Des Bishop agus Reabhlóid na nDéagóirí

I spent this afternoon in the company of my 15 year old cousin, a beautiful leggy creature that I'm very much looking forward to having a few pints with once she gets to an age where her da won't throttle me for buying them for her. She recently followed my fine example* and aced her Junior Cert exams, so we celebrated today by going to see Des Bishop's matinee gig in Vicar St.

I saw his Tongues show on its opening night in Vicar St. some weeks back, so I knew what to expect. What I was interested to see was how a roomful of plukey faced and hormonal Lynx monsters would react to his pretty sophisticated new material. It's a routine of two halves; the first centering on his recent experiences in the Conamara Gaeltacht, the second on more general experiences of life in Ireland. The second half was shakier with the teenage audience and I suspect a fair bit of it might have gone over their heads. A lot of it referred to Catholic experiences that I'm not sure would be relevant to their experience as kids in the 90s, and more still referred to the Irish emigrant experience in the U.S. I'd say most of that was lost on them, these kids don't have immersions, they aren't limited to two TV channels, they have toasters and mobile phones and no concept of Ireland in the 80s. I have little experience of it myself, thankfully being but a snotty-nosed whippersnapper at the time, but we did have a grill, an immersion and a black and white telly (in fact, in this shitty flat, I still do have a fucking immersion). I'd love to think that the Lynx monsters will think a little more about all of these things that they have after listening to him today but there's a good chance that the little fuckers were too busy taking photos of him on their camera phones to take any of it in.

To give them credit though, they laughed in almost all of the right places. Makes you wonder if they're just faking the vacuousness and they have some social consciousness after all.

The first half of his routine was on something they could easily identify with, however: Foghlaim na Gaeilge. Learning Irish in school and hating every fucking minute of it is an experience common to many if not most Irish people and one that Bishop felt he needed to share in order to better understand the Irish psyche. Not one given to half measures (if you want evidence, check out his 2004 RTÉ series, The Des Bishop Work Experience) he's been living in Conamara for the last 7 months, and will be there for 5 more. Now that's hardship.

It's a great routine, playing up to the aspects of the language and the way in which it's taught that everybody despairs of but at the same time conveying a genuine enthusiasm for it. He has grammar jokes for the nerds, familiar phrases for the not-so-fluent and translations for the utterly lost, all of which make palatable a message about the state of the language that needs to be heard but that people normally won't listen to. Namely; that the way Irish is taught in schools isn't working and that the curriculum is long overdue an overhaul. The Irish speaking community (and I mean that in the general sense, not in the Gaeltacht sense) has been rattling on about this for an age, hell, it almost became an election issue. But people don't think about it, aren't interested, didn't like it in school and don't give a fuck that their kids don't either. Bishop's 2 week run in Vicar St. will hopefully get anyone who's seen it to think a bit more about the language and their relationship with it, be that good or bad.

*Those results represent the pinnacle of my achievements to date: 8 A grades and 2 Bs. I've sat on my hole rested on my laurels academically ever since, something that I'm not proud of but not motivated enough to remedy.

On Being a Morning Person

I'm starting a revival

Determined to be in work by 8 this morning, I got dressed and out of the flat in doublequick time and set a healthy pace for the half hour stroll to the office. I felt vaguely uncomfortable as I powerstrolled but couldn't put my finger on why. It was only when I sat down at the desk having removed my coat that I realised I'd put my jumper dress on back-to-front.

Hola, Pervertidos!

I'm having great fun with this Statcounter thingy. Along with reassuring me that someone actually reads my blog (yay!) it has a feature that tells me just what it was that people googled that led them here in the first place.

I get a lot of poor souls looking for the cure to their sniffles. I knew I should have patented my remedy. There could have been a Nobel prize in it for me.

I get a lot of people checking out the Auschwitz post, which I'm proud of. I put a lot of thought into that one and I found it difficult to write. Hopefully they don't find it difficult to read.

Unsurprisingly, given the blog's title, much the traffic comes from people in search of Spanish translations for words or phrases, particularly not-so-smooth but very direct chat up lines. Sorry to disappoint you folks, but I'm fuck-all use to you: I don't speak Spanish. I suspect those lines won't be much good to you either. I respect the raw sexual energy of "let's fuck" but you'd really need to wrap it up in a little charm. A lot of the traffic is sex related, as it happens, but I think that's due more to my colourful turn of phrase than to the lewd chronicles of my sexual adventures.* Whoever googled cunt exposition was undoubtedly sorely disappointed, as was the person who googled dungarees fetish, though I suspect they're both frequently disappointed by a lot of things.

My favourite one of all though, has to be the googler who searched for tick fuck and landed on a post about babies. There's an irony in there somewhere.

*Some things I don't blog about.

I Have a Fan!

...or at least someone who reads this.

Grandad recently invited his readers to introduce themselves and was inundated with affectionate and witty responses. I thought about doing the same, then realised that be more than a little dispirited if I wasn't suddenly swamped with compliments on my witty prose and stunning good looks. "I keep this blog for me, whether anyone reads it or not. " Bollocks, it seems. I care after all.

But -

I set up a stats thingy for the blog there recently and noticed today that someone over in Virginia's spent the last two days reading every last rambling I've ever posted. Legend! I've done it myself on occasion when I've come across a blog that really took my fancy and worried about looking like a crazy stalker but fuck it, if it's worth reading then I can only hope that (a) they didn't notice or (b) they were as flattered as I am at having someone who wanted to read their rantings.

Anyway, my Virginian friend, I hope that one or two of them have made you smile. You've made me smile anyway.

{insert clever title here}

I'm having one of those days where I can't find the words to explain myself to the world.

A Transformer? A Blow-Up Doll? Nivea Visage for Men?

My flatmate, with his trademark tact and subtlety, reminded me over dinner last night that he turns 32 21 today and that I appeared to have forgotten his birthday. I laughed and asked him if he'd mind paying for dinner as I'd forgotten my wallet. I should have been pissed off that he was levelling this heinous accusation a day in advance of any crime on my part, but we both knew he was right. I now have some making up to do.

So, what to get a stroppy Swede for his 32nd 21st birthday?

Glendalough's Saint Kevin, a Fine Example to Men Everywhere

I spent a pleasant afternoon in Glendalough yesterday, eating ice cream and strolling in the sunshine with a few friends. Having been there on many a previous occasion and being the naturally garrulous sort, I was the unofficial tour guide for the group, pointing out things of interest and making up plausible but inaccurate stories about them. My favourites are the ones about St. Kevin himself, founder of the monastic site and all-round nice guy. Oh no, wait...

According to (apparently untrustworthy) legends, Kevin Bokelmann was a bit of a bollox. Different sources have different slants on his tale. Being the shite but entertaining tour guide that I am, I like to pick salacious details from each of them and construct my own version of events. He died in 618AD anyway, so is unlikely to sue. He lived as a hermit in a pokey hole in the rockface above the upper lake and liked to pray for extended periods of time with his arms outstretched, crucifixion style. Apparently he was a master at it and could ignore the burning pain in his arms for, oh, I dunno, ages. I can't do it for very long myself. But he was so good at it that one day, as he was praying, a blackbird nested on his hand and laid an egg. Being fonder of blackbirds than he was of women (more on this anon) he was loathe to disturb it, and so maintained his pose until the bird had hatched. The story has some fuzzy moral behind it, but I tell it as I think it works well as a contrast to the story of how Kevin is supposed to have treated his would-be paramour, Kathleen.

Thomas Moore sets the scene for us in his neat little ditty; By that Lake, Whose Gloomy Shore. Like many Irish men, Kevin was a shy lad and utterly terrified of women and their womanly bits. To escape their bewildering temptations he high-hoed to his miserable little pokey hole in the rock, to live out his days in solitude, emphatically not touching himself.

By that Lake, whose gloomy shore
Sky-lark never warbles o'er,*
Where the cliff hangs high and steep,
Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep.
"Here, at least," he calmly said,
"Woman ne'er shall find my bed."
Ah! the good Saint little knew
What that wily sex can do.

Some verses in the middle describe how nice a stalker Kathleen was, and how she tracked him down to his pokey hole in the rock with the intention of seducing him. Her plan was foiled, however, as he whipped her with a bunch of nettles and then drowned her in the lake below.

Sternly from his bed he starts,
And with rude repulsive shock
Hurls her from the beetling rock.

He redeems himself in the final verse and repents like a good Christian. Alas, it's too little too late and poor Kathleen's sleeping with the fishes at this stage.

Glendalough, thy gloomy wave
Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave!
Soon the Saint (yet ah! too late,)
Felt her love, and mourn'd her fate.
When he said, "Heaven rest her soul!"
Round the Lake light music stole;
And her ghost was seen to glide,
Smiling, o'er the fatal tide.

So she died happy, it seems. No harm done then.

*Not fond of the early mornings, Kevin put a hex on the lark so that none sing over the lakes in Glendalough. True story.

Easily Pleased

I sent the DJ on Phantom a text this morning:

Any chance you'd play Ann Scott's Fountain for me? G'wan! Stuck on the Naas road in poxy traffic. You'd make my morning... Rosie

And he did. Even though the song's called Mountain.

Tough Times

I spent last Saturday night not out on the tiles as is my wont, but sitting in my nana's kitchen talking about boys. My tales of romantic misadventure and misguided emotion cheer her up no end; she thinks I'm fucking hilarious. She'd had a difficult day and appreciated the company, her paramour's been giving her a hard time of late. Married for a gazillion years, they're going through a rough patch.

Grandad's health hasn't been good over the last few months and it's taking a heavy toll on both of them. He's been having bouts of confusion, small strokes that leave him disorientated weak and leave nana frightened and upset. He's lost his sense of balance and relies on a walker or his wheelchair for longer trips (occasionally confusing the two and perching imperiously on the handles of his walker, demanding to be pushed). His conversation is laboured as he sometimes struggles to remember the details of the stories he's telling, or the words with which to tell them. His short term memory is almost comically bad, he can remember stories from when he was a kid, but not whether or not he's eaten dinner today. Though invariably he'll tell you that he has; for some reason since his health has started to fail he has refused to eat properly and has become painfully thin. It's this more than anything else that has contributed to his health's decline and that has put a strain on their relationship, causing rows the like of which I've never known them to have. She's a great cook, you see, and she's lost a sense of purpose now that he's decided he's not hungry, ever. At first she started cooking all kinds of wonderful things to try to tempt his appetite back, but it's beaten her. Now she mostly cooks mushy things that she knows he might at least have a go at and in the spirit of solidarity and old lady thrift she eats the same goo herself.

On bad days he's like a petulant child, frustrated with his lot and he doesn't give a shite who knows it. She had a birthday recently and he sulked all day, jealous, didn't want to leave the house (sly dog used his get-out-of-jail-free card and said he was hungry... cue a frenzy of cooking, none of which the curmudgeon ate). On good days, he's the world's best grandad, taking the piss out of nana, embarrassing her with declarations of affection, flirting in mortifying fashion with the home help (he's right though, she is lovely) and talking interestedly to you about what you're at and how it's all going for you. He has more good days than bad.

Saturday was a bad one though. He had another small stroke. At this stage nana knows the drill and doesn't call for the ambulance; within a couple of minutes he's lucid again and has a bit of a headache, so it's off to bed with 2 paracetamol. It's happened often enough now and she has every episode logged for the next visit to the geriatrician. A notebook with times and durations of his lost moments and her most anxious ones.

They have great support from their 5 kids and their eleventy million grandkids, from the health services, the hospital, the next-door neighbours, the active retired committee, you name it. But it's fucking tough, and it'd break your heart.

Home on the Range: Update

The view, from all angles.

I'm sitting in the gloom on my couch bed, hiding from the builders. They keep shutting off the power. I'm tired and I'm starving but they're making lots of noise and the kitchen hob, kettle, everyfuckingthing in this house is electric. It's after 7pm now so I'm hoping that they'll leave soon. It's either that or my mam's paid them extra to keep me away from the biscuits and the drinks cabinet. I'm assuming that they'll turn the power on before they go, but I might well be disappointed. Not that it'll be a whole lot of use to me. Sure, I'll be able to cook, but they've ballsed up the cable connection for the telly so I've got 17 channels of snow. And this does not a happy Rosie make.

For the Love of God

I met a nice boy in work yesterday, a musician. Cute, bright, smiley; after he finished his gig we went for a cup of coffee (of course when I say coffee, I mean tea. I'm not sophisticated enough to drink coffee, or even earl grey. Milky, milky tea...) and got to talking about his day job. Turns out he works in a shelter for Dublin's homeless. Genuinely interested, I started asking him all sorts of questions about it and quietly admiring how he does what he does and the easy way he talks about it. I had somewhere to be and so did he, so we walked a bit of the way, chatting more. I mentioned that I'd like to get involved in that kind of work in my home town and asked him which organisation he was working with. Turns out it's the Legion of Mary.

I didn't really know what to say. Raised a Catholic at least until my early teens, I should probably know who they are and what they do but I hadn't a notion and I really didn't want to ask. The name conjured up images of militant Eucharistic ministers wearing pious looks and pearls and smelling faintly of piss, so naturally I was having trouble reconciling that with the cute and scruffy boy I was flirting with. Fuck it, I thought, play along and google it later, see what brand of mentlers he belongs to.

I think of myself as an agnostic atheist* and I find that despite myself, I feel very uncomfortable around devoutly religious people. Most of all around those whose beliefs would have them spread the word and recruit others to their cause. Given that I'm very comfortable in my non-belief it shouldn't bother me in the slightest, I suppose, but it does. So where I should have maybe asked the cute scruffy boy for his number, I balked and went on my merry way. I did think about it, but his offer of a miraculous medal as a parting gift was just too much for me, so I ran.

Not literally, just in my head. Hightailing it off down Fleet St without so much as a handshake is too rude even for me.

*Summed up by Wikipedia as "I don't know, but I don't think so".

Having a Smashing Time on the N7

Commuting's a lark! Driving all the way into work in 2nd gear is great fun, and really good for the car too, I'd wager. I made it in in only 17 hours today, as opposed to yesterday's 23, quite an achievement.* The big blinky roadside sign that yesterday proclaimed "Accident Ahead at Newlands Cross" today said "Traffic's Shite, That's All" so relatively speaking, it wasn't a bad morning on the Naas Road. But there's always one. I witnessed first hand this morning the reason why there are so many accidents between Newlands and The Red Cow roundabout; pleasant smiley folk hand out free newspapers at the lights, and every dickhead in traffic starts reading them. Admittedly I've done it myself as a pedestrian and was almost mown down by a passing car (I tried it once on the bike but being the graceful master cyclist I am I dropped the paper and again, was almost mown down by a passing car). But if you've a tonne and a half of Ford Mondeo in your charge, spare a thought for the car in front and resume picking your nose and eating it instead.

*Drive times may be slightly exaggerated, but not by bloody much

Boys.*

*To be said with a tsk in the tone, with a sigh for a full stop.

Chuirfeadh siad soir thú. Agus tá an cuma ar an scéal nach gcuireann mé féin isteach ná amach orthu ar chor ar bith. Tá beirt ag déanamh buairt dom faoi láthair (caifear roghanna a bheith agat, ar ndóigh) cé nach bhfuil faic ag tarlú le ceachtar acu.

Is cosúil go bhfuil polsaí treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen ag an Astrálach gur chas mé leis sa Phólainn, agus tá mé mífhoighneach ag fanacht ar scéal uaidh. Déarfainn gur féidir dearmad a dhéanamh ar sin, dáraire. Táim cinnte go bhfuil mná mealltacha i ngach áit thall i Londain, agus go bhfuil rudaí níos fearr aige le déanamh ná bheith ag smaoineamh ormsa. Níl mórán cloiste agam uaidh le coicís anuas, agus mise a sheol an ríomhphost deireanach. Sin ráite, bhí sé suimiúl an cuntas a scríobh sé ina bhlag féin ar an t-am a chaitheamar sa Phólainn a léamh. Cheapfá, á léamh, go raibh suim aige ionam.

Agus is cara liomsa an dara duine acu. Níor cheart dom fiú smaoineamh air sa chaoi sin, mar níl dóigh ar bith faoin spéir go dtarlóidh aon rud eadrainn. Tá cailín aige cheana féin, agus beidh sé ag fágáil na tíre ag deireadh na míosa seo chugainn, in éineacht lena chailín, le cur futhu thar lear. Gach seans gurbh é sin an fáth go bhfuil mé chomh tógtha leis.

Ní fiú dom a bheith buartha mar gheall ar na rudaí seo, ach bím.

Home on the Range

I'm on babysitting duty this week back home in my folks' house in Kildare. They headed off this morning, leaving me in charge of two dogs, two builders, an electrician and some other handy type person whose purpose I've already forgotten. It's nice to be back here, if a little strange. I haven't been home much over the last few months and things have changed in my absence. The house has been transformed, for starters. It looks beautiful, but I'm a little afraid to touch things in case I break them. I feel like a bit of a squatter, truth be told. I lost my room to my sister, and then lost my sister's room to my parents (I know, I know... one is unfortunate but two is just careless, etc.) but I have inherited a very expensive couch bed and some bespoke cupboards in the office. I think I'll get one of those signs kids put on their bedroom doors and nail it up on the office door for all to see; "Rosie's Room. Keep Out". It won't fit with the decor, but it'd give me a sense of owning the space.

There are some things I will thoroughly enjoy about being home for the week. Free food, for one. I'll be eating rings around myself. Having a car, and driving everywhere just because I can (though the novelty will wear off quickly with all the quality time I'll be spending on the N7, commuting to work). The two dogs greeting my appearance each morning with rapturous joy, one of them so excited she literally wets herself (it's rare I get that from my flatmates, much as they love me). It's very quiet without the family in residence though, and frustrating that I can't ask them where the fuck they've put everything (after the great remodelling it's like going to Tesco when they've had a shelf shuffle, you know it's there but you just can't find it).

The two dogs are staring pleadingly at me; the blonde with a sliotar stuffed in her gob, the street urchin with a mouthful of the blonde's hair in hers. They can fuck off though. It's lashing.

Traumatised

For some stupid reason I decided to go see 1408 this evening. It's utter gick, and it terrified me to boot. I listened to it more than watched, hiding my face in the safety of my balled-up coat, checking my watch every so often to see if it was nearly over. The only way to watch a horror film is at home, in daylight (but with the lights on just in case) with a cushion to cuddle, a pause button, and a happy place to retreat to should things get a little hairy. Not in a large pitch dark room full of strangers. Judgemental, sniggering strangers.

I need to quit this sober socialising. It's bad for my mental health.

In Other News

I went to see Hallam Foe last night. I thought it was going to end very badly, but it didn't. I liked it.

Call the Fire Brigade!

I had a panicky moment there on the way back to my desk from the kitchen. I took the lift, in honour of the scalding hot tea I was carrying, and got stuck. The indignity of it. I'm awful clumsy and accident prone so when something like that happens to me, I automatically feel guilty (regardless of whether or not I'm at fault) and assume that I am somehow to blame. Problem is, my reputation precedes me and everyone else usually assumes that I am somehow to blame also. So I stood there for a minute or two, mentally preparing myself and getting my story straight. The porters here already think I have special needs. I'm rightly fucked now.

I reached a finger towards the alarm button. And realised that I'd never pressed the button to tell the lift which floor I wanted in the first place. I wasn't stuck, I was just standing like a dickhead with a cup of scalding hot tea in a stationary lift, with the doors closed.

Sometimes I wonder.

No-Fun Friday

Myself and the BGF went to see Atonement on Friday night. I'm not one for crying over films but I had to take a minute to compose myself before leaving to wipe the tears from my face and the snots in my sleeve. The BGF sniggered, he's not used to seeing me come undone. I don't think I'd have been as upset had I not read the book; I still remember the kick in the teeth I felt when I reached the final chapter and realised that she'd accidentally married her brother and that the man she thought was her father was really her aunt I shouldn't spoil the plot for anyone who may not have read it. Anyone who's read McEwan will know not to expect a happy ending, but though I've read the book twice the film's finale still felt like an emotional betrayal.

I went to the bathroom on the way out of the cinema to let the conspicuously dry-eyed crowd disperse so that I could leave with some dignity, and I got rightly pinkied. There I was, still snuffling and wincing at my red eyes in the mirror when the lady next to me smiled and said "Rosie! I thought it was you!" Em... who the fuck are you? It took me a moment to realise that she was a mature student who'd been in my class in college. "Guess who I'm hear with?" My brain did a shuffle, came up with the worst-case-scenario. Right on cue, there was an excited squeal and a flush from one of the toilet cubicles. Out she bounced, full of the joys. "Wow! Look at you! I'm thrilled, someone who looks as horrible and sweaty as I do after that cinema!"

I didn't. By any stretch of the imagination.

Being caught unawares and teary-eyed by someone who had relentlessly sucked the self-confidence out of me when we were in college together the last thing I needed. Honestly, I'd rather have been caught with my knickers down. So I smiled, tight-lipped, made my polite excuses, and left.

Did I fuck. Eejit.

I reddened, tripped into her recently vacated cubicle, tried to wee soundlessly and then forced myself to go out again, where they were waiting for me. "It's great to see you" I heard myself say. "Let's go for a cup of tea!". Shithead. We trooped outside to meet the waiting BGF, who noted the look of barely contained panic on my face and made a hasty exit. For the next hour I sat there swapping stories and being polite, wishing I was anywhere but there. They're both lovely people, don't get me wrong. The confidence-destroying comments are a manifestation of the blonde's own inadequacy complex, there's no malice in them, but the way she identifies herself with me (when I see us as polar opposites) horrifies me.

Meeting people like that (nice people, genuine people, people who really were delighted to have run into me) should be a pleasant experience and should leave me with a warm fuzzy feeling going home. Instead I felt lonely and mean.

Each Night a DJ Saves my Life

In other news: The best €15 I've spent in a long time was on Long Range's new album, Madness and Me. I might try mashing it up with Paul's The Ideal Condition and see if I can squeeze an Orbital album out of it.

The Fat Lady Sang

Lucia was pretty good, if not as blood-and-guts and horribly violent as I like my operas to be (the BGF thinks this is a worrying trait of mine, but I reckon that so long as my bloodlust is limited to opera, the world is safe). The Gaeity was a nice venue for it too and it made an interesting change to be there sober, attending a performance, rather than tipsy and making a performance of my own on a Saturday night (it doubles as a nightclub on weekends). The only bum notes for me were Lucia's jowly expressions (imagine a pissed off bulldog in a wedding gown) and the gentlemen's glued-on facial hair (you knew who the villain was, as his moustache had twirly bits).

The volunteering that earned us our €65 seats turned out to be good fun in the end. I love chatting up strangers so I was always going to enjoy it, but even the BGF was smiling at people. We were surveying their opinions on the festival, and they were only too happy to oblige us. One guy had already been surveyed and subsequently approached by two more of the volunteers (a loner and therefore a prime target) but he liked the look of me, so decided to do it again, and made up some different answers. Another guy seemed to have been passed over by the rest of em but looked game, so I said hey ho, we'll give him a go. He was 73 (he told me) but looked about a million, had no front teeth, and was about 5'4. A Wexford man, living in Dublin for 40 years now, with the maddest fucking accent you've ever heard. A friend at home had told him that there was a festival on ("I thought he was taking the piss out of me, to be honest, but there was, and here I am" says he, dribbling Maxi Twist ice cream down his tweed jacket) and this was his second time in the one week to see Lucia. I asked him what others he'd like to see performed in the future, so he gave me a blow-by-blow account of Bellini's Il Pirata and some other one which translated as The Brigand, as well as intimate personal histories of the late greats who'd performed them. If Micheál Ó Muircheartaigh did opera...

Just one Cornetto...

I'm off to the opera tonight, to see Lucia as part of the Anna Livia International Opera Festival. Quite why the story of a Scottish highlands lass has to be sung in bloody Italian is beyond me, but I'm sure Donizetti had his reasons. Tis myself and the BGF* going, and we're not only going for free, but getting goodie bags into the bargain! What constitutes an opera festival goodie bag remains to be seen, but I'm hoping it involves sweets of some kind (the Ebola is receding, and my appetite returning). We're "volunteering" you see, surveying the other luvvies during half time the interval and being rewarded with a free night out.

The dress code is smart, I was told. Now I'm a natty dresser, it's true, but smart for me always poses a problem. Formal I can do, being the proud possessor of a few extravagant ballgowns. Casual I can do, being the proud possessor of many pairs of jeans. Eccentric and fancy dress I do very well, being the proud possessor of everything else in my wardrobe. But smart? That would necessitate a haircut for starters. So I'll compromise, and see what I can get away with. I'm currently in one of my more creative outfits as I sit at my desk in work, but give me 15 minutes in the office jacks, and I'll be transformed. I have my flared black tuxedo trousers (complete with shiny ribbon down the side) some high heels that I can't really walk in (and that make me an intimidating 5'10 tall) and a low cut black top in a vain effort to distract from the ridiculousness of the rest of the ensemble. Although I suspect all the low cut top will do is draw attention to my alarming lack of diddies. (I'm 26. They should have arrived by now). The overall effect should make me look either (a) very sexy and sophisticated or (b) like an extra from the Rocky Horror Show. Either way, the BGF is bound to be horrified.

*Not to be confused with the BFG (Big Friendly Giant) as he's kinda small, and decidedly unfriendly, or with a GBF (Gay Best Friend) as he's not my best friend. He'd balk at the idea. He is, however, my Best Gay Friend. And he likes to try to culture me.

Tired and (Screen)Tested

I'm still catching up on sleep after the weekend's shenanigans, tiredness and delirium chasing me around the office yesterday. I was looking forward to -nay, living for- a good night's sleep last night, but it wasn't to be. I don't know if it was just too much rich food and too little sleep or if the delicious dinner I'd eaten with my family had Ebola in the sauce (I won't name the restaurant, as I really don't think it was their fault) but within an hour of hitting the hay, I was sick as two small hospitals.

I was in the horrors all night, and for a good part of the morning. Manuel knows what I'm talking about, he appears to have picked up a strain of it himself recently. Thankfully it had eased off by lunchtime, but I was still bolloxed tired and I looked more than a little peaky. Ideal for my screen debut. In the spirit of self-handicapping (a concept I'm deliciously familiar with and a firm advocate of, having taken an introduction to psychology in UCD eleventy billion years ago) I decided to do it today anyway. I put on as much make-up as I could without it flaking off again (I'm no dollybird, these things don't come naturally to me) and googled "dressing for TV" (no black, no white, no stripes, no checks, no shiny jewellery, no lip gloss, aaaaargh! what the fuck can I wear?). Eventually I settled on my polka dot dress and alice band combo, and heaved myself out the door.

I hadn't been to the production company's offices before, and had to call from the street just to check that I'd got the address right. The place looked derelict from the outside, and a sight fucking worse once you got in the door. Turns out I'd chosen a good day for it, there was nobody there but the assistant producer, and the fewer witnesses you have when you go to make a dick of yourself on screen, the better. He gave me the script, set up the shot, made sure I was comfortable. "Right, just say your name and mobile phone number before you start". "Eh, okay... 'Cause that's not creepy and sleazy at all". Suddenly the absurdity of the situation dawned on us; the seedy and decidedly unglamorous "studio", him holding the camera and me terrified of it. We broke our shite laughing and had to take a few minutes to refocus the camera and regain our composures. The first take was atrocious, the second a little better in that I managed not to read everything off the sheet. We decided to do a bit of ad libbing instead, and I finally got into my stride. Turns out I can talk bollocks to beat the band, and the thoughts of an audience only encourages me. I deliberately didn't look at the tape once we were done, as the sight of me sweating out my Ebola and jabbering witlessly would have proven too much for me in my fragile state. The damage, as they say, is done, so I've just to wait and see if they call.

Or if the tape turns up on YouFuckingTube.

A Lost Weekend

The list of folk I really really really didn't want to miss at the Electric Picnic:

• Hot Chip
• Paul Hartnoll
• Hextatic
• Simple Kid
• DJ Yoda

Those on the list that I actually managed to catch:

• DJ Yoda

He was fuckin' brilliant though.