In The Company Of Men

I went for dinner in Kitty's with two schoolfriends last night and over the pleasantly bloody steaks we got to talking about age. Turns out that the eldest of us thought he was a year younger than he is (cue a fleeting look of dismay), the second guy pretends to be a year older than he is because then people aren't so surprised at him being married and bald (he's 27 - I think both the acquisition of a wife and the loss of his hair suit him immensely) and that I pretend to be two years younger than I am, because then people tell me I've "plenty of time yet!" rather than sucking their teeth when I say I'm 27 and telling me that I'd want to get a move on.

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.

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:

1. Break an arm or a leg (a sprain might not be a good enough excuse)
2. Acquire a horrific dose of food poisoning (been there, and it's very convincing)
3. Lose a grandparent (I have a failing Granda, but I'm horrified at myself for considering him as an excuse...)
4. Fuck up my visa application (I suspect they'd try to get me in anyway)
5. Feign a nervous breakdown (though there's a fair chance of being involuntarily committed)

I'm in a bit of a fucking pickle, to be honest.