Like the corners of my mind

Its hard not to reminisce at this time of year.

Like all significant dates, Christmas day is one of those dates that you can look back and remember-with perfect clarity- exactly what you were doing one year previous. This year saw me sitting and crying to Noel's Christmas Presents, eating crisps in my pyjamas at 5 pm. I was reminded of last year, when I sat on the couch, hungover, swaddled in my housecoat, watching Noel's Christmas Presents and crying into a box of pringles.

All people seem to say is "Christmas is different these days," but I can't see it. You feel it as much as you want to feel it. The build up still feels the same-nights out all involve the same songs, the witnessing of awkward (and soon to be regrettable) party kisses, plenty of wine, and they all, all end on "Fairytale of New York."
Last minute shopping still requires a machete, and Christmas Eve drinks still take place in the same venue with the same people. Nothing has changed, we've just gotten older, and in a way, theres something warmly reassuring about these traditions that have eased their way in over the years.

But this year was different.

Amidst the Christmas carols and Noel Edmond's nasal whine, there was a different sound to be heard. The gurgling and soft cry of my brand new nephew from his pram. He's just two weeks old, and as I held the tiny, shiny, wriggly little person and looked at him, I couldn't remember seeing anything so perfect in my whole life. His needs are so simple and even though he can't smile yet, I know he's happy.
I was there the moment he was born- something he'll surely come to forget and potentially resent as he blossoms into a surly teenager. But for now he is young, and its so impossibly hard to be bitter when you hold so much possibility in your arms.

Happy Christmas everyone.

The Day the Earth stood Still

Keanu rent-a-robot Reeves turns out another signature role as the emotionless and potentially developmentally disabled alien. Does anyone remember the last time he was given the responsibility of playing an actual human? I can just imagine the direction on set "Give me more Neo... Still Neo...Neo... now Constantine... Constantine... mono-syllabic... work it...work it." I don't know what was the best part of this film was- the horrifically horrendous script, the appalling plot, or the atrocious costumes that wouldn't have looked out of place in a primary school fancy dress party.
I think, think, the overall message was about the environment and how we're all ravaging it, but I could be looking too much into it. Any intelligible points were lost amongst the sexy scientist, dead parent and bemused Alien cliches that were being thrown in at every second.
The threat of life being wiped out didn't bother me as not only did I not care for anyone in the film, I hated them.
Still though, funniest film I've seen in ages. Me and half the cinema laughed the whole way through it.

Know the one thats one too many

Coppers has a strict door policy.

Who knew?

I thought the only prerequisites for entry were blood shot eyes and a raging boner.

Bikram yoga

 I should have guessed from the reviews: "you'll feel like you want to leave... but don't. Within a few classes you wont feel like that anymore." Really? Do you mean that?

 The concept is simple-yoga in a heated room. How bad can it be? How hot can it actually get? It sounded exciting and exhilarating, and if I were to be honest with myself my existing sports of glass lifting and power eating weren't exactly getting me very far fitness wise. Beginners welcome... all levels catered for...

 Let me be clear on one thing: 105 Fahrenheit written on  a computer screen is a lot different to 105 Fahrenheit in reality. I'd imagine it to be the closest you'll ever get to feeling like you're sitting on the sun, wrapped in blankets and hot water bottles while someone is throwing boiling water over your face, legs and arms.

I woke this morning and could move my arms and legs freely-which is not something I'm used to feeling after I participate in exercise. I felt a little cocky about my flexibility, but then bolted back to reality when I remembered that I actually couldn't complete the second part of the class because I instead had to focus all of my energy on staying conscious. "Beginners, don't worry if you need to sit out a posture, just don't leave, the first class is about staying in the room" I stayed in the room alright. I also stayed mostly on the floor, in the crawl position, a posture I remember thinking would be perfectly adept for escaping from a burning building. As I fought back tears I started to repent. All the years of excess had led me to this moment-potentially being taken out of a yoga class in an ambulance. At one point I vowed never to go again. 

But as I floated home drenched to the skin with sweat I couldn't help but feel excited about the next class. Endorphins are a terrible thing.

We're not there yet, but we're getting there

I took the train for the first time in a long time the other day. While I was busy slumming it with Bus Eireann for the past year it turns out the Calcutta Express was getting a makeover. I landed on track 7 in Heuston to be greeted with a train that wouldn't look out of place in a French film.
I stepped aboard and waited for my nostrils to be filled with the familiar hum of cigarettes and Supermacs, but instead I was met with a new car smell and clean upholstery. There were bins-bins- every few seats. Even the toilets had been raised to an acceptable European standard-gone was the steel bucket filled to the brim with piss and jack's roll, and in its place was a futuristic toilet capsule-complete with working flusher and a proper lock to keep the perverts at bay. I didn't even have to pick any used tampons off my shoes. Even the passengers seem to have been upgraded. Not a sunburn or can of Bulmers in sight. I disembarked in a polite fashion, in keeping with the company, and weaved my way through the designer luggage and out onto the Luas stop.
The bang of shit Dublin hash stung my airway and I snapped back to reality. As I boarded the Luas we were treated to an off the cuff rendition of "Crazy" by a lover to a lover, sung in the key of Vat 69.

We're not there yet, but we're getting there.

No ties to bind me, no reasons to remain

There are moments in your life where you make realisations. Moments of clarity that can only occur when you've worn yourself out. When your brain feels like it might fall out. The feeling you get when you think you can't go on, when you remember you haven't drank water for two days straight and have stopped washing yourself. Everybody should have one of these moments. Mine happened this weekend.

It occured in the end scene of the week. About half twelve on Sunday night/monday morning. We'd just dropped off what had to have been the 4hundredth car load of stuff to the new house and were in the middle of some creative waste managment problem solving. I looked into the boot of the car and it hit me. I own a ridiculous amount of complete and utter shit. Not just one or two bags of junk, but boxes and boxes and boxes of total and utter garbage.

The migration in question being the move from my first ever house of rented accomodation to the second of such houses. The latter being closer to town and less residential. From here on in it will be known as "The Move" to all who witnessed it. And I hope to fuck its the last.

As I began to unpack things from boxes I hadn't bothered even looking in since last November, I stumbled across a treasure trove of memories...that I could no longer remember. Stacks of bus tickets from journeys I have no recollection of being on, beer mats of drinks I don't drink, empty cigarette boxes and nagan bottle tops from nights that have all blurred into one. Somewhere at some point, in the 'Are you there God, its me Margaret' portion of my brain, I felt I should hold onto these. Mementos of a day well spent is what I was probably thinking. What I'm thinking now what the fuck was I thinking then?

But, amongst the coal there were diamonds, and between the cinema stubs, the 10 year old Ms. Selfridge receipts and the sea of clothes I found something I'm glad I kept. The newspaper that my mother kept for me, from the day I was born.

Pot throws bucket of black paint over kettle

"Everybody reaches a point in their life when they have to say to themselves 'ok... Time to reign myself in'."

-My Bank manager to me.

My kids need wine

Have you ever started to drink a bottle of wine and cringed at the first sip? You battle through the first glass cursing yourself for not spending two euro more for something that was at least drinkable. A sour feeling coats your teeth and tongue, your stomach lurches, your oesophagus heaves. You persist. Halfway through the bottle you feel warm and reassured. That money you saved will go towards an extra drink at the bar, you think smugly. By the end of the bottle your friend asks for a sip, takes it into her mouth and promptly spits it out.

"JESUS FUCKING CHRIST. That wine is corked."




No? Me neither.

Halloweeeeeeeeeeeen

A: What are you dressing up as?
B: A nun.
A: Hmmm
B: No, its cool, I have fishnets and heels and suspenders and...

Even the most mundane of uniforms suddenly becomes transformed with a simple pre-fix; sexy builder, sexy nurse, sexy silage maker, sexy butcher, sexy mortician... The only time of year when girls can openly clap their flaps without being branded a slut. I say wear hot pants and a leather bra to work whenever you fancy and actually come up with something creative on Halloween.

They set a new record up in Crumlin this year. There were 4 different bonfires happening on the same green at the same time. OUr neighbours threw such a spectacular fireworks show I felt like I was at the Olympics.

You wouldn't get that kind of recession beating spirit in Malahide.

Really Truthful Enterteinment

It appears David Coffey, creator of Irish satire (really?) "Dan and Becs," is lending his hand to a new RTE comedy "Sharon and Steve." It operates under the same principles as Dan and Becs, but this time instead of south Dublin yuppies, we're being treated to a fly on the wall mockumentary of two working class people from Tallaght. In an interview Coffey stated that he had more than a little in common with the annoyingly pretentious Dan, making him quite an easy character to play and write for. How then is he going to be able to pen a realistic script set in Tallaght?
Realising the potential issues that may arise from such a dilemma (i.e. having to write from a perspective thats not your own) he set about finding people who knew more about working class life than himself.

Coffee hopped on a 77 to round up two suitable knackers to help him with his script. Charlene Gleeson who plays Sharon points points out the complexities of the character of Sharon "she loves Tallaght, all her friends love Tallaght, she works in Tallaght, she goes out in Tallaght." I have to say I breathed a sigh of relief when I realised that Charlene and Emmet Kirwan (who plays Steve) are both actually originally from Tallaght. Theres no way you'd want someone from outside Dublin 24 trying to tackle roles like this.

This show promises more laughs than "Dan and Becs" although according to Coffee it wont be as satirical. I'm assuming this is because working class people are more fun to laugh at, and theres no way a towny would get satire.

Make 400+ per week! Do not delay! Contact today!

Have you ever seen an ad offering you a way to subsidise your income, clear your debts, or even earn enough to retire yourself and your entire family in 5 years? Well I see them. All the time. I see the colourful A6 pages that are tacked to post office walls and Spar notice boards. I see the mobile phone numbers and a vague description of a "work from home" position. I see the euro signs in my eyes, debts being cleared, long holidays and champagne on Tuesdays.I see the potential for something great.
This lust for easy money has led me down many a stray street-the most tragic of which saw me selling scratchcards in the rain, a run-in with Kleeneze catalogue and being a mystery shopper. The most successful of all (although least financially rewarding) was my brief fling with hotelsbycity.net. The idea was simple. Pick a European City, write about it, get paid money. Well the first two happened. I was under the impression that I was hand selected to write these reviews. Plucked from obscurity, chosen to offer an insight into Dublin for tourists and natives alike. It was only when I received my user name "dublinblogger1" and then later when "dublinblogger2" came on the scene that I realised it was free game to anyone who saw the ad. He appears to be still going strong-the lucky bastard probably knows how adware works. But still, I tried. You can see my efforts here, here and here
I may not have made any money, but its comments like this that make it all worthwhile:


Barry Says: July 10th, 2008 at 9:02 am

I had one of thge worst experiences I ever had at Copperhead Jack.Myself and my partner weer resident at the Jackson Court Hotel,where free entrance to the night club was offered.We had been a a gig and on returning to hotel thought we'd pop into Copperhead Jack's for a night cap.
Over zealous bouncer told us we were too drunk and would allow us access,we did of course have a free drinks but we were neither rowdy or obviously drunk.We are respectable mid aged professionals and did'nt not fit into any profile which might raise concern.The more we pressed out case the more obstrictive and aggressive the bouncers became.We could not believe what was happening,we had never been refused entry to any club before.
Perhaps this was an ageist response or indeed because we both have northern accents.

How to Lose friends and Alienate people

Make them sit through an hour of this piece of shite.*

I’m definitely not an expert on book to film transitions, but I did think that it was common knowledge that some adaptations had to be made. If your story took place in a different decade, either set the film in that time period or update the fucking script. News flash: mobile phones are no longer a novelty. Extended scenes of people texting eachother and everyone producing a phone from their pocket at the same time hasn’t raised a laugh since 1995. Everyone has a phone now-we get it, you’re not making any ground breaking social commentary.
Theres a moment where the protaginist drives through the streets of New York- windows rolled down, wide eyed grin, exaggerated head turn for reaction (cue people ignoring him so they can send texts on their brand new ultra cool accessory-the phone) Its carried out with the eagerness and excitement of someone who’s just pulled into shore on a famine ship.

Ultimately-I just cannot get my head around the popularity of Simon Pegg. Like the legions of people who love Anchorman, I'm left cold. I cannot believe this came from the same womb as Curb your Enthusiasm.


* which subsequently is all I actually managed to sit through. (The last film I left before the credits rolled was "American Pie: The Wedding.")

Eamonn Dorans

I am by no means a fussy customer. I class the Czech Inn as a fancy palace. Downstairs in the International? Love it. The B.O. pit in Doyles? I'm there. Knacker drinking on the nalar? Bring it on. But where I do draw the line is mould...everywhere... as I sat on the (half) toilet seat in Eamonn Dorans I surveyed the wreckage. What once was grunge chic- mildew, day-glo pink chipped paint, dodgy locks and stale vomit-was now repulsing me.

I was offered my single shot of vodka with a pint glass and a wink. This felt strange. Then I felt strange that it felt strange.


I have outgrown a garden of my childhood.

Under lung swept

I switched on my computer tonight to a mass nervous breakdown.

He said it himself- he was one man with a blog. That is it.

I started blogging for the same reason everyone starts blogging-because I felt I had something to say. As the weeks go on and the posts come so slowly they risk self deletion I struggle to realise what exactly I do have to say, or offer, that hasn't been said before.

I'm still new to this and don't really know where its going. I know I never wanted it to be an intimate blog. The interesting stuff is only that way to me and the other shit is just dull*





*Save for that gripping tale of my trip to the dentist.

Service with a smile

I went to the dentist last week. The first time in twelve years. Before you start recoiling in horror, my teeth had actually been pretty fine up until the last year (or two) and even then the shooting pains that would generally accompany me eating chocolate would usually subside after I rinsed my mouth out with a can of coke.
Having recently celebrated my birthday, I decided that potentially having to carry my teeth around in my handbag for the rest of my life may not be such a good look.
Off I trotted into a swanky place in town and what can only be described as the Powerscourt springs of Dentists. The receptionist seemed genuinely happy to see me. The dental nurse was ecstatic, but this was all eclipsed by the Dentist. A shining beacon in the field of Dentistry. Compared to rushed "pull your knickers up, pull your knickers down," experiences that usually happen in the G.P., this was such a charming affair. At one point I thought we were going to hug.
The next day on my lunch break I had two voicemails-one from the receptionist asking me if I'd had a nice time when I was there and the other from the dentist-calling to see how I was getting on with my new filling and if I was able to eat sweets again. I considered writing him a letter to tell him how pleased I was with the level of service, but then I figured that might make the cleaning session next week a little awkward.
I started to think about customer service in Ireland as a whole and how this over the top niceness was so unfamiliar. Ireland, well Dublin at least, is so far from the "Have a nice day" approach they're out on their own. I've always found the level of apathy displayed by most shop assistants to be pleasantly reassuring.It seems to say "I work here, but its clearly just for the money and I couldn't give a flying fuck if you come back here or not. I'm still going to get paid." Theres a girl who works in Superquin that actually gives you dirty looks as she's scanning your bread. I recently asked for directions in a petrol station and was told (by a guy who was pointing a scissors in my face) "I think its this way...but if I'm wrong don't come back here and start moaning. I don't have a fucking clue."
For the last decade I've been involved in a not so silent battle with the woman that works in my local chipper. Each quarter pounder is given with looks up and down, mutterings in Italian, and then hysterical laughter to her co-workers.

Still going to that chipper though.

U.C.I.I.C.U.

Today started the way most of my Sunday's start-dry heaving over a toilet bowl. Its a terrible fact to realise that not only have my hangovers turned into violent assaults on my nervous system, but that I seem to have accepted my own fate. The shakes, the churns, the potential hemorrhage type headache and the momentary blindness are familiar friends at this stage, generally sent away only after 2 bottles of Lucozade and 5 packets of crisps. I can do hangovers in my sleep at this stage-vomiting and texting simultaneously while frying eggs and grilling sausages. I pulled myself together and headed to work where I spent a delightful day in the square. (don't ask)
Its really hard to explain what the Square is like to someone who hasn't been-think rainbows to the blind. The shopping centre itself is a bit of a navigational nightmare. I think theres meant to be three levels, but as you stand near one of the 37 escalators you'd be more inclined to think eight. Split level was clearly the way to go back in the 90's. Strolling past the array of bakeries, eurolands and hot pants you find yourself in U.C.I. Ireland's most annoying cinema. I've yet to go to a film here that hasn't been attended by at least 20 unaccompanied minors. The funniest encounters of which have seen me witness a full blown telephone conversation between two people sitting in rows next to each other, a woman with a crying baby (I'm patient-but 30 fucking minutes is outrageous) and a full blown game of chasing down the aisles and across the screen. Sitting down for the duration of a film in U.C.I. is completely optional. I think the most bizarre thing I ever saw was an attendant asking a nurse would they mind bringing the person they were looking after in the wheelchair outside because they were making weird noises and disturbing people.(God forbid they would interrupt the dry riding session in row F)

Today found me in a much more temperate mood watching "The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas" I wont offer a critique except to say it was better than the book and you'd have to be a pretty heartless fuck not to feel something after watching it. During a pivotal scene I heard this:

Child: whats a Jew?
Older child: Someone who doesn't believe in Holy God.

As the film credits rolled I turned to leave and saw a boyfriend cradling his sobbing girlfriend as she cried loudly and rocked back and forth.

If you can't dance if you can't dance

There is no escape from being a bad dancer.
Anyone who suggests lessons just doesn't understand. Classes are preposterous if you're wishing to improve. Set moves to specific songs (that you'll most likely have to request) would only add to the humiliation.
A shoulder of vodka into the night I let my guard down and made that old faithful mistake, I thought I could dance. I felt the beat, I was at one with the song and the dance floor of the Czech Inn felt like home. Semi lucid, I turned suddenly and caught a glimpse of a lunatic in the mirror-dancing uncontrollably. How embarrassing, I thought to myself- Arms flailing, shoulders bobbing, with wild staccato leg movements that would generally accompany someone who was having a seizure. Then I looked again-the lunatic had my clothes and my face-Jesus Christ, she was holding my drink.

I'm not tarring the entire country with the one brush, but we seem to be a nation of reserved and very aware dancers. Take our National dance for example-tight corkscrew curls, a dress that weighs 3 stone (harder to take off), knee high white socks and all of this done with the arms held firmly by your side, with only your legs moving- like you're trying to flea from an amorous prospector as quickly and politely as you can."Hold that dress down! Heaven forbid he'd catch a glimpse of what lies beneath!"

Compare it to the smooth sexiness of Latin dancing (which from what I've witnessed seems to be taught from birth in every other European Country except here) We're in a different league.That said, even salsa dancing makes me cringe, not because I don't like it, but because any attempt I've ever made has only served to cement that fact I have no natural sense of rhythm. If ever there was a move to highlight one's dancing flaws, crotch grinding and simultaneous hip swaying is it.

Until I reach 80 (my current dance-style age) I'll be waiting it out at the bar...

At least until I've finished my drink.

After session depression

Every Sunday night without fail. Like a tonne of fucking bricks.

Whatever happened to Fay Wray?

I only realised the other night that the Classic Cinema is gone and apparently has been for ages. The sense of sadness quickly turned to relief when I heard about this. The building would have crumbled to the ground upon release. I genuinely feel enraged.Why do they need a new Rocky? I'm completely dumbfounded as to what audience they're trying to appeal to. They can't even use the excuse of people not wanting to read when they go to the cinema for this one.
The entire appeal is going to be lost. Part of it's charm was that it looked like it was made on 20 euro by a load of people who were in love with eachother.Apparently theres going to be some new songs too. Riff and Magenta will probably sail off in a fucking Lexus.

I urge people to sign the petition (that will do nothing) and burn any cinema to the ground that tries to show it*.











*To be fair I don't really see any other cinema other than The Classic pulling this off (maybe The Smella Stella) Imagine the dry shites over at cineworld openly encouraging you to drink and dance during a film.

Better late

Image courtesy of Eoin.

Fleadh Ceoil

A memory: A 65 plus man walking towards me pushing a buggy, pint of bulmers in hand, with the words "wanna fiddle with me?" scrawled across his t-shirt.

Only in Tullamore.

A is for Avoca

Come mingle with 40 year old rich bohemians draped head to toe in vintage lace and floral prints.

A salad will set you back 20 euro and they give you miniature jars of ketchup instead of packets.

Born to Run

I never watch sports-and rarely participate in them, but I've found myself strangely drawn to the Olympics. It only really occurred to me what was happening the other day when I realised I'd spent over 25 minutes watching people kayaking down a man made river, open mouthed in awe. I had absolutely no idea what way they were meant to be going around the various poles, but it didn't seem to matter-I was transfixed.
When the Irish guy didn't get a medal I felt genuine loss-to the point of welling up-and then it occured to me. I'm never going to win a medal at the Olympics either.
I described this to people last night and was told it was a case of "Olympic Depression."The point you realise that you're too old and too fat to ever make it as a professional athlete. It begins mid-event. Adrenaline courses through your veins and you start to imagine yourself there, going for gold-10,000 metre run-I can do that, fast walking-I can do that, the cheers, the tears, the finish line- You're there! Then its all over and your left on your couch-eating crisps and changing the channel with your medalless hands.
Maybe in 2012.

Breaking the Ice

I decided yesterday to finally set this up. It turns out its not as easy as it looks... My first foray into blogging involved me sitting in front of the laptop for 2 hours staring blankly at the screen desperately thinking of what to write. 5 drafts later and I was beginning to question whether English was actually my first language.
I ventured to the kitchen in the hopes that some wine and baked potatoes might make it all a bit more fluid. It didn't, and it turns out that lightning can indeed strike twice-the tea towel I was using to take the tray out of the oven, landed in the boiling oil, then onto my finger and then onto the same finger again 20 minutes later when I was repeating the process.
I headed to bed slightly drunk and blistered and reassured myself that as long as this wasn't the type of shit I tried to blog about, then things might turn out alright.