Christmas in Ireland

Back to work tomorrow, not in the mood.   Overheard two girls comparing notes about how wonderful customers are when advised of delays due to traffic/weather/drivers not working as – Holy Codfish! – they decided to take a Christmas break to, you know, celebrate Christmas and all that it entails.

Many versions of ‘stick it up your hole’

‘Fuck you’

‘Go and fuck yourself’

‘Fuck yourself and your drivers and stick it up your hole’.

The winner being

‘Go and die’.

A gentle time in the delivery business, here’s to treating people like shite when you’re standing bravely behind your telephone.


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

Clean Desk Policy?

If a cluttered desk is the sign of a cluttered mind, what is the empty desk a sign of? wondered Einstein.  Had he been at my local unemployment office the other day, what would he have thought of the hand sanitiser that was sitting on MY side of the desk?  I was trying to look interested in what the welfare ‘officer’ was saying behind her bullet proof glass (no joke – and very inconvenient, all I could hear was Justin Timberlake on the radio behind me, meaning I had to lean forward a lot and develop lip-reading skills), but I couldn’t because all the time I was wondering why my side had been provided with a cleaning object.  Am I dirty?  Am I finally, irrefutably, now officially, part of ‘the great unwashed’?  And why did the dispensing part have a great big brown knob of dirt on it?

I also noticed the stubs of three airplane tickets to my left, and a long hair spreading over the part of the desk I was trying not to lean on.

The airplane tickets were to Berlin, the current owners of Ireland.

Justin continued to croon, I leaned away from the brown bit on the sanitiser and began to nod my head vigorously to imply understanding.

I came out with a headache, and did NOT buy a scone.

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.




Attack Bellies with Vegetarianism, Boxing

Boxing class was horrific as always last night, but no suicidal thoughts during so that’s always good.

I am now heating up the oven to stick in the bloody courgette and peppers for roasting, so I can add them to my poxy cous cous leftover salad from yesterday, still seething with red onion, other crappy (ie healthy) vegetables, herbs, garlic and lemon.  JESUS!!!!

I did note in the shower however that my bottom belly, which now has LINES on it from flopping about so much, appears to be getting smaller.  No obvious improvement on my top belly, which I think would be referred to as a ‘muffin top’ on the mean streets of Dublin.

Operation continues with a meeting today at a computer training college to hopefully do a course to enhance my aching computer skills, assuming I do not die of a heart attack when I hear about the fees.  But I think a little confidence will be gained by doing the course as I am most rusty on anything except banking databases which are all different, and insanely outdated most of the time.

This will hopefully lead to fabulous work opportunities (as if such things exist in modern Ireland today – check our (doctored) employment figures anytime!) where I will receive the love and adoration of my alleged colleagues as they admire my toned and flattened Liney and Muffie bellies.

After that, who knows, the very stars!

Feeling Creative? Then Pack a Box.

Job searching, and feeling useless.

To do a data entry job, paying 45 cents above the minimum wage, applicants must have ‘no gaps’ in their CV’s over the last five years.

Made redundant?  Feck off.

Had to leave your job due to bullying?  Feck off.

Been depressed?  Feck off.  You are not good enough to enter our data.

I looked at a packing role.  ‘Previous experience of packing luxury goods an advantage’.  WHY??????????

By the way, THAT role was advertised under ‘Publishing and Creative Arts’.  No, I swear.