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.
Monday, February 16, 2009
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
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