Gnéas Trí Thine

My fretting has borne fruit - a contract arrived in the post this morning. With a careful reading and a careless signature, I have secured my future here for another year.

Well. I have secured my job here for another year. Tá mí na meala thart. They dithered about keeping me on. I dunno if I want to stay. I grumbled all the way along the Grand Canal yesterday. Dreading the afternoon's performance, for which I was predictably under if not quite un prepared. Tick fucking tock, two o' clock. Sigh.

I stepped out of the grimy limelight at three, whooshed into the wings by a ripple of applause. "Please" I muttered "don't clap, there's no need". Please, I cringed, shut up with the false modesty. There's no need for that either. Martin let loose with a burst whine from the piano accordion and we breathed out in unison. Later, one of the Germans asks me to dance. I'm not quite sure if he means with him or for his amusement. Either way, I'm flattered, and though I don't dance with him, I twostep the short trip home. Sweet.

My eaten cake was long forgotten by the time Red Wine Hangover, Resentment and I arrived in the Axis this morning. I felt awkward as the only adult there without a troupe to marshal, so went about my business as perfunctorily as possible. Despite the bang of teenager in the air, the palpable excitement had piqued my interest. I delayed the taxi and took a seat by the door. I reddened when the eMCee announced my presence like I'm some kind of honoured guest but it was dark, and the students didn't give a fuck. They were there for the show... which kicked off with Sex On Fire as Gaeilge, belted out by five teenagers with a self-confidence I've only seen in Clearasil ads, followed by an a capella I Wish I Was A Punk Rocker (as Gaeilge, natch) which brought more of tear to my eye than Benjamin the little bollix Button.

I Wish My Name Was Scroobius Pip

I danced all the way in to work yesterday morning, skipping to the beats of The Beat that my Heart Skipped and laughing along with Tommy Cooper. Right up until I hit Thou Shalt Always Kill, and heard the fateful lyric.

Thou shalt not fall in love so easily.
Thou shalt not use poetry, art or music to get into girls’ pants.
Use it to get into their heads.
Thou shalt not watch Hollyoaks.

Fuck.

From The Archives #1

I've been rummaging around the knicker drawer of my drafts folder, looking to see how much of it still fits. I'm not sure if this one's grannypants or thong.

I Am Uspet

Because my i-pox has died and I am becoming a chattering shambles without music. Because I have failed one of my college assignments and don't know if I can compensate. Because The Happening was the worst film I have ever seen, and I've seen The Notebook and Stop! Or My Mom Will Shoot! Because I don't know if there should be a full stop after that last exclamation mark. And because my brother is upset and I sometimes feel like Elliot to his E.T.
17 Meitheamh 2008

Review: Dido's New Album (No, I Don't Know What It's Called)

It is, regretfully (but perhaps not unexpectedly) shite.

Back To Mine: Progress Report

After much indecision, bluster and scribbling notes in the margins as I struggled into a new dress and out of my headphones in the Penneys changing room on Saturday morning, I present the Sleeve Notes. The CDs are stacked on my desk; I have yet to break into the stationary cupboard to yoink a load of padded envelopes. Later, maybe, when nobody's looking.

While you're waiting anxiously for the postman, I suggest you check out the Astonishing Sod Ape's far superior offering. It saw me through the weekend.

Back To Mine - Rosie's

Remember my promise? It's taken me 267 days (I counted, using mine and everyone else's fingers) but I have finally got my shit together and made the damn mixtape. Were we in the wee small hours, I would likely try to ply you with wine, wit, and this.

It probably wouldn't work.

If you're like me and you get overexcited when strangers send you mixtapes in the post, email me with your address and I'll have it out to you in time for Christmas. Probably.

Sunday's Milk And Honey

Bíonn rianta le chuile ní a dhéanaimse na laethanta seo, fuaimeanna fileata a bheireann bua, beocht agus brí leo. Sí Jetta's Palace a bhí i mo chluasa inniu, agus blasfaidh mé milseacht meala na maidine as seo amach aon uair a chloisimse a caoince.

Memory Of My Grandfather

As I walked along the banks of the canal this morning, I listened to Thom Yorke's Harrowdown Hill. I hadn't listened to it on my morning promenade in a long time, because Harrowdown Hill was what I was listening to that morning so many months ago.

Every old man I see, in October-coloured weather, seems to remind me of my grandfather.

Mo Cheol Sibh

I saw a lot of music last weekend, some good, some bad and some downright orange (Duffy, but that was a total accident - I was on my way to the "toilets" and happened to be passing the main stage. I stuck my fingers in my ears, and not just for comic effect). Some of it, however, hit me right in the tear ducts. And because this blog is about me and not about music, here are my highlights.

Sigur Ros played a beautiful set on Friday. As Hoppipolla washed over the crowd the world felt for a moment like it had been set to rights, and in a small way it had. I sent a well-timed message to an estranged friend; it chipped at the ice and raised a smiley. Not quite a smile, but that's something for me to work towards.

"We're going to play a nice mellow set, to make up for all the stressful music that's being played around here" announced the bould Sinéad at the start of her set, instantly losing her friends and alienating people. Like most of the assembled crowd, I will forgive Sinéad most anything, even Sean-Nós Nua. Thankfully it didn't come to that. Her short, sweet set tested the audience's patience, but she finished with Nothing Compares 2U. The song will always remind me of my childhood in Palmerstown, my brother and I as 9 and 10 year olds bouncing on the bed, screaming it at the top of our lungs, spiking our hair with soap, playing guitar on our tennis rackets, wearing white vests and pretending we were rock stars. She sang it softly, Steve Cooney accompanying her on the guitar. I got goosebumps. I heard a snuffle come from the guy on my left as she finished, and clocked him wiping snotbubbles on his sleeve. "That was the nicest thing I've ever heard" he sniffed. It was, too. My beau sent me a YouChoob clip of it this evening, but I won't link. It cheapens these small, beautiful moments, makes them look loud, discordant, fuzzy. My memory of it will be of his arms around me, her soft voice lilting, lifting the crowd, and the poor cunt beside me blubbering into his pint.

My Bloody Valentine's set opened with the overexcited middle-aged gent beside me screaming Fuck Bono! We love you, Kevin! Show us your tits! at the top of his lungs, and ended with an almost orgasmic sense of relief when they finally broke from their Holocaust of torturous feedback. Their music washed over me on Sunday night and it tasted like home. I occasionally pump my teenage years in Kilkenny for stories, hugging my adventures to me for nostalgia's sake. In truth though I think of them little enough - it's eleven years and two days since I left them behind me. There is not yet enough space between the sixteen year old me and the person I have become for us to feel entirely at ease with one another, she brings out the worst in me and I become awkward and teenage again in her company. Close friends from those days have fallen by my wayside and even now my guilt at their sinking has not quite subsided. Those four years I spent there seemed like a lifetime ago, seemed like something that happened to someone else. But the swell of their guitars on Sunday night brought all that welling up. I felt again as I did then, when I was becoming the person I recognise myself as now. I like her much better these days than I did then and it has taken me a long time and a lot of hard work to get this comfortable in my skin. I wonder if, eleven years and two days from now, I will still be so easy to undo?

I hope so.

It's Like Poking Her With A Stick

A month late meme, courtesy (?) of B:

List two things that irritate you for a reason (and list the reason!) and two things that irritate you for no apparent reason whatsoever!

Lots of things irritate me, but my ire is not groundless. Many if not most of my life's banes are banalities and while I'll grant you that my reasons are often unreasonable, I'll still make every effort to spell them out. I don't much like the exclamation marks in the above instructions, for example. I feel they lend a forced jollity to text as I read it aloud in my head; they smack of overstatement, of a nudge in the ribs at a poor punchline. It's telling me that the sentence is supposed to be funny, or zany, or somehow exciting. It's not. There was an extra ! at the end of that line that I couldn't even bring myself to replicate, because bad as ! and !!! might be, !! is surely worse. I am by no means a grammarian (I have that Truss book but have never read it) and will forgive many things, but excessive use of exclamatory punctuation is not one of them.

Of course, I was already ill-disposed to the above sentence even without its canned-laughter punctuation. For I also dislike blog memes. My brain insists on mispronouncing meme for starters, preferring me-me to meem. It fits more with my perception of their purpose - it's all about me!!! (irritating exclamation marks fully intended). I know that they're supposed to be a bit of fun and that they're supposed to flatter the recipient, imitation being the sincerest form and all that guff. They're designed to help you to reveal quirky aspects of your personality, but my quirksome personalness is all over this kip as is. I generously overshare, and unlike Annie, rarely feel dirty for it. You folk know more about my current state of mind than my mam does (or at least you did before she started reading this - hi mam!). I need no further encouragement. I think that all too often blog memes provide lazy, uncharacteristically narcissistic content for otherwise witty bloggers. I'd much rather read something that they wanted to share; a post they've crafted rather than a chain letter they've filled in the blanks on.

I feel almost guilty for being such a curmudgeon on this. For the record, I'm also the joyless wagon who refuses to sing at karaoke. No matter if everyone else is as tone deaf as I am. It's not a bit of fun, it's embarrassing. My self-esteem is too fragile, my ego won't allow it. Perhaps that goes some way towards explaining my antipathy towards blog memes? Maybe I'm afraid that my answers won't be as cool or unique as everyone else's?

No.

Other things that irritate me include pantyliners (why should women be "fresh"? Why can't we be sweet and musky?) and the Stereophonics. I am no paragon of musical virtue (I own two Dido albums, and I sometimes listen to them) but the Stereophonics...

...nah. I can't even motivate myself enough to explain their pedestrian awfulness. More irritating than an unstuck pantyliner.

Rosie Is Tired

I've Been Dreaming Of Sleep - And Ape Men, With Metal Parts

I've had to restrict myself to reading John Connolly's The Book of Lost Things during daylight hours because the Crooked Man was crawling creepily into my dreams. Normally books do not affect my nightmares, but this one is about the fairytale creatures that populate my subconscious sneaking from the books of a young boy and leaching into his already uncomfortable reality.

The Hurler and I were discussing dreams last night (over hot chilli and bottles of Stella, lest you think we're big girl's blouses*) and he reckons he's as suggestible as I am. He followed the conversation up with a stunning example this morning - having spent a good two minutes talking about Batman before we'd eaten dinner, he then dreamt that we were Batman (that's right, both of us) and we were running around buildings in the Docklands as a fundraiser to buy some new bat gear.

For once I'd like my subconscious to suggest that I might be a steel-underpantsed superhero in my dreams, rather than a hapless anti-heroine who is about to have her face eaten by zebra-striped zombie vampires.

*Though we did later go for a stroll down to the river with the Tall One to watch the sun set over the city and eat ice creams.

Poxygen

Friday kicked off with some embarrassed lounging on the couches of an upmarket Dublin PR agency in my wellies while I waited for a giddy lift home to a giddy-up party. The giddy-up parties are always my favourite part of the weekend; chances are that we won't last long as a posse once we hit the gig. And we didn't - I was soon distracted by boys, Bacardi and other shiny things.

So who did I see? Do you care? You can read all that shit on everyone else's blog, and they do it with more conviction than I do. As for photos, I have one of a circle of wellyboots which every other bastard seems to have too, and one of me wearing a smelly ginger beard. Which I'd rather not post, as it really fucking suits me. That's the trouble with posting about a mass event - my slant on it will be much the same as everyone else's and that does not make for interesting reading.

Still, I did have some adventures. I fished a celebrity photo from my boot for the celebrity in question to sign. It was every bit as mortifying as it sounds. I was kissed by a stranger in a portaloo (he followed me in so that he might finish screaming down the phone at a friend, apologised profusely and then lobbed the gob. I was suitably appalled and secretly delighted). I spent Saturday afternoon at a Beat on the Street party (we had neither Dove nor Tony Fenton so it wasn't a very good Beat) where we made fake wristbands for ballsy friends (you will need: a scanner, colour printer, satin finish photo paper, superglue, punch, duvet buttons and much gumption). I wished a little too loudly on Sunday night that I could be the one sitting on the wheelchair stand with a flesh-eating virus (maybe) in my legs like my friend JT. My legs were not being eaten by a virus though, just chafed by my wellyboots. I'm glad of that today, but I was so wrecked after Rage Against the Machine that I'd probably have traded.

In conclusion: I had fun and lots of it. I'm not too old for this shit just yet.

Why I Love Dublin No. #1874

The office workers crossing the lock bridge on the Canal Road remind me of ducklings, hurrying across one after the other, waddling into the waiting Barge all of a huddle. I keep walking. A flash of orange in the water catches my eye, a recumbent traffic cone lies like a sleeping koi on the canal bed. The horse chestnut overhead trails its leaves across the surface of the water and I imagine how it must feel - like fingertips skimming skin. Man, I think, I need to get laid.

The prosaic has become poetic now that I lack music for my pedestrian adventures; I dropped my i-pox on its pretty little head and it no longer trills for me. So the world around me takes on a musical air as I meander home along the banks of the Grand Canal every evening.

My imagined soundtrack is silently interrupted as I walk down Wilton Terrace; there is a man lying on the grass between the two pathways. He's curled up on his side, his arm cradling his face and his baseball cap lying comically positioned, two inches above his head. One of the new faces who has made the bank of the Grand Canal his non-home over the last few months. People stare at him curiously as they walk past (once they're sure he can't see them) but nobody stops to make sure he's okay. Something about his clothes tells them that this, for him, is normal. So they keep walking, as do I.

Down at Warrington Place there are two men and a little boy of four or five fishing, the men drinking cans of cider which are strewn around the bench where they've left their wriggling bag of bait. As they cast their lines it's unclear whether or not they're fishing for ducks; the ducks look decidedly worried. The little boy gives me a big hello when I smile at him.

Just one more bridge to Love Lane. Home.

Fuaimrian

I managed to catch TG4's Rince ar Phár this evening, an excellent series on Irish language literature that might just give me the kick up the hole I need to get up off my arse and start writing something of worth. It reminded me too that I still have a meme hanging over me - pretend friend Prenderghast had the gall to tag me with a music meme, of all things. The challenge: to list seven songs that are shaping my spring. E.M. Esq, good sport that he is, got right on it and posted a list of hip to the groove shite that would put anything of mine to shame so instead I shall just post the one track, Orbital's Adnan's. They've had it on the soundtrack for each episode in the series, I've had it as my soundtrack ever since I bought In Sides in 1998. It's the last thing I listen to every night and if my brain could play a tune, I like to think it might be this one.

Get this widget | Track details | eSnips Social DNA

This Week I Have Mostly Been Listening To...

...Beirut, initially because I promised Kiki that I would but then because I became obsessive about it like I do all music that I fall in love with. Gulag Orkestar sounds a little like how you'd imagine the Pale would sound if they'd kidnapped the boys from Tindersticks and the singer from BellX1 and run away to join a Russian circus. This is a good thing.

Besides, I needed to find something to wean myself off LCD Soundsystem's Sound of Silver (Get Innocuous on the ads for Grand Theft Auto IV kicked my musical OCD into overdrive). At least they're respectable albums this time though; when The Chancer posted that Enya/Prodigy mashup there a while back, I binged on Watermark for several days.

Unravelling DreamWeaver

The acronym CSS does not necessarily stand for sexiness fatigue, it seems. I fear my transformation to amazing web designer may not happen overnight as planned.

A Very Hard Sell Indeed

I'd been looking forward to last night's DJ Shadow & Cut Chemist gig for ages. I had such a nasty hangover yesterday that I was struggling with the idea of going out at all, but hell - how often do your heroes come to town? My brother and the New Daddy arrived over at 6pm armed with beer, pizza and not a little giddiness and we set about our preparations; drinking beer, eating pizza and getting giddy.

The Ambassador was packed to the rafters when the two boys took to the stage and the whole place stank of high excitement, testosterone and greasy hair. The atmosphere was electric as they kicked off... but not, alas, for long. To put it mildly, the set was balls. It may have been a masterclass in vinyl but the audience got pissed off with it pretty quickly; choppy and sloppy changes in style and pace, short samples that led to nothing, build-ups that went nowhere. It never got going, people got bored and spent their time in the gruesome pile-ups at the bar or out smoking in the car park. There was a queue for the cloakroom before they'd quite finished their set, one head-the-ball leading the rest in a cheer for a refund. What I'd reckoned on being the gig of the year was a damp squib, a fart in a spacesuit, a big fat disappointment.

Pity the poor cunts who forked out €70 outside for tickets.

Stupid MEME

Fucking Terence broke my record of no MEMEs on the blog and tagged me with one the other day. I'm the girl who can't say no, so I'll humour him on the condition that he (a) doesn't do it again and (b) removes the word verification from his blog as promised because it drives me mental. Oh, and maybe (c) too - that he buys me a pint should I ever happen to be in Cavan again.

So... The rules. Link to the idiot that tagged you (see above). Post 7 random facts about yourself and then lumber 7 other poor shites with the same MEME by naming them and leaving a comment on each of their blogs. I won't be doing that because I don't want to nominate some grumpyhole who'll verbally abuse me like I did poor Terence. A new game though - I'd like you, dear readers, to add to my list of 7 by posting in the comments any other random facts about me that you know to be true (should you be fortunate enough to know me in the flesh) or that you suspect to be true, if all you have to go on is the blog. The most accurate will win a prize (yet to be decided but it will be an actual prize, I promise you).

1. The first CD I ever bought was The Spin Doctors' Pocket Full Of Kryptonite, which I bought in a little record shop in Chester. I still love it. The first album I ever bought with my own money was Nirvana's In Utero, on tape. A bit of a departure for me - I was mainly into Neil Diamond at the time.
2. When I was 25 I had a fling with a man 9 years older than me, and then another with a man who was 7 years younger. I regretted both but for very different reasons.
3. I vomit instantly if I drink shots, though in my teens I was very very good at it.
4. I write a sex column.
5. My first kiss was with my first boyfriend, and wasn't until I was 15 years old. We ended up together for 2 1/2 years, and I think that first kiss lasted for about 2 1/2 days.
6. I suspect I have dyscalculia (numerical dyslexia). Apparently that's just Irish for "shit at maths".
7. The first concert I ever went to was Chris de Burgh. On the same night, my brother had his very first Big Mac (as compensation for being too young to go to the gig). Only one of those love affairs has stood the test of time.

So, is there anything else you think I might like the world to know about me?

Food For The Soul

I had a shite day today; I spent a large portion of it wiping snots from my nose and mascara from my cheeks. I've had a shite few days, really, so I decided a bit of retail therapy would be just the ticket this evening. What cheerier present to buy for oneself than a ticket for Thom Yorke and friends? (I went looking for Leonard Cohen ones, but they're not on sale until Friday).

I also got myself one for Oxegen. I know, I know... The worst festival the world has ever seen, etc. Well, I missed it last year but I've been every other year and I've always had an absolute fucking ball. My folks live within walking distance and are very obliging when it comes to getting the hell out of dodge and giving me the run of the place for the weekend, so my siblings and I usually set up a festival base-camp and indulge our friends in champagne breakfasts, cocktail lunches, unlimited jacks roll, hot showers, comfortable beds, big dirty fry-ups and dry clothing. Sure, the punters out there are little cunts for the most part. I'm not there to see them, though - this year I'll be there to see Rage Against The Machine, Aphex Twin, The Verve, Interpol, REM, Editors, The Prodigy, Counting Crows, Seasick Steve, The Charlatans, Justice, Ian Brown, Róisín Murphy, Band of Horses and Alabama 3.

Bring it on.

The Answer To All Of My Prayers?

There is much talk these days of how difficult it is to meet someone - romantically speaking - in this, the modern era. Indeed I have done a lot of such shitetalking myself after a few drinks. It is hard (I'm still single) and though theoretically teh internehts makes even dating easy, it hasn't done much for me, I tell you. The 'net may be changing the game elsewhere but online dating still has quite a stigma attached to it in Ireland. The accepted method for acquiring a future life partner here is to (a) meet them through a friend (an excellent option as this can often mean that they come with a recommendation and/or a returns policy) or (b) to take your chances in the last chance saloon of the pub and hope that the complete stranger you've brought home will not look like the Elephant Man/your boss/his sister once you take your beer goggles off. Online dating is (somewhat bizarrely, when you consider the risks associated with option (b) above) thought to be unsafe; dating websites are presumed to be populated by psychopathically lonely losers and blind dates are considered a form of social suicide. So what are modern Irish singletons who have run out of patience with these paltry options to do? Why - return to those hallowed times! When men were men and women wore shoulder-pads. When love was a slow-dance, all left feet and hard-ons. To quote Mr. Calvin Harris, it was acceptable in the eightees.

I was shuffling and shuftying along through the city this morning when I noticed a new horror nested on the corner of Nassau St. and Kildare St. The unattractive sign outside promises pessimistically safe times: No Drugs, No Drunks, No Problems. But for the singleton who's tired of flailing around pathetically to dance tunes, trying in vain to impress the object of their tequila-fulled affections with pop-n-lock(ed) robot dancing, the sign also offers a glimmer of hope. For the club is GR80s (geddit?) and their USP* is their slow sets.

I nearly puked. I cannot imagine anything worse than revisiting the slow set horrors of my teenage years (which were in the 90s, incidentally, but we were a little behind the times. Besides, GR90s just doesn't have the same zing! to it). The way the dancefloor cleared as soon as the first bars of a Mariah Carey/Whitney Houston/Bryan Fucking Adams song kicked in, except for one drunken lunatic who'd been dancing alone and had simply not noticed. The way the floor gradually filled with groping couples, usually comprised of your friends and boys they knew you fancied. The way the drunken lunatic would ricochet off them until he was eventually expelled from the floor, at which point he'd lurch in your direction, go straight for your tits and then try to ask you to dance but be unable to pronounce "want", "to" or "dance". The way your sober, well-meaning and well-mannered but unattractive friend would step in to save you - resulting in an awkward once-around-the-floor where you try to hold him at arms' length to avoid his erection before feigning thirst and/or incontinence and rushing off to the bar and/or bathroom. It took me years of hard work and costly drugs to repair the damage that school discos and nightclub slow sets did to my teenage self-confidence. I suspect that one night in GR80s would see all of my efforts undone. I shall be avoiding that one like the plague.

*Unique Selling Point - apparently it's a dating thing?