One Under

Everything in London is hard. What should be simple is made almost near on impossible by the metres of red tape they like to wrap everything up in. It is a city obsessed with forms and systems, and everything takes up to ten times longer to do than in Dublin. Looking for a G.P? It better not be terminal. Trying to buy a phone without a sim card? Not happening. Ringing the council because damp is eating away at your walls and you're worried your roof may cave in on top of your bed? Go fuck yourself.



The most basic of requests on the phone in work involve a "sorry can I take your name please?" in a manner that lets you know you better watch your mouth because its all on record. I've endured over a year of living within a commuting population so militant about transport, its literally push or be pushed (under the tracks of a train.) And when they say last orders, they really and truly mean it.



Finding a room to rent transcends into a cruel popularity contest, that unless you're a bow tie and fake glass wearing graphic designer, you'll almost certainly lose. Getting unemployment benefit here makes the dole look like a glamorous no strings attached affair, one in which there are no losers.I find it quite strange then, after all of my complaints, that I find myself settling into it all-quite nicely at times.



When we all decided to move here I read somewhere that of all of the nurses who emmigrate, only 50% will ever return back to Ireland. And as I boarded that BMI flight one cold October night wearing 7 dresses, 5 cardigans, 2 coats, and a pair of cowboy boots I told people "it's just for a year," and I really meant it.



Now as I walk through the hospital and hear old Irish accents scattered everywhere, I wonder how many of them said the same thing.

Mouthy sluts

Sometimes in life you are a victim of circumstance. A series of events, timings and inevitablilities can end up forcing you into atrocious situations you wouldn't normally have left yourself exposed to.

My recent fate (the time I take my lunch at coupled with the facts that our staff room has two stations-ITV and AV, and that I usually feel too brain dead to read a book) has led me to dark depths. I have unwittingly become a follower of ITV's female led panel show Loose Women.
A show which "consists of a panel of four women who interview celebrities and discuss topical issues, ranging from daily politics and current affairs, to celebrity gossip and sexism."

Today saw them discussing (with guest panelist Fizz from Coronation street) the ever so topical engagement of Prince William and Kate. Proceedings got very spirited, as you can imagine, and the excitement was oozing out of their painted mouths at the rate of knots when they started discussing the potential dress designs and wedding speeches. Things took a turn for the worst though when they had a heated debate over whether or not it was right for him to give her his dead Mother's ring. Handbags at dawn-quite literally.

I find it very hysterical that a show which lists sexism as one of it's topics would not even see the ironic irony in it's own title. Only mouthy sluts have opinions, is it? Its a title that was clearly meant to induce surprise once you got into it- "that must be a show full of cum guzzling knacker tarts" and then switch it on to be greeted by a group of strong, mature women who have refused to let themselves go . They have opinions ladies, and they aren't prepared to hide them!

What you actually get is a pack of divorce ridden trolls in blusher who churn out dollops of celebrity horseshit glossed over with a lick of current affairs (just to show women can talk politics too.)

I'm not opposed to women only shows if I felt they were entertaining, in any way representative or were serving any purpose in our quest for equality. They should just give up the ghost, get their tits out, throw down some double bacardis and start simulating blow jobs on chippendales.

Adventures on the Underground

Me: I was thinking of setting up a new blog. (Red wine induced Positivity)

Friend: About what?

Me: I don't really know. (The cracks emerge)

Friend: But what about your old blog?

Me: (Feeling guilty about abandoning it like a burnt out car) Yeah, but I don't live in Dublin anymore, so it would almost be like lying.

Friend: It could be an Irish person's take on London.

Me: (Thinking its not the 80's anymore and I don't have the wit or observational skills to pull it off) Mmmmmmm.

Friend: You may as well.

Me: (Realising my only other extra cirriculars are making me more circular by the day) Yeah, maybe I will so.

Love dont live here anymore

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.

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.

The not knowing would have been fun a while back. The possibilities would have seemed endless. I would have taken a loan out and headed for the sun. I would have laughed and marvelled at people who were worried. But now, after 6 years of college and only an undergrad to show for it, I'm feeling peaky. Fears of AIB overlords repossessing my clothes, 250 euro car, saddleless bike, and rented room suddenly aren't so funny.

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.

Recession blues

Having your lazer card refused 2 weeks after payday-when you're buying a shoulder of Glen's.

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.