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. 


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