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.

 

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.

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.

I Do My Exams and Gerry Does Gaelic

I hate the Institute of Bankers.  I believe I’ve mentioned this fact before.  No they are not a necessary evil in the banking world.  They are just EVIL.

So I’ve finally sat my stupid exams that cost a FORTUNE so I can say that I sat STUPID EXAMS.  Did I mention they cost a fortune?

After my first exam which was on a SATURDAY at the ungodly hour of 9.30 AM YES I SAID AM (thankfully I had a lift from Panties, if I’d had to drive up and not find parking like everybody else I would have stabbed random bankers everywhere) I headed into the city to eat a late breakfast at my favourite breakfast place in Dublin, which is the Kingfisher on Parnell Street (where every meal comes with chips yes even breakfast and no I did NOT eat chips for my breakfast I am in the middle of attempting to be healthy as I am not getting any younger and need to watch the flabby bits or I will never snare anyone in my husband catching net).  After a hearty spanish omlette sans chips, I took a stroll to Parnell Square where another favourite of mine, the Sinn Fein shop, also lives.

Now don’t start on me.  I am no Sinn Feinner nor will I ever be.  But dammit, they do bloody good Gaelic football jerseys.  So in I went, and found the most amazing Dublin football team jerseys that I will ever lay my watered up eyes on, and whilst discussing how fabulous these were with the woman behind the till (who, really oddly, looked UNCANNILY like a woman who came forward in the media years ago in Ireland, to admit that she had a love child with a Bishop in Galway, which was OUTRAGEOUS at the time (but not now because considering what we have uncovered about our unholy Catholic Church in Ireland a mere love child is NOTHING), she happened to mention that I was welcome to continue browzing but to be aware that ”Gerry” was coming in shortly.

”Gerry?” I asked innocently.

”Gerry,” she repeated.

”Who that?” I mused.

”Gerry Adams,” she said, a little wearily?

”Oh.” I said back.

Immediately I rang Lilsister, who IS a Sinn Feiner, and believes that Gerry Adams should take over Ireland, and employ groups of vigalanties to kick the crap out of scumbags, teenagers, and bankers who are not her sister.  Whilst on the phone however, wee Gerry walked in, speaking in Gaelic (Gerry, I’m no fan of yours but bonus points for speaking our native language as your first language) and holding something of a press conference.  This caused Lilsister to go into fits of hysterics, and she begged me to get a photo of him, and with him and obtain his mobile number so she could call him and discuss the campaign for him to take over the country.  I refused all, and tried to be quiet while he began his interview (again, in Gaelic).

After getting some dodgy photos on my mobile phone from 1998, I was spared the embarrassment of trying to avoid shaking wee Gerry’s hand as he scooted out of there rather quickly.  An old bloke also working in the shop told me not to be too disappointed as he was in occasionally and would normally stop for a chat and photo.  I was advised that he often did press interviews in the shop, usually indoors, as the last time he did one outside the shop a cyclist, after tying his bike to the railings so he could pump up a flat tyre, pumped too much and caused the tyre to blow, creating a shotgun like sound, causing the press, politicians and all around to duck and take cover from a potential sniper.  So everything was safely indoors now.

I finished purchasing my football tops (for me, Lilsister and Papabear) for next year, winced at the giant Sinn Fein sign on my paper bag (you used to be able to buy stuff from there in a plain bag, since when have they got so cocky?) and hoped that the people of Dublin outside would not lynch me for my non-allegiance to the party.  I escaped unscathed, even turning down a lift home from Panties, who would frown lots if I had told her I had been in the Sinn Fein shop in the first place, let alone spent money in it, and then bumped into wee Gerry.  The bus did fine on the way home, the bag rolled up into a ball at the window seat.

We Talk to God and Receive the Delaney Cup

A glorious sunny day, a rarity in Dublin, with light winds, bright rays, the Boys in Blue aka the Dublin Gaelic football team, beating the hell out of arch rivals Meath at the truly amazing Croke Park – and a couple of rows from the front in the Cusack stand, four very hungover and crimson-faced supporters, all hating the sun for making the alcohol, still in their systems from the night before, sweat and drip out of them.

First in the row was myself, constantly turning my arms over as I had NO sunblock on and my goth skin was beginning to burn, and how.  My sunglasses sliding off my nose, my makeup refusing to keep my rosy cheeks pale.  Next to me an equally beetroot Lilsister, panting in her Dublin top, fighting with me over our fourth bottle of water bought since getting off the tram in the city centre mere moments before.  Next to her, Scarydancer, equally dripping, and praying for rain, and splendidly at the end, Papabear, with an actual wet face, loving the heat, but cursing its intensity in our unprotected area.

Two halves later and as Dublin lift the Delaney cup, as proud Leinster champions, we continue to insult and argue with the lame Meath supporters around us who tell us that we might have beaten them but not by much, to which we reply look over there lads, there’s the cup, being lifted over a blue shirt – and get back to your farms, your sheep are missing you.  Hmmpf.

So it was a long weekend, with Little Star’s christening taking place on the Saturday, and promises of coming over for a couple of drinks afterwards, and a couple of drinks only, quickly falling by the wayside as the pints flowed and my little water bottle that held no water, but gin, started to go down a treat (firstly tested for its authenticy by myself and Papabear outside the church – burning chests meant that yes, it was definitely gin in there).   Little Star was christened, with Lilsister as Godmother, and Preggers and Firstbrother at the top of the church silently mumbling their allegiance to a God Firstbrother doesn’t believe in, much to my delight (being of similar persuasion myself).  I then interrupted a Catholic Church rant by Papabear, and advised him that whilst he may believe religion to be the root of all evil, we were guests in a house and should behave accordingly.

Straight over to the pub afterwards, no mean feat as I was wearing a DRESS, yes, one of THOSE, and some shoes – so walking was slow, and awkward.  Bottles of beer flowed (the three for a tenner routine being used as an excuse), followed by gin, followed by extra gin from my little bottle, followed by pints.  Platters of unhealthy but amazing food came out, and rather than queuing with the mortals to get some, Mammy grabbed a whole platter for our table, Sisinlaw took a whole plate and dumped garlic mayo on it, we topped up our beers, and feasted.   Mammy left early with Little Niece N and Little Star, using their tiredness as an excuse to get away from the madness.   A man came on and sang about six songs on his guitar, and was roundly declared to be ”crap” by all of us.  I begged Sisinlaw and Babybro to leave as I was supposed to be sharing a taxi with them, and instead left them all merrily (till 3.30am I later found out) chatting away as I hitched a taxi with The Baker and Middlebro, who brought me home in the complete opposite direction to their flat so Middlebro could come into the apartment and locate some partysmokes that Scarydancer may have left behind (he left empty-handed, and dejected, and practically sober).

Sunday morning drew over me with my head coming out of my eye, so I quickly rose, closed all the blinds in the apartment to keep the sun out, and feasted on headache tablets and my delicious scrambled eggs.  Exhausted by the effort I took back to the bed, and begged the universe for the strength to face Meath at Croke Park later.  Lilsister and Scarydancer arrived home, looking horrific, and we three soldiers made it in to join our men in the Great Fight.

It was an early night but it didn’t make getting up for my horrific job any easier.  I woke to find I had not bought my fruit for my breakfast, meaning I had to go into work EARLY, buy fruit and yoghurt at the supermarket and eat it in our horrible canteen, which has no actual dishes, but plastic bowls and spoons UGH.  Happily, I noticed that as I left work and went to collect my things from the fridge, some IDIOT had knocked over my yoghurt and left it spilling away in the door of the fridge, sans lid, so I threw it out, stuck my tongue out at the mess left behind, and closed the door.  We had no teabags in our kitchen today, and no spoons to take the tea bags out with – you want to treat me like an animal I shall bloody behave like one.

I am currently at Mammy’s where I have received chicken and cake, in that order, and am mellowed and ready for bed once again.  We have just re-watched the match and are more impressed with our team than ever.

Up the Dubs!