Why I Was Hungover

Many moons ago, I sat an entrance exam to take part in a journalism course.  Next to me was a stoned rocker, with the nicest hair I have ever seen on a man, straight, shiny, and auburn.  Anyhoo, he too was sitting the entrance exam, which consisted of political and current event questions, to test our journalistic mettle.  I began talking to the stoned rocker after he tried to copy my answers, and then just asked me for them.  After that, I assumed I would never see him again, but I did, he turned up on our first day at one of our lectures, I pointed at him in disbelief, and a year later he was asked to leave the course because he took too many drugs and never came in.

Last night I sat opposite my now old friend, who is now 35, married, living in Naples and not taking drugs.  What a difference 18 years makes!  ”Spiceburger,” I said to him  ”I’d never know you.”  And the hair is gone!  Ha, I thought – now you just have normal locks.  To hell with you!

Another long and difficult day at work was followed by some wine at home, coupled with a lazy dinner of scrambled eggs and spelt toast.  Eventually I pulled on a blouse and jeans and met Spiceburger and his wife ShesAustralianOhDear for dirty pints at one of my locals.  Oddly, the Australian ordered water initally (?) and then moved to small glasses of cider.  This seems particularly unAustralian to me, but what would I know, I was only married to one for eight years.  Several pints followed along with discussions of past lovers, near misses, speed and creative careers (his, not mine – I have since realised I am a money hungry cow who needs to stop working for banks because I should have done something creative and helpful with my life, so I feel depressed and deranged, on top of my raging hangover).  Spiceburger asked what had happened to my marriage, and I couldn’t remember, so I said something about ”fizzling out” and channelled my inner Whitesnake, because lately, just lately, I don’t feel so beat up about it all.  Whitesnake DID say it best, my friends.

Afterwards, I literally fell through my front door, and for some reason, began cleaning up the kitchen and preparing my breakfast dishes.  I’ve moved house see, and am currently living alone in splendid isolation and it is GREAT.  After cleaning up, I went upstairs and put the radio on quite loudly, sang along for about two songs and then fell face first on the bed, in my blouse and knickers, and stayed that way until waking up a half hour later, to take a shower, brush my teeth and continue to sing along to the ”love zone” playing on the station (I think).  I passed out, and only got up to seek headache tablets.  Another successful evening.

The Madonna Car Sticker Bought in Cambodia

Last year, whilst trudging around Cambodia alone as ExHimself, based in Australia at the time, didn’t find the idea of seeing this aincent country appealing, I happened across an odd little shop filled with signs, musings and fancy quotations.  It was there that I saw what I believed to be a car sticker:


There is nothing more to be said.  I immediately bought it and posted it back to Ireland, to Trevor, where I knew she would love and treasure it.

Unfortunately it turned out to be a normal sticker, not meant for a car at all, but Trevor prevailed and stuck it up on her new fancy double oven, in her newly designed kitchen, and promptly took a picture of herself, thumbs up, in front of it.

I received that picture in Melbourne, where I was alone, missing my mad family and wondering what the hell I was doing moving here with Exhimself, who, true to form, had promised much but delivered nothing once he got back into his homeland.  I cried when I saw the picture and missed my friend.  I showed the photo to Exhimself who declared that Trevor was too proud of her new kitchen and fancy double oven to ”ruin” it with a car sticker that had purple writing.  This made me very sad.

I stood in Trevor’s kitchen on Saturday night, on my fourth glass of prosecco, and screamed as if seeing that car sticker for the first time.  There it still is, stuck to her extremely fancy double oven (which also appears to have some sort of professional coffee making machine thing in it – is that possible?  Or was I on my eighth prosecco?) and there it will always remain, because Trevor loves it and treasures it.

I declared this story to both Trevor and Boo, and while Trevor made angry fist gestures and I spat out my hate, Boo retreated to the solitude of the living room and watched a home improvement show, I believe silently hoping we would both just get the hell out of his house.

Break out the Big Hair

In what should be noted under the ”moving on from the end of mine marriage” chapter of my time on this planet (and allegedly the point of this blog), three things have occurred which convince me that I may be doing just that:

1. Whilst discussing food preparation with Scarydancer at the dinner table the other day, I mentioned the way my ex cooked a certain item.  Lilsister helpfully pointed out that this is the first time she has heard me refer to Exhimself as my ”ex”.  The actual name never even sprung to mind.

2. This morning, I followed an extremely handsome man around the supermarket.  Not something I normally do, handsome or not, and especially not in supermarkets, as they are full of food, and I like to look at food longingly whilst browsing.  It was also prior to beginning my working day, so for me to be even up and about, let alone stalking a complete stranger, was a miracle in itself.  Anyway, I saw him whilst I was browsing (but not planning on eating) the cake section (a girl needs something to cheer her up on a Monday morning) and once I had finished smelling the almond croissants, I followed him down to bread, cleaning products, gardening equipment  and eventually to the till, where he failed to even look up at me, even though I cleared my throat really loudly, and really manfully.  Sigh.  I tried to follow him outside but the bloke on the till INSISTED I pay for my goods (half healthy multi grain rolls if you MUST know).

3. A very good friend is dying of cancer.  Younger than me by a couple of years, he has less than 12 months with us living souls left.  After my immediate thoughts of why him, anger, shock, memories of him performing ”Don’t Cry For Me Argentina” in full drag in a club in Sydney one sweaty Friday night, thoughts of friends that I am grateful for came to mind, and encouraged me to send more texts and thoughts than I normally do.  Some responded, some not.  But not until a few days later did I think of Exhimself, and even then, only because his hometown is near my ill friend.  If he had any importance would he not have been the first face that came to mind?

Could it be?


To sing Whitesnake??????????????????

Tigers and Temptresses at the Tram Stop

I know I shouldn’t be but I’m watching telly as I type this.   There’s a film on which is set in Ireland during those heady days of the Celtic Tiger which I THINK lasted for about nine years.  Anyway it’s showing us all in Dublin stoned, drugged, pinging on ecstasy, drunk, vomiting and being highly aggressive in a host of fabulous places such as shiny clubs, gastro pubs, party venues and things called ”events”.  This is funny as I lived in Ireland for at least two of these Grrr Tiger years and all I did was work.  I feel cheated!!!!  Where are my drugs and ”events”???    Although I did get head hunted one night in a VERY fancy restaurant.  Sigh.  Now if I get to the pub up the road I am doing well (really well, as most people party at home now).  Hmmpf.  I might just go down to the tram stop and see if Mr Bright, my future husband, is flitting by, and try to seduce him with my alleged ”charms” which I am alleging I have, but only because my allegation has no basis in fact whatsoever.

The Bright Light at the Dark Tram Stop

I have seen the man who is going to be my next husband.

Conveniently, he appears to dwell near our little apartment so this will help with the stalking situation I will now find myself in.

Speaking of our apartment, I realised a few weeks ago that the area I am living in with Lilsister and Scarydancer is the area I lived in from the ages of about two to five, with Mammy and Papabear, and an even younger Firstbrother.  So life once again has come full circle.  I also think this is a sign that I am dying.  I have returned where I roamed as a baby, although the view is a little different.  35 years ago, this part of Dublin was farmland and our council house backed onto an actual strawberry field, where we would go and feed ourselves.  Now it is full of silly roads blocked with cars, a sprawling shopping centre and many, many apartments.  It is FULL.

This is handy because I believe my future husband lives in one of the many apartments, or I would not have seen him run by my local tram stop.

There I was, yesterday afternoon,  four day old dirty hair, tracksuited and in my Dublin football team rain jacket as it was as usual LASHING RAIN which it does every time I use public transport.  I was looking less than stunning and feeling miserable as the tram was 7 minutes away and the sky was grey, to match my soul.  Suddenly, a white light appeared before me and blasted brightness into the winter-themed afternoon.  I thought an angel had appeared to tell me she would make the tram come faster, but no, it was a male human person thing, in his running outfit.  Now I said he would be my next husband, I didn’t say he had any sense of fashion.  A white t-shirt (fine I suppose) but white shorts???  White shoes and socks?  With white i pod earphones?  Hmmm.  All matching the white hairs he so distinguishly owns.  Which means he must be at least in his thirties!!!  Hurray!!!

I may not be talking him up much but here is the best part.  So Mr Bright ran past me at the tram stop, I followed him until he became a dot, and then the tram came.  Four stops later, and there is Mr Bright again, RUNNING FASTER THAN THE TRAM.  AND he had gotten to the fourth stop quicker than me, and all he had was at most a six minute headstart!!!  I am VERY impressed by this.  It shows that he is fit, and active, and doesn’t spend his Easter Sunday drinking pints and eating giant easter eggs which is what I would have done if somebody had poured me a pint and handed me an egg.

These are all good things and I went out stalking, sorry, walking this morning and THOUGHT I saw him whizzing by but alas it was someone with a full head of brown hair.  Probably for the best, as my hair has now gone five days without washing, and not only was I tracksuited AGAIN and in my giant rain jacket (which does nothing for the figure) I also had a Dublin football team beanie hat jammed onto my filthy skull.  At best, I looked like a square male person.  However, Mr Bright gives one inspiration to go outside and exercise, something which is becoming increasingly difficult due to the horrific weather and the absolute depression and inability to do anything once I have completed a day’s work.

Now, where is my Easter Egg?  I feel a feeding frenzy coming on.

Jolliday Presents

Lilsister and Scarydancer are just back from their Manchester jollidays, which was fabulous for me as I got to roam about the apartment and feel very sorry for myself on Saturday night, thinking about Exhimself and how nobody loved me.  Ah, parties!

Naturally Lilsister stole everything not nailed down in the hotel room, including what is actually called an ”executive” shower cap.  We took it out of it’s box, put it on our heads and have concluded that it appears to be the same as every other shower cap in every other hotel room in existence, but that we must be wrong, and ignorant, as we cannot see it’s executive powers.  We must be silly billys indeed not to recognise it.

I have also received a box of vaginal wipes, which I am thrilled about, as a girl can never have too many.  Luckily, these wipes are completely flushable, although not bio-degradable, which is a serious flaw I would have thought?  Now if I ever get caught out having sex with a stranger on my way to work I need not fear, as my vaginal wipes will erase all evidence of fun times in an instant!!!!  And should I give up on our planet, and life in general, I know that the toilet will be the only one that knows my dirty secrets.

To Kill a Mockingman

Troubles rumble on with my buddy in the shipping company, whom I called today to vent with/at, which was great, as she sighed a LOT and complained about customs too and said her contact there was ”useless”.  Like all good public servants in Ireland, the ”lady” in customs dealing with my cheap workclothes is completely unaccountable for her lack of actions, meaning I cannot talk to her directly lest she has to work, or deal with humans or some other horror.  Instead she can retreat quietly into her cavern of sloth, never to be disturbed again.  My shipping contact also unhelpfully added that she had never had so much trouble with customs before, so I am feeling extra peachy about that. 

I also remembered that my two cookbooks are in the boxes, and I am most miffed about that, as one is my Nigella ”Kitchen” which is quite expensive, and my new wages just about cover the cost of transport to get to the office and not much else.  The other one I’m afraid, I don’t know the name and author of so if I do not get it back I will sink ever lower into my pool of self pity, as it is a bloody brilliant book.  I only learnt to cook in Melbourne last year, because I was alone 95% of the time, what with Ex-Himself still pretending that he loved me, but always ”disappearing” into the Australian sunset (which is crap by the way, because the sun goes down and then it is dark night, instantly, have these people never heard of the beauty of dusk???  The answer is NO.  Poor little Australians).  Anyway, this book covers EVERYTHING, even how to make scrambled eggs but best of all it is the only cookbook I’ve ever read that tells you upfront how many bowls, pans, spoons, spatulas etc you will need for each recipe and I LOVE that.  Plus I made the chocolate mousse recipe from scratch using it, and for a girl who could only burn toast mere months before, this was a HUGE (and tasty) leap.  I love this book, and I will kill the bitch in customs if she gets her greasy paws on it.

Far more worrying is my trainer at work.  His ”thing” is to read from an oversized manual for the eight or so hours that we are there, and presume that we absorb this fascinating information (for example how to send a customer a change of address form, how to stop a cheque, how to unstop that very same cheque, how to see the expiry date of a bank card etc etc) quickly and quietly.  He does not respond well to questions, or ”what if” scenarios.  In fact, he takes questions as a personal attack on his droning reading, something I find most odd.  He refuses to let us use the systems to do practical examples of his ramblings.  Why is this?  This afternoon, after the drool on my chin alerted me to the fact that I had been sleeping deeply during his speech on unlocking ATM pin numbers, I awoke suddenly and told him I was feeling rather overloaded with the information being delivered in this manner, to which he replied that he did ”not see how”.  Several of the group began stating the same fact, but I got the filthy look.  I asked him if he thought I was stupid, to which he moved gently away. 

Apart from this, he does occasionally venture into storytelling mode where we get to sit, non-enthralled, at his amazing impressions of stupid Dublin people (he is NOT from Dublin and therefore, in my opinion, as a proud Dub, NOT allowed to do an impression of a Dub anytime he tells a story of someone who he believes to be stupid).  So far, this terrible impression of a dumb Dubliner (of which none exist) has been used to prop up stories about unhelpful IT staff, drunk people at ATMs, people borrowing more than they should, banks lending more than they should, impressions of talk show radio hosts who talk about people and banks borrowing and lending more than they should, people who call talk show radio hosts about all that is wrong with society, people who forget that they have spent money in music stores and then call the bank saying that someone has stolen their money, people who engage in fraud and generally anybody that is not himself, and therefore of lesser intelligence, according to him.


And, like the Customs Cretin, he must go away, and stop embarrassing his profession with his existance, and fuck off and die.

Homage to the Pointlessness of Shipping Goods

Fucking customs.  After four thousand emails, two thousand calls (cause I don’t like talking to people and besides can’t we all just communicate electronically anyway due to the fact that I have precious little time on this earth and really why should I waste it talking to IDIOTS in customs) it has been decided that the ninety five pages I filled out in red tape, so red it dripped in BLOOD, plus the various bank statements confirming my address were all in vain because they have now decided to charge me VAT and excise duty on my ”goods” because, and I am guessing here, as the typing skills of the complete TWAT I am dealing with in the shipping company are second to NIL, as I spent less than a year in Australia this somehow makes me eligible for these charges.  I mean, I am seriously questioning whether to give customs a present of my work shoes, my vast collection of black trousers (worn by all women in offices with little or no intentions of ever being more than a serf in an airless cocoon filled with idiots and tears), a blanket I bought in Dublin, then shipped to Australia, then shipped back after Ex-Himself dumped me, plus a collection of what can only be termed as ”guilty pleasure” cds.  Should I REALLY be paying VAT and excise on my Smash Hits partyrific hits of the 80’s???  Does anyone REALLY want a copy of my Los Lobos crowd pleasing accoustic efforts?  And does anyone even KNOW who T’Pau are, and that yes, they did produce a greatest hits????

The answer is a resounding NO.  So fuck off customs.  I don’t need this shit, I want my blankie, I want my slipper shoes because my new job doesn’t pay me enough to buy new ones, and I’m tired of wearing my boots with the little heels in them, with my grey trousers because it makes my new job think that I am some sort of professional executive with a fully made up eye on the corporate prize, and I hate to give false impressions.  Invariably people expect you to live up to them, and I am just too tired to do ambition anymore.

And DAMMIT, I want my cds.  How am I supposed to make mix tapes of my various mood swings WITHOUT my Tori Amos collection (an entire catalogue from kooky to downright weird to suburban, and therefore boring, bliss, and back to semi-kookiness quite recently).

Fuck you customs.  Our country is in the middle of an economic depression not seen since the last Great One of the thirties, and people are queuing for food parcels in Dublin.  I am in a job that barely provides a wage higher than the state welfare payment, and I have PMT.  Give me back my cd’s and please, go fuck yourself afterwards.

Saturday Feb 25th – The Nipple

Did you ever turn up to what you thought was a cup of tea round the table, but walk into a fully fledged party?  Not the ones where everybody jumps out of your hairy sofa and yells ”SURPRISE!!!”.  No, a GOOD party.

Well thanks to Panties that’s exactly what happened to me after I was invited to her abode to share in the festivities for her father’s surprise 70th b day.  As it had a 5.30pm kick off time, my assumption was that there’d be her family (parents, two brothers and two sisters), a vat of tea and hopefully some cupcakes.  Chat would be had, and I’d be in bed by 7pm.

I walked through the house, which had about nine thousand kids in the front room, through to the kitchen, or should I say party den of the house, through to the back garden, which had amassed a HUGE marquee complete with tables chairs and an entire TABLE OF CAKES, stuffed with people, including the birthday boy, the aforementioned siblings plus partners, a professional barbeque set up (Panties’ bro is a chef) with TONNES of meat, BUCKETS of beer, wine, plus Panties herself mixing icing in Manchester United football club colours for her Papa.  FABULOUS!!!  I got straight into the beer, said my hellos, and went straight into another beer, followed by another, followed by obtaining gloves from Panties’ younger sister, Spongecake, as my hands were cold on my ICE COLD BEERS.  This was followed by laughing at Panties’ hubby Hangsandwich with his latest ”boutique beer” which came in fetching matching wine like glasses, or ”lady glasses” as I called them in order to annoy him.  Panties, finished with the cupcakes at last, settled down to a bottle of prosecco, which I gleefully helped her to inhale, whilst discussing sexual matters and what jobs we find ourselves doing now that Ireland is in a fully fledged depression (the oddest I think being the youngest brother’s current stint in an ACTUAL LEPRECHAUN MUSEUM) with her and her various siblings.

Naturally the conversation turned to piercings, and Spongecake was at pains to show me hers in her right nipple, but thankfully Chefbro did not discuss nor show his, as allegedly it is in his nether manbits.  Not to be outdone, The Leprechaun produced his own man boobs and nipples from his top (with a deftness that leads me to conclude that he does this regularly at parties), and to upset me, rubbed them on my nice new red coat, which I only recently bought, after I just moved back to Ireland, with money I presumed I would have when I began working again, which was both naive and silly of me.  Even the YOUNGEST sister has a pierced tongue.  As the craziest thing I have pierced is my third earring in my left ear (not my right, at the time I did it I considered it COOL to have three piercings in one ear, and two in the other) and this particular hole has now closed over from lack of use, I felt a little daunted.  ”I have my blog,” I thought, ”though I am alone and unpierced.”

It also transpires that many men in the vicinity have had vasectomies, but as this information may have been divulged under increasingly drunken conversations, I feel I must drift away from that particular nugget of golden information.  Instead I have just remembered that some of our Scottish guests, Scots being our Celtic Cousins and all, did bring along some shockingly awful Scottish reels, which only very old and very young people seemed to be able to dance to.  I can confirm I was not one of them.

I ended up having a whale of a time, unpierced nipples and all, and the night was only temporarily cut short when Panties’ Papa announced he was leaving the party to watch his golf at home.   When you hit 70, you RULE!!!!

It’s Jolliday Time

Spent the weekend being a social butterfly, which is unusual for me, and banned under the Irish Unemployment Rules, which states that if you are unemployed it’s your own fault, and you must be miserable, and thankful for the spit that befalls you when someone in the social welfare office bothers to look down on you and judge you for your general unworthiness.


Friday Lilsister and Scarydancer went on their jollidays to the sun, a holiday which was thankfully booked pre-redundancy.  Speaking of which, scrap my earlier rant about the place where Lilsister did TWO interviews and then never heard from them again – at my prompting, with a large stick, she rang them up and asked for feedback on her interviewSSSSS as there did not seem to be any earthly reason why she didn’t get the job (not having farted in the interview or anything, which I was deeply concerned about as Lilsister is VERY gassy).  They didn’t take her call so I told her to email them and they did reply, saying that the process was on hold and that they would get back to her next week.  So not a complete fuck off, and a ray of hope begins to glimmer.

As Lilsister was on her jollidays, this meant that MINE could start too, and I have moved into her apartment for the week to abuse her chocolate press (a WHOLE press yes, devoted to junk food oh the humanity!) and her car, which makes me feel like a normal person again, what with having somewhere to live and a method with which to get around in.  Hurray! I spent the first half hour running room to room, giggling at the space and lack of parents killing each other.  The silence was like a velvetly blanket hugging me.  I embraced it back and began giggling again.

My new founded ability to have my own space prompted invitations to Sisinlaw, who lives in the apartment block opposite, and Preggers, who lives two floors down with Firstbrother, to pop up for a visit, and a chat.  I found a quarter bottle of champagne in the fridge and had a glass of that, while Preggers had the dregs of what was left, and Sisinlaw brought her half bottle of red, and we all settled in for a night of discussing my brothers and their shortcomings, politics, and solving the world’s problems, in that order, until Sisinlaw decided she needed more wine, and ran downstairs to the shops to get some, and I discovered a bottle of prosecco in the fridge, which I did NOT share with Preggers, as she’s pregnant, then we ate some cheese I had just bought, and Preggers and Sisinlaw decided that the red went really well with the cheese, so they had some red and cheese, and I kept drinking, and then it was 2.30am and Preggers and Sisinlaw stumbled out and I decided to wash the dishes, which meant I was quite drunk.

This would all have been fine, except it was Smasher’s 30th birthday the next day, and I had agreed to drive to her apartment, drink more prosecco, then do dinner, a pub and a club.  Unfortunately when I awoke my headache was coming out of the side of my neck, and no amount of my fabulous scrambled eggs with extra salt would appease it.  I felt old, and horrific.  I looked worse.

After seriously considering not going at all, I dragged my sorry bones and Smasher’s pressie to the car and took several breaths, and drove slowly and safely to her apartment, where I had a lie down for an hour and then a glass of prosecco before heading to the Thai place with her and P Diddy, and Smash’s other friends, with whom I had to make conversation.  I did though, and felt triumphant, until the newly wed couple beside me began to banter about their honeymoon, prompting thoughts of bitterness and hatred towards Exhimself, which I did not mention.  I had been given pork belly with a spicy dip, and I just kept eating and looking at our handsome waiter, who was very handsome, but sadly, knew it, rendering him unattractive in my eyes.  Not in Smashers’ though, as she loudly proclaimed in her outside voice that his bum looked like two peaches in a hankie, when he was about ten centimeters away from her.  Then we all told her to use her inside voice and she told us all to fuck off, he couldn’t possibly have heard her.  Then we kept getting served by a nice girl.

Afterwards we went to a trendy pub where trendy people were drinking and I wondered how I had gotten in.  Probably because of P Diddy’s fabulous organisational skills, which are as good as any professional event planner.  Drinking several pints of Tiger beer, I began to get mellow and sheepish, and my headache moved away from my neck and disappeared into the abyss for a while, while I bopped away from the trendy people, lest my unemployment miserableness rubbed off on them and caused them to spiral into despair.

We then hit the streets to Ri Ra, a nice club I hadn’t been into for many moons, and whilst looking for a bathroom I found a dancefloor that was playing Salt n Pepa’s ”Push It” – naturally I had to dance there, and myself and P Diddy enjoyed the 80’s and 90’s medly until some smelly boys and their groping got in the way of us busting our moves.  Good stuff though until that point.

Towards the end of the night, Smashers became seriously drunk, as evidenced by the general ranting and waving of hands to.emphasise.every.single.word. so we were very alarmed when she suggested going to Leeson Street for further boogeying.  My neck had begun bulging again and P Diddy really wanted some junk food.  Outside the club, as Smashers discussed further clubbing, we waited quietly and fretfully while she made up her mind, fearful to tell her what to do on such an important b day.  Luckily, P Diddy spotted Smashers taking a breath mid-rant, and quietly suggested that we go eat, which was immediately accepted, being as Smashers is as much of a savage as the rest of us, and then we ran into the middle of the road, to get to the food, and avoided being murdered by the many taxis, luckily, very luckily.

The night ended quietly after that, apart from my feeling very odd watching Smashers lean against the railings of the Bank of Ireland, pulling her tights and knickers up, which she protested were down around her knees, something I can’t confirm.  She gave them a good yank upwards though, and after food, we were home and for some reason I was showering in her apartment and climbing into bed at 4.30am, and apart from a cock crowing about half an hour later from somewhere within her apartment block, a decent night’s sleep was had by all.

I’ve also promised Sisinlaw and Preggers a meal tomorrow night, which will hopefully not involve more wine and my neck as ceased it’s constant banging and I can walk upright now, as opposed to stooping, or crawling on the floor.  And no more 30th birthdays for a while, it is highlighting the fact that I am nearly forty, and therefore, consigned to the dusty shelf for being crap.  Sniff.

And now to the post office to post an actual job application!!!!  The glimmer gets slightly bigger…