Bless me, Comrades, it’s been *thinks how long since Glen Hansard’s Oscar speech* a few years at least since my last confession, and these are my transgressions:
I didn’t do what my parents told me so I don’t have a pension set up.
I said bad words like absolutely! (in that way) And one time I think I said..going forward. Possibly not in jest.
I had impure thoughts about Amy Huberman. It didn’t involve removing her clothes, just thon Newbridge Silverware that brings out her Stepford side. Only I went in for a swift but almighty boot up the arse. Kick like you mean it etc.
Amy opens up for the first time to Tommie Gorman about the trauma she endured at Newbridge Silverware
I called my brothers names. I’m ashamed to admit they included solvent, capitalist, over-achiever, and funds manager. OK, I didn’t really call any of them a funds manager. I wouldn’t want to be disowned altogether.
When Bob Geldof invited refugees to stay in his gaff, I was concerned they might be exposed to the music of The Boomtown Rats. Haven’t they been through enough?
Yesterday, I legged it into the nearest shop when I spotted my Mother-In-Law advancing. I’ve no idea why I did this. On the plus side, my mate said she never saw me run so fast.
Michael Palin. I still would.
I mean-spiritedly, if accurately, assumed the judges of the Irish Blog Awards were a mixed ability group when I discovered my favourites didn’t make the cut.
Stephen Fry. I still would. Even if it meant life imprisonment with no chance of parole.
I didn’t LOL at any of the excerpts from the current glut of books out on the Irish condition. I’m too afraid to name names for fear of risking torture for outrageous acts of social disobedience and sacrilege. As the quest for the true essence of Paddy continues, I’m sure there are a few chapters in there dedicated to the perennial curmudgeon, impossible to please. I’ll be bitterly disappointed, if not. I aim to do my bit in contributing to that most complicated and elusively layered beast: The middle-aged Irish woman.
I typed LOL. Twice.
My self-loathing has spread to wincing on people greeting me in our native language, and any time I’m exposed to Irish dancing. Richard Dawkins claimed Catholic education was worse than child abuse so that woefully misplaced hysteria has already been taken.
Yeah, Richard Dawkins. etc.
I typed Richard Dawkins. Three times.
I’m responsible for our wee one cultivating a Michael Jackson obsession. It started one afternoon when I innocently introduced her to The Jackson Five on youtube. It ended with her insisting on watching Thriller every night after dinner, just before one episode of Peppa. Here, have a listen.. “Darkness falls across the land..” Sorry, wrong link, I hit the Amnesty film, Chains, there by mistake.
I’m a fan of all of Graham Linehan’s commendably great work, though The I.T. Crowd did it for me better than Father Ted. And Moone Boy gives the latter a run for its money.
Finally *whispers* I might’ve laughed at Liam Neeson’s voiceover. A baby laugh. A whimper. More of a cough when I think about it.
*Bows head solemnly for absolution*