“Everyone’s always on about how great nature is. I fucking hate nature cos
it made us the way we are and we didn’t even have a choice. Like fucking
cancer....
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Evidence that I'm not a tub-o-lard
I forgot to mention that I took part in AFRI's 10 mile walk to commemorate the famine in Mayo last Saturday. The walk was last Saturday, that is. The famine was some time ago. We walked from Doolough to Louisburgh, a crazy mix of locals, schoolkids, Dutch tourists and blow-ins like myself and my Dad (who spend weekends there and think we can lay some claim to the place). For company we also had Gary and Jeanie White Deer, who represented the Choctaw nation of Oklahoma. They told us of how the Choctaw donated $172 in famine relief to the Irish people (a massive sum for them at the time) and reminded us that we wouldn't be walking alone, for the ghosts of the famine dead walked the road with us. The kids were thrilled at this. We then had a very bizarre but nonetheless touching moment when some chap sang Dylan's 'A hard rain's a gonna fall' unaccompanied (that is, bar the tuneless oul wan standing behind me) before we set off purposefully on our hike, Gary and Jeanie leading the way. It was nice. People got a real sense of community involvement, social history and social responsibility. There was no fundraising, it was just a gesture to commemorate and to make people aware of what happened there, what happens elsewhere and how our actions in times of crisis are remembered.
Cynic that I am, my fond memory of the 3 hours we spent on the road is of Gary and Jeanie scooting by in their car, a mile or so into the walk. You were right, though, Jeanie, I wouldn't have done it in those moccasins either.
We all got certificates upon reaching Louisburgh to prove that we'd taken part, which was a nice idea and gave the kids (my Dad and I included) a great sense of accomplishment. Unfortunately, we left ours behind in the pub. You never know, Jim McNamara might frame them, to commemorate our achievements.
Cynic that I am, my fond memory of the 3 hours we spent on the road is of Gary and Jeanie scooting by in their car, a mile or so into the walk. You were right, though, Jeanie, I wouldn't have done it in those moccasins either.
We all got certificates upon reaching Louisburgh to prove that we'd taken part, which was a nice idea and gave the kids (my Dad and I included) a great sense of accomplishment. Unfortunately, we left ours behind in the pub. You never know, Jim McNamara might frame them, to commemorate our achievements.
For Shame
I'm fucked for this cycling trip. Finally got around to picking my bike up from my grandparents place yesterday evening. Cycled home- fainted. Ridiculous. Low blood pressure or no, fainting after a half hour cycle is just embarrassing. So I giddied up for another crack at it this morning, and cycled into work. Made it as far as the bathrooms before things went swimmy and I keeled over again. I'm not horribly unfit. I walk at least 4 miles a day and enjoy it. But as soon as my arse hits the saddle it's a different story. And if I can't manage the 2 mile cycle into work without making a show of myself, how am I going to last in Belarus?
Panic, panic, panic, panic...
In other news: oh no, wait, there is no other news. Fear of death by bicycle has taken over my every waking moment.
Panic, panic, panic, panic...
In other news: oh no, wait, there is no other news. Fear of death by bicycle has taken over my every waking moment.
Friday, May 25, 2007
On the disadvantages of having rubber arms
I did something potentially very stupid on Tuesday. Somebody invited me on a week-long trip to Belarus, and I accepted, without really getting all the details first. It now seems that I've to raise 2 grand (difficult, but do-able) spend a few days painting and plastering in a children's home (drudgery, but do-able) and spend 4 days cycling an average of 60k a day.
The last time I was on a bike was at 5am, careening down the middle of Mount St, before my ill-advised baggy trousers caught in the chain and my co-pilot and I landed on our arses. I had to take the trousers off in order to extricate myself from the bike.
The last time I was on a bike before that was when I was 12, I'd say.
I had a pint with the trip's organiser yesterday evening, and he laid all my fears to rest. I'll get to know people easily and make friends quickly. It'll be an emotionally uplifting trip rather than a soul-destroying spot of grief tourism. There's a bus that follows the cyclists, and you can hop on at any time and take a break for a bit. People tend not to, he said, as it becomes a point of pride to actually do the cycle. Fuck that, I thought gleefully, I have no pride when it comes to gruelling excercise. I'll happily ride the special bus.
To further reassure me, he gave me a copy of the documentary made of last year's trip (shortly to air on TG4) so's I could see all the fun I'm going to have. And oh, the horror. I watched it last night. It's full of well-meaning do gooders (already I want to punch them, and hope to fuck they won't be travelling with us this year) and ordinary folk who describe cycling along, sobbing to themselves with the pain. There was one particularly low moment where they describe accidentally riding over some open powerlines and getting electrocuted, as they struggled on tearfully in unflattering padded shorts and torrential rain.
I've been desperately trying to come up with ways to back out with some dignity. I do not want to go. I'll happily fundraise, but the cycling really is too much. So far my ideas have been less than genius:
The last time I was on a bike was at 5am, careening down the middle of Mount St, before my ill-advised baggy trousers caught in the chain and my co-pilot and I landed on our arses. I had to take the trousers off in order to extricate myself from the bike.
The last time I was on a bike before that was when I was 12, I'd say.
I had a pint with the trip's organiser yesterday evening, and he laid all my fears to rest. I'll get to know people easily and make friends quickly. It'll be an emotionally uplifting trip rather than a soul-destroying spot of grief tourism. There's a bus that follows the cyclists, and you can hop on at any time and take a break for a bit. People tend not to, he said, as it becomes a point of pride to actually do the cycle. Fuck that, I thought gleefully, I have no pride when it comes to gruelling excercise. I'll happily ride the special bus.
To further reassure me, he gave me a copy of the documentary made of last year's trip (shortly to air on TG4) so's I could see all the fun I'm going to have. And oh, the horror. I watched it last night. It's full of well-meaning do gooders (already I want to punch them, and hope to fuck they won't be travelling with us this year) and ordinary folk who describe cycling along, sobbing to themselves with the pain. There was one particularly low moment where they describe accidentally riding over some open powerlines and getting electrocuted, as they struggled on tearfully in unflattering padded shorts and torrential rain.
I've been desperately trying to come up with ways to back out with some dignity. I do not want to go. I'll happily fundraise, but the cycling really is too much. So far my ideas have been less than genius:
- Break an arm or a leg (a sprain might not be a good enough excuse)
- Acquire a horrific dose of food poisoning (been there, and it's very convincing)
- Lose a grandparent (I have a failing Granda, but I'm horrified at myself for considering him as an excuse...)
- Fuck up my visa application (I suspect they'd try to get me in anyway)
- Feign a nervous breakdown (though there's a fair chance of being involuntarily committed)
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Today I Learned...
...that I have a new crush. I only copped it this morning on my walk through town, when I realised I was scanning the scurrying crowds for a familiar face. I'd met a friend of a friend on the way to work yesterday and then barrelled in grinning like an eejit. I didn't associate my fine humour with my five minute conversation with yer man til this morning as he's not really my type at all, but apparently my hormones beg to differ.
Can't admit it to the mutual friend though, as I was recently making noise about one of his other mates and he already slags me for being a fickle bird. He's right, too. I'm sure by this time next week I'll have forgotten all about it.
And after a long day at a patronising conference, I also learned that academics are awful wankers. I won't dwell on that though. Off out to see Mark Geary in Whelans tonight which will hopefully be the antidote to a brain-numbing day. Hurrah!
Can't admit it to the mutual friend though, as I was recently making noise about one of his other mates and he already slags me for being a fickle bird. He's right, too. I'm sure by this time next week I'll have forgotten all about it.
And after a long day at a patronising conference, I also learned that academics are awful wankers. I won't dwell on that though. Off out to see Mark Geary in Whelans tonight which will hopefully be the antidote to a brain-numbing day. Hurrah!
Monday, May 21, 2007
Monday, Monday
Unlike most of my work "colleagues" (I love the common aim that implies... like the fuckers don't regularly shit on our best ideas) I don't hate Mondays. They're a novelty after the weekend, especially if you've just had as dull a weekend as I have. I tend to get a bit more done on Mondays too, which is nice. I've spent the better part of today writing our little office's annual report, to be presented to the Governing Body in what will be a brave attempt to justify our existence. It's nice, seeing your year's achievements laid out in print. It's worrying that it only stretches to 10 pages (and that's the bilingual version).
Fuck.
I'd like to beef it up with fancy descriptions of the events we've hosted (yes, that's the "work" I do) but most of them descend into pleidhcíocht at an early stage. And while some have been wild successes, others have been horrifying flops. I'm still the only person I know who's been stood up on a speed-dating night. Serves me right, I suppose. Who the hell would want to go speed-dating? 20 forced conversations with 20 people you wouldn't normally choose to be in the same room with, never mind actually speak to. Ick. I did it once and have never done so much work for so little reward. It should have been a lesson learned. What was I thinking hosting the kind of lame set-up night I didn't enjoy for students, who are more than capable of riding rings around themselves?
So I won't mention that in the report.
The success stories are worse though. I think I'll play it safe, and emphasise all of the publications we've translated into Irish, in between parties. Nobody's likely to read 'em anyway, right?
Roll on Tuesday!
Fuck.
I'd like to beef it up with fancy descriptions of the events we've hosted (yes, that's the "work" I do) but most of them descend into pleidhcíocht at an early stage. And while some have been wild successes, others have been horrifying flops. I'm still the only person I know who's been stood up on a speed-dating night. Serves me right, I suppose. Who the hell would want to go speed-dating? 20 forced conversations with 20 people you wouldn't normally choose to be in the same room with, never mind actually speak to. Ick. I did it once and have never done so much work for so little reward. It should have been a lesson learned. What was I thinking hosting the kind of lame set-up night I didn't enjoy for students, who are more than capable of riding rings around themselves?
So I won't mention that in the report.
The success stories are worse though. I think I'll play it safe, and emphasise all of the publications we've translated into Irish, in between parties. Nobody's likely to read 'em anyway, right?
Roll on Tuesday!
Sunday, May 20, 2007
A Dry Weekend
It's not like me to have fuck-all to say for myself after a sunny Dublin weekend. It's partially my own fault, I had the opportunity to go out on Friday night but as is my wont, I excelled myself on Thursday night instead (it began with a work do, and ended up in a basement club at stupid o' clock). As a result I was a clumsy mess for most of Friday and couldn't rouse myself to leave the flat that evening.
Shame that, because everyone else had so much fun on Friday night that they were incapacitated on Saturday, to the point where I couldn't even find someone to go to the cinema with. And for all my girl-about-town bravado, I still haven't found the balls to go alone. It's on my list of things to do now that I'm grown-up, independant, etc. but this weekend I chickened out and watched shite on telly instead.
Saturday night on my lonesome was bad enough, but Sunday sober and full of beans was intolerable. I ended up in the National Gallery trailing the tourists around on the free tour. I think it's time I stopped behaving like a student, and started binge-drinking at the weekends instead with the normal people.
Shame that, because everyone else had so much fun on Friday night that they were incapacitated on Saturday, to the point where I couldn't even find someone to go to the cinema with. And for all my girl-about-town bravado, I still haven't found the balls to go alone. It's on my list of things to do now that I'm grown-up, independant, etc. but this weekend I chickened out and watched shite on telly instead.
Saturday night on my lonesome was bad enough, but Sunday sober and full of beans was intolerable. I ended up in the National Gallery trailing the tourists around on the free tour. I think it's time I stopped behaving like a student, and started binge-drinking at the weekends instead with the normal people.
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