Large Heads and A Small Bit of Mincing

Just back from a VERY successful London trip to watch Broinlaw perform in the West End, highlights including following said Broinlaw around as he searched through the streets of Spitalfields for a hat to fit his GIANT HEAD – honestly, I have never met a man with a head that fits NO HATS.  Why bother with a hat?  Well unfortunately for his latest role he has been ordered to leave his hair long which has caused Floppy Fringe Syndrome, requiring covering, something he is not used to and which he hates.  Hates so much in fact that he tweeted on the very subject, causing the lady who looks after hair and wigs on the show to tweet back, nicely, but firmly, and in a veiled way, that it wasn’t her fault.  See, this is why people shouldn’t tweet.  Their ramblings are either inanely boring or offending, or just pointless.  Lobomonster NEVER tweets.  It is impossible to be witty and meaningful all the time.  I know my limitations.  They are HUGE.  Like Broinlaw’s head.

The only hat I liked fit his head, but cut off the circulation to the rest of his body, which he believed was a problem.   I thought it looked good though, but needing the body to work overruled fashion in this instance.

The show itself was wonderful, made all the better because we secretly agreed that Broinlaw was to do an impression of Papabear, which Papabear does in the pub after Dublin matches, when he is quite drunk.  It is quite mincy and offending, and I find it hilarious.  You turn around, pretending to see what is on the bottom of your shoe, lifting the shoe slightly, and putting your finger to your lips in a camp yet funny way.  Broinlaw promised he would do this in the first scene of the second act, but got so enthused about it all, I noticed him doing it over and over throughout, causing other cast members to look at him quizzically and then copy him.   Papabear was most proud when I texted him afterwards.

Even better were the American couple beside me, who were ENTHRALLED to learn I had a family member in the cast, as the wife in the couple had seen the show somewhere else, had it on DVD somehow and watched it once a week, every week, for some reason.  Squeals were heard after I got a text during the interval from Broinlaw, telling me he would be in a scene next with most of the cast, and would be wearing an outlandish costume, and what it was and where he would be on the stage.  I had to point him out to the Americans, who got quite excited, and scared me.

Broinlaw might be living in London many years but he is still Irish to the core and each morning when we went out to have breakfast we had first breakfast to give us the strength to help us get on the bus and find breakfast.  It was just a croissant, each, but only an Irish person understands the essential act of eating to give you the gumption to go out to eat.  Being Irish is great.

Cheese and The Child

Whilst not admiring the local marching band at the chipper the other night, I was enthralled to note that the bloke I sit next to in work (who has just turned 20 thank fully – as up until then this made him a mere 19 years of age – meaning I was EXACTLY TWICE HIS AGE.  Depression inducing?  You betcha).

One of the only good things about working in a call centre is that you have to sit next to people you would never normally talk to or look out without disdain.  You then become bonded through your eternal hate of the customers at the end of the line – for further reference to why I hate, you need only look at some previous posts that highlight my dealings with what are essentially sub-humans.  This 20 year old works in a bar at night after dealing with our abusive friends all day long.  One day, he came in with a bruise which covered the entire left side of his face.  He said he had asked a bloke to leave, who wouldn’t and when he tried to tell him to go, his face was bashed in.  That day, he said that working in the pub was nicer than dealing with our customers at the bank.

The Child also happens to be a drummer in our local marching band, and who did I espy battering away but his good self, in full redcoat, outside the Half Price Sale Chipper the other night but his good self.  I did call out as I cruised by, but Lilsister said I was hollering like a common person and she was too embarrassed to be seen with me, so I was unable to make contact.   However, it’s reminded me that when I return to work next week by 10.30am we will go through our routine where I will sigh deeply, throw my headset to the floor and declare my lack of faith in humanity.  This is a cue to all that I now need my tea.  I will get my tea, then whilst in the kitchen get two types of cheese from the fridge, mild cheddar for me and anything strong and smelly for The Child.  I bring the two cheeses back to my desk, with some napkins, and together we cut up the different cheese blocks into neat cubes, break open the crackers from my desk and have our cheese and crackers whilst being called every name under the sun by our customer counterparts.  This gets us through the morning and prevents death to all around.

We also like to discuss my lack of a boyfriend, and The Child has been most helpful in locating available older men for me on his phone, which has internet access, as mine does not.  The latest ”find” is a  52 year old ”man” who looks 72 in his profile photo, making me feel that perhaps the child sees anyone over the age of 30 as being the same as being dead.   If I’m lucky I also get to hear details of The Child’s love life, which sounds very complicated and full of young girls who like to ”stalk” The Child as they are in love with him.

And every few days, the office runs out of milk, so if somebody makes him a tea but leaves out the milk as there is none, I get to drink it, as I like my tea sans sugar and milk.

There are some good things about working in a call centre.

March to the Beat of the Chipper Drum

Fat times at the parental abode last night as promised – but not at our half price chipper unfortunately.  After receiving further instructions from Lilsister on her exact order and after witnessing Mammy and Papabear debate the merits of ray or cod fish (for about half an hour) I was ordered to phone our order in, so I could then go and pick it up.  But!  The chipper in question was NOT connected onto the telephone network and no order could be made.  I immediately rang Lilsister, still on her horrible commute from the city to the suburbs to be with us.

Lilsister hates her daily Luas commute.  She can just about handle the mornings, as she gets the same seat every day, apart from four days in a row when a newbie showed up at the tram stop and tried to prevent her pushing her way to the front and boarding.  After the fourth day of death stares, he now boards the tram at a door further away from the glaring hate that is Lilsister’s face before she has had her tea.  On the way home however, she battles all forms of junkies, as they are usually awake by 5pm.  It is not good.  One particularly gruesome conversation involved two junkies comparing how many dead friends they had, each.  She nearly threw herself UNDER the tram, but decided against it, as every time someone does this it delays all the other commuters and sympathy is not forthcoming.

Lilsister informed me that I would have to pick her up at the tram stop and drive without haste to the chipper.  I drove up the hill to the stop and spotted Lilsister and went to spin the car around, cutting across two lanes of traffic, where my car promptly refused to move.  I sat in the middle of the road, cutting off both oncoming and outgoing traffic, and revved the engine repeatedly whilst Lilsister, across the road I was trying to reach, audibly sighed.  We both knew I was five seconds away from abandoning the car and walking to the chipper, and she wasn’t in the mood to drive.  However the car moved, and Lilsister deposited herself in the passenger seat, and we both agreed that it was a cold night for walking, so it was good that the car began to co-operate.

We saw the queues for the chipper before we saw the street the chipper is actually ON.  It was horrific.  Hungry Dubliners, clad in tracksuits and looking flabby, snaked around the entire block, obviously hungry for bad food at good prices.  It was like a gathering at our local dole office – comprising all walks of life, all ages, all demographics.  The photographer from the local paper was out, because not only was half of Dublin waiting for chips, the local marching band was playing in the carpark – drummers, trumpeters, accordion players, tin whistles, all in FULL marching uniform and a conductor, managing the scene.  There was FACE PAINTING for goodness sake.  It was a celebration!

And THIS, my friend, is why it is truly great to live in Dublin.  Our country may be on its economic knees begging for a break, winter might be just around the corner and it promises to be an unmerry little Christmas but you give a chipper a chance and it will trade 40 years, celebrate with a half price sale and bring out not only the community, but the papers, the face painters and the big bands.  What’s not to celebrate?

We ended up at the chipper across the road (this being Dublin, chippers are as plentiful as pubs, or as churches if you are unfortunate enough to live outside Dublin).  There was no ray fish, so Papabear had cod, and Mammy, stubborn to the end, just had chips.

Paranormal Free Zone

It has been brought to my attention that Paranormal Activity 4 is now out and ready for screaming.

I don’t care how many times I am pressurised – I WILL NOT BE SEEING IT.

Now that I live alone in splendid isolation I simply cannot sit with Lilsister and Preggers, behind giant cushions, screaming and wailing and waiting for the horror to stop, just to come home to my creaky house and believe that the Dark Forces are trying to steal what is left of my soul.


It is Sandra Bullock all the way for me – and if you do not believe it I have taped THREE of her films to watch – 28 Days, Hope Floats and something about helping a poor unfortunate black person.  The last one looks particularly bad but I’m prepared to spend two hours watching it as there will be no floating babies, mothers looking weirdly out the windows and NO KILLING OF ALL MANKIND.


Cheap as Chips?

Plenty to celebrate at Mammy and Papabear’s tonight, once Lilsister told me that our most FAVOURITE chipper is having a sort of anniversary sale type thing.  I have no idea what anniversary it is, but our local chipper is celebrating making Dubliners fat and slow for a good few years now, and have decided to spread the joy, carbs and waistlines with a HALF PRICE SALE!!!  This caused Lilsister such excitement when she found out the news that she called me immediately, once I had landed in Dublin after a very successful trip to London to see Broinlaw act and sing his sequined socks off in a west end production.  Lilsister informed me of the sale, and of what she would be eating, and what time I was to collect her from the Luas stop so I could drive her to the aforementioned chipper.  It all happens tonight (we like to plan our binge eating at least 24 hours in advance, particularly when one party has been abroad and may have not been aware there was a half price lard sale on).

I informed Lilsister that I would agree to all of the following, assuming she let Mammy know we and our guts would be dining (if it can be called that, as you are essentially eating grease out of a bag, with no cutlery – what is the socially acceptable name for that?  Grazing is too kind, guzzling is too embarrassing) at the parental abode.  I then texted Mammy, in preparation for Lilsister’s call, to say that she had some ”good news involving food” and that she would be calling shortly.

Lilsister then called Mammy.

”Hello my child.”

”Good evening mother.”

”What is this news I have to be told?”

”Oh something that might cheer you up!”

”You’re not pregnant are you.” (Said WITHOUT question mark, possibly with a weary sigh?)

”No.  The chipper is having a half price sale tomorrow.  What do you want to order?”

”I don’t have time for this.”  Cue dead line sound.

It appears Mammy is NOT as enthralled as myself and Lilsister, despite the fact that in a couple of hours, she will be horsing into her grub just as greedily as we will be.  We should all be on the sofa, with shooting pains in our stomachs, by eight.  I can’t wait!