Are you trying to tell me something about my current “content”? Why not just tell me I’m fat while you’re at it.
Harumph.
Plinky is insatiably curious about my thoughts and feelings on just about everything. To be honest, Plinky is a bit nosey for my liking. Not to mention a tad pushy.
“No Plinky account? Sign up!”
“Sign up below to get started!”
“To answer the prompt below, you’ll need a Plinky account.”
“Please give me your email address! Pleeeeeease!”
Jeez, Plinky. Have some self-respect, would ya? You’re embarrassing yourself.
In spite of all this, I think I kind of like Plinky. I suspect this is mostly because it is fun to say and also it sounds very like Pinky, which brings back some very pleasant childhood memories of Saturday mornings plonked in front of the telly.
“Whaddaya wanna do tonight, Brain?”
“The same thing we do every night, Pinky.
TRY TO TAKE OVER THE WORLD.”
Obscure, you say? Pure brilliance, I say.
I’m playing hard to get. Well, kind of.
I didn’t give Plinky my email address. But I did spend a few minutes contemplating Plinky’s question of the day:
“What’s your favourite quote, and why?”
Well, Plinky. Interesting question. So many sources to choose from: literature, film, music, family (see below), friends, bloggers, civil rights activists, dumb-ass celebrities, crappy posters, crappier t-shirts…
Too many, in fact. I’ve changed my mind, it’s not an interesting question, it’s a stupid question that involves too much brain-racking on my part. What’s YOUR favourite quote, hmmm Plinky? Bit of a one-sided relationship, this.
At that moment, my attention was momentarily diverted as I noticed that someone nearby was watching Shaun of the Dead. Just as I turned to look, Pegg and Frost uttered the immortal lines:
Pegg: “You want anythin in the shop?”
[pause]
Frost: “Corne’o [Cornetto].”
Bam, favourite quote. At least, at this moment in time it is. Do I really need a reason? I didn’t think so.
How’s that for inspired, Plinky? Smart-arse.
P.S. Shockingly, I could not find this clip isolated anywhere on YouTube. So the best I can do is give you the trailer and implore you to see the whole film in all it’s awesome-ness if you haven’t done so already.
Here is another great Nick Frost clip, for the craic.
I recently attended an aunt’s birthday party that doubled up as a general family reunion.
You know, one of those events where you recognise roughly 35% of the people in attendance and everyone sits outdoors around a patio heater (regardless of gale force winds) and drinks solidly for approximately 14 hours while an army of children, loaded with carbonated sugary beverages, swarms about making as much noise as possible?
No?
Maybe that’s just my family.
Ahem…
Anyway, there were some choice quotes throughout the day. Unfortunately, due in equal part to the considerable volume of alcohol consumed and the absence of my laptop and even my notebook, most have been lost forever. However, I don’t think I could ever forget any of the following conversations:
In reference to a patio heater:
“Ya could burn rubbish and young fellas and all sorts in that thing.”
(Uttered with no apparent ill-will towards any young fellow in particular.)
In casual conversation:
“Do ya know black Joey down in Letterfrack?”
(In fairness there are probably many Joeys and relatively few black people in Letterfrack.)
My 20-year-old cousin’s career plan:
“I’m thinkin of makin coffins. There’s only one fella does them round here and I reckon I could do them cheaper.”
(Simple but brilliant. I am in awe.)
Conversation between a small child and his mother:
“Mam, can we get a hamster?”
“No lovey, those are too expensive. They cost, ahem, €150.“
“No they don’t Mam, I saw one for €10.”
“That one was dead, lovey.”
(Uttered with such unflinching sincerity that even I believed her for a minute.)
So…apparently this is what a shamefully neglected blog looks like…
**Moving swiftly on…**
I have noticed that most of my (admittedly few) posts have fallen into the categories of Moans and Rants. With this in mind, here is a post devoted to
Great and Lovely Things
that have crossed my path in recent times:
His and Hers
Go and see it. Don’t ask too many questions, because the more I try to tell you how awesome a documentary about the ladies of the Irish Midlands is, the less you’ll believe me. Just take a chance, I promise you won’t regret it. However, beware that if you fail to shed a tear, I will forever believe that you, like my good pal Bert, are made of stone.
(Yeah, that’s right, Bert. Your pseudonym is Bert. You know why. Before you complain, think how much worse it could have been.)
Ahem.
So yes, His and Hers = fantastic. Also, if you happen to have a student card and be in Dublin on a Monday, you can see it in the Screen on D’olier Street for €5. Score!
A lil taste…
Inception Anticipation
(Inceptipation? Nah, sounds like an unpleasant medical procedure)
Continuing in a film-ish vein…
I’m not even gonna bother posting a trailer because if you’ve managed to stumble across a blog as obscure as this one, there’s no way you haven’t picked up on the hype for this movie. Hype for which I have abandoned my snobbish indie tendencies and thrown myself wholeheartedly into. Why, you may ask? Three excellent reasons:
Before I feel compelled to rename this blog hotbabes.wordpress.com, I would like to re-affirm that each of these beautiful gentlemen is a ridiculously talented actor and has an excellent track record of being in deadly films. Having said that, I’m fairly certain the film will disappoint, but for the moment I’m having a grand aul time being excited about it.
Tim Minchin
Isn’t he just wonderful? Thoroughly enjoyed his presence on the Jonathan Ross show recently, despite the enormous drag factor of…well, Jonathan Ross. Who else would begin an interview with the big ball of charming genius that is Minchin by talking about the weather? Sigh.
But then the Four Poofs gave him a go of their Piano and it was all good.
The Temper Trap
Got their albumConditionsin the post the other day (yes, I buy CDs) and its just great. I’ve heard complaints that the songs all sound too similar – that’s okay by me as they all sound great. Okay, so Sweet Dispositionhas been used to advertise every product in existence over the past few months, but don’t hold that against them. Sure have an aul link to Love Lost – it makes me smile!
(Whether this is despite or because of the misery of the subjects of the video, I am uncertain. Either way – greah song.)
Exercise
In a truly drastic attempt to counteract some of my unhealthier habits and fill up some of my unemployed time, I have taken to a cross-country machine twice a day. To my complete surprise, I can now walk moderate distances without my lungs shrivelling up into painful balls of fire. I also feel generally more awake and alert for longer periods of time. Do people know about this amazing phenomenon? Someone should write a book about it or something.
Holidays
Who the hell knows how I’m going to pay for it. But its happening! On August 10th, myself and at least three of my favourite people will be on a plane to Berlin to begin our interrail adventure.
**YAY!**
I am awfully pleased and excited about this but will restrain myself at this point as it will most likely be the subject of many future posts. I will also attempt to forget for the moment that due to various constraints (collectively known as reality) I will have to return home after a measly two weeks. Ah well, better than a slap in the face, as my dear aul Ma would say.
And last, but most definitely not least…
YOU
Yes, you. God only knows what inspired you to take time out of your busy and fascinating life to read this, but you are both GreatandLovelyfor doing so.
Yes, that is correct. I am plagued by spiky, scary-looking balls of mysterious composition.
Irritant, bastarding, invisible specks.
aka
POLLEN
Its that time of year again. If you are one of those blessed individuals who does not and has never suffered from hayfever,
(or seasonal allergic rhinitis – my dramatic soul enjoys the more serious-sounding title)
be thankful.
Also, if you tell me that rubbing my eyes isn’t going to make them stop itching, I may very well punch you in the face.
If, like me, you are reading this through puffy, itchy eyes while sneezing approximately twelve times per minute – well, let’s just take a moment to feel sorry for ourselves, shall we?
Six Things I Hate About Hayfever
(in no particular order)
1. Itchy Eyes
Agh. Agh. AAAAGGGH. There is nothing like it. Constant and relentless. Try as you might, you WILL rub them. Just a little, you think. Just one teensy rub will definitely relieve this torture.
Wrong.
Just over halfway through June and already I have constantly swollen and bloodshot old-lady eyes.
2. Timing is Everything
We all know that the sun only ever shines in Ireland during exam season. This coincides nicely with Mr Hayfever, who shows up and unpacks his bags on June 1st and makes himself at home for the ensuing four to five weeks. For this time I am obliged to hide my puffy miserable face away indoors while everyone else goes to the beach and eats lots of ice cream. This feels similar to being allergic to presents at Christmas. By the time I emerge in early to mid July, the sun has taken his business elsewhere and everyone is settling into another eleven-month Rainy Season.
3. Sneezing
Teach me your ways, Demetri
To quote the fabulous Demetri Martin in his masterful song, “Sames and Opposites”:
“Earrings are the same as sneezes: two is okay, but ten in a row is annoying.”
I don’t have particularly strong feelings on multiple piercings.
Constant sneezing is very annoying though.
4. Cosmetic Crises
Okay, this is a bit of a girly one. But I’ll admit it: I love my eyeliner. And my eyeshadow. And my mascara. And I hate hate HATE that for the month of June I’m forced to either just stop wearing it, or accept that at some point during the day/night it will end up smeared all over the top half of my puffy, inflamed face. This may be very amusing to my friends and family, but it is very upsetting for me and very frightening for small children.
5. I’m Not Contagious, I Swear!
I don’t blame them. I’ve probably done it myself. But I can feel people silently taking note of my sneeze-attacks and constant nose-blowing and trying to shuffle quietly away from me in order to avoid being infected with whatever pathogens I’m harbouring. It’s like (an extremely mild) form of leprosy.
6. Unpleasant Remedies
The only thing that comes close to easing my symptoms (for a little while at least) is a nasal spray that tastes like liquid grass when it hits the back of my throat. Eeeeww. Also, spraying mysterious liquids into one’s nose is generally not regarded as socially acceptable behaviour; so if a private place is not immediately available, emergency administration inevitably increases my leper-like status (see above).
Ever had one of those days? You know, where you feel that if you were to look back over your life, right before you died, you’d come to this day and think,
“What a total waste. I can’t believe I frittered away all those hours on absolutely nothing.”
One of those days where it feels like you’ve got no places to go or people to see.
I’ve had plenty of days where I haven’t achieved anything in particular but have felt satisfied that I’ve used my time well, whether it was just being with someone special, or doing something I enjoy, or taking a break from something that’s been stressing me out.
But days like today…nothing excites me. I drift around my house, looking for things to do, then looking for reasons not
to do them. I’m not motivated enough to follow through with anything I start and leave a trail of half-finished projects behind. I seem to be incapable of creating anything worth sharing or doing anything worth doing. I find myself wandering Facebook aimlessly and suddenly, an hour later, I’m checking out the holiday photos of some friend of an acquaintance, who would undoubtedly be unimpressed by my creeping.
Staying in is dull, going out is hassle.
I try to remind myself on days like these that the number of hours I have to live is in fact finite, and I’m wasting precious, precious time. It makes me feel angry at myself and also vaguely guilty. And yet nothing seems strong enough to snap me out of it. The worst part is, I know that when this spell of unemployment comes to an end (and it must…eventually…right??), I’ll be longing for days like this, full of free time that I can use to do anything I want…and yet today, I can’t think of anything I want to do.
Before anyone writes me off as a spoilt brat who needs to be entertained 24/7, I’d like to assert that thankfully, these days are pretty rare. Although I’m currently in the midst of my longest period of time (6 weeks – feels like so much longer!) not in full-time employment or education since the summer I was fourteen, up until now I haven’t had trouble filling my days.
Maybe because when I was growing up, the word “bored” was illegal in our house, I’ve always been able to think of ways to amuse myself. Also, being pretty poor at sports and a more-awkward-than-most teenager meant that I’ve always opted for pretty solitary leisure pursuits. So, asides from spending long hours drafting and re-drafting CVs and cover letters for every job imaginable, I’ve kept myself occupied by:
Reading books I’d been meaning for ages to read (Catch 22 is mind-blowing, The Talented Mr Ripley ain’t too shabby either)
Re-learning to play the piano (ever so much more satisfying when there isn’t a hatchet faced woman sitting next to you rapping your knuckles with a little stick)
Re-attempting to teach myself guitar (My Lovely Horse is trickier than it appears; however, I’m comforted by the belief that any little plucking or strumming inaccuracies are covered up by my loud singing)
Lunching, picnicking and generally hanging out with sound people (although the number of such people who are as unemployed as me is sadly dwindling)
Refining some of my scribblings from the past few years and attempting to put them together to form something a bit more substantial (sure we’ll see how that goes)
Where have they been all my life?
Discovering wonderful films and television about a million years after the hype has died (Flight of the Conchords? Yes please.)
Walking around Dublin (and occasionally sitting in cafés and eavesdropping – clichéd but true…and fun!)
Pottering about the kitchen and doing the odd bit of laundry so that my family are in awe of my domestic goddess-ness (yeah, they’re definitely in awe, I’m sure of it)
Sifting through four years worth of handouts, journal articles, assignments and God knows what other paperwork I accumulated in college and attempting to impose some semblance of order
Image courtesy of rgbstock.com/gallery/johnnyberg
Tending to my sunflowers (they live on my kitchen windowsill and take up more time than you’d think; the day they bloom I’m going to have a party)
And of course, discovering the endless entertainment and education to be gained from reading (and occasionally writing) lovely blogs.
Sadly, none of the above pursuits were enough to engage me today. Personally, I blame my Dad for making me lunch at 11:30 before I had even eaten breakfast and thereby upsetting my whole sense of routine. God, what a thoughtless bastard.
I went. I saw. I ogled, envied, gasped and giggled. I enjoyed it in a superficial, sparkly way. Of course, as we left the cinema, I joined in analysing the clothes (the good, the bad…and the God-awful) and discussing how well (or otherwise) our favourite foursome are aging. I didn’t have the heart to bring up any of the irritations that had been niggling at the back of my brain over the two hours and twenty-six minutes and rain on my companions’ parade.
No such worries here!
Carrie’s Endless Whinging
Right, am I the only girl who feels sorry for Big? Okay, fair enough, he’s done his own fair share of messing. But dear God, that woman is just never happy. Now that she finally has him in a committed relationship, Carrie seems to spend all her energy looking for new things to nag him about. The poor guy can’t even watch a bit of telly without her having a go. He brings home dinner because she’s too damn lazy to sort something out, and she moans that they “ate in twice last week.” Wow, she’s definitely feeling the pinch, isn’t she? She then proceeds to bully him into going out when he clearly doesn’t want to, and then drags him home for a good nag when he has the cheek to chat with Penelope Cruz.
She’s married to the man of her dreams. She lives in a bloody gorgeous apartment (which is apparently a “step down”, cos, y’know, we’ve all had to make sacrifices in the face of the R word). She has a deadly job (or lack thereof, depending on how you look at it). She has great mates and an enviable social life. Yet every five seconds she has a big miserable mush on her and is having a grand oul moan at her hubby or pals. At one point, Carrie refers to the single girl she used to be, “running around New York like a crazy person.” At least she was a bitta craic back then.
Blatant Ethnocentrism
(and some double standards)
So, the girls are taking a trip to Abu Dhabi. Excellent. What a great opportunity for our heroines to experience a foreign culture first-hand, perhaps even prompting them to reflect critically on their own values and lifestyles? Um, no. In wearisomely typical New York style, foreign customs are dismissed as quaint (“look at that woman eating french fries under her niqab”) and oppressive (I mean, come on, what kind of fascist society objects to sex in a public place?). Rather than attempting to gain an understanding of local lifestyles and traditions, the supposedly enlightened foursome hold steadfastly to their own ideals and inevitably see it as their duty to set a good empowering example for local women through a karaoke rendition of “I Am Woman.”
Interestingly, while our gals pity their Abu Dhabi counterparts and ridicule the laws which they see as restricting their liberty, they don’t seem to mind butlers waiting on them hand and foot, 24 hours a day. Apparently New Yorkers are too enlightened for gender inequality, but class and income inequality to the point of glorified slavery is okay.
A Very Oirish Accent
I probably should have opened with this as it was the one thing that actually made me want to get up and run away. Charlotte’s nanny has little function in this film other than to shake her tits about in front of Harry (giving Charlotte something to worry about) and usher the little darlings off the screen when they just Won’t. Stop. Fucking. Crying. A fairly one-dimensional role; could have been played by anyone with large bosoms, but some idiot decided that the nanny should be Irish (I could launch into a tirade here about how Irish people are constantly represented in American films in relatively lower class occupational roles…but I won’t. Much.).
Of course, it was far too much like hard work to actually source and hire a decent-looking Irish actress, or even one who could fake a decent accent. We’re all well used to our fabulous range of accents being butchered by Hollywood, but British actress Alice Eve should really know better; this one would make even Darby O’Gill turn in his grave. Thankfully, she has very little to say.
Money Money Money
Yes, I am aware that sensible budgeting has never really played a big part in SATC. We all know that their spending and
lifestyles are utterly unrealistic and have turned a blind eye in return for the opportunity to gawp at pretty things. However, I found the indulgence and consumerism particularly grating this time around, as I think I may already have implied above. I was particularly struck by how hard it was to really feel any sympathy for Charlotte and Miranda’s motherhood difficulties when they both have full-time hired help. In fact, its difficult to feel any empathy for any of the characters at all when you’re so constantly reminded how much richer they are than you.
I used to think that I liked poetry. Now I’m not so sure that I understand what poetry is. I thought that a poem was a piece of writing that told a story or conveyed a feeling in a creative way. I liked poems that sounded beautiful, that made me feel something, that I could relate to my own life, or that made me feel I understood something the writer had felt, seen, thought, or done. Poetry was one of the less painful things I had to read and write about in school, where I was introduced to some of my favourite poets. To me, poetry was something to read and think about, maybe to share or recommend to a close friend.
However, I recently had the unenviable experience of attending a poetry reading that threw all my previous beliefs into question (how I found myself in such a situation is another story for another day). It started out innocently enough; an inoffensive-looking guy read a couple of short Irish historical poems – oppression, the famine, etc. Hardly an original (or particularly relevant?) theme but hey, each to their own. The next poet up to the mic at least made me laugh (although I’m pretty sure that wasn’t his intention). I thought his poem was actually quite good – a dry and cynical take on Irish binge drinking culture – but it seemed borderline farcical to be reading it aloud in a Dublin pub on a Friday evening! Suddenly everyone seemed to be shifting uncomfortably in their seats and nearly-full glasses were quietly put down. Needless to say the barmen were looking daggers at the foolish chap.
But it was the next one that really started to get me riled up. I had noticed her already, a large girl with tits like flotation devices on prominent display (I never promised a politically correct blog), thick glasses, and long blond hair proudly frizzed up into a storm (she must have forgotten her “I don’t conform to society’s expectations and standards of conventional beauty” badge). Up on the stool she went and in an accent that smacked of a comfortable upbringing and extremely high self-esteem (you know the one I mean…), warned the crowd that her poems were quite “rude” and launched into a rhyming two page ditty about a boyfriend obsessing over her previous partner’s sexual aptitude, with the “shock” finale that the previous partner was in fact a woman. A raucous cheer from her friends in the corner encouraged her to carry on with gleeful abandon into a poem that detailed sexual encounters with a wide variety of gentlemen in what I felt was unnecessary detail (not to mention unforgivably contrived rhyme). At this point, I should probably mention that I was in attendance with my parents and a small group of my mother’s work colleagues (again, the how and why are a story for another day, but its safe to say I will never allow such a situation to construct itself again). Things went from bad to worse with the next “poem” – I knew it was going to be rough when she introduced it as “a poem about when your boyfriend wants a blow job and you don’t really want to give him one”, but still wasn’t prepared for the detail in which she proceeded to described the process of vomiting during said act following seventeen vodkas and a Singapore chow mein. Did anyone ever really need to hear that information?
Needless to say, I was pretty pissed off at this stage. My mood wasn’t helped by all the charming individuals in the crowd who vehemently shushed anyone who tried to quietly engage in conversation rather than attending to the aural porno performance. But the icing on the cake for me was the young man who gave a ten minute introduction to his shitty and clichéd poem in an accent (yes, I make judgements about people based on their accents – take that, political correctness!) that was clearly deliberately roughened, presumably in order to lend him some street cred. He explained how the poem was about a friend he had known throughout his schooldays but lost contact with after the Leaving Cert because (direct quote) “I lived in Baldoyle and he lived in Portmarnock.” For anyone reading who isn’t familiar with Dublin (unlikely, but who knows…), those two areas are about five kilometres apart and well connected by good roads and several public transport routes. Possibly his implication was that they were separated by, [SARCASM ALERT] y’know, social barriers and stuff, cos his mate was from Portmarnock where, like, the poshies live, and he was from Baldoyle – well hard, y’know. Even if he and his friend were geographically or socially separated, as a friend of my own pointed out when I was telling this story, “could he not have just given him a text?” Either way, it was a completely inane and stupid statement – and this was the basis of the four-page poem to follow.
I could go on. And on and on and on. But words fail me to truly describe how enraged I was leaving that pub. I’m not sure exactly what made me so mad. Sure, being forced to listen to other people’s self-indulgent ramblings wasn’t exactly the best Friday night I’d had in ages. But I think it was the fact that they called it poetry, made out that they were artists and intellectuals, that really got to me. As if forcing complete strangers to listen to their literary endeavours confirmed their elite status as creative and non-conformist beings. Who the hell did they think they were?
On the other hand, I have it on pretty good authority that I’m a generally intolerant person. Maybe I’m just a poetry fascist attempting to oppress artists whose work I don’t appreciate or understand. Maybe the other people who attended the reading genuinely enjoyed it, and my politically incorrect and highly opinionated ranting is completely unjustified. But hey, at least I have the common decency to confine it to my own personal blog rather than using a stage and a microphone to inflict my views on innocent pub-goers.
I probably should have opened with this as it was the one thing that actually made me want to get up and run away. Charlotte’s nanny has little function in this film other than to shake her tits about in front of Harry (giving Charlotte something to worry about) and usher the little darlings off the screen when they just Won’t. Stop. Fucking. Crying. A fairly one-dimensional role; could have been played by anyone with large bosoms, but some idiot decided that the nanny should be Irish (I could launch into a tirade here about how Irish people are constantly represented in American films in relatively lower class occupational roles…but I won’t. Much.).
Girl Without a Plan 
