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.