Christmas Necessities

Christmas, the annual spectacular that supposedly celebrates and commemorates the birth of the wee, leanbh Jesus Christ. The end of the advent season is a time for families to reflect on the year gone by appreciating those fortunate enough to still be in their lives. Sadly, for many this is a ballgame of the past. Nowadays, the event is more so a commercial extravaganza. Every item in the store becomes a must have and the presents become an expedition of the festival. I present you all with the Christmas essentials in my house, viewer discretion is advised.  

1. The Turkey. Nothing screams Christmas better than to parade into the kitchen to the harsh image of your father fisting a twenty pound turkey. The man becomes obsessed with the festive meat. He revels in dispatching the giblets, the neck (I've been formally warned to refer to it as the 'gizzard') and whatever other internal non-edible organs he can feast on. My mother then the polar opposite becomes alarmingly intimidated by this new creature that captures the devoted attention of her entire family over the holidays. But, can you blame her? A strange, unfamiliar bird prances into her home stealing the limelight from her. The only thing I'll plead for next Christmas is for our turkey to be scale less as in recent years it has come to illustrate the remains of a reptile rather than a component of the poultry family.

2. The Tree. It frustrates me that every year this shambles of a Christmas tree disembarks from the attic submitting a new level of shame to our family. A Christmas tree is essentially the rock of your tribe over the season, it showcases how seriously you take the holiday. Our failure of one isn't even triangular shaped, it becomes larger and bulkier the higher up. I go cross eyed within the first two hours of attempting to untangle baubles and I cry imagining the disaster that Santa Claus has to be greeted with whilst calling to our house Christmas eve. 

Check out the swag on Jack Frost, those River Island boots don't come cheap. 

3. The British Soap Operas. These are taken more seriously than our annual excursion to mass. I have chosen to incorporate solely the British versions in this bullet point. Just, in the off chance any of ye wrongfully assumed Fair City was earning a shout out here but apologies that I do not register Paul getting strawberry jam on Rachel's new handbag worthy of a three week storyline. But yes, Xmas isn't complete without them. There'll be an affair, a murder, a cancer scare, an addiction dilemma and a traumatic car crash all materialize to one family over the two week period, it will all peak at their Christmas dinner and a turkey will be lobbed at someone within the family. Side note, what the fuck is going on with Norris and Rita in Coronation Street? Are they friends or what's happening there for the last fifty odd years? I recognise they are probably lonely but their relationship, it's weird. Really fuckin' weird. Weirder than Roy Cropper, and that's saying something.

4. The Shit Presents. Please remind me why we do this to ourselves every year. You know what I'm talking about, everyone perched wide eyed around the living room smiling aimlessly unwrapping a pair of socks, cheap underwear or t shirts you wouldn't even dare wear taking out the bins on a Tuesday evening. It is sick. You have to be appreciative and grateful even though you have spent three month's income ensuring your loved ones seize a decent gift and you're left with glow in the dark crocs. It isn't fair.

5. The Festivity. Your parents appallingly have a set of teeth and showcase a smile over the holidays. The 'druncles' (drunk uncles) consistently have the Jameson at their fingertips and everyone pretends to enjoy each other's company until the new year when enough is finally enough. Once it's all over your hair is that bit thinner and your moobs are that bit heavier. 

Smiling because Mammy was holding the turkey bone above the camera. 

An Extended Nightmare: Exam Season

Today's blog-post is unfortunately not a unique story. The thoughts and feelings which I am going through will have been experienced by many others, themselves victims. These people will be able to relate to my narrative and understand the struggle, humiliation and bloodshed I am undergoing. For those of you who will not relate entirely because you have never encountered such a dreary situation then I hope you will appreciate that this is a hard story for me to tell. The story of how I am being bullied, by a set of exams.

Over the last week I have been granted an entire week off college to study and formulate myself efficiently for the assessments ahead. Yet, all I have done is been targeted and endured constant belittlement and violence from the general exam preparation process. Yesterday for instance, my lecture notes sent me a threatening phone call that included threats of brutality, acid related disturbance and sexual assault. Regrettably, the problem is only getting worse. Regularly, my PDF reading material insults me, the insults and remarks cut me to the core and have continued for hours and days. So many times they brought me to tears and saw me sob, they laugh at my vulnerability. This leaves me to act differently and I no longer know myself. The other day I lashed out at the initiator, my fundamental accounting library book and I feel bad for stooping to their level. This seemed to be very entertaining to them and it quickly became the game to play whenever I advanced near college resources.
This picture shows clear evidence of the book attempting to smother the pupil. 

I wake up in the morning and the textbooks are there staring at me, making me feel bad about myself and grumbling abuse. I try to ignore them, but the problem just keeps getting worse. It's the weekend and I'm parked on the couch trying to daydream about Jessica Biel and mentally all I can visualize is them circuiting my confinements, taunting and ridiculing me. I don't know what to do. Study is a realistic option. But then am I only giving them what they want? They have taken away all my confidence. I regularly dream of this problem in my life ending and the concept of myself gracing the cover of That's Life magazine three years down the line sharing my inspirational story seems less likely to happen day by day. It has affected me in a way I wish it hadn't. I cry myself to sleep every night and I am desperate to change my appearance in the off chance they will no longer notice me and move onto a weaker individual. I don't want to be educated any more and to be frank I don't want to be me. Why? Because of these bullies. Strange what they can make you contemplate when you feel inferior to them. I tried to befriend one of them, my logarithms handouts the other day through means of study, it wouldn't communicate with me just snarled and I retreated clutching my favourite novelty green pen, shaking. 
For a time I've wondered and contemplated why me? In a world that has birthed Jedward and Katie Hopkins why have I been victimised? But then I remember it's because I refuse to apply myself and if I do the work I won't be in this situation. I would never wish any other human being to be put through the same terrible ordeal that I've had to endure because no one should have to feel this worthless. Yet, that is exactly how I feel. Procrastination is a horrible sense.
Finally I think, why do you care what these bullies think? My goal in life isn't to impress them. If I fail, I fail. There's always August repeat exams. In the last two days I have found a the light at the end of the tunnel, the ability to cram. I found this change has been a huge milestone for me and the confidence and self assurance it has brought has made me realise that thanks to the bullies I am a stronger person and may just defeat them. I won't let them dictate who I am. But is it too late to succeed now? Most definitely.
In the hall no matter how shite I'm doing, I will request extra paper. Solely, to mindfuck my fellow students.

Irish Mannerisms: Funerals

Funerals are a common segment of existence, even the least religious folk of society engage in some outline of a ceremony celebrating and remembering the life of a person who has died. Whenever I am caught up in an outburst ranting about how much college work I have to complete or how necessary it is that I attend a certain event my mother is quick to voice that 'the only thing you have to do in life is die.' Lovely thought, eh? 

Ireland is an odd country on so many levels. We are the only nation to regularly lament over the laws prohibiting driving under the influence of alcohol and conversations over the quality of potatoes do actually take place on a biweekly basis. Omitting all this, one thing I've recently noticed is that funerals for most Irish people are actual entertaining and slightly enjoyable events. My own father being a prime illustration of this. 

If funerals were like Father Ted, I'd be addicted too.

Frequently, he gets word of a death and I've had to genuinely caution him against attending. For example, merely a few months ago a conversation similar to this unfolded when all six members of my family were out cruising in the car.


Mother: 'Hence, why I can no longer eat apples they just give me bad wind' She had just settled a short story detailing an awkward encounter she had experienced with the local parish priest.

The father's mobile phone rings and all five of the rest of us are forced into silence (we are all too nosey to just bypass the opportunity of some news.)

Father: 'That's awful news, I'm shocked. But thanks for letting me know. I'll ring you later this evening for the details.' He hangs up the phone.

The silence prolongs.

Father: 'I'm after receiving some bad news, there has been a death.' The large chap fighting back tears.
Younger sister: 'Who?' First off the mark, this girl never leaves down her phone strictly out of fear she'd miss something and is just about the most gossipy of our crew.
Father: 'Do you know your granny's neighbour Johnny?' Tears emerging and beginning to stream across his bewildered face.

Speechlessness. My family in certain scenarios have trouble displaying sincerity.

Father: '.....his daughter Maggie, was three years younger than me at school.'

Silence again. Although this time due to the uncertainty lying within all of us that there was more to this tale.

Father: '.....her husband Matthew hails from north Mayo country, lovely man met him once at their wedding twenty three years ago, Kathy you were there too if you can recall.'
Mother: 'Oh, Jesus a young ma....' Her cue of compassion interrupted mid-way through by my father.
Father: '.....his mother has been poorly for sometime now and she died this morning, may she rest in peace.' His little report morphs into the transcript of a death notice bulletin from a local radio station.

Everyone in the car grasps that his announcement is over and commence to console him and praise the life of the recently deceased woman. Except for me, who at this stage would have launched into an inappropriately timed tantrum about how he shall not dare show up at that funeral as it is not expected. Because politeness aside, why should he? He did not know the woman. If he saw her on the street would he recognize her? The last time he spoke to her son was at a function where there was over two hundred guests, over two decades ago. It just doesn't make sense.

The presumption I've contrived about my father, along with many like him is slightly long winded. Instead of judging someone by something trivial like their character or their accomplishments, the world through their eyes evaluates everyone based solely on one criteria: their funeral. May it be the size, how mournful and heartbroken the family were or how soothing the choir music was. Maybe, it even goes to the extreme that certain people assume that a good funeral might be the decider to their afterlife. When Saint Peter reviews their life, their sins and good deeds will be a minor footnote compared to quality of their funeral. Or then perchance I am just over thinking the lifestyle of a land of gossips.
Dangerously similar to the gates of our neighbours, theirs being harder to pass through.

I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

December has hit us harder than a dispute between Chris Brown and Rihanna. For the majority of students out there December represents two nightmares Christmas exams and Santa Claus. Lately, I have lost my creativity flair (I imagine it has deceitfully strolled next door to the neighbours and considering we are not on first name speaking terms it might be slightly awkward going over there pleading for it back). Hence, I have ran out of blog-post ideas. Not one to be defeated without a fight, I took to the internet for a solution and uncovered content citing fifty random suggestions for a blog-post. It should keep my artistic juices gushing for a bit, well until the neighbours stop feeding my creativity their leftovers and it is compelled to shamefully retreat home.
Me, on the hunt for some inspiration. 

Back on topic, this post (as the title proposes) tells the tale on how I exposed the secret of Santa Claus. Unlike many of my readers who wouldn't have made this discovery until they were in their late teens/early twenties I uncovered the truth when I was dangerously young, eight years old to be precise. Regrettably, this was not due to an over active mind but rather down to my own parents' clumsiness.
The revelation occurred on one classic Christmas eve. It involved four extremely hyperactive young children in the house. We have this tradition at home where we visit the mother's parents on the night before Santa's arrival. This grandmother was a typical doting darling and overloaded us with sweets rigged in juicy e-numbers. A common result of this was we went stone mad cracked. Yes, the speed talking activated, trails of empty packets and wrappers everywhere, oodles of slightly jittery movements, fast talking all at once and simultaneously eyes roaming around the room not prepared to go to bed. We cruised home, parents eager to get us to sleep before the visitor due in later on that night arrived. The comedown effect unfolded and my fellow warriors gave in and surrendered into bed. I, their leader was very suspicious of the parents as they never ever usually adapted a strict bedtime schedule with us yet every Christmas eve we were sentenced to bed at eight o'clock sharp. Eventually, I headed to bed after severe pleading from the aul pair.
Sometime later in the night, I lay there awake so caught up in the excitement of tomorrow morning's events to sleep. Frustrations levels ultimately peaked and I descended down the stairs to the intended comfort of mammy and daddy. However, I opened the sitting room door to a scene of horror, my parents with the Santa presents.

Me: 'What are ye doing?' I asked this calmly, most likely in a state of shock.
Father: 'Get into bed you little pup, I thought you were sleeping' Himself, traumatised took to assign the blame onto me. He was also muttering rude obscenities under his breath, which he mistakenly suspected I didn't notice. 
Mother: 'Honey, why aren't you curled up in bed for tomorrow morning?' Always my favourite parent, she sensibly knew not to cause further anguish to my childhood by yelling at me in the midst of this devastating incident.
Me: 'What are ye doing with our presents?' At this stage, I had made the presumption that my parents were malicious enough to be robbing the Christmas presents of their own children. 

There was a good twenty second pause.

Father: 'What are you doing up?' Applying repetition obviously still overwhelmed and anxious to shift the blame, the fucker.
Me: 'I couldn't sleep and I was thirsty' The lie every child professes when questioned why they are out of their bed at a late hour and not experiencing the wonders of slumber vile.
Mother: 'Right, well go fetch yourself a drink and then head to bed as we are just "doing" your Santa presents for the morning. I'll explain properly to you tomorrow'.
Me: 'Okay' My eyes swelling up.
Mother: 'Now keep this to yourself Pee or else no birthday presents or party for you this year' One of the many disadvantages of having a birthday so close to Christmas.

So I went to bed, snoozing soundly at ease that there wasn't some random stranger due in later that night to break into our home and eat our good biscuits. The next day was still as magical as always and that year I had the best birthday yet, my parents so consumed with guilt paid their penance in endless party bags, pass the parcel mania and musical chair tantrums. The tooth fairy had a poor run after this and her stint was short lived, but what my parents saved financially though this ordeal they made up for in the braces fiasco that shadows teenagers.  
He always devoured the Custard Creams in our house. 


Hitting the Gym

The beginning of last September, I both ambitiously and foolishly decided it was a sensible idea to join the gym. It was an intention plaguing me for too long but being a man of reason I held back on a lifestyle change until I was in the correct mind-frame to undertake the task appropriately. Retreating back into college life meant I would gain some time to spare and alas I signed myself up to a full semester's membership. I wrongfully presumed that taking a financial plunge such as this would encourage and urge me to go and eventually attain my money's worth. Three months have pasted and I have gone a meager four times. Thus, I sit here (Dairy Milk in hand) a defeated man. Here are some gym relevant tips to adopt that experience from my four visits have taught me.

1. Devise and forge out an uplifting and lively playlist to mentally oversee you through the pain. You are not going to be in the mood to run your organs off when Dido or Birdy croon their way onto the scene, so be prepared.

2. Whilst in the midst of your exercise ritual avoid mirrors at all costs. Nothing will brace you for the look of horror that red sweat bearing manikin appearing before you will showcase.

3. Answering your mobile phone at the gym is never a wise move, I speak from experience. Taking the call armed with heavy breathing and gasping makes the caller question what activities you were engaging in beforehand. Your eagerness to inform them how busy you currently are only makes matters worse.

4. You know those steroid devoted macho men that spend the entire session lurking around the weights? Avoid them at all costs. Yes, the type that spend more time aroused by their own flexing than actually working out. Those boys will eat us amateurs for breakfast (but only before adding eight eggs to the mixture and guaranteeing that it is minus the yolks).

5. Always lead the impression that you confidently comprehend what you are doing no matter how scary the given equipment is. Or else the on site regulars will never take you seriously. It is worth a mention to plead with you to abstain the urge to tweet/instagram your every trek to the gym, don't be that person.

If only it was that easy Homer, if only.


Suicide in Ireland

My little corner of the internet is primarily humour composed, although others might interpret it differently (I have a Hungarian fan club that view this site as a substitute to Bebo). Sometimes however I do like to tackle more serious topics that I feel are significant and need added attention. Suicide is an issue that affects us all differently. I have a few musings to catapult into the cyber world, no insult or offence intended.

The tragic death of young Galway hurler Niall Donohue launched this often difficult topic back to my attention. I do accept that it was an extremely delicate and raw right issue for his family and friends (perhaps it was a case that they didn't want to continue to comment on how he died but rather how he lived) but something did bother me. Why was the word suicide not mentioned on any news bulletin, tribute or newspaper? It wasn't a tragic car crash and it wasn't the end of a long fight against a terminal illness. It was a suicide. If we as a society are not prepared to say that a twenty-two year old took his own life then nothing will change for young people suffering with emotional turmoil and personal problems. Suicide is a gigantic problem throughout the world, but here in Ireland for too long the stigma associated with suicide has stopped us from talking about our own mental health.
The important thing to remember is you are never alone, there's always people eager to help.


Firstly, in Ireland I feel our mental health service is simply insufficient and severely lacking. The waiting lists for what should be basic counselling are terrible and frightful. People need and deserve more than medical prescriptions for antidepressants, it isn't the way forward. As painful as it is for me to bring up the recession (in this country is it imported into conversation more than the acclaiming stretch in the evenings) but although I understand there has to be financial cutbacks I feel that both the health and education sectors are the most vulnerable departments that suffer the most dramatically from each reduction.

Secondly, as cliché and lame as it does sound but we as a society need to be kinder to each other. The media and politicians along with ourselves need to take responsibility for spreading blame. Every time a newspaper headline takes a cheap shot at those working in the public sector or the unemployed they place more stress on those who are already struggling. Similarly whenever we insert a casual stereotypical insult into our daily chats and rants it can cause anguish. No one knows simply by looking at someone how they suffer and this ought to be remembered. Gestures as simple as a smile cost nothing, a kind word to a stranger costs nothing but actions as basic as these can and do save lives 

Finally, I am not going to babble onto you all about how life is like a prism and in time you will come to discover the light (Katy Perry's latest album has that whole concept covered) but it is important to know that no matter how difficult things are there are always solutions and help out there to guide you through tough times. If you are going through difficulties, taking your own life is never the answer. No matter how big your problems may seem, talking to someone will help. There is plenty of excellent support services out there eager and willing to support, contact them. If all else fails then get in touch with yours truly. I do spend the majority of my time hunchbacked on the inter-web so moan and groan to me. I don't bite, well unless your fork enters my lasagne.
Even the lemons have united to support each other and they're the sourest yokes I know.

Strange Achievements

A few weeks ago my college held an achievements night celebrating and commending all the high scholars. This included excellence in a range of fields both academic and sport related. It got me thinking, what exactly I have attained in this little uneventful life of mine and the results were soul destroying. As I in fact have accomplished nothing, yes shock horror I am not the next Whitney Houston or Albert Einstein of my generation. In spite of this scandalous revelation I do possess my own niche of peculiar triumphs that I have excelled in. I declare this an excuse to blog (and possibly celebrate with alcoholic beverages).
1. Despite thriving on a full attendance record in my six years of secondary school (never missing a day, forever missing my bed). I have consequently fallen at the final, most important hurdle by struggling to maintain the required college attendance rate in my current course. 
2. I've successfully watched every single episode of Celebrity Big Brother in the last eight years. This is a huge achievement considering three years ago the show relocated off to the ridiculous channel 5 and I, the reality television show devotee no longer had the advantage of it broadcasting in the luxurious orbits of my sitting room. Nevertheless a scattering of dodgy websites later I'm still sustaining the capability to examine Z-Listers battling over hot water and cheap bottles of wine.
3. Ask me to quote Aristotle, Plato or Shakespeare and I will fail. Yet hand me that karaoke microphone for a verse of Nicki Minaj's Super Bass or the infectious It Wasn't Me by Shaggy and I will rhyme it back to you all effortlessly. Jay Z, Eminem and that whole community of rappers are unfortunately too difficult for this airhead to master.
4. I am the most reliable person I know to consistently disappoint myself and fudge everything up. If there's an important function I'm required to attend I will show up forty minutes late with a distinctive chocolate stain on my shirt, if the sign says 'do not touch' I will ultimately sneeze on it and if I've just purchased a new pair of shoes then dog shit will be the first thing I step in.
5. I occupy the remarkable ability to lower my voice a few octaves and sound like a demented creation, furthermore I can heighten my voice a scale or two and vaguely resemble the sassiness of a middle-aged black woman. The only dilemma with this is the shrieks and squeals I generate causes wild dogs of all descriptions within a four mile radius to penetrate towards me.
A small sample of some of the awards I've won for my Olympic synchronized swimming efforts.

The Joys of Sickness

First and foremost, apologies readers for the latest content slump but lately all my writing efforts have been college related and shockingly I've now found myself contending for time and hours meaning this blog has been forced to take a back seat.  I will strive to win back your approval and surrender this bad blogger label. Who knew surviving off cereal bars and not attending college would take up so much time?

Back on topic, I've recently snatched this year's must-have fresher's flu, the plague that effortlessly worms and prowls its way to the weaker, less-fortunate folk of our society. I have an immune system as hopeless as a goldfish's memory span so seasonally illnesses such as this come zip-wiring towards me at optimal speed, at all angles. Although phlegm aside let's have a glance through the perks I notice trail a virus.

1. You get to slurp plenty of Lemsip. Permitted, I understand most people aren't the biggest fans of this little saviour but I adore it. I used to drink it like a flavoured tea until I found out consuming such amounts of paracetamol for casual use wasn't the wisest of decisions

2. The iconic television sitcom Friends has taught us too much, most importantly that you get one irresistible sexy voice with a cold. Therefore send me that X Factor application form there's a new James Arthur in town.

3. The symptoms of the flu involve your throat swelling up and everything commencing to taste like cardboard. Accordingly you can eat healthily for the duration of the sickness as your taste-buds are currently non-existent meaning the broccoli is tolerable for now (although keep those eyes shut whilst eating it, your brain isn't as easily fooled).

4. I would like to create a nice, doting point here about how your family will nurse you to good health whilst your ill and care for your every need. Hot soup in bed, Modern Family re-runs and oodles of sympathy but no if you have caught a bug you have either caught it off one of them or the entire household has seized it off you at this stage and they are just as miserable and groggy as you, which is kind of a positive.

5. When you eventually beat and destroy it you will feel sensational, capable of anything. Well, apart from that overdue college assignment you aren't Bionic Woman after all.

No flu is complete without an hourly spoonful of 'pity for oneself'. 

Parents and Technology

Throughout the test of time there has always been famous rivalries that clashed and conflicted. Children versus vegetables, Coca-Cola against Pepsi, Ireland's notorious TDs opposing common sense are all mere examples we are familiar with. Technology is a core struggle for the majority of parents and a rift everyone can identity with. It has developed through the years to be a bigger strain and hindrance on their lives due to technological advancements and its now commendable importance in the modern world. My own guardians have their own particular set of perplexities and misfortunes with the new-age, hi tech' electrical world which should enlighten your next five minutes.

1. The mother has acquired an inimitable text-messaging style. She has mastered her own offbeat abbreviations ('PG' signifies 'please God'), personal sign-offs for every sent message and the art of miscalculating where to include smiley-faces in conversations.

2. The father has a fossil brick mobile phone. The same model reincarnates whenever he breaks it despite the artifact being off the market for the last ten years. Ever wonder why Ireland is inundated with potholes? It is because whenever he drops this antique it dents the road, it's a known fact the phone weights the same as a bag of cement.

3. Everything internet related is dangerous and a core topic to groan over when elderly visitors are over and the infamous Coronation Street dialogue is running thin. You could be halted quietly watching My Little Pony episodes on YouTube and it will be criticized and labelled a deadly activity.

4. It is impossible for the aul pair to deactivate the keyboard sounds on their mobile phones. All the beeping and bleeping causes severe blood boiling especially considering it takes an average of eight seconds to text the next character. This point coincides with the outrageous one finger typing strategy which millions of parents have excelled in throughout the world.

5. Too many wonders of the internet baffle my father into a state of restlessness. Explaining the concept of Twitter was more problematic than deciphering an ancient Hebrew transcript. When questioned about the theory of online shopping teleportation was the obvious avenue to venture down as an answer as I didn't the following three hours to engage in his query.

Computer always says no when my parents are using it.

Fears

Fears, undoubtedly we all have them. I don't know anyone who doesn't possess one. The one rare exception is Miley Cyrus but that gurl has a lifetime's worth of STDs advancing in her direction to dread. Some folk shudder in concern over the dark, some horror strange things like puppets or others curl up into a foetal position in despair at the thought of a Gail Platt apparition. Whatever your apprehension is it's all relatively the same and often we have to face it on a sometimes regular basis. Readers, you may relax I'm not going to commence rhyming off a composed list of extraordinary phobias for ye as that would require time and effort. Alternatively I shall babble and rant on about my own personal fear, the beach. Refrain from all that judgemental smirking and allow me explain myself through the medium of this blog-post.

Granted my fear is a bizarre one especially considering I revel in water, swimming and all related aquatics. Typically a terror derives from a bad childhood experience and mine my disciples is no different. Little twelve year old Jeb was out exploring in the sensuous land of the Spanish with the clan. We all prearranged one morning to jaunt down to the beach, regular Paddy man set up. 

Six Casper the friend ghosts stripped down all exposed (not an Aran Islands knitted jumper in sight). We had all the essentials; the aul reliable bucket and spade, heated Miwadi straight from the flask and ham (sand smeared) sandwiches. At arrival the crates of sun-cream were unloaded straight from the father's disturbing fanny pack and one by one they intended on defiling each child in factor 10,000 lotion

Me, being the rebellious rock and roll twelve year old I was at the time discounted that whole routine and meandered head first into the sea. As the day lingered on the burning of Snow White increased dramatically (blisters and sunstroke made their debut appearances). 

The anguish prolonged on into more gruesome territory and the hardship progressed after a failed pursuit to cruelly splash my mother. She outwit my endeavour and returned the gesture dramatically. The process involved unintentionally smudging sand into my scalded red back, half poisoning/drowning me in salt water, it was like a scene from Jeremy Kyle. The ordeal concluded with the extra affliction of the sheer smell of the ocean, half suffocating in a mountain of loathsome seaweed and stepping barefoot in numerous dog/human dung. Each resulting in nightmares for years since.

So yes, I do still shiver at the mere concept of the beach, its smell does construct mini panic attacks and I religiously refuse salt at the table ever since. I know that this is a completely irrational fear that realistically I should have conquered by now as it has been years but considering it's a fear I don't face on a daily basis it is not a priority, well until Sharknado applies to real life.

Unfortunately folks this is the only Patrick you shall be seeing in the deep under-waters of the ocean.

Holidays with the Family

The summer season has forsaken us for another year. Although its 2013 edition was full of buffoonery, laughter and twerking it did lack something substantial, a vacation. This is regrettably the first year that the Kirrane tribe failed to venture past their nettle coated back garden for some bonding, bickering and dodgy tanning. Probing for the positives in this mournful fact I've reminisced into five underlying features a holiday with my beloved relatives always incorporates.
1. My father is a minor know it all and he will always undermine and conceal how little he knows about everything. Whilst holidaying he typically half learns one Spanish phrase and applies it at every given opportunity throughout our stay. He fully convinces himself that he is fluent for the entire trip.
2. In a foreign thermal country you are emerged in a paradise of bootiful swimsuit togged women. Then there is my mother hooked on the notion she has the photogenic capabilities to match Eva Longoria and persists on gallivanting around the joint in various bikinis.
3. Us pale skinned folk are consistently in combat with the sun to battle it through another day without the vengeance of its rays. Every single holiday results in the younger sister and I smeared in skin of Mr. Blobby. Howdy young tomato boy and tomato girl.
4. Throughout a holiday my twin sister doesn't travel alone as she is escorted by another entity, her overgrown big toe (equipped with one aggressively sharp toenail). In Ireland it can be tamed and strained by thick black socks, shoes and lack of oxygen. In the tropical horizons it is recklessly out to stab holidaymakers in the pool, violently scar pedestrians passing by the decked out sun-loungers and glare at those in most fear of it. For the duration of our break we all sleep with one eye open in complete unease.
5. No matter where you were trafficking us in the world the gorillas and I would have an epic time. Thus our alliance, bond and wicked sense of humour are the most important elements that lead our family holidays that I'm always honoured to be a part of.
No vacation is complete without the tacky souvenir shops.



Smoky Jokey

My mother has been subsisting as a smoker for the majority of her life with her fixation currently reaching twenty slugs a day. Over the years I have come to learn that living with a cigarette enthusiast does have its perks. Obviously I do not condone smoking and would prefer if my mother was nicotine free but over time I have began to accept, tolerate and respect her habits. Now I'm in a position to poke fun and humour out the given situation and I have gathered a list of 'advantages' a smoking parents includes.

1. You can customarily contain her tantrums and outbursts (this blog-post is delivering the nicest impression of my poor, good-natured 'máthair') so instead of enduring a fifteen minute lecture on the worthlessness of squandering your entire adolescence on the internet you may substitute her rage for a cigarette.

2. A smoking parent redetermines your own hostility for the harmful fixation, I'm confident that I will never follow suit (apart from the odd social drunken haze).

3. Our home is Ireland's prime lost and found capital (literally we have to hand wash socks as every pair we hurl into the washing machine exits the device all lonesome). Consequently if you accidentally part ways with something a doomed treasure hunt is activated for days to no victory. However if you seek to find a lighter for perchance lighting the open-fire or candles then you will forever more discover one lodged in the dining room, our mother's smoking confines.

4. Our smoke alarm is resilient to fumes as our lovable matriarch's smoking has pre-empted its sensitivity. Therefore our three o'clock late night fast-food binges that finish up burnt and fresh air polluting don't result in the awakening of the entire clan meaning we're safe and caught free for now.

5. Socialising on Saturday nights in trendy Ireland typically requires you to worm into the dark, poisonous smoking area of a run-down nightclub/pub. But this doesn't bother us as it isn't too different to home. Especially considering your childhood virtually consisted of the required training to become a fire-fighter in New York city.
As a child we continually pretended sweets like these were cigarettes. 

Knock, Knock

Being a man of many talents has left me with an army of different careers to slog at. Door to door sales is something I unintentionally found myself emerged in. The life of this breed of enterpriser is a strange one as refreshingly every single working day is diverse and you find yourself encountering every sort of character. My trading path has alternated throughout these lingering months from auctioning cheaper electricity to enticing thirty day free trials of water filters. Revel in these random events that have occurred in my new found profession.

1. Like all jobs there is both good days and bad days but in the land of direct marketing it is all a lot more intense. One day in late March I was convinced I was going to quit as the entire week was manifesting dreadfully. My attitude couldn't dip any lower when I met easily the nicest family in the world (take that The Brady Bunch) who were adamant that the deal couldn't be finalised until I sat down and joined them for dinner. Parked there in the midst of this random family receiving the biggest serving of shepherd's pie at the table was a surreal moment, especially considering some child lost out on a decent sized portion due to my presence.

2. This job drives you to despise all dogs discharged onto this planet. They grunt viciously at you, they flee the scene with your clipboard and in most cases they chase you. The weirdest encounter I've experienced with one of these vile canines was when I was waddling along this shadowy, somber driveway in Ennis, county Clare. Suddenly I could hear this heavy breathing, I turned around to discover this rottweiler was anchored behind me. The strange thing was that 'it' didn't growl or pounce, it just stood there glaring evilly at me. Eye contact remained consistent whilst I slowly backed out of the property.

3. You get handed many things in this job. I've been allocated more pens, endless mugs of tea, bad attitudes than an episode of 'Loose Women'. However the most bizarre thing I've been presented with was a newborn baby. It was in this clotted farmhouse up in north Mayo, the mother left me with the infant whilst she went to fetch her husband down the farm.

4. One thermal, sweaty, sizzling summer day in Galway city I was lurking through the upmarket estates in high-spirits, equipped with courageous hopes of a rewarding day. Throughout the evening I was trailed by a 'Mr. Whippy' ice-cream van (accompanied by that disturbing recognisable jingle). It was degrading to knock on doors, constantly resulting in no answers yet once the ice-cream van cruised past the entire house occupants burst out of their homes for some ice-creamy goodness.

5. You know that scene in 'The IT Crowd' where the characters engage in a street-countdown battle? Well something similarly horrific than that occurred for me when I was greeted by 'Save the Whales' canvassers who encircled me (guided with their 'gangster' persona) lecturing me on how necessary it was that my colleagues and I avoided the given territory, their 'turf'.

Beware! We're coming to an area close to you to activate our brainwashing.

The Inner Hoarder

I share my bedroom at home with my younger brother and although it's fairly competent in size I have found lately that our confines are inhumanly downsizing in space. A further investigation dismissed the suggestion that this recent stint of ice-cream season had caused us to inflate dramatically, meaning we for once weren't the problem. The conclusion of our little crisis was a strange one. I pride myself on being a clean, orderly person but in some regards I am significantly cluttered. I accumulate a lot of junk, with an excessive collection of random components dispensed throughout my bedroom. I have an inability to discard with particular items, thus denoting I am a hoarder. Take pleasure in reviewing my scrap that went a little too far.

1. Clothes: My entire wardrobe is one cramped wreckage fixed in the uninhabitable corner of my quarter. The population of Narnia would have entirely suffocated at this stage from the amount of rags jammed in the closet, out of my way. From my old childish 'Cúl Camp' jerseys to my once mortal denim jacket everything is by some means valuable to be. It's getting worse in the last few years, if I bought an item of clothing I will not be physically able to chuck it. Hand-me-downs for the brother are the way forward.

2. Holiday Rummage: Every vacation I've ever trekked on has left some form of madness in my bedroom. Foreign bus tickets, plane boarding passes, theme-park flyers and tokens all provide me with treasured insights down emotional memory lane (both good and bad) which I'll continue to hoard, I mean cherish.

3. Birthday Cards: If you scrawled me a greeting card in the last six years then congratulations you have a place reserved in the second drawer of my side-locker. I probably should have thrown out these bad boys but the thought of the local bin-men reading through Aunty Maggie's old testimonials sends one too many shivers down my spine. 

4. School Supplies: The majority of people barely have their pen left down after their final leaving cert exam and they have the school uniform burnt, their school books scrapped and anything half-associated with the public building deporting on the first boat to Albania. However this perky turkey cannot dump those ancient school tests, journals, yearbooks and more that each provide me with hours of entertainment and nostalgia as Ireland's spottiest teenager.

5. Seasoned Toenails: Considering I only carve my toenails once a year the collection isn't that substantial. I preserve them in an old jam jar, commonly using them as toothpicks (joking, a fifth point proved difficult).
This gentleman does one better than me by succeeding in closing the door.



Gigging Festivities

Typically Saturdays for both my sister and myself don't exactly involve much more than spending our hours than portraying the creatures from 'Monsters, Inc', interpretive dancing past the waves/wrath of our father's farting or gulping cranberry juice from a wine glass whilst impersonating classy adults (please, no judging). However last Saturday July 13 it was a different agenda as we were off to the one and only Phoenix Park for some chorusing, shimmying and outdoor sweltering. Now typically a day that ends up involving buckets of sweat, multiple bruises and partial deafness is a good day and this my readers was no exception. Here's some musings from the day that made The Killers headlining event one killer day.

No sooner than the day dawned did we realise the importance of the idiom 'don't count your chickens before they hatch'. We assumed the day would have no hiccups after concurring slumber vile and securing the required bus on time (tardiness it a inheritable trait of our family). But no, once entering the bus we were greeted by this loud Scottish woman who made it her business to introduce herself to the entire commuters on the bus (this greeting was later extended to the woman parked in the toll booth on the motorway). The woman took it upon herself to play 'teacher/tour guide' for the entire day as her own three daughters were going to the concert and she was clearly going through some form of identity crisis. Therefore for the bus journey segment of the day each member of the twenty-one seated bus were subject to a lecture on the dangers of alcohol consumption and the finger pointing did extend as far back as the thirty-four year old couple stationed behind us.

The security when we reached the venue were exceptionally strict and sexist. Girls were treated to a jubilant high-five, a mild handbag search and complementary knife-sharpening kit. Whereas all thee boys were vigorously searched by the security guards, wallets ransacked (he took particular interest to my local Chinese loyalty card) and plenty of not so welcoming glaring. 

The concert was basically a dustland fairytale.
We barged our way to the front of the venue and throughout the concert there was this bizarre couple or brother/sister Spanish combo planked beside us and 'human-giraffing' the view for the fan-girls behind them. Throughout the night they mounted at the real front with their arms crossed and took it upon themselves to put their hands to their ears in disbelief whenever an act exceeded their accustomed noise level, even when the crowd cheered. Other apparitions included a group of cornflake munchers (they activated a cereal picnic in the midst of the concert), the downbeat teeth-less women settled outside the portaloos and the camera men who managed to support the crowd's high spirits almost as much as the epic weather.

Sister-occupied folk/R&B group Haim (pronounced Hime) opened the show. They were fantastically perky, energetic performers ~all the aspects the sister and myself admire about them. Danielle's face pulling and pouting was a highlight and the recent hype neighbouring them is warranted. Expect huge success for this multi-talented band. 

Two Door Cinema Club were next to grace the stage and there was a lot of hard-core fans there, so there was little apprehension that they would fail to electrify the crowd. Throughout the set-list they had everyone animated and cheerful. Their classics went down sensationally and my sister's voice was gone at this stage but she soldiered on. I was a fan of them before the gig but now you may successfully upgrade me to obsessive devotee.

Third in line was Frank Ocean, he was always a risky addition to the line-up and I'm still unclear whether or not his inclusion was a hit. His performance was more suited to a smaller, more intimate venue and his musical direction differed to that of the other three bands. The man can undoubtedly sing but his slot was all focussed on being very slick, cool and it hindered the momentum of the concert down slightly but nonetheless it was no biggie his latest album is a cracker. 'Thinking About You' and 'Lost' remain firm favourites.

The killers were last to enrich the spotlight after what seemed like a week to brace and equip the stage. They were utterly unbelievable. The set-list couldn't be faulted, it was hit after hit. The entire crowd chanted every word of every song effortlessly back to them and the buzz and build-up for those ninety minutes was epic. The lightening, Brandon's presence, the venue were all incredible and I feel in this instance less is more as I'd only leave vital memories out. All I can say is that I would gladly sell my sister if the opportunity materialized to experience them live again.
Dumb and Dumber awaiting the musical madness to kick-off. 

Summer Scorching

Here in Ireland we aren't as fortunate as our European neighbours when it comes to the weather (but hey! what we lack in sunshine we do make up for in endless caskets of tea bags). However, over the past week we've been treated to a parcel of exotic 'meteorological conditions' (my year of geography in college wasn't a complete loss), gloating Facebook statuses and several fashionable 'crocs'. Here's a batch of scenarios that always come to light (pun intended) once there is a squint of an Irish heatwave.
1. Even a minor change to the Irish climate incites the entire nation to function foolishly. If you lounge out in the sunshine for the entire day without shielding yourself with some sun-cream then logic will intrude and leave you sunburnt. Thus, don't waste your or my time weeping about it on Facebook or to your family/friends.
2. There's a glimpse of sizzling in the sky and cooking instantly ceases. ''It is salad weather'' becomes an adequate excuse for the week and you find yourself unjustly gorging on more lettuce, coleslaw and tomatoes than ever before.
3. Since the dawning of our little reclusive emerald isle the ice-breaker of every conversation has been weather related. Generally it involves criticizing the constant rainfall and persistent substandard climate but once some winsome sunshine arises (which we'd been longing for months on end) we complain about it because we are a country of professional pessimists.
4. Being the population of scroungers we are, we prioritise to salvage complete advantage out of every given opportunity. Accordingly, once the high-temperatures propel crates of family members are launched into a tractor-trailer and deported off to the nearest dreaded bog. Exactly like the scenes of slaves in a sweltering crop-field you're forced for days to foot the turf for the winter. Similarly every bed-sheet, duvet cover and table-cloth are dragged out from the house to the clothesline for this legendary 'drying weather'.
5. Every man, woman, child and dog will have received an ice-cream this week. It is simply the way we as a society operate things.
''One for everyone in the audience''.

Hometown Glory

You can tell a lot about someone based on their origins as a person's character is often defined by their home town. We moved once or twice when I was young so this ideology never really had an effect on me until the clan eventually settled at our now permanent location in the midst of the west of Ireland and although I have always despised my home-land (more importantly the people in it), I have inadvertently developed a natural attachment for the place. Indeed there is now unfortunately a pinch of red neck hillbilly tendencies strong within me. Here's a scatter of random facts about my village and the neighbourhood I love to hate. 
1. Geographical locations generally have a purpose or logic behind their title. Our village disregarded this train of thought and dubbed our parish 'Milltown' despite the fact our quarter in county Galway has never even had a mill nor knows what one is. 
2. IBaile an Mhuilinn we do proudly possess the highest ratio of civilised human beings to Muppet cast members. With more pedophiles, junkies and supernatural free-spirits inhabiting life in our rural suburbs and society than any other community.
3. My locality is astonishingly one of the crime hotspots of our entire nation. CSI: Milltown distributes more multi-million euro drug raids, helicopter chases and burglary lawsuits than a series of CrimeCall
4. Modernizing the local area suitably is just too much work and effort for the local parishioners, hence they execute their renovating rather lazily. Our main grocery store is a reconstructed sheep shed, our gratifying five star restaurant was once a nineteenth century abandoned bakery and every Christmas season we bombard aul Santa Claus off to our dwelling's infamous vacant thatch cottage stationed in a waterlogged pit behind our park. 
5. Everything in our vicinity is settled on Ireland's most dangerous, accident prone main road. There is always a disaster awaiting around the corner and no, I'm not talking about the strawberry sellers parked up on the pavement.
For Milltown folk helicopter chases are the custom in order to make mass on time. 

College Choices

Granted it is indeed that cycle of the year again where hankering and impatient scholars must finally commit to their top ten chosen courses and college preferences in the hope of securing an elite place in late August. Although the majority of applicants will be unpretentious leaving-cert venturers full of impeccable aspirations and desires for their educational and proficient future, there will be a scatter of veterans (like myself) who have given the outright process a quest in the past but for whatever reason are retreating back to stage one in the hope of a better outcome of events.  

After deferring my bachelor of arts degree just over half way through its completion, I am  back to the drawing board and undoubtedly the whole process is twice as startling second time round. This is predominantly down to the comprehensive expense of first year back to education fees which will ultimately require me to market a kidney to the Sicilian Mafia or traffic my bright goldilocks hair into an upper-class weave auction.

My inaugural pursuit into university life involved one eager beaver all transfixed with the opportunities of third-level education (more importantly the social life). Now my endeavour into college life was very much different to the mass of students and I do acknowledge that my issues were for the most part down to my own ignorance or naivety of the difficulty of college. Likewise, I understand that these faults for ninety-nine percent of students wouldn't be a predicament but this is my experience and my story. An arts degree resembled a fair outset to continue with the subjects I enjoyed and thrived in at school. The intention was to acquire my niche and with the monstrous subject variety this wouldn't prove a problem. That was not the case (for me) as I found the overall competitiveness of my degree somewhat diminishing. The huge class size for every lecture and module made me feel like a number not a person. In my own experience it was in essence drilled into you the emphasis to succeed over your fellow academic scholars and the element of opposition didn't dwell well with me.

I disliked the transition from leaving cert subject to college module. I enjoyed English in secondary school but in college it is completely different. All the syllabus focusses on is studied texts meaning you could graduate with a first class English degree without ever writing a short story or freelance/independently themed discussion piece. Similarly although I was bewildered by leaving cert maths, the college curriculum was simply demented and on a different psychopathic wavelength.

What will be my outcome this forthcoming August? Shall I seize my first choice and pocket a career in teaching? Might I even snatch an offer at all? All these questions are unknown, all I hope is that I won't be writing a blog-post similar to this in two years time or else I will unmistakably be joining The Fimbles.
'Fimbly Feelings' make so much more sense as an adult.

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