Work, Beer, Tea – it’s Friday

I’ve followed up my beer buzz with a cup of tea…not rock of all ages material, and it’s made me feel bloated, alone and ugly, as it’s Friday night and here I am sucking beers and then falling at the last hurdle and succumbing to tea.  The shame of being 37 and nine tenths!!!

It’s been a long week, for no other reason than it just HAS, and it’s rained every day.   Work continues to be awful, with no respite from the abuse, hatred and general rudeness that is the Irish population when dealing with their bank.  Ah, we truly are scumbags, raised in the back of toilets, judging by some of the language and colourful death threats I receive on an hourly basis.

I’ve moved seats and am currently surrounded by a group of girls, which horrified me initially, but seems to actually have turned out okay.  The girl beside me has a make up bag the size of my actual handbag, despite being at least 18 years younger than me, thin and not requiring much maintenance, but there you go.  Bear in mind my handbag needs to accommodate my book (hardback), my giant purse, umbrella, hat, various notes that I write to myself, my pens, phone, keys, sunglasses and my net for catching potential husbandvictims, so you can imagine it’s size.  So that should convince you that there is a SERIOUS AMOUNT of making up going on.  However, myself and the Glamorous One seem to have forged something of a friendship, based on our love of food and our raging hormones.  I may have secret crushes every five seconds but I don’t wander around the staff canteen trying to take sneaky photos of unsuspecting males, like my friend there, or walk around a nightclub in a circle trying to catch someones eye.  FOR AN ENTIRE NIGHT.  Good tips for me though, should I find my eye wandering over lunch or ever end up in a nightclub again.

The girl behind me is actually worse, and even has a creepy ”I’m coming for you, boy” look, which makes me squeal like a girl every time I catch her doing it.  It involves a trout pout, one eye closing and one opening, and a vigorous nodding of the head, to ensure the victim knows she’s a-coming, and she’s ready.  She is also obsessed with my ex-team leader’s arse, which she insists is like ”two eggs in a hanky” despite my protestations that it is flat, and ugly, and he is a pigperson anyway so he cannot be fancied. 

Aside from this it has been an uneventful week, broken up only by Ireland being hammered in the European football matches, a fabulous evening eating Babybro’s stew with little Niece N and Sisinlaw, and the departure of Scarydancer and Lilsister from the apartment as they mind Scarydancer’s parent’s tiny dog whilst they have their jollidays.  This has meant many beers for me, with my music playing while I dance about and try not to fall over every time I try to lift Scarydancer’s new weights.   Sigh.  My flabby arms beg me to reconvene, and soon.

Freddie Mercury sings to me in the background, and advises me to be free with my tango, and on that note, I will drain my cup, tidy up and hit my lonely bed for what I hope will be a deep, beer induced sleep.

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Dirty Pints and Catching Billy’s Eye (Part 2)

The swan song of Saturday night came when myself and Trevor fell out of the Italian restaurant, with Trevor loudly belching her appreciation of her meal, probably ensuring nobody else enjoyed theirs.  Outside, a woman actually jumped as Trevor continued to let rip. 

Back on the streets again and with a hunger for more dirty pints, we happened upon a pub which Trevor declared herself and Boo Boo never went to, and went there.  

It was sticky, sweaty, and full of ugly people so terrible in the face department that me with my makeup now running down my face and a new hole in the back of my top, looked positively classy and attractive.  SO attractive in fact that I immediately caught the eye of a man I can only say looked like a ”Billy” – a rotund and teethy individual practically wearing the brown suit that is in the wardrobe of all eligible bachelor farmers in their mid fifties.  He flashed me a smile and I sat in the only available seat in the pub, which was directly in front of the ”band”.  Billy moved on, catching the oddly shaped eyes of two extremely large and undressed females, who were only too delighted with the  free vodkas and cokes bought for them.  I focused on who was the ugliest of the ”band” and in my drunken haze, could not figure it out.    I DO recall the piercing in the singer’s lip, which kept catching the one light working in the bar, and finding it quite distracting, and wondering why he drank dirty pints instead of dancing or ad-libbing for the many guitar solos.

We ended up moving to the back of the pub, near the pool tables, inhabited by younger scumbags, and discussed the hazards of immigration with somebody who was on the way to Tanzania to work in a quarry.  We all declared that leaving Ireland was shit, and that our government should be shot to death for allowing thousands to depart our shores each week for the unbelievable privilege of seeking actual work.  For shame, Ireland’s politicians!!!

Trevor has since been told by neighbours that she was seen slumped forward at this pub, but as I was sitting right beside her and didn’t see that, I can only refute these ungrounded claims.

Afterwards, Lilsister advises me that I called her to sing the Irish footballing anthem, Ole Ole Ole, but had to stop because I had fallen in a bush.  She tells me the voicemail was initially full of singing, then banging, then foul language, then pleas for Trevor to pull me out of the bush, then more singing, then complaining because now that Trevor had fallen into the bush nobody would be able to pull anybody out.  I have no idea how long we were in the bush, but I do remember that afterwards Trevor seemed to have a sudden lease of life and brought me into a field, and told me to run around it three times.  I could see it was a big field, so while Trevor skipped off, I patted the wet grass as if a pillow, and lay my weary head down.  Trevor eventually figured out that she was alone in her mini marathon, and joined me to look at the night sky and argue which lights were satellites and which were celestial beings.  It was extremely comfortable and I have no idea why we got up in the end.

Back at Trevor’s we were thrilled to discover that Boo Boo had left us soggy chips in the microwave, with plates, cutlery and cups already filled with teabags – as if knowing we would be incapable of  obtaining these items ourselves.  We inhaled, went to bed, passed out, and only rose to find headache tablets.  Trevor wisely told my niece, Little NN, not to go and disturb her visiting auntie as she was very sick in bed, which I was.  Boo Boo took Little NN out to swim, and when they came back, I lay on her bedroom floor and told her the reason I couldn’t play with her princess castle was because I was closing my eyes and visualising the story she was to tell me, and please tell it quietly.  Trevor stepped over me to tell Little NN that her auntie had to be driven home now, and I suffered a two day hangover, only helped by the coffee cupcakes Trevor had baked for me to take home.

Dirty Pints and Oscar Wilde (part 1)

My hair gets really fuzzy.  In rain, or sun – it fuzzes.  THIS is what I was thinking about last Saturday night, well Sunday morning, as I lay in the field near Trevor’s house and looked up at the stars.  It was only afterwards that Oscar Wilde came to me and said ”we are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”  Well I was in the gutter, looking at the stars, and could think of nothing deeper than oh damn, the grass is very wet and I BET my hair gets fuzzy. 

Which it did – horrificially so.  I really must learn to control my ugliness.  It is having a shockingly adverse affect on the hunt for a boy plaything.

Dirty pints on Saturday with Trevor, as aforementioned.  We started out classily drinking prosecco in the garden, in the sun, and discussing our ageing process and who currently has the most wrinkles (I have shocking crow’s feet but Trevor is CONVINCED her frown lines more than make up for any lines I may have – they don’t).  She also was good enough to tell me that I am ”pretty, but need to wear makeup.”  Nice.  ”I’ll always tell you the truth,” she mused, while I wailed in the corner after witnessing my rosywithwine cheeks, sans makeup, and felt distraught.

Dear fuck, I’ve just realised that as I type this I’ve had some form of the antiques roadshow playing in the background.  I’ve just kicked the telly through the window and stuck ”Your Song” on instead.  Cheers Elton!

So after applying enough makeup to sink my crow’s feet and Trevor’s frown lines we declared ourselves sufficiently tanked enough to take to the streets of Trevor’s suburb and hit the local Italian, who had messed up our reservation and stuck us at a tiny bar waiting area with a child barman whom we insulted into serving us before everybody else, with dirty pints.

Dirty pints don’t go well with Italian but we ploughed on nonetheless, feeling quite drunk after our one course (we missed the early bird and refused to pay full price on anything else – there is a recession going on you silly restaurant owners, didn’t you know?).

Afterwards we bumped into some of Trevor’s neighbours in the toilets and I did a ladywhizz while she tried not to slur her pleasantries.  Once they’d left I signed my name on the toilet checking roster as Terence Trent D’Arby (80’s musos rise!!!) and then we sang many songs.  I’ve now just remembered there was a disgraceful drag queen singer in the restaurant, singing along with a karaoke machine – the food prices may not have been recession proof but the ”entertainment” had surely been haggled in on a knockdown price.  For any songs we didn’t know the words to, or refused to admit we knew the words of, we sang the Irish footballing anthem ”Ole Ole Ole” or, to give it it’s official title  ”Put Em Under Pressure” as released by the Irish football team once they qualified, for the first time ever, to play in the World Cup in 1990.  Now that Ireland has qualified to play in the Euro football finals for the first time in 10 years, the song is enjoying a resurgence and is being sung by our Green Army once again, in great hope and trepidation that we may actually succeed, for once.

 

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.

Attempt to Run; Smear Chocolate on Self

I just ran up to the bathroom, and against my own advice looked at myself in the mirror, and noted that the chocolate icecream I had been inhaling downstairs is now, inexplicably, all over my neck.  Why why why?   And all this as I sit across from a picture of Dita Von Teese.  Sigh.

The icecream comes hot on the heels of some bad job news, I got a job, then they withdrew it, as they don’t need me anymore.  Major sigh.  I have come straight to Mammy’s, and had fried food with her and Papabear, and then inhaled icecream, as it is my favourite dessert.

Lest it sound pig-like, I will also have you know that I have been out walking and exercising several times each week in the last few weeks, and yesterday I even attempted running!  Wonderful timing on my part, as there was for some reason, a full gale force wind going on, which may sound awful, but it wasn’t sleeting and hailstorming and rain, and I could see a blue sky, so I went straight out into it.  I walked outside the door of our apartment block and my baseball hat was immediately blown off.  I did consider not chasing it, as this was not part of the exercise plan, but I really needed it, because it meant my hair had now blown fully into my face, and seeing in front of me was becoming an issue.  So I ran after it, retrieved it, and ventured out into the cruel cold world.  Please note this was NOT the running I was referring to, although it should count, as I did trot about the carpark chasing the hat, so it was at the very least, a warm up.  Ha!

Anyway, whilst doing my usual ”round” I felt extra bouncy and decided to give the old running a go.  I had ten euro in the right boob part of my bra (to stop at the shops afterwards, and buy the Sunday papers, after I sweated all over the counters and scared off the children), and my walkman (to encourage fast walking with 80’s pop music) stuck into my left boob, so everything was secure and ready for action.  I began to run, and immediately had to lean forward, towards the ground, to stay on my two feet, such was the might of the gale force winds.  I then began to worry about my hat again, so for extra sexiness, I pulled my hoodie over my head and tied it beneath my double chins, and attempted to run that way.  Unfortunately this ”look” is flattering to no-one, least of all to a 37 and seven eighths year old woman with no makeup, sunstroke (as we had some extremely weak sunrays pushing through, and I have no experience of this, so I was quite red) and leaning forward in the aforementioned unattractive manner.  Luckily, the White Bright Light running man I spotted some weeks ago was nowhere to be seen (I think) so I haven’t ruined my chances just yet.  But give me time.  I will.  I always do.

Thirty seconds later and I was heartattacking, panting and wheezing, but still on two feet, so I’m getting better.  I even looked up proper running shoes on the internet to help with my sloping foot which affects my gammy knee, so it’s getting serious.  Luckily the Olympics are a hop skip and wheezy jump across the pond in London; by June I should be marching through the opening ceremony, Irish tri-colour in hand, ready to do my country proud.  Or – maybe not.  Maybe I should just down pints in the pub with everybody else and watch Ireland in the football instead.  Hmmm.  Either way drink should be involved, which brings me to my next point – I need to start drinking again.  It had been several weeks since my last sup, and on Saturday night, filled with rage and general grumpiness, myself and Lilsister downed a couple of bottles of our beloved prosecco, which caused Lilsister to fall asleep and leave me and Scarydancer up discussing the merits of German versus Czech beer.  However, I woke up with an awful headache the next day, and I conclude that this is due to the fact that I have not kept up with my regular drinking, meaning I have become weak, and pathetic, and sober.

It stops here.

Wine, beer and spirits must once again enter my life, or I will become like a child – unable to handle the drink.  We have Ireland in the olympics, the European football and the Gaelic Football season all about to begin, and here am I, clear headed and not slurring – it will not do!!!  It WILL NOT DO!!!

Twisted with the Tourists

Pints with Trevor on Saturday for our not too regular catch up where we discuss the problems with Ireland, how to resolve them, and then cry because we have had too many pints, and because we love each other.  Fabulous stuff.

Several pints in Dame Street led to several more in the very touristy Temple Bar area of Dublin, where Americans roam in search of their Irish destiny, and we oblige them by singing Johnny Cash songs in a traditional Irish way with banjo, tin whistle and bodhran as was the case in the pub we ended up in.  After scaring some overly large Italians away by dancing to the crazy Irish beat and singing in Gaelic, we finally snared a table where we could see the band, and enjoyed our heritage until Trevor noted that the ageing, pudgy guitar player had a lovely collar bone and that she needed to ”bite it”.  I found this very worrying and requested an immediate venue change, once we found the loos of course, as we are old and full of wee.

We ended up then in our third location, in front of another band, much younger and uglier, in some half trendy bar full of hens parties trying to eat the young singer off the stage.  They formed a circle and began dancing until Trevor jumped into the middle and busted some moves.  We drank two gins (me) and two vodkas (Trevor) in twenty minutes and left, absolutely blind drunk and stumbling.  At this stage, neither of us were frightened by using public transport, so Trevor took her crap coach home and I took the tram, and tried not to fall asleep, by putting my walkman on really loud, and texting my brother, father, mother, sister, and Trevor and saying silly drunk things.  Then I realised the tram wasn’t running to our little apartment, so somehow managed to get Mammy to pick me up near her and drop me off outside my poor door.  She alleges that she parked her car across the road from the tram stop, and nearly died when she saw the huddling mess that was her daughter ambling towards her.  Supposedly I was walking with the top half of my body slumped forward, and had my arms dangling, monkey like at my side, until a sudden jolt caused me to lean backwards and shout ”FFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!” when I realised I had not swiped my electronic tram ticket.  I ambled back to the ticket machine, argued with it, perhaps hit it, and then fell into Mammy’s car.

After being deposited at the door of the apartment complex, I called Lilsister to confirm tea and toast were being initiated for me upstairs, which they were.  After this I am informed that I came in, and got a fit of giggles whilst buttering my toast, and spilt my tea on the sofa, which caused it to steam, and then tried to clean it up with a tissue.  Then I spilt it again, and when Lilsister and Scarydancer informed me I had done it again, I replied haughtily ”I find that technically impossible”.  Beautiful.

Woke up with my head coming out of my neck the following morning, and rose only to eat some fruit and inhale headache tablets.  Trevor texted to say that her husband Boo Boo had attempted to deliver fried food to her in bed but she had had to turn him away, much to her disgust.  She normally loves her fried food.

To upset me, Scarydancer then got up and kept busting scary moves in front of me, I think to make my stomach contents rock, and therefore heave.  Lilsister cooked a fried breakfast at noon, and I began to feel human again.  I was driven to Blessington nearby, in the beautiful county Wicklow, where we walked along the lake, visited a country house, and stopped for chips in a terrible cafe full of pink, with a very grumpy  waiter.

What a very successful weekend.

Spicy Pork Chops Interrupt Serbian Mysteries

I’m TRYING to have an intellectual night in my room by blogging, listening to Madonna’s possibly best album (Ray of Light – it transends, people) and getting my brain ready to tackle the last few pages of my Kabbalist inspired mystery type story by the Serbian writer whose name I cannot spell (except the David part) which has been written without the benefit of paragraphs, so is just hundreds of pages of block text, and is quite difficult to follow.  Brilliant, but fuck do you work for it.  However never let it be said that it does not contain one of my most favourite lines ever in a book – our hero, being completely stoned and looking around for something in a kitchen, kneels down, and peers into something, where he tells me he felt ”my brain touch my forehead on the inside.”  This is fantastic, and should be a medical description of all self induced highs, be they drug, alcohol or naturally attained.

Anyway, here I am preparing myself for the superior onslaught of writing far better than I will ever achieve in my non-career, when Lilsister calls me from her mobile phone, worryingly, as I had left her in the living room ironing only moments before.  Do I want spicy pork chops for dinner tomorrow, she asks.

I don’t know, I reply, because I like mashed potatoes with my pork chops, but Scarydancer is cooking tomorrow, and he doesn’t like mash, and if he makes anything else it won’t be right.

What is Scarydancer putting with the chops, I ask, and Lilsister says she doesn’t know.

We both ponder a little in the silence.  I decide to throw caution to the wind.  Okay, I say.  Sure lash on the pork chops.

He’ll figure something out, she says back.

Where are you, I ask.

In bed, she says.

In the next room?  I ask.

Yes, she says.  I couldn’t be bothered getting out to ask you and Scarydancer is going to defrost the chops first thing in the morning so he had to know now.

Oh, I say.  That’s fairly lazy of you.

Yeah, she says.  But it’s Monday.