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!

Bubbles

You know it’s Chrismtas Eve and the start of the ”festive” season when you wake to the sounds of your parents killing each other in the kitchen downstairs.  Ho ho ho.  To the day I die, and it could be soon by excessive gin inhallation, I will never forgive ExHimself for putting me in the position where I’ve had to move back in with the EEJITS that are my parents.  May my visit be short, and quiet.  Amen.

I put on the radio to drown out the evil vibes and Michael Buble was on groaning about coming home.  This didn’t help.

Envisaged today’s arguement whilst contemplating Mr Buble’s stellar career on smoochy ballads.  Mammy would have gotten up early, even though she doesn’t need to leave the house till 9am.  This ensures maximum time to sit and bull about how difficult Christmas is.  Papabear, who after 39 years of marriage should really know better, would have gotten up, rolled downstairs and asked Mammy to make him breakfast.  Cue usual killings about laziness of Papabear, followed by cooking of his breakfast.  I have told Papabear several times since getting off the plane that daily food arguments could be cancelled if he just poured oil and sausages into a pan and ate the results.  But noooooo he and she have to have their daily dance around the madpole.

Mammy left at 9 for hairdressers, in a haze of sighs and coughs, which I pretended not to hear by turning the radio up louder.  I let Mr Buble go home and rolled the dial over to Spin instead, not my favourite station in the world but it plays a lot of ”unce unce unce unce” style ”dance” music and is therefore louder than most of the ”classic” hits being provided by our more mainstream stations.  Did the trick anyways, and I dozed off to the tender sounds of some twat shrieking about how his ladeee had it awl and didn’t need none of his dollaz, man.  Sweet, sweet snoozing.

Party last night went grand, I had gin and beer beforehand and gin and tea after I got there, and some fine food – Panties knows how to put on an excellent spread.  Some bad moments when there was an indepth discussion between the mammies of what essentials to pack for hospital trip when one is birthing, which myself and Panties did not enjoy but luckily Rocky Five came on and we concentrated on that until we could tell our story about the time we babysat for a couple on New Year’s Eve and they had sex all night on the stairs when they came home, which was terrifying for us as we were in a bedroom in a single bed with no door, just a curtain, and we were afraid they would come in and eat us, and the woman was screaming her head off and ended up wailing for Satan to put his ”evil in her”.  Terrible, terrible night, but a lovely story to shut up the maternity talk with.

Bad news indeed on Thursday as when Lilsister came to collect me she was in floods of tears – her job of five years waited till she went back to work (ill, I might add, she’d been out the two days before dying with Mammy’s disgusting cough and only went in cause she had so much work to do) to tell her that she was now redundant and could she please go away.  Not sure what’s going on, she is a credit controller for a company that really needs control over it’s credit but anyways it’s happened and there’s not a lot we can do about it.  She said her co-worker had been made redundant about five minutes before (by the way, for the second time with that company – supposedly the co-worker was in the toilet, came out, boss waiting for her, and she said ”please don’t do this to me again” at which point they actually did).  Lilsister had been upset by this news, then was called in herself, to the company owner, his wife, and her boss, who delivered the reasons and the news itself.  She said she has no idea what was said, all she remembers is the owner, who seemed quite upset himself, holding her hand, and her wishing he would not do that, as she was now crying large rivers of snot, and bubbles had started to come out of her nose, and she needed her hand to wipe them away.  The owner’s wife requested that somebody get tissues which just means they all saw the bubbles and were probably horrified.  I told her when I was made redundant they at least had the decency to have a glass of water and a BOX of tissues on the desk in preparation.  I didn’t cry, but I was annoyed as it was done in the boardroom and I knew that the managers hid the kit kats in the press at the back and hadn’t thought that chocolate might be a comfort.

Luckily myself and Papabear were at home at the time, so after the purchase of chips and the making of tea she calmed somewhat, and we discussed our lack of futures and how the hell Ireland is supposed to pull itself up out of all this.

Our immediate answer is to pile me, Lilsister, Papabear and Babybro, all of whom have now been made redundant, into Lilsister’s Toyota Yaris and hit the streets in a sort of unemployment roadshow, begging for work.  We shall start at the industrial estates, knocking on doors, leaving Papabear and Babybro right at the gate, as we believe we should be the interested looking faces of our project.  Papabear has given up ever working again and Babybro has been unemployed for so long we are worried for his health.  Another option is to bring our niece, Babybro’s beautiful daughter, N, along for the sympathy vote ie if we don’t work she doesn’t eat etc or just general cuteness – some manager may see her and go ”ahhhh” whilst we sneak by and steal jobs, or petty cash as we can’t afford the petrol.

Until then we will muddle through Christmas, Lilsister and I shall be tucked up in bed together tonight, watching the very Christmassy Paranormal Activity 2, as we saw the first one together a few weeks ago, on the sofa, holding hands, and behind cushions, and loved it.  I have to say though my hand had nail marks in it from last time, Lilsister must have been tense, so perhaps we’ll sit apart tonight.  Then it’s up at 6 or 7 to open presents – a lot less this year – and begin a day of eating, drinking and avoiding Mammy’s cough.

To Ghosts at Christmas!