Stamp of Disapproval

If you look them up in a psychology text book, the symptoms are exactly the same for spending time with your family and being criminally insane. Every day I'm home I find myself swinging from tears of anguish to manic laughter in seconds for no discernible reason, other than the fact my family are hard work. 

I've been home for two days so far hoping to spend some quality time with them over the Christmas season. Two days that's forty-eight hours, people spend longer together cramped in cars when travelling across America and still manage to maintain composure and not smother each other, the same cannot be said for us. 

Their body language shows a strong likelihood that strangulation is due to take place.  
Within the last three hours alone, three of us have headed for the knife drawer and the urge to lob a bottle of Brandy over the back of someone's head has hit an all time high. My father is walking places out of fear one of us has cut the breaks on his van and my sister's temper tantrums are sometimes over in moments and other times last long enough for my parents to almost finish the paperwork to give her up for adoption.

One argument today between my mother and I was particularly pointless. The following documents how it all initiated.

Mother: "Patrick, how much would you reckon a book of stamps cost?"
Me: "I don't know? Stamps are like 55c so for a book of ten €5.50?"
Mother: "Stamps are actually 68c each." She was telling me this with a lot of attitude.
Me: "Okay".
Mother: "I've had to send thirty cards this year so I'm spending a fortune on stamps."
Me: "So? Don't bother sending them if you're going to complain about it."
Mother: "And I suppose you never complain about anything."
Me: "That's not the point I was making."
Mother: "Last year most of your father's family left their cards down at your grandmother's and we had to collect ours, they didn't bother with stamps."
Me: "I doubt they put that much thought into it."
Mother: "I might do that with their cards this year, save myself the cost."
Me: "Sound." I thought it was a stupid theory, but I was sick of talking to her.
Mother: "And you know it's ludicrous forking out money to send a few greeting cards to the neighbours. I can give them theirs when I see them."
Me: "You cannot be serious."
Mother: "Yes, we are in a recession after all people will understand." As if I wasn't aware the entire country was in recession.
Me: "Sure you could just drive around to each house yourself, diesel is dead cheap nowadays."
Mother: "No need for the cheek."
Me: "You're just sad if you are actually thinking seriously about this."
Mother: "Excuse me." World War III.

Funny how when you are away from people for so long you forget how they can be. I'm back to work on the 27th, thankfully I love them each enough to find a way to control this kind of erratic behaviour until then. 

We're all just holding out for the turkey, it's like The Hunger Games. 

Transphobia at First-Hand

I have never really spoken about transgender rights and issues before but something happened the other day that really got me thinking about the whole subject and society's view on it.

I was out for lunch with a friend last Monday, it was around midday and as you can imagine the lunch rush hour was prominent and the place we were in was packed. Half way through our meal a male-to-female transgender woman walked into the restaurant with her friend. She looked to be in the early stages of her transitioning so (in the least offensive way possible) you could tell she wasn't a biological woman.

There was a family seated next to us, a middle-aged mother and father out with their teenage son who was seated opposite to them, at first they all seemed to be enjoying each other's company and their lunch. Instantly they completely dropped whatever they were discussing as her entrance had grasped their attention. All over the restaurant you could hear them talking about her, talking about how weird she was, making constant distasteful jokes, questioning why "he" couldn't just be wearing normal men's clothes, disputing which bathroom "it" would use and how uncomfortable they were with the entire situation. I was disgusted, the three of them are adults at the end of the day, two of them parents. Had they no sense? Where was their respect for this person? I don't know if this was transphobia or just incredible ignorance.


It made me very sad to see that this was literally the most exciting thing that has ever happened to these people just because there was a transgender woman in the same building as them.

I felt so sorry for this poor girl. I have so much respect for anyone who can go out of the norm and stand out like that just to be themselves. It really, really annoys me when people talk about and judge something they know absolutely nothing about, they don't understand trans people, they don't understand what it feels like to be in the wrong body, they don't understand why someone would want to transition into the other gender. Yet they still feel the need to push their stupidly naive opinion onto others. 

It's the twenty-first century for God's sake, nothing any more is completely black and white, educate yourself transgender people are a solid part of our society, if someone isn't happy in their own gender surely they themselves can control their own destiny, they're the only ones equipped to choose what they want to do with their body and life. I consider myself a man , I was born physically male and and identify as one and thankfully it's never been a concern, but there is people out there who feel they were assigned the wrong gender at birth. These poor people who are trapped in the wrong bodies and want to be the other sex, not only do they have to battle with themselves wondering if they are gay or if they truly want to be the other gender or not, but they also face so many difficult legal battles, undergo the most excruciating surgeries (if that's an option they decide to go for), face all these emotional roller-coasters that we couldn't even dare imagine.  Some of them end up losing the support of their family and closest friends just to reach a stage where they feel like the person on the inside. Then after all this they still have to deal with society and all these bastards who judge them so ignorantly.

I just cannot grasp the concept that people still don't get that gender expression and gender identity are two complete different things, your body, your genitalia doesn't define who you are. It's what's on the inside that counts. There's a whole spectrum out there, people need to understand this. For example, some people are androgynous and just want to be whatever gender they associate with themselves that day, or often don't even don't want to be linked with a gender at all, they are just a human being.

All these people sacrifice so much just to be the person they want to be. Last Monday was there any point in these people being mean or disrespectful? Was she hurting anyone? What was so different about her eating her lunch than any of the rest of us? Just because she might not have been as passable as others doesn't seem like a valid reason to me. 


Fur Real?

I have bad news: The world sucks, and it’s your fault. I don’t know why you’re surprised. You saw the Facebook post. All you had to do was click 'like' to fight breast cancer. Or maybe it was to heighten awareness of diabetes or to show opposition to domestic violence. Whatever it was, you didn't do it, and that makes you a monster. Somewhere, a semi-illiterate drunk is saying to himself, “I wasn't going to beat my wife, but nobody shared that picture of a coloured ribbon, so now I have to”.

The reason I'm attempting to make you feel bad is because I feel bad myself. The other day I did something awful, something a lot worse than not sharing an explicit image on social media, I destroyed a mother-son relationship.

Cue the Titanic theme song.

I've been home the last few days for study week, obviously everything except study has manifested. On Tuesday my mother and I were in the living room. We were chatting about her work field, she's a home carer. She has this one patient with a cat called Kitty, I told my brother months ago that the woman was called Kitty and never mentioned the cat. This private joke is exclusively on him, no one else knows about it. Mid-conversation he walks in, I started to manipulate things to my own advantage.

Me: "How was Kitty today?"
Mother: "Yeah grand, she seemed slightly quieter than normal."
Me: "She's used to you coming in now?" 
Mother: "She is, sure when I first come in she likes me to rub her."
Brother: "Rub her?" There was a shred of discomfort in his tone of voice.
Mother: "Yeah it calms her down, let's her know I'm not a threat to her home."
Me: "Do you have to feed her?"
Mother: "No, obviously that's not in my job description. Funnily enough she seems to like the rain."
Brother: "Who the hell loves the rain?" He's beginning to realise this isn't your standard pensioner. 
Mother: "Kitty does, she is a weird one though never seen one like her before."
Brother: "How?" He seemed very apprehensive to what answer would follow. 
Mother: "Well usually they're not too friendly I don't have much time for them but this one in particular would almost go for you depending on her mood. She makes me anxious." Yes James, my mother the home-carer hates the elderly. 
Me: "They're supposed to be very clean though."
Mother: "Yeah you should see her lovely black fur coat, it's immaculate."
Brother: "Coat?" At this point most likely picturing this extravagant, swanky senior that sleeps with a pin-knife under her diamond coated ostrich pillow.
Mother: "Yeah beautiful soft thing."
Me: "You've never been asked to wash her?"
Mother: "No, no, she cleans herself out in the garden, very cute."
Brother: "What the fuck? Does she not be cold?"
Mother: "No, I leave her out there, she dries herself then and comes back in."
Brother: "The poor thing."
Mother: "Sure the other day I saw her rolling around in the grass, not my fault she can't keep herself tidy."
Brother: "She seems weird."
Mother: "At least she's stopped catching mice herself out in the shed, it used to disgust me seeing that first thing in the morning."
Brother: "Bullshit."
Mother: "No, I spotted her catching them with her bare hands." A retired martial artist?


I had to leave the room at this point, I couldn't hold in any more laughter. He now firmly believes my mother has lost all her core nurturing capabilities and that an eighty-nine year old woman could be featured on the next season of Shipwrecked. 

It's been five days since and he still looks at my mother differently, lately he's showering a lot more and isn't as boisterous around the house. He has asked me various times if I have noticed her new 'no nonsense' style of parenting. Of course, absolutely nothing has changed. He's even expressed a large interest in the back stories of my mother's other patients, hoping that there could be a chapter two somewhere and that more of them could be defying the odds.

I have a feeling this misleading and meddling may well come back to bite me later, if not Kitty will.

Don't be deceived, she's really hard as nails.

Inked In

When I was younger I never thought that I would get a tattoo. I was never completely against them, I liked them, my own mother had a few and I thought they were beautiful and a great form of personal expression. But at the same time I knew I hated needles, I had a non-existent pain threshold and I felt I would be just as happy to go without.

Then life threw me a few curve balls that I wasn't expecting like it does to so many others. Some people see a tattoo as a healing or learning process. I wanted one to document a certain stage of my life that I overcame, I wanted one for me, a personal objective. The deep meanings we hold are a definition of our character, so after two solid years of contemplating it this Autumn I finally took the plunge. 

I got a matching one with both my mother and younger sister, the three of us went for an anchor design and as this post will explain the context behind our ink goes beyond mere aesthetic appeal.


Obviously the tattoo has meanings that are more than just the sea and the ships it holds steady. Since an anchor is what puts down roots deep into the sea to hold a ship in place, it has been associated with strength and stability. By this association the anchor can be seen symbolically as something that holds you in place and provides you the strength to hold on no matter how rough things get. I picked this piece of art to remind myself that no matter how stormy and hard things become, no matter how many knock backs I face, no matter how many times life takes a turn I wasn't expecting I need to hold on and keep doing what I'm supposed to.

The fact that my mother, sister and I got one together adds more depth to it. The tattoo is dedicated to them, the near-and-dear who continue to play a specific role in my life. My family provide me with the courage and wherewithal to hold on no matter what comes my way by being there through it all. I consider these people the anchor in my life. They symbolize a faith I hold that will not give up in the face of abuse and persecution and showcase how important it is to refuse to sink in the sea of life (so cliché).

I realise it is a generic design and the symbolism and meaning I identify with it are common to many others. That's another reason why I love it so much. I grew up an outcast, I had a difficult childhood and the majority of it was spent being insecure thinking I was different from everyone else and questioning why I had to be the odd one out. But as you get older you do grow into yourself and I learned that there are so many people like me out there. This tattoo mirrors this outlook, I'm not as strange as I once thought.

My first tattoo is a badge of honour and I plan to wear it with pride. 
What's an Irish photograph without a few freckles? 

And They're Off

I play many roles in life, and I'm a disappointment in all of them. I'm a barely-adequate student, a so-so brother or son and a subpar employee. I fall short in all of these capacities because I'm cheap, lazy and indifferent to the suffering of my fellow man. But fear not I haven't missed my true calling in life. All of the qualities that make me a terrible human being equally make me a fabulous 'comedy' blogger. I have what it takes to let a situation completely fall apart while I profit at the expense of anyone stupid to be involved, myself included.

Last weekend for example, my father and I were out cruising in his van. We were heading into town to collect my sister from work, I went for the spin as it was a painfully boring Sunday and for once eating crisp sandwiches and playing Sylvanian Families couldn't keep me busy. Quickly though what was just like a scene from Postman Pat manifested into the setting of a Hollywood action blockbuster.

It started off so beautifully. 
I noticed almost instantly that the only vehicle on the road was the one we were in, this is a primary national road, thousands of cars pass through our neck of the woods everyday, something weird was up.

Then out of absolute nowhere a bright red race car sky rocketed past us. Seconds later another set of wheels did the same, I didn't see the drivers inside but I suspected they would be mocking us. Vehicles kept coming and my heart rate kept increasing. I know nothing about motors, but I do know that an impaired three-seater van that reserves an entire seat for Pringles had no place within that race.

Involuntary swearing and rapid scratching followed about five minutes of panicking. We both knew we had to do something before the next Lewis Hamilton joyrode into the back of us. We couldn't pull in as this event could be going on all day and I was not prepared to share such an enclosed space with a social farter for a proceeded amount of time. He sensibly decided to just exit off the next slip road available. 

Of course before this could happen we were exposed, crowds of locals were out to catch a gawk at the madness of Formula One driving. In the space of two minutes anyone I have possibly ever met encountered the embarrassment of my father and I navigating through the absurdity. I saw friends, neighbours, old classmates, ex-bosses, past colleagues, I think I even recognised a babysitter we once had roughly fifteen years ago, they kept coming, ecstatic faces, each one erupting into a louder form of laughter than the other at the sight of Burger King and I looking dumb.

My ogre of a father then for reasons I'll never fully understand decided to beep the horn, again, again and again. Maybe to ease the awkwardness? Maybe because he wanted to challenge the staggering embarrassment to his own advantage? Or maybe because the entire concept of me ever having a healthy social life just was too good to be true.

I'll be honest, if there was a plastic bag in the van at that moment I'd have availed of it for non-recreational purposes. I wanted the ground to swallow me up, it didn't. I wanted to disappear, I didn't. I wanted to cry and eat an entire box of chocolates, that I did do when I eventually got home.

I have little shame left in my life to work with from here.

We were like the mushroom, the mushroom that always finishes last.

Kim Kardashian and those Photographs

Both social and traditional media recently went into a frenzy over the new issue of Paper Magazine, in particular the cover photos of Kim Kardashian posing nude in an attempt to "Break the Internet".

This post is not interested in questioning if or how many butt injections she's had, how much Photoshop was applied to the released images or comparing it to the work of Nicki Minaj.

But rather intends to focus on Kim's motives. It really intrigues and puzzles me what her reasoning behind the shoot was? She already has legions of fans, fame, money and security. So why did she do it?



Is it a form of art? Something intended to be appreciated, representing a woman's rebellion against repressed society? I don't think so, she's not exactly the type of person concerned with trying to tear down barriers. Unlike previous celebrities who have done that, her's I feel is just self-serving provocation that went too far.

It really sends out the wrong impression to women everywhere. I understand everyone has a past and her's has been well publicised but she's a mother now, she has someone to live for, to set an example for. This new chapter in her life was her chance to change society's view of her, I thought she was beyond all this sort of conceited attention but it looks like she's not. Her daughter is going to grow up some day and see these photographs. Kim Kardashian was already known as a sexy woman, she was already recognised as a sex symbol, she has done a sex tape, playboy, she's not afraid to show off her curves. Another photo shoot wasn't needed to ratify this.

If my own mother was to pose like this I'd be so embarrassed and horrified. That's not to say that once you become a parent you should cover up and hide your body. There's nothing wrong with taking pictures like these, they were taken with a very talented photographer, there was nothing (as far as we're aware) sleazy about the whole thing. Your body is not something to be ashamed of, but it's her impulse behind it that is dishonourable.  

Maybe it was the ultimate bad ass move on her own behalf, pun intended. She did it simply because she can. A victim of her own attention hungry lifestyle.

Funny how for a woman with so much money, it really was such a cheap stunt. 


Losing Track

Why didn't I get that job? How did I fail that exam? Why am I always so broke? We are probably asking ourselves questions like this quite often. Life can be a real bitch at times and occasionally it's difficult not to let it and all the generic bullshit get you down, I mean we're only human after all.

On a stormy day it’s easy to forget that the sun is still shining behind all of those thick clouds. The same is true for problems we face in our lives. That's why I feel it's so important to have a core base in your life and to work from that. It's vital to never forget where you came from, you can have your own identity but honour your roots as it has helped make you who you are today.

While I feel we always have to keep a sharp eye on our ultimate goal we should never lose sight of our heritage and what started us off. This philosophy encourages us that we should always aim high and then aim even higher. We should have big dreams, and then set bigger dreams. We should assign no limits on what we can dare to achieve in our time on this earth, the world is your oyster. 

Notice how the bird is bigger than the actual house.

So, in light of all this soul searching last Saturday evening I planned to sit down for a few minutes with my mother before she went to spend the night at her sister's, they were attending some party together. I thought it would be a real learning opportunity, I thought she would help me look back at my humble beginnings and recognize the events in my life and her teachings, that gave me the character and confidence to be the person that I have become. I thought it was going to be a conversation to shape my life forever, one I'd recite on my death bed.

I perhaps thought too much.

I walk into the kitchen to the horrific sight of a slightly demented woman, barefoot and wide-eyed.

Mother: "Where's the scoop? Have you guys seen the scoop?" Her tongue was dangling out of her mouth and she was moving it in an anti-clockwise motion.
Me: "The scoop?" What was she on about? I literally hadn't a clue.
Mother: "Yes, did you spot it yet?" She was pointing at me quite dauntingly.
Me: "Am, no I didn't." A scoop of cocaine?
Mother: "Hah ha! I'm not wearing a dirty bra tonight, I'm bad enough." She had just taken a cup out of the cupboard and I was becoming uncomfortable with the manner in which she was smiling. 
Me: "Okay, Mam you're really not making any sense." I was terrified in that instance she was going to lob the cup at me.
Mother: "I need it for d'Daaaas." What? She needs a clean bra and a cup for my dad? They better not be planning on making a viral video.
Me: "I'm out of here, this is too weird."
Mother: "Wait, if you are heading upstairs you can take this with you." What was she going to hand me? The cup?

She walks out of the kitchen and into the utility, what was her deal? I love her unconditionally but if she is going to hand me a gun and ask me to hide it from the authorities before they call round looking for her, I'm going to refuse.

Mother: "Your sister's laundry, she's old enough now to have her mother doing it for her." The first sentence of her's to make some sense, relived if she was planning to shoot anyone my sister was first in line and it would allow me some time to plot a getaway.
Me: "Ah okay, will do." 
Mother: "I hate using the cups to scrap out the Daz but that scoop thing that comes with it doesn't look like it's coming back." Thankfully, she was talking about fuckin' washing powder the whole time, she's not crazy, just plain old mellow-dramatic like myself.
Mother: "Now the washing machine is empty I can finally wash my good bra." 
Me: "Why did you leave it until now to wash your clothes for tonight?" Seemed a pretty reasonable query, she was due to leave in less than two hours and she's known to take her time.  
Mother: "I've only one going-out bra and I couldn't find it until today." Yes, I was having a conversation about undergarments with my mother. 
Me: "Lucky you." At this point, I pleased to be leaving.
Mother: "Yeah, if I didn't find it I'd have gone out topless like that Anna Montana one. Hah ha!"

She then joyfully frolics into the dining room, singing to herself. She has a shower cap on because the fumes from the bargain-bin hair dye she uses need to be restrained. She then picks up a bright orange nail polish and starts painting her nails without her glasses, the outcome was like a toddler finger painting workshop. I was speechless, I was in shock. What a free-spirited woman.  

You are told in your journey the right people enter your life at different stages to help you soar to greater heights of personal fulfilment and accomplishment, maybe I'm too soft-hearted but I think my inspiration has been part of my journey since the very start.

A more accurate portrayal of both of us.

Love Your Body

Do you know what has really pissed me off lately? The media and society looking negatively on skinny or healthy people.

Disclaimer, I know eating disorders suck, this isn't about that. This is referring to when people who are naturally skinny, or just generally healthy and maintaining an active lifestyle are ridiculed over their appearance and size.

Unless you have been living under a rock for the last month you've probably heard the songs 'All About That Bass' by Meghan Trainor and 'Anaconda' by Nicki Minaj. The two songs have become hugely popular internationally and although both differ in terms of style and genre they share one notable similarity, they both contain an aspect of skinny-shaming. Now, I acknowledge that Trainor's song is overall spreading a positive message about image perception and encouraging women to welcome their body shapes, but why does this have to be done in an approach that includes mocking those who do not fit their concept of what is beautiful? 

One of the songs in question.
Minaj on the other hand I feel is just being controversial for the sake of selling albums and her outspokenness is one of the least things to worry about. I mean have you seen that video? It could revive the dead.   

Both songs address 'skinny bitches'. There's a mindset nowadays, that somehow justifies slim people receiving rude insults thrown at them regarding their size and in this case personality. Talk about stereotypes overload. Newsflash: bitches come in all shapes and sizes, heavy girls can be bitches too.

We really need to take our focus off body shape or appearance and towards being happy and healthy. I'm as guilty as anyone for objectifying myself and seeing my body and appearance as an object to be worked upon to fit ideals of attractiveness.

How come in modern culture heavier girls are encouraged to celebrate their curves and love their insecurities but thin girls aren't permitted to love their bones and embrace their self-doubts? Log into any social media site and you will most likely see some silly photograph belittling someone's self esteem or body image. How is it acceptable telling skinny girls to go eat a burger but it's not okay to do the same to a photograph of a fat girl and telling her to go eat a carrot? Because to me, I fail to see the difference. People need to recognise that titles like anorexic twig or skeleton are just as insulting as calling someone fat.

As men and women we should be able to love our bodies, love our bones, love our curves, love our feckin' overgrown toenails if needs be, love what makes us ourselves.  

Count your blessings not your blemishes, walk with your head held high supported by pride and confidence in yourself as a person no matter what your body shape is. We are all different, let it be and accept diversity. The impact of words should never be underestimated, think before you speak. 

You are good enough, be positive.


<a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/13047069/?claim=td45f8y7m36">Follow my blog with Bloglovin</a>

True or False?

When my parents ask me questions about young people, attempt to investigate my overall sobriety or even query my contemporary outfit selections I do what any good son or daughter should: I lie. Honesty leads only to endless follow-up questions and an eventual nervous breakdown. No one enjoys being giving out to and a rational man can only hear ''Why?'' and "Repeat that again" so many times before he starts sniffing highlighters and eating butter straight up from the container with a dessert spoon.

When my father recently quizzed me on why I need to have my phone shadow me in everything I do, I knew a real answer coercively explaining the wonders of the internet and clarifying how much of a hold it has over our generation would only lead to hundreds of additional questions and two bright marker stains inside my nostrils. Instead, I did the reasonable thing and made it clear that it was in the case of emergencies. He immediately dropped the subject mainly because he was terrified I’d revert the blame onto him and disapprove of his lack of readiness for the next zombie apocalypse. 

Rather than being a vice, dishonesty is a powerful tool that keeps old, inquisitive people like the parents of young adults in line and establishes their company as almost tolerable. I'm not alone in embracing this essential skill. Here are five lies all adolescents tell their parents.

1. "Yes, I'm eating sensibly and getting my five-a-day". Excuse me mother but I chose everything on my plate specifically for its nutritional content. Okay, so maybe your friend did hear that rumour that these generic chicken nuggets contain more sodium than the Pacific Ocean, but according to the packaging they’re edible and fifty percent cheaper that those other brands that have actual flavour we buy at home. They also only take thirty seconds to cook in the microwave so I can resourcefully focus on 'assignments' in my free time. That makes them healthy in my book, at least as far as my mental health is concerned. Forgive me if I don’t have the patience to cook a full meal while my house-mates scream at my feet for twenty minutes over the sight of raw vegetables. To be a healthier person, I’d have to be deaf, and I'm not ready to take that step. Maybe I’ll just buy some earplugs. In the meantime, I assume whatever I'm microwaving right now passed a rigorous inspection by the Food and Drug Administration. 'Nutritious' and 'technically suitable for human consumption' are pretty much the same thing, so go smoke another cigarette you hypocritical woman.

Inspirational.
2. "I don't know where the wooden spoon is". I know, I know I am heart broken too. I was really looking forward to you slaughtering me with it and all. I think the dog could've taken it, even though he's not allowed in the house I still have a feeling it was him.

3. "This is the only TV Show on right now". I know you’d rather watch Prime Time, but all of our Irish channels mysteriously shut off tonight. Also, the BBC and whatever channel you were planning to tune into can’t show dull factual programming right now because a highly specific solar flare knocked out only the things that make you happy. I know father, it is outrageous that the government didn't take steps to cease this from happening, but here we are. I promise I’ll write an angry email to Enda himself or the relevant authorities first thing in the morning. In the meantime, my sister and I are going to watch our show, so cover your ears. This one is recommended for immature audiences due to over the top swearing and frequent deranged drag queens.  

4. "I didn't drink much tonight". Here’s the deal, mama-taxi. I do appreciate you collecting my friends and I from town but despite their laughter it really didn't hurt when I fell down the stairs in the nightclub. I just can't pitch how pain-free and sober I am right now because my drunk friend hit my head pretty hard and that's what is causing me to be dizzy, not the alcohol. Seriously, that's some impressive driving you're doing. I’ll give you a high five when I stop seeing double. If I stop crying will you agree that I'm right? Is there ice-cream at home? If not can we go get ice cream? And on the way back we’ll swing by the emergency room for that concussion I happen to have, cheers.

5. "Nope, I have never heard of an anaconda before". I guess it's some sort of extravagant starter dish? I believe I heard of a mate of mine having it at some lavish wedding in Italy a few years ago. No, dad I don't think you'd like to try it just stick to the soup of the day.  

Dishonesty is the foundation of every healthy parent-child relationship. Children who master these simple lies are guaranteed to get along with their parents, at least until those pro-creators are skilful enough to Google stuff on their own. Then those Internet-savvy old people will learn an important lesson about never trusting anyone, a revelation they never would have experienced without years of prior parental misinformation. Clearly the benefits of lying are endless.


Maid in Galway

I haven’t had much time to write lately because I've been busy systematically destroying my own future, you know typical college dilemmas and general maturing-in-life complications. Therefore if you clicked on this link hoping for a round of apologies you will be disappointed.

This post intends to focus on my latest series of unfortunate events that dominated September. Three weeks ago today my landlord informed me that I was to be booted out of my current address and in my unwavering quest to find fault with everything I encounter, I spent the days leading up to what will forever be known as "thee eviction" searching for as many reasons as possible to be miserable. I successfully discovered an excuse to be unhappy with everything and anything – the poor timing of the impending move, the difficulty I was set to experience in finding a new place, and indirect reports of sloppy first year students coming in and destroying what once was my home.

But I was wrong, none of the above actually proved too troublesome in the end, well unless there actually is first years dwelling in my former address and stinking it out. It was never revealed to me who/what my replacement was.

It was something that preceded the move that upset me and caused all the stress.


My eviction is the nearest thing I'll ever get to being a Big Brother contestant.


It was a cleaner. The landlord hired a cleaner unbeknownst to me. He could easily have asked me to do it, it was my home after all and I was still residing in the property at the time. But no, he obviously assumed I was some descendent of the swine family and a professional was required to disinfect and spruce up the place so that it would be once again fit for human settlement.

The cleaner unprofessionally arrived one early morning when I was still in bed. I woke up in shock to the sound of a hoover being used in the hallway and the discovery that my bedroom door had been opened. There was two instant presumptions: I had burglars and they wanted to clean up first to soften the blow that all my belongings were due to become the subject of theft or they wanted to steal my hoover but used it first to ensure it was still functioning. It never crossed my mind that someone would be so ignorant to just involuntarily enter another person's home without any real approval or authorization.

Beforehand I foolishly assumed it was going to be carbon copy of that maid Consuela off Family Guy, some quiet elderly female with little English. I wasn't even close, it was a middle-aged man wearing overalls and supporting various visible tattoos, he was dressed like a home fumigation was due to take place. It was hard not to be weary. Maybe the landlord believed I was living in such crummy conditions that there had to be rats and cockroaches squatting here too? Had he hired a pest control technician to get rid of me? 

The sad thing is I am a neat and tidy person, the apartment is immaculate, my ex-house mates kept the place spick-and-span too, there's more dust on a fuckin' Starburst than there is in the entire flat. The cleaner however was messy. In some weird, twisted logic I actually found myself cleaning up after him. He would buy lunch from the local shop and abandon the wrappers on the kitchen counter for me to pick up, he frequently used the toilet without flushing it and left all his used dirty cloths throughout the place.

I went out one night and ended up buying Chinese food. In my delirious drunken state of mind I decided it was a good idea to leave it for breakfast. The next morning I didn't have enough time to have it before work, I came home that evening to find it half-eaten. Not fully devoured but still sampled. Did he find it too spicy to finish it off? Or maybe he just enjoys tampering with people's food? Maybe fiddling with it was all part of some sick fetish of his?

It really wasn't a great few days. I might have finally lost what's left of my sanity. 





Because I'm Happy

I consider myself fundamentally a good person. I don't go running through the streets of Galway carrying a bucket of headless dead chickens, foaming at the mouth throwing them towards anyone who I stumble upon. Like most folk I have the odd flaw or two but I like to think my positives generally outweigh my negatives. Nonetheless, we as a society can only tolerate a certain degree of niceness, you are not going to offer the homeless junkie sleeping in your apartment block's bin store to share your double bed with you or if you are overcharged on your recent electricity bill you are sure as hell going to let them know about it. I'm bad at giving examples, I know.

Normally, I don't need to point out irrelevant stuff like this, I like to think anyone fearless enough to read this blog possesses a brain and it's all safely taken for granted.

Another invaluable Friends lesson, being over friendly earns you a Regina Phalange. 

I can tell you one person who doesn't read this blog, my local supermarket clerk. To be honest there is a strong possibility that she doesn't read anything at all and is completely illiterate. 

As a disclaimer it must be noted that I know absolutely nothing about this woman and she equally knows absolutely nothing about me, except for how unhealthy my love for Philadelphia Cheese is. 

I understand in a working environment when dealing with members of the public you do have to be extra friendly and enthusiastic, no one enjoys dealing with a rude checkout girl. But no one likes dealing with a freakishly joyous, on-cloud-nine checkout girl at ten o'clock on a Tuesday evening either.

The following conversation was recorded as evidence, to be used to my advantage in a courtroom in the near future.

Cashier: "Hi-yaaaaaa".
Me: "Hi". I knew almost instantly that this would not end well.
Cashier: "How are you keeping?". Standard, bring along question to tide conversation over until the transaction is completed, these are a given.
Me: "Yeah, grand". Thee universal response, this is where any chattering should have terminated.
Cashier: ''Wow! I love your hat". Seemingly black, oversized Smurf shaped hats are her thing.
Me: "Ah thanks". The hat is hideous, so hideous that I only wear it to seal away my manic hair when it comes to a stage in the evening when it is no longer deemed appropriate for it to remain in the public eye, or to be brushed for that matter.
Cashier: "Look at all this goodies you have, are you going to a party?". I had a bag of Haribo, some cheap ass on sale crisps and a black-as-my-soul coloured fizzy drink in my arms, this was not my idea of a good time, it was my idea of substituting feelings for food in the company of a few bickering Big Brother house-mates type night.
Me: "What?". I was still in shock she said goodies, I hadn't heard that word since I was seven, and even then it was by some weird old grand-aunt.
Cashier: "All these sweeeeties, are you and your friends going to have a little party?". She pronounced sweeties in such a manner that I had to squint my eyes, that's how harsh it sounded overloading my eardrums.
Me: "Sure we will see". What friends? This food was all for me, I could eat it all on the way home if I needed to, any people in my life willing to steal my food are no friends of mine.
Cashier: "Enjoy the celebrations anyway". Was she patronizing me? I am a twenty-one year old man. My definition of a good time involves the aid of three nurses, two doctors and a stomach-pumping procedure, not three items from the confectionery isle. 
Me: "Right". Conversation ended.

Maybe I was being rude, am I over thinking the goodwill and cordiality displayed from this newcomer?

Five minutes further down the road there's a crummy, contaminated, less welcoming grocery store which I intend to shop in from now on. At least there my bag of Doritos and I aren't subjected to a round of interrogation.  

Their facial expressions are identical. 

You're Hired

Six weeks ago today I started my new job and as you might expect things ~so far~ haven't been going to plan. There are plenty of advice columns out there about how to be a good employee and succeed prosperously in your profession, this I assure you is not one of them. But if you are looking for a self-help guide on how to arrive a few minutes late for your shift on a semi-regular basis, mispronounce your manager's name numerous times throughout the day or get emergency taxed twice within one pay period, then I can proudly say you have come to the right place. 

It's primarily reception based work I carry out. Sending cold blooded emails, faxing invoices to the wrong people and answering the phone sounding like a speak and spell gobshite are all some of the aspects of my day. I feel my employer's are overall quite happy with me because as a true Irish employee I am very good at covering up the mistakes I do make, what they don't know won't hurt them is a philosophy I have adopted.


Colleagues who work out together, kill together. 

Alarmingly, it is the most simple and basic of tasks I am failing at. Straightforward, child's play activities I should master but seemingly cannot. For instance, above us on the first floor of the building there is a Chinese restaurant. Like oriental take-aways throughout the world they don't open until later on in the evening, therefore we accept their mail in the mornings and hand it onto whoever is opening up for them that evening, nothing here screams third level trigonometry. In the last few weeks a routine has unfolded each day and I've got to the stage where I've familiarised myself adequately with this 'handover' to know what I am doing. One of their staff members will usually collect their letters around three o'clock and sure enough it's always someone Asian.

Last Wednesday, it came to the stage of the day where I'd usually be greeted by some dreary waitress, more interested in going for a Brazilian bikini wax with Anne Doyle than do her day's stint. But no one was to be seen. That was until a very happy and very animated Chinese woman and her daughter paraded in, both very jumpy and too S Club 7 for my likening.

Me: "Hi Guys, how may I help ye today?".
Chinese Woman: "Sorry we are late, awful traffic out".
Hyper Daughter: "I like fishes".
Me: "Oh sorry my apologies, I'll get the mail for ye".
Hyper Daughter: "Mommy I need to go toilet".

Both mother and daughter start looking equally puzzled when I place a stack of envelopes addressed to a business they had absolutely no dealings with.

Me: "Here ye go, hope it's not too many bills".

The child who was acting like she was powered by Duracell Batteries literally five seconds beforehand had stopped leaping and the high-spirits were no longer present, the mother looked like she had been sedated. The child who I then learned had an Irish first name no longer needed to use the bathroom, perhaps the impact of my ill-fitted postman episode had caused her to wet herself.  

Naturally a silence followed.

Next came a round of stares.

The finale included a one-sided croaking of swear words, all of them in English, unfortunately. She decided in the end not to choose us as a suitable destination for Ava's birthday party, casual racism is an element of the itinerary we might have to re-evaluate. 

They say the biggest mistakes make for the best stories, looks like this blog is going to get very entertaining this summer.


My life shouldn't be this like Father Ted.



Thanks be to Bog

We are taught from an early age not to discriminate based on race, creed, sexuality or colour. However, there is one form of bias I and many other fellow Irish natives refuse to give up. We judge people by how well they can condone the bog. 

In this leprechaun infested society, if you are handed a pair of Rigger Boots or oversized gloves and you accept your call of duty, congratulations, we won’t fantasize about slaughtering you in your sleep and dispatching the remains of your body off to a Pedigree dog food factory. No one is asking you to fall in love with the place. Honestly, we don’t even care how much it upsets you. But if you’re a man/woman/goblin over the age of three and someone informs you a trip to the bog is on the cards, you simply go. That’s the rule. It doesn't matter if you’re watching your favourite television programme, set to sit a leaving cert exam or preparing to walk down the aisle. To pass the ultimate culchie test, all you have to do is politely accept a burden that lies deep within Irish history. I learned the hard way. You're probably going to want to stick around and read about some of the attractions the bog occupies. 

It's customary for Irish folk to compliment the turf. 

1. Canine Adventures. I don't know what is it with the locals here but they interpret the bog as some form of holiday resort for their pets. The dogs partake in a range of recreational activities and rejoice in the amenities of their surroundings whilst their owners slave away at a source of fuel for the winter. Our own pooch is no exception, on arrival he even displays this odd sense of smugness, this mistaken superiority or predominance believing that he is considered above us as he is there for leisure and not expected to sweat it out like his human counterparts.  

2. Bog Holes. There was once a myth that if you fell into one of these deathly openings you would end up in Australia. Forget serial killers, both the young and old of our nation remain petrified that their mortality could be subject to one of these open-pits of soft mud i.e. Irish quicksand.

3. Broken Back Issues. Bogs keep the chiropractors, physiotherapists and massage therapists of our country in business. When you are there strict orders are placed that you cannot stand up straight unless you are dying or ultimately pose a substantial threat to the turf. Essentially, there is a reason why Ireland has the largest population of hunchbacks in the world.

4. Frogs. They are everywhere. Physical encounters with these amphibians get more and more terrifying with age. They are fast and they will chase you, no confrontation is straightforward. Just be kind to them and if you're lucky a battle to the death could be avoided. My only weapon in these showdowns is verbal abuse, but they never seem to be intimidated by it.

5. The Journey Home. You are incorrect if you assumed that this aspect of the day would be the best part. There's two types of walks of shame on the emerald isle. My guess is that you're familiar enough with the first and that it needs no explanation. The second, most common one is the drive home from a day at the bog. Your parents get the luxury of cruising up in first class in the tractor whereas any other individual (dog included) is mounted up on top of the heap of turf overloading the trailer.  

Avoid eye contact at all costs. 

Say Cheese

As a young and thoroughly uncool student teacher, there are a few tasks at which I'm supposed to excel in: sitting backwards on a chair, pretending to be one with my students and being the one goon in the staffroom capable of utilizing this century's technology. Of these, from this week on I have yet to master the last, because the camera on my mobile phone has given up and surrendered the white flag. I'm unsure why this has happened and how long this absenteeism is set to last. For the past three days this issue has played heavily on my mind and as it turns out I am losing out on a lot more than just the optical instrument.

1. Celebrity encounters. You break your camera and all sense of logic exits your life. So what if I have never ran into a celebrity in the last twenty odd years, I will run into multiple international stars in the next few days and no one will believe me because I lack any proof to seal the deal. I keep imagining bumping into Beyonce in a supermarket, or even worse her ill-mannered younger sister Solange Knowles in a hotel lift and losing all that vital evidence worth selling to the media when she starts to flare-up.

2. Flawless selfies. I refuse to accept that anyone in this day and age hasn't attempted the infamous selfie at least once. It has become a way of life for the egotistical mortals of this world. I'll admit it isn't a pastime I partake in too often but now 'cameraless' how am I going to please the Vanity Gods? When I'm looking respectable on a day I don't plan to venture outside the house, how shall I ensure my allure and style don't go unnoticed? How will I survive?

Wannabe hipster? Not without the black and white filter. 
     
3. Snapchat. Snapchat is perfect for the people in your life you wish to keep in contact with, but more than ten seconds worth of data is just intolerable. Many of us enrolled because we like talking to good-looking, attractive people but lack the desire or appetite to sustain a provocative conversation with them. This app is perfect because it requires little to no dialogue, in silence and endless beauty there is communication. Without a camera, this app is useless.

4. Comical Photographs. As the seconds, minutes, hours and days have passed I dread to think of all the amusing opportunities I have missed out on. Chances are this week I'll run into a dog driving a school bus, a free-spirited grandmother skateboarding and Mary McAleese picking her nose down an avenue in Galway city and they will be nothing but an unpleasant memory.

5. Home made music videos. When it's pouring rain some night and I am on the train parked on a window seat looking out at it, without my own video recorder who is going to document my adaptation of Adele's Someone Like You? Walking down a sunny street, feeling on top form, how will I videotape my rendition of Pharrell's Happy? If I was to write an award winning self-penned number-one single, how will I record the music video? Hire a producer? Sign with a record label? Borrow a friend's camera? I think not. 

Send help, this is not a drill. 

Powered by Blogger.