Dutch Oven

"Do you mind if I put the light on, a chroí?" He mumbled and assumed the morning crash position, a foetal curl under the covers with the duvet drawn up to protect his eyes. As I turned to the mirror to fix on a face, I heard a trumpeting pffffffft escape his arse, somewhere under the covers. He'd farted into his own cocoon. He struggled out of sleep, gasping for air, then mewled and snuffled back into his smothering stink, shielding his eyes from the 40 watts above, before reemerging from the sulphurous smell, blinking with bilious upset. And I was reminded that however much I hate mornings, my Jaffa Cake has me beat.

Laundry Service

"Give me a hand hang these up, will you?" I'm short on pronouns and full of domestic intent. I don't really need help to hang the armful of washing over the clothes horse, but it's important to me that he be involved. Because then I am not washing his grubby knickers. When he hangs clothes and makes tea, we're living together.

"Sure" he says, and sets to puzzling over the best way to drape the jammies. So I show him. I shake out the trouser legs in as unpatronising a manner as I can manage and then turn to see him lurching towards me with my opaque black tights pulled over his head. He's pouting through his mask, giggles stifled by the nylon. "Give us a fuckin' kiss" he demands, in what would be a menacing Belfast brogue, were his mush not mashed into the gooch of my tights.

You'd Have To Laugh

Last night he cooked me dinner and I brought him flowers; role reversal rolled over into this morning. He's never so tired as when he wakes, but this time it was I who straggled down the street, a grumpy little face and a leaden pace. He bounded along. Like I normally do. It was very annoying.

"Will I make farty sounds on your face?" he asked, before blowing a slobbery, squelchy kiss on my cheek. At Holles St. he stroked my temples with mock concern. Diddums has a sore head. "How about I numb the area?" he said, before diving into my collarbone, mumbling "num! num! num!" as he laughed at his own joke and nuzzled my neck. Well, my boobs, if I'm honest.

We got as far as Clare St. before we passed the small man who works on my street. He, like me, had a nasty cough. "See" the Jaffa Cake squeezed me "it's a very phlegmy dwarf. You don't see that every day."

No, I Didn't

My name's Claude. I'm from Athy. I'm here on my own. Do you want to dance?

Photoshop Disasters

Via C'est la Craic, who has far too much time on his hands. I quite like your blog and visit from time to time, he emails. Unfortunately for art, I came across the bath photo and got creative.

Indeed.

Horrible, Funny Bastards

Blogging can be very fucking boring sometimes. I feel a sense of responsibility when I shouldn't, I write posts that I don't have the energy for. I will not post unless I have something to say. Except that sometimes I'll post so that you have something to read. Can you spot the difference?

I hope not. But I can.

On days like that, I wonder why I bother. Whether or not my time might be better spent making jam. Or eating it. I wander from blog to blog looking for tidbits to restore my appetite for this fickle medium, pushing posts halfheartedly around my plate and picking through them for phrases that make me think fuck me, I wish I'd written that. But too many are stale; stories twice told, the presentation sloppy. Too much sugar. Not enough salt. Peppered with links, pickled in YouTube. Not to my taste.

Every now and then though, something's laid in front of me that makes me want to dress for dinner again. Like this.

Pass the relish, would you?

Review: The Mist

Possibly maybe the best film I have seen in ages. It was hilarious. I'm not entirely sure that it was meant to be, but that just makes it all the better. At one stage one of the characters was shot in the head and a round of applause broke out amongst the audience - I joined in wholeheartedly. The soundtrack was inspired - silent most of the way through and then Dead Can Dance's The Host of Seraphim stirring the post-apocalyptic landscape as our protagonists make their desperate attempt to flee. Man, I thought, how cool would it be if they actually had that in the LandCruiser's tape deck.

The ending was fucking brilliant. Go see it. And bring me with you.

Dear Lover

A new blog on the block: I [heart] it.

Thank fuck he's not my lover though.

Spamtastic

Penis Theft Panic Hits City!

Found in my spam folder this morning, along with "Shock her with your new wang". Why is it that I have never once been spammed with anything ladybits related? Do any of you get vagina-themed spam? Is it just that the spammers have me pegged as a small-willied and impressionable man?

Review: Le Scaphandre Et Le Papillon

I brought my Nana to see it last night. "Good choice, a film about a guy who has a stroke and then dies of pneumonia" muttered my brother, referring to Crash Grandadicoot's recent loss (stroke, followed by, eh... pneumonia). On paper it looked like an abominably insensitive choice of film to bring a grieving widow to see but my repeated readings of the book* over the years reassured me that she would find something in it to lift her spirits.

And she did, very much. I know this because once we got home, she called everyone she knows to let them know just how much she had enjoyed it. "It was very good. It had subtitles though, and the young lad in front of me had such a big head that I kept missing the last word of every sentence. Still, I got the gist of it."

*I thought the same actually, and hesitated recently over lending her my copy. But it was that or Meet the Spartans, so I took a chance.

So Long, Motherfucker

So the scoundrel and scourge of Dáil Éireann has finally resigned. Just in time for my morning teabreak too, which was nice, as it meant I could watch it on the big fuck-off telly in reception with all of my smiling colleagues. It'll be all anyone in Ireland blogs about today, I expect, so I plan to write a heartfelt post about boys instead.

Anyway, Shane says it better.

Durty Talk

The Chancer this morning takes an affectionate swipe at Ros na Rún and the raw sex appeal of Connemara budgies, but they've also included this link to Irish phrases to use with your child. My mind's in the gutter this morning and all I can think of when I read them is a recent request to talk dirty as Gaeilge (bizarrely, this happens more often than you would think. It takes all sorts, eh?). I defy you to read them yourself and keep a straight face...

Tá sé sin go deas - That’s nice
Is maith liom é - I like it
An maith leatsa é? - Do you like it?
Ar mhaith leat briosca? - Would you like a biscuit?
Ba mhaith - I would
Maith thú - Good for you
Maith an cailín - Good girl
Ba mhaith liom péint dhearg - I’d like red paint
Féach ar seo - Look at this
Go raibh maith agat - Thank you
Fáilte romhat - You’re welcome
Cad ta á dhéanamh agat? - What are you doing?
Táim ag súgradh - I’m playing
Níl tú ag féachaint orm - You’re not looking at me
Tá sí ag gol/caoineadh - She’s crying
Thit sé ar an urlár - It fell on the floor
An féidir leat é a fháil? - Can you get it?
Is féidir - I can...