Vomit Negotiations

Occasionally we serfs at work are left alone to chat amongst ourselves and get to know each other.

There seem to be a lot of hangovers in the building, are people drinking to escape the complete non-excitement that is our office?

Personally, I haven’t been drinking in months, perhaps I am going into reverse alcoholism, whatever that is.

I have had to listen to my colleagues vomit whilst I had my tea and biscuits, as the bathrooms are, naturally, next to the kitchen.

One girl vomited out her balcony before coming to work (small mercies) and was too ill to clean it up.  She got her younger brother, aged 18, to do it, after paying him seven euro.

There was a WHOLE tomato in her vomit, and he had originally requested ten euro.

 

 

Mammy Usurps the Irish Medical System, Adds Gin

After shelling out for the world’s nosiest doctor, Mammy and Daddy depart Irish shores to travel to the lovely Lanzarote, where it’s warm and medication costs less.

‘Get me my sleeping tablets,’ I bark at Mammy, ‘as I have no money left from the Doctor Prat-a-lot.’

Mammy does, and hands them over upon her return, alongside a very cheap bottle of gin, my drink of choice.

Gin and sleeping tablets – would the doctor be worried?  Surely they don’t cause alarm bells to ring if your mother gets them for you in a sunny place?

 

No to Cork, Yes to Elderflower

Best to try new things, especially with gin, so myself and Honeymonster were recommended an elderflower tonic by a bar man who seriously, and I am not just saying this because I am 39 and 7/8ths, was about 12 years old.  Very nice indeed, except we both felt very sleepy afterwards.

Have also been trying the soda water instead of tonic, to cut calories (I’m aware it would be easier to cut out scones, but would it?  Be easier?  To cut out scones?  No, it would not.).  I suppose I could get used to it, but there was no zing, even with the addition of cucumber (essential to a clean cut gin drink – barmen, take out that bloody lemon and throw away the lime!  Cucumber is the king of gin!).

Whilst purchasing my soda water, I was accosted at the bar by a Cork football supporter who had the temerity to ask me if Dublin had won the match.  ‘Of course we did!’ I yelped at him like a wounded dog, amazed that he could envision otherwise.  He then advised me that the ‘rebels’ (a name the ignorant Corkonians call themselves) would happily see off Dublin ‘soon’.  I reminded him of our quite recent victory over this alleged ‘team’ and then we both started snorting at each other like bulls.  My gin was ready, and I left him ordering Beamish, or whatever shite Cork people drink instead of Dublin Guinness.

Our Ball – the Dubs explain to Wexford that they are surplus to requirements

Diarmuid Does Dallas (Well, Phoenix)

The Tank – Dub Hero Diarmuid out making mincemeat of our country enemies

Sitting in the pub after Dublin dispatched Wexford in the Gaelic football at Croke Park, I was shocked to find that during the trad session there was an actual double of Diarmuid Connolly sitting in front of me.  Was it him?

It was not, it was an American from Phoenix with the same square jaw, sharp hair ‘do’ and rectangled body of the great man himself.  Lilsister proclaimed him to be Diarmuid’s double, made facebook friends with him and promptly sent him photos of The Great One.  He left pretty quickly after that, saying he was en route to Kerry.  We told him not to mention Diarmuid over there.

 

 

 

Dating Opportunities If Aged 63

Our uncle arrived at the pub late, as he plays trad music in a different pub on Sunday nights.  Dublin had just thrashed Derry in the Gaelic football at the hallowed Croke Park, and we had a double celebration what with it being Papabear’s 65th birthday celebrations too.

There was gin, beer and shots of baby Guinness.  I threw up that night and all the next day too, thank the universe Lilsister cooked shepherd’s pie the next day, it was the only thing I kept down for 24 hours.

During the festivities Lilsister informed me that newly separated Unca (age 63) would be bringing ‘a girlfriend’ to her upcoming wedding extravaganza in October.  We were both a little shocked – it was only January when I and Unca hugged each other on our mutual marriage breakdowns – my divorce and his formal separation.

I immediately approached Unca.  ‘You have a girlfriend?’ I slurred.  Indeed he did, he advised, and for a few months.  Excuse me, I pondered out loud, how long have you been separated again?  He queried if I meant officially or unofficially.  ‘Both,’ I enthused.

My 63 year old uncle, officially separated since Christmas, marriage broken down about a year and a half, has a girlfriend.  I am single almost three years and whilst I may not be seeking a boyfriend (or whatever they are called when you are 39 and three quarters) it is not like they are beating down the doors to enter Loboworld.

‘How did you find her?’ I asked.

‘You have to get out there and meet people,’ he confirmed.

I mentioned to Papabear that he was making me look bad.  ‘Yes, he is’, he replied.

Prettyboy said as soon as I stop being bitter I will probably be alright.

I remain utterly bemused that all of the above have partners and I do not.

 

When Michael Jackson Did NOT Come to Dublin

Just because you have some sellotape on your fingers does not give you the right to parade around as a Michael Jackson impersonator.

I had decided to forgo watching my beloved Dublin football team play what turned out to be an absolute belter of a match against Mayo in order to see this cretin.  I had hoped that he would be bad, that wasn’t the problem, the problem was that I showed up at 8pm and he came on after a bloke with glasses and a tracksuit who sang Bob Marley songs, at an unholy 11pm.

He was short and fat with greased back long hair tied into a ponytail.  He had a hugely receding hairline.  Then he put on a black hat and shades and began to screech Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’.  It was ok.  The Baker said a professional troupe of impersonators were in Dublin at the moment and perhaps he was one of them, then he failed to hit the high notes on Billie Jean and we said no way.  Then at the end he said he was part of a professional troupe of impersonators who were in Dublin and I continued drinking the beers from a large ‘five beers in a bucket’ promotion the pub was doing.  Middlebro kept shaking his head and saying it was wrong wrong wrong.  He is a bit of a purist when it comes to music.

A lot of people then began grabbing their crotches and doing really bad dance moves.  A group of badly dressed (meaning barely dressed) girls with extensions then chatted up the non-impersonator and the tracksuited singer and once again I wondered how people like that could score whilst I can’t.

Next morning I woke up in splendour in the guest FLOOR of Middlebro and The Baker’s new house and Middlebro knocked politely to tell me he was heading in for a beer poo but would do the fry up immediately afterwards.

 

Ugly Poncho Threatens to Distract Drinking, Fails

They (the world) say to write, you must write what you know.  Sadly, I know nothing.

However, even I can envisage that if you spend less than two euro on an item of clothing, it will not rock your world.

So I found it odd that upon opening the cheap packaging that Spongecake had spent a titanic €1.99 on, she then cried a disgusted ”What the fuck???”.  She had just set eyes on the plastic poncho she had bought, at a newsagents, for the first time.   I think she was expecting something that would not look like something a cretin would wear, but how could it under these circumstances.

Horrifically, once we got inside our third pub and the poncho came off, I was the one that had to carry it in my handbag.  This meant the next morning, whilst not dying but not bouncing off the walls with energy either, it was a frightening thing to behold when I went to look for my purse to buy croissants with and it’s bright blue self protruded at me from the depths.

It is best to hide your resolution to go drinking under the illusion of having afternoon tea.  We had our afternoon tea and scones (seriously, I can’t stop eating them) with some wine (beer for Spongecake), then hit a bar on the quays that serves Thai beer, then another bar for gin (vodka for Spongecake), then another bar for beer where the toilet has not been renovated (or cleaned) since the 1960’s, then another bar for more beer where you walk through the door and the one gay at the door hears you (or Spongecake) saying ‘nice bit of cock in here’ and immediately wants to be your friend.

I do remember meeting Spongecake’s (married) friends who did not even pretend to look away when she flashed her heaving chesticle at them, and swopping our shoes at one stage because mine had wedge heels and I am such a non girl my feet even hurt in THOSE, and Spongecakes’ were flat.  It was also very hard to change our shoes back again whilst standing but we distracted attention away from our falling over by blaming two very serious blokes with beards and horn rimmed glasses on an eggy fart we caught when the back door opened, something they displayed absolutely no sense of humour about, nor lowered themselves to discuss with us.  I think they went back to their corner to discuss the rubbishy sonnets they wished they were composing.

Ming’s Mong

It is time to talk about Ming, and his Mong.

Think Ming from Flash Gordon – a white man who looks almost Asian because his greasy hair has been pulled so tight.  I have no idea what Ming’s real name is.  All I know is that every time I see him at the Dublin football matches, he is wearing the same clothes as last time, Papabear makes a lot of huffing and puffing noises, moves away from Ming, and has begun calling him Mong, quite loudly.

The stench is getting worse.

Ireland has been basking in a heatwave, and not just a namby-pamby one where it doesn’t rain for two days in a row, no a fully fledged, 30 degree, no rain for weeks now, sunshining, humid, fetid heatwave.  What this means is that if you don’t wash, smell stale on a good day and wear the same heavy clothes for the last six months, do weed and don’t use deodorant, you will have a mong coming from you that is so smelly it is almost sweet, and can cause a grown man to sneeze with tears in his eyes.

This is particularly difficult at Dublin matches where the seats are tightly packed at Croke Park.  Should you find yourself sandwiched between a group of Dubs, already sweaty from the mid afternoon sun, it is best if you take the necessary sanitary precautions, and wash yourself.  Failing that, prepare to be left standing alone as the group, gathered in the smoking area at half time to dissect and discuss the finer points of the game, slowly take the necessary steps away from you in order to take good clean breaths of cigarette smoke, rather than your body odour.

Discussions on the matter continued way into the night at the pub, despite the fact that Dublin had overcome one of our arch rivals, the horrible Meath and it’s equally horrible followers in a match which saw Dublin fall apart in the first half, but come into their own in the second.  It was tense, it wasn’t easy, we won the day but it was ropey for a while, yet the topic of conversation was what does Ming’s mong smell like, where does it come from, how can we extinguish it and who is going to say it to him.

Lilsister says it’s his jacket.

Californiadreamin says it’s weed.

Papabear says it’s never washing, ever.

The Clipper says it’s not using deodorant.

Pointyshoes says it’s an inherited problem – the house stinks.

Scarydancer says he’s just a filthy bastard, and I have to concur with that.

Who will be the one to say it to him?

Lilsiter says she doesn’t know him well enough.

Californiadreamin says the smell of weed doesn’t bother him and we’re all mad.

Papabear says he’s happy to say Ming your Mong is disgusting but he’s not the most gentle of people and we all say no to that.

The Clipper says it should be Californiadreamin or Pointyshoes as they’re his friends.

Pointyshoes says he is clean, it’s the smelly house he’s in, and you can’t say that because it’s his parent’s house.

Scarydancer sighs and I say it should be Californiadreamin because he can say I can’t smell anything but others have commented but Californiadreamin takes a sup of his burbon and declares he will not, under any circumstances, say anything to anybody.  Then he asks if anybody is going to sing because if not he will kick off with some Eagles.

Thankfully the band come in and we can all pretend he never said anything about croaking up.

Go to Mass and Don’t Drink Wine

I have just been refused wine!!!

And not due to my non-youthful good looks.  Because of…grrrr….the ”system”.  Yes, in good Catholic Holy Ireland where no crime is ever committed, nobody ever does anything wrong and where drinking and fornication is a sin, you cannot buy wine in a public supermarket before 12.30pm!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!   I kid you not.  I have just been in the aforementioned public supermarket, and on behalf of Lilsister, stuck two bottles of a very lovely South African chenin blanc that we have been drinking throughout the Christmas period, on top of my tissues and a box of condoms, which I decided to buy in a vain effort to make it appear that this year, as per Middlebro’s request, I shall have sex.  Looking at my basket, I hoped that I would not need any assistance at the till, as I look like a total and utter slut with these contents (I HAD done my food shopping yesterday but returned as I needed to buy blueberries for my breakfast tomorrow.  I am studying for exams with the ever-pointless Institute of Bankers and blueberries are a good brain food.  I’ve also received a text from the Institute of Idiots during the week ”reminding” me that oh joy, it’s time to pay up again for a year’s worth of membership.  Yes, I have to sit exams for a job that I have 12 years experience in doing, pay for the exams, study around a full time job which will NOT give me study leave as I am ”only” a temporary staff member, and then pay for the privilege of sitting said exams with a (scam central) membership fee of forty euro per annum!!!  Bankers doesn’t rhyme with wankers for no reason, my little flowerpots).

Well I suppose the addition of blueberries takes away from the complete slut goodies I had with me so small mercies, as I must be allowed to say because it’s Sunday and this is Holy Catholic Ireland, where we all live in such fear of god’s smite that we never do anything wrong.  How can we – we’re all drunk or high 24-7.

Checking my basket contents again, I felt that the self service till would be my best option and I headed over to one, and began scanning the tissues, then the condoms (which took three attempts at scanning – something wasn’t working and I was THIS close to throwing them back over to the discounted bleach and other bathroom cleaning products stand behind me when they finally went through – and accounted for HALF of my eventual spend – since when did condoms become so expensive? ).  I got to the wine which immediately FLASHED  a warning message about a time delay.  ”I am not trying to open a safe,” I growled at the screen, and began flailing my first bottle at the screen in a desperate attempt to have it swipe and register the ”bing!” to tell me I could move on.  It would not, and I had to call the 12 year old male assistant to my aid, telling him there were ”issues buying the wine” to which he replied ”there are never issues buying wine” and I didn’t feel so bad about my unbagged condoms and tissues.  He looked as shocked as I did at the time delay message and went manager-hunting, returning with a frowned face to tell me that, amazingly, in 2013, you cannot buy alcohol in a supermarket in the Republic of Ireland (a Republic gained after 800 years of English oppression,  and after blasting Dublin to bits, executing the rebellious leaders and after we tore each other apart in a bloody civil war – all in the name of FREEDOM).  This is only on Sundays, because this is Holy Catholic Ireland.

”Is my sister to remain SOBER on this day?” I wailed but to no avail, there was Nothing He Could Do.  I rang Lilsister with the disappointing news, and I was glad to hear that she had already taken to the bed, because perhaps she can sleep through the afternoon, rather than face it alert and undulled by hints of peach and lemon.

Christmas Stories: The Eighties and The Love

Myself and Babybro looked disdainfully at the 80’s tribute band and declared almost simultaneously that the singer was NOT Freddie Mercury, as much as he believed he was.  He might be able to hit some of the high notes for ”Under Pressure” but poncing about in a white vest did not a legend make.  Luckily the guitarist, with a giant blonde centre parting, sunglasses and a complete lack of dancing ability, was more approachable and did a complete guitar solo at our table, finding the time to prop himself up on one knee at a chair beside me, so I wrapped myself around the knee and thanked the universe that nobody in the family was sober enough to remember to take pictures.  It would NOT have been beautiful, which was confirmed a couple of days later when Mammy printed some pictures from her camera, showing myself and Lilsister and our double chins, allegedly dancing in a way that was so horrific it made my face bright red, and made Lilsister bang a Christmas Cracker off her head, and make a face that can only be described as ”grimmacing”.

A DJ followed the band, who sweated so much they slid off the stage once the Aha and Madonna numbers had been belted out (for both of these numbers I rang Trevor, whom I found out later was just finishing an 11 day in a row shift at work, and who did not appreciate our attempts to hit the falsetto parts of ”Take On Me” (the cheek) at half eleven at night.  She also did not recognise our version of ”Into the Groove”, something I found most insulting).

Once the DJ cracked on with ”Billie Jean” (the tribute band not being stupid enough to attempt it themselves) there followed a dance off between Babybro and the Baker, with my flesh and blood pulling out all his MJ steps, and The Baker making a fair fist of some 90’s moves, before doing a rousing rendition of a Worm on the floor, which stopped the entire family in its tracks.  Fabulous stuff, and it was followed by what has pretty much replaced the Irish national anthem at Christmas time – the Pogues singing ”Fairytale of New York” which requires all participants to wrap about each other and sing whichever version they know best – the aforementioned smash hit of the Pogues, or the amazing Christy Moore acoustic strumming piece.

This brought the DJ’s set to an end, but Sisinlaw, quite drunk after a couple of bottles of red, declared Christmas officially ON, and we continued belting out the classics to each other which left everyone out of breath and sitting down, except for Babybro and Sisinlaw who kept on singing to each other, and therefore created one of the most perfect Christmas images in my wandering mind’s eye – the two of them, in their Christmas finery, parents of my much beloved Little Niece N, singing Christmas songs into each other’s ears, drunk on wine, beer and love, being the best parents and happiest couple in the hotel that night, and in the world.   They spun around the table, and we all sighed because we were in the presence of something quite as lovely as roast potatoes cooked in goose fat on Christmas Day.