This blog is one year old today.
And like the drunken and negligent Aunt that only turns up at funerals and Christenings, here I am to wish it a Happy Birthday. I'd love to say its been great watching this thing grow, but at an average of 0.69230769 posts per week, I'm not fooling anybody.
I wish I had something poignant to say, but in keeping with the spirit of The Dublinista-I dont.
To my 6 person strong readership, I bid Adieu! (for now) Sorry I never wrote more. I realise that this reads like a suicide note, which wasn't my intention.
I'll be back.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Monday, May 11, 2009
Should we have stayed at home and thought of here?
As I approach the climax of my education, I feel a twinge. Third level has been a twisted path- one littered with failures, u-turns, a self diagnosed heart condition, and insurmountable debt. But there was always a definite job at the end of it. (honestly, there was) There was a light at the end of the tunnel. (No, genuinely, there was)
Without going into the obvious, that carpet has been well and truly ripped from under my naive feet.
It seems that when you have a degree, certain things become expected of you. "When are you going travelling? " is a question that is asked at every turn, so much so that you start to feel that the staff of trailfinders are working undercover,wearing your friends faces as masks. The expectation that you have to leave Ireland and travel for a year in the two years following college seems to be unavoidable.Only a mad person would want to live in Dublin. Stay in Ireland? Who the fuck wants to live in Ireland?
None of my friends apparently. And as the rats are starting to jump into the water one by one, the sinking ship is starting to feel lonely.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Recession blues
Having your lazer card refused 2 weeks after payday-when you're buying a shoulder of Glen's.
Monday, March 30, 2009
A life of grime
Our toilets have flooded. All over our fucking yard.
The shit has melded with the toilet paper to form a tan coloured river of viscous sewerage that's covered the bags of glass bottles we've been meaning to recycle for months. Even the christmas tree is bark deep in it.
Thank Christ its not sunny out.
I dread the day then this type of thing can't be fixed with a simple call to our ever so helpful landlord.
The shit has melded with the toilet paper to form a tan coloured river of viscous sewerage that's covered the bags of glass bottles we've been meaning to recycle for months. Even the christmas tree is bark deep in it.
Thank Christ its not sunny out.
I dread the day then this type of thing can't be fixed with a simple call to our ever so helpful landlord.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Please give up your seat
What is the correct ettiquette for giving up your seat on public transport? Every time I board packed public transport I'm faced with this dilemma. Theres the standard crew you stand for-the elderly, the frail, the pregnant, people with crutches, people with children, people with guide dogs... you get the picture. These people are acceptable to offer to. Its clear cut.
Then theres the iffys. The inbetweeners. The ones with the grey hair and compressed spines who board the bus with the energy of Olympians. Sure they look old, but as they scramble along through the throng without a care or a worry you feel you'd offend them by offering them a sit down. They give you a look as much to say "Don't let these eccos or brown support tights fool you, I'm strong as an ox."
I wasn't always like this. I used to offer my seat to anyone with crows feet. A sprightly 18 was I when I offered to stand up for a woman who (in hindsight) was no more than 40. As her cheeks turned crimson she practically jumped out the window to affirm me of how little she needed that seat. A friend who was with me remarked "theres a line for who you offer your seat to on the bus and who you don't-and you just crossed it."
This post goes out to the man with the grey hair, false teeth and the lap top that I left standing for 5 stops on the luas today.
Then theres the iffys. The inbetweeners. The ones with the grey hair and compressed spines who board the bus with the energy of Olympians. Sure they look old, but as they scramble along through the throng without a care or a worry you feel you'd offend them by offering them a sit down. They give you a look as much to say "Don't let these eccos or brown support tights fool you, I'm strong as an ox."
I wasn't always like this. I used to offer my seat to anyone with crows feet. A sprightly 18 was I when I offered to stand up for a woman who (in hindsight) was no more than 40. As her cheeks turned crimson she practically jumped out the window to affirm me of how little she needed that seat. A friend who was with me remarked "theres a line for who you offer your seat to on the bus and who you don't-and you just crossed it."
This post goes out to the man with the grey hair, false teeth and the lap top that I left standing for 5 stops on the luas today.
Monday, February 16, 2009
My Vagina; My Hometown
I saw the vagina monologues during the week in Trinity. I dont know what I was expecting. I watched a documentary with Eve Ensler and had seen snippets, and a few years ago, in a mortifying moment of extreme self confidence I'd even auditioned to be in it. I knew what I was getting myself into. As I watched the monologues that were punctuated with horror stories from the Congo and cautionary tales of how many people were raped and murdered so we could have mobile phones, I felt embarrassed. And it wasn't for the performances, which for the most part were really, really good.
I'm sure someone standing on the stage shouting "CUNT! CUNT! CUNT! CUNT!" while waving their fist at you is meant to be shocking, but it just wasn't. Tales of the joy of having a full bush and cumming for the first time probably should have felt liberating, but they just didn't. As the coochie snorchers, vulvas, and clitori rolled out, I felt red in my cheeks and heat on my neck. As I dabbed my (coincidentally) streaming eye I hoped that no one thought it was because I was overcome with emotion. Because I definitely wasn't.
Maybe its the filthy company I keep, or my sprightly age, or maybe (as I fear Eve might think) I'm secretly just a repressed dried up old vagina in need of a hand mirror and a hot bath.
I'm sure someone standing on the stage shouting "CUNT! CUNT! CUNT! CUNT!" while waving their fist at you is meant to be shocking, but it just wasn't. Tales of the joy of having a full bush and cumming for the first time probably should have felt liberating, but they just didn't. As the coochie snorchers, vulvas, and clitori rolled out, I felt red in my cheeks and heat on my neck. As I dabbed my (coincidentally) streaming eye I hoped that no one thought it was because I was overcome with emotion. Because I definitely wasn't.
Maybe its the filthy company I keep, or my sprightly age, or maybe (as I fear Eve might think) I'm secretly just a repressed dried up old vagina in need of a hand mirror and a hot bath.
Monday, February 9, 2009
The Ice Queen cometh
As I passed through the housing estates of Tallaght early yesterday morning, I couldn't help but feel as though I was moving through a pretty little Swiss Village. Bare trees and white-as far as the eye could see, with the mountains in the background looking ripe for a ski. As I disembarked the bus and trod along the canal I suddenly felt enchanted by the city. The traffic cones and shopping trolleys were invisible underneath the top layer of ice, and even the swans (who usually look sinister) seemed nicer and more serene. I floated along home not caring that I was wet to the knee and had lost feeling in my right hand. So focused was I on the beauty of it all that I missed the enormous pile of snow covered dog shit sitting right smack bang in the middle of the footpath.
Definitely not Switzerland.
Definitely not Switzerland.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Conversations with my bank manager; part two
"People who make decisions about your credit rating, or whether or not you can ever get a mortgage in the future don't deal with you. They just don't. They look at a computer and based on whats written on that screen they push buttons. They don't write polite letters, or make nice phonecalls and have friendly conversations. They don't even talk to you. They wont talk to you."
An educational session on debt management.
An educational session on debt management.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Austrailia
Not content with the 70 million labourers, nurses and drug addicts that depart in hordes from Ireland to Austrailia every year, they've now started advertising it.
The big pilgrimage acts as a kind of hiatus between the college years and the real world-the one where you have to get a mortgage, all of your friends start getting married, and people stop carrying nagans in their purses on nights out. The last big chance to drink every night of the week, have unprotected sex, develop skin cancer, and talk with other Irish people about other Irish people that you both know back home through a friend of a friend.
But its not this that offends me.
What has really gotten under my skin is the shameless way they've taken the Aboriginal child from Austrailia (my least favourite film of 2008) and paraded him around a lavish city apartment in his fucking loin cloth. So the abbos are vogue now, are they? Its as repulsive to me as the half-hearted dedication to the lost generations at the the end of the film. Something the film made no real effort to explain or animate as it was too busy framing skeletors translucent face, or zooming in on Wolverine's steriod ridden veins to actually film something that might be interesting to a wider audience.
The big pilgrimage acts as a kind of hiatus between the college years and the real world-the one where you have to get a mortgage, all of your friends start getting married, and people stop carrying nagans in their purses on nights out. The last big chance to drink every night of the week, have unprotected sex, develop skin cancer, and talk with other Irish people about other Irish people that you both know back home through a friend of a friend.
But its not this that offends me.
What has really gotten under my skin is the shameless way they've taken the Aboriginal child from Austrailia (my least favourite film of 2008) and paraded him around a lavish city apartment in his fucking loin cloth. So the abbos are vogue now, are they? Its as repulsive to me as the half-hearted dedication to the lost generations at the the end of the film. Something the film made no real effort to explain or animate as it was too busy framing skeletors translucent face, or zooming in on Wolverine's steriod ridden veins to actually film something that might be interesting to a wider audience.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Overheard in Dublin
Girl 1: I was fucking locked the other night.
Girl 2: No you weren't, you were grand.
Girl 1: I was in fucking bits. I was gee-eyed.
Girl 2: So was everyone else, no one noticed.
Girl 1: I was falling all over the place, I'm covered in bruises.
Girl 2: Sure thats the sign of a good night!
Girl 1: I don't remember going into or leaving the Bull and castle. I don't know how I got home.
Girl 2: I'm telling you... thats the sign of a good night!
Girl 2: No you weren't, you were grand.
Girl 1: I was in fucking bits. I was gee-eyed.
Girl 2: So was everyone else, no one noticed.
Girl 1: I was falling all over the place, I'm covered in bruises.
Girl 2: Sure thats the sign of a good night!
Girl 1: I don't remember going into or leaving the Bull and castle. I don't know how I got home.
Girl 2: I'm telling you... thats the sign of a good night!
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Five women go back to work
RTE's latest.
Five women leave their families and are thrown back into the workplace to see how they cope with the pressures of a full time job and trying to raise a family. Cue scenes of distressed women crying down the phone in a car park.
I didn't realise we'd travelled back to 1953 where this situation might have actually been out of the ordinary. How many more horrific attempts at producing reality TV are RTE going to make before they realise they're humiliating themselves? And who thought up the title? Jesus Christ, theres descriptive and then theres just plain unimaginative.
Next week: 6 farmers go to a Ceilidh in westport.
Five women leave their families and are thrown back into the workplace to see how they cope with the pressures of a full time job and trying to raise a family. Cue scenes of distressed women crying down the phone in a car park.
I didn't realise we'd travelled back to 1953 where this situation might have actually been out of the ordinary. How many more horrific attempts at producing reality TV are RTE going to make before they realise they're humiliating themselves? And who thought up the title? Jesus Christ, theres descriptive and then theres just plain unimaginative.
Next week: 6 farmers go to a Ceilidh in westport.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Living free
Bored, broke, and eating what could be considered breakfast at 6pm, I typed "things to do in Dublin for free" and stumbled upon this top ten list. Needless to say none of them can really be done in daylight hours, which if we're to be honest, kind of sums up Dublin.
My favourite had to be this.
Number 7:
"The Boardwalk: I have to say that when I heard they were going to build the Boardwalk I thought they were daft. Humble pie. Eat. It's one of the best things to happen to Dublin in years. For one thing, it's on the sunny side of the Liffey, for another, it's living proof of global warming - if anyone had suggested to a Dubliner in the rainy 1960s that one day people would sit outside drinking coffee in Dublin they'd have been laughed out of town.
So, particularly in summer, grab a good book and settle down to a cup of Cruises Coffee Co's excellent coffee and just chill out and take in the surroundings. People watch, stroll up and down, listen to others' conversations, study the architecture of the city's quays and, from late 2005, watch the new river taxis as they glide past you. It's been such a success story that they're currently extending the Boardwalk east of O'Connell Bridge."
The only possible explanation for this outrageous review is that it was either written by the people who designed it, or by one of the winos that frequent the benches that line it. I take it that when they refer to the "excellent" coffee shop, they must be talking about the prefab that doubles up as a public urinal when the shutters are down. If this is Dublin's greatest "success story" then where the fuck does that leave Dublin?
If you're allergic to nature walks, Government buildings make you feel angry and the idea of starting a Family tree makes you want to scratch your eyes out, then don't forget about option number 10. " Go to the sea."
Whether or not thats to drown yourself remains unseen.
My favourite had to be this.
Number 7:
"The Boardwalk: I have to say that when I heard they were going to build the Boardwalk I thought they were daft. Humble pie. Eat. It's one of the best things to happen to Dublin in years. For one thing, it's on the sunny side of the Liffey, for another, it's living proof of global warming - if anyone had suggested to a Dubliner in the rainy 1960s that one day people would sit outside drinking coffee in Dublin they'd have been laughed out of town.
So, particularly in summer, grab a good book and settle down to a cup of Cruises Coffee Co's excellent coffee and just chill out and take in the surroundings. People watch, stroll up and down, listen to others' conversations, study the architecture of the city's quays and, from late 2005, watch the new river taxis as they glide past you. It's been such a success story that they're currently extending the Boardwalk east of O'Connell Bridge."
The only possible explanation for this outrageous review is that it was either written by the people who designed it, or by one of the winos that frequent the benches that line it. I take it that when they refer to the "excellent" coffee shop, they must be talking about the prefab that doubles up as a public urinal when the shutters are down. If this is Dublin's greatest "success story" then where the fuck does that leave Dublin?
If you're allergic to nature walks, Government buildings make you feel angry and the idea of starting a Family tree makes you want to scratch your eyes out, then don't forget about option number 10. " Go to the sea."
Whether or not thats to drown yourself remains unseen.
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