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.

Burning BumBums and Steak with Singles

A very disturbing message from Scarydancer via Lilsister earlier this afternoon, which I THINK was morning for the both of them.  Calling from her jollidays house further into the suburbs, she told me that Scarydancer needed me to do him a big favour.  Being stretched out on the bed at the time, chilling to a number of Madonna ballads, I was highly uninterested.  ”What is it?” I dribbled.

”He needs you to call the fire brigade,” she confirmed ”as his asshole is on fire.”

It seems that too much consumption of three for ten euro beers at the pub near their jollidays house, coupled with a burger n onion rings meal, has given rise to feverish beershites which have caused much pain in the bumbum area for poor Scarydancer.  I winced inwardly, as I thought of my own several beer consumption last night, firstly whilst reading the paper and then more at Panties and Hangsandwich’s house, where I was fed an excellent steak and baked potato meal, and got to meet the only other single in Ireland aged over 35, a friend of Hangsandwich, who appears perfectly at ease with his lot.  It is a great relief to know that these people actually exist.  I DO have my eye on an unsuspecting 36 year old, but naturally I found out he is girlfriended, so I had to put my husbandcatching net away there.  Will it ever get an outing?  Tune in to find out.

Gaelic Followed by Garlic

Plodding through the work week after a long weekend is tough.  Especially when the forecasters promise rain, rain and floods for the next weekend.  Irish summers ROCK!!!!

Friday was spent in the company of Lilsister, Sisterinlaw and some good friends in a little apartment with wine and beer.  Sisinlaw got quite merry on the bottles of red and kept referring to loving ”sausages” and Babybro in a very leering manner I thought, which was practically enough to stop me drinking any more beer.  Luckily towards the end of the night as Lilsister and I curled up on the sofa and watched Sisinlaw get enraged when we told her she couldn’t spell the name on the Italian wine she was drinking (she could), I was shaken out of all sense of drunkeness as Lilsister repeatedly farted on me, man-style, and scared the life out of me with her noises and scents.    How I am single and she is not will always baffle me.

Saturday was hangover central day, made worse by the fact that Lilsister had offered to babysit not just our crazy little Niece N, but the newborn Star also.  This I found extremely difficult, as I could not deal with the very loud tea party that Little N had to have with all of Lilsister’s teddy bears and outdoor picnic set, as we were also checking that Star had not stopped breathing in her pram every ten seconds.  Sisinlaw had also popped over with her offspring and repeatedly begged her Little N to hug her or kiss her, but to no avail.  The child had discovered that one of Lilsister’s frog ornaments (don’t ask) lit up and this was the most fabulous thing of all, and hungover mothers and aunts and brand new cousins just did NOT cut it.  We went hug-less and our headaches continued unabated.

This meant that by Sunday we were all fine, and myself, Lilsister, Scarydancer, Papabear and assorted friends toddled off to the Croke Park and watched Dublin play the first match of the championship Gaelic football league.  Fabulous stuff, well not really, we looked a little out of breath at times on the pitch, but we had our new seats, much closer to the front than normal as we are officially season ticket holders this year, and we enjoyed all the Dubs have to offer from a much better angle than we are used to.  We do believe that we may be in a slightly more upmarket area though, as every time Papabear called the referee a cunt more people than usual turned around.  Oh well, they will soon get used to it.  I was also able to listen to the lads behind me declare how variety is the spice of life, which inevitably led to discussions of KFC variety buckets.  Sigh.

Dirty pints afterwards, naturally, and this is where it all gets a little hazy for me.  I do know that we were visited by Middlebro and his girlfriend, The Baker, for much of the night, and much singing and slagging was had by all.  A girl came in dressed in the Dublin jersey and sang IRA songs, to the delight of Papabear. 

Somebody from Cork came in and as Papabear sang anti-English songs we hugged and cried about our delight about not being English – it was most moving. 

Then some football players came in who had been coached by Papabear and addressed him so respectfully myself and Lilsister had to put down our drinks and ask them why this was, and why they didn’t call him Papabear, which seemed to scare them off. 

Then I went to the toilets and when I came back everybody was gone and the barman had to open up the pub to let me out, I confirmed his name, hugged him and told him he was alright, because Papabear and Lilsister had said he was a twat.  Hopefully I didn’t say that part.

The taxi ride home was driven by a lovely man who let me sing along to all the songs I wanted and didn’t complain as I hung my head out of the window (”like a dog” according to Lilsister) and played my Dublin football team umberella like an air guitar, and then used it as a microphone.  It truly is a multitasking instrument.

After we got out myself and Scarydancer made garlic pizza bread whilst Lilsister passed out on the sofa, and we found it hilarious when Scarydancer cut the pizza in half as it was really funny that we had two big pieces.  Then he cut it again and we rolled about the floor because smaller pieces were the funniest thing EVER.

Next morning, eating a two day old jam doughnut for breakfast, I contemplated the championship season ahead for Dublin, and quietly berated myself for not having more hangover food in the house. 

Dublin to win, and an abundance of fresh pastries to be held in the house for the forthcoming season.

Loud Customers and Silent Shoes

Scented candle action in our little bathroom again, with Scarydancer disappearing for a lengthy period, and only re-appearing to quietly remove the giant double-wicked lavender effort Lilsister keeps in the kitchen, and place it in the man smelling bathroom for what I can only assume is fumigation purposes.

A heatwave in Ireland last week has been followed quite dramatically with sleet and hail and plunging temperatures, meaning that we were all incredibly pissed off after being pissed on today, so changed our take away food night from Wednesday to tonight, to ease our furrowed brows.  Unfortunately, this appears to have led to the Mansmells Situation, because Scarydancer had a terrifying combination of a kebab box thing, complete with garlic pizza bread dripping in cheese, and garlic dipping sauce, and smelly chips.  Take away night isn’t pretty in our house.

We also had a small celebration today as Scarydancer passed a forklift course and test, and Lilsister was brought out to lunch by her boss and received many compliments, while I didn’t get called a fucking bastard by anyone on the phone today – we all achieved something.  In fairness though, I was told that I, as the bank, was responsible for making a poor old man live in hell, by his neighbour, who alleged to have opened his bank statement ”by mistake” and called to complain that she had received it in the first place, even though his postal address was the same as her home address.  She then repeatedly told me that she would call a solicitor, and reminded me that I was a scumbag, and kept talking until she got quite tired and I thanked her for her feedback and hung up.  Dizzy times in my executive world.  I do believe she also commented on the latest weather cold snap which was nice.

This cold snap has lead to reorganisation of work clothes and the re-issuing of winter coats yes it’s THAT COLD.  Winter boots are now firmly back on feet, which is sad, as Scarydancer is no longer wearing his ninja shoes, green pumps which are so light they can only be worn in warmer weather, and which are so light again that you cannot hear him approach, hence their ninja-like quality.  When he wears his ninja shoes, Scarydancer likes to demonstrate their worth by jumping up the kitchen walls, silently, to show how, if he was stalking you or planning an attack, you would never hear him nor even see him as he would have easily made it to the ceiling in silence, and stay hanging there until he was ready to finish you off.  I really must invest in a pair myself.

Good Gravy and Bad Smells

Being farted on whilst blogging, especially when one has very clearly used a pun on a literary classic as with my last entry, is never convenient.  But at least Scarydancer’s jam tarts are blocking out the smell of his partysmokes, which he must have been inhaling right before I came home, because the house REEKS. 

Sunday was particularly funny as Scarydancer met me and Lilsister at Mammy’s house after we inhaled our roast chickens, but instead of sitting with us at the table, spent some quality time in the sitting room alone, in front of the telly.  Mammy made him up a plate to take away and asked him if he would like gravy.  When no answer was forthcoming, Mammy simply put the cling film over the plate and left it there for him.  Lilsister went to check with him again as Mammy’s gravy is particularly fabulous, being made up of meat juices, oils, fats and other healthy goodies.  It is REAL gravy, and not for the faint hearted, or Australians, whose gravy is weak and puny.

Scarydancer was sitting in the dark, rocking backwards and forwards.  Apparently, Mammy’s question had thrown him over his partysmokes induced edge, and he could ”not handle” making a decision on the gravy, and was freaking out. 

We made a hasty exit, and Scarydancer went home, and ate the chicken dry.

The Beginnings of a Beginning

Valentine’s Day…and Lilsister is busy lighting an aromatherapy candle.  The good one, which doesn’t give you headaches (we both suffer, although she is far worse than me.  There have been TWO incidents in the last week where I have had to go into full headache reducing massage mode, quite tiring when you are old and silly).  This candle is a big one, so big it has TWO wicks.  So there is a lot of aromatherapy in the air, this Valentine’s Day.  Sounds romantic?  You big eejit.  For one thing, I’m there, the Romance-Reflector, and for another thing, the candle is being placed in the bathroom after Scarydancer has had a particularly vigorous session emptying his bowels.  Ah, the joys of sharing, I remember it well.  Lilsister places the candle in the bathroom, in what I presume is a vain effort to reduce the demons of mansmells, and calls out to us both ”Happy Valentine’s Day”.  Mills and Boon, do call.

I’ve moved in with Lilsister and Scarydancer, having enjoyed my jollidays there so much whilst they were away.  I get to see little N all the time, as she is in the apartment block opposite with Sisinlaw and Babybro, and Preggers and Firstbrother are just two floors down in our own apartment block, so four of the five children are within 30 seconds of each other.  It is most cosy, believe it or not, toilet issues aside.  I have a little room, with a bed that I originally gave to Firstbrother, who gave it to Lilsister, who left it for me, where the mattress is a different size to the base, but I have a radio, a heater and about a quarter of a wardrobe to use (Lilsister SWEARS she will empty this out – I remain watchful, and wait quietly, for now).  On Fridays we consume wine with Sisinlaw and Preggers, and during the week we consume wine as we believe it helps us sleep, and because we can’t afford any drugs.

Lilsister runs the household with a Stalin-esque type grip, insisting on roomie meetings at least once a week so she can lecture Scarydancer and myself on whichever recycling we have failed to put out, or on meal planning (essential in a recession), or on something she has spotted which is dirty/incorrectly folded/on the wrong shelf.  Luckily Scarydancer doesn’t give a fuck, and I am quite drunk most of the time now, so it washes over us.

Mornings wise, it should work out quite well, Scarydancer rising at five am for his job, Lilsister who STARTED WORK THIS WEEK (whoo hoo!) rising at about 7 for her commute and as of FRIDAY, for a nine month contract, I myself should be getting up around 7.30 for my quite short commute to my new job, a little customer service thing for a big bank.  Hurray!!!!  Evenings should be spent eating, drinking wine to help us sleep, and complaining about public transport.  It will be divine.