https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=fXq81-cGJr4
Pet sounds: sunny spells
Reply
Author Archives: Department of Speculation
If I was your girlfriend
Would you remember to tell me all the things you forget now I’m your wife?
If I was your best friend, would you let me take care of you and do only the things that only a best friend can?
If I was your girlfriend, would you let me dress you? I mean help you pick off the bits of fluff before we go out? Sometimes those are the things that being in love’s about.
If I was your one and only friend, would you run with me if somebody asked you even if that someone was me? Sometimes I hallucinate on notions of doing a 5k
If I was your girlfriend…
Would you let me pull out your ear hairs? Could I make you not do the dishes all the time? Well then, could we let them drip dry? I mean, could we just hit play and lie on the sofa together? Cause to me, baby, that would be so fine
Baby, can I dress you? I mean help move you along so we can actually get out? Listen, man, I ain’t sayin it’s deafness but sometimes those are the things that being in love’s about
Is it really necessary for me to leave the heat off just because you wanna get pneumonia? We don’t have to leave the country to have a holiday. We don’t have to have a holiday to get stressed. Our savings is what I’m about…
Would I stop singing in this weird voice and callin you baby? Of course. For you, I would be quiet. Well, I’d try..
If I was your girlfriend…oops. Sorry, baby.
Did ye get heeled?
Word has reached the dungeon that Price Waterhouse Cooper sent a receptionist home for not wearing the requisite heels on the job. It was only a matter of one phone-call from a lazy radio show researcher before Minister for PR, Terry Prone, was forced to take cover under a cloud of smug from where she instructed us all on the etiquette ways of the workplace.
To summarise:
Flat-shoed + make-up free = disrespectful
Heeled-up + make-up wearing = respectful
As a crude argument, it was highly impressive.
Sharp intakes of breath ensued across Ireland FM with the rapid reaction force launching sexist-seeking missiles towards nonsensical arguments that fail to support the double-standards women are forced to endure.
To summarise:
PwC policy + Terry Prone defence = pile of sexist shit.
As a sophisticated feminist argument against sexist practices, it was a hard one to challenge.
As an example of the corporate world’s ugly self-regard, the incident was another glaring one that mystifyingly managed to evade attack.
Sheila wasn’t sure if her heels had made her unsteady
or if it was just the feeling of power going to her head
Nailing colours to the past
“Neither Green nor Orange”
Rare is the day when hope and possibility rhyme or chime in the soul of this old cynic. But for a few moments over the weekend, my spleen missed a beat. It’s fine now. But there’s no harm in recording the malfunction for posterity.
14%
Battery left on this device
The result of a secondary school maths exam I managed to change to 44 before the relos got their mitts on the report card
Level of interest in getting off my arse this evening to attend a surprise 40th
Level of surprise the person celebrating will likely experience on being surprised
Chance of me adding an exclamation mark to the end of the last sentence
Average satisfaction with this post
Kitchenstool blues
Another Friday, another restless afternoon battling a hankering that only comes knocking at the height of warmth and winter. One that creeps up to ensnare its victim on a Thursday evening; when the proverbial tie comes undone and the decompression has begun.
There are weaker moments to follow when it will catch its prey fully aware. The last meeting endured. The last phone-call made. The last email sent. The last scan of next week’s diary advertising the hardships to dread with all the force of Ken Dodd’s tickle stick. The last slam of the door shut till Monday.
It’s Friday. It’s the first one in gets them in. The first clink of the glasses mid-air. The first joke cracked. The first yarn spun.
For some of us, it was always that moment between the last sip of the first, and the first slip of the next. With our lip to the precipice of bonhomie and break-through. To The Present. It could be a long way down but we were willing to risk it. Just the one…time of the week to let it all go.
Why did the chicken cross the road? To get to the pub to see his mates. To blather and belly-laugh his way into the here and now. In the one place where you’re judged by your character and ability to hold your own, not the letters that trail your name. Where one person’s laughter is the background to another’s loss. Where bosses are skewered on a stream of consciousness. Where no-one is conscious of time passing.
Our relationship with drink goes a long way down, but we know a charming tour guide of the soul when we hook up with one. And though long broken up, the longing can still come knocking, as loudly as ever.
Just the one… fleeting thought of a pint leads back to the last sip of the first, before the first sip of the next. Freeze it there. To before I moved away and waved goodbye to my people. Before other people started drinking. In. Their. Houses. Before wine became a hobby before ending up as a personality trait. To Friday.
To The Pub.
*raises cuppa*
Sláinte
Where was I again?
Once upon a time in a headlock…*door-bell*
***
Some other de-railed posts about to go under the delete button:
Ad Men to that
Now that Mothers’ Day is over, it’s back to bog standard commercial exploitation of motherhood. Do you feel a rant coming on? Me too. Only messin’. I’ll keep this short.
Let me start by saying I’m an advocate of suspending the cynical curled lip at the commercialisation of Mothers’ Day. When I say advocate, I mean I’m always up for any Hallmark holiday from which I can derive a lie-in. There’s plenty more where they come from that I could be doing with. Daughter’s Day. Wife’s Day. Middle-Age Crisis Day. And so on and so forth. I’m on call to suspend my right-on worldviews if the rewards are edible.
***
Cloudbusting
[title only]
***
Third parties
If there’s one thing I regret about the pair of us buggering off to get married on our own, it’s the ocassional absence of..
***
Top 5…least read posts ever
[title only]
***
[Untitled]
“I didn’t realise your feet were so small”
“Ah that’s just because the rest of me is so big”
I can’t get hang of compliments.
***
Social and personal
Mary and Brendan Kelly of Goatstown, Dublin 14 are delighted to announce the engagement of their favourite son, David to Eimear, least daughter of John and Margaret Casey of Furrow, Mitchelstown, Co. Cork.
Imelda and Frank of Elphin are delighted to announce dinner is ready.
Noel and Breege Boland of Sandycove, Dublin, are delighted to announce they came 1st place in Sandycove Bridge Club last night (without any handicap applied).
Sheila and Noel Smyth of Clonakilty, Cork, are pleased to announce they had a ‘natural’ birth last week.
Linda and Duncan FitzGerald, Canada (formerly of Drogheda, Louth) are delighted to announce they have identified all the reasons why other women don’t breastfeed (without asking any of them).
Brenda
***
[Untitled]
Every time I clap eyes on James Connolly, I see the face of David Ervine sthick [sic] tache and
***
Cornered
She expertly fans the napkins open before draping them across our knees while presenting the first serving. We polish the sandwiches off in less time it took her to detail their contents, pausing briefly to speculate over which of the dainty displays might harbour the ham she rhapsodised about.
It’s all rather excruciating in that way sitting next to people with impeccable posture and ability to articulate credible career aspirations tend to be, but we’re here now. He with his generosity and courage to make an occasion of our rare time alone together; me with my middle-0f-the-room anxiety eyeing up every corner with unquenchable envy. Including the one occupied by a grand piano being tickled to indifference with a few Sunday afternoon standards.
***
Five good fats
Of the bass kind
4. This
5. And this
***
Headphones: The woman’s hour
Mazzy Star – Ride it on
Cocteau Twins
Gillian Welch
Lucinda Williams
Lamb – Gorecki
Mary Gauthier
Mary Margaret O’Hara – Body’s in Trouble
Kate Bush – A Choral Room
***
On being ordinary
I can see now the ambitions our parents had for my siblings and me. Sacrifices made in a country (still) hospitable to the idea of equality of opportunity. One presided over by clerics; their cohorts in charge of classrooms, and select postcodes, and surnames compatible with success; the pre-ordained good stock destined for greatness. But none of this explains why, at the average milestone reaching age of ten, I
***
Life in a Northern Town
Two churches to the left of us; one to right, an interminable cricket game straight ahead. It’s no Clapham Common, or Phoenix Park, or Stephen’s Green, but at a circumference of one kilometre, this park is the greenhouse for many an ambition. From the prospect of that first kiss, to the first wobbly pedal withoutstabilisers, and determination to fit into that outfit.
***
Perfect opening line
I demand the finest opening line available to bloggerkind and I’ll (try) to take it from there.
Thanks
***
Trigger warning
Image
Making ground level look mountainous
You know the way I’m mad into competitive sports?
OK, let me rephrase that.
You know the way I like to loll around looking for insignificant shit to get obsessively worked up about?
Exactly.
Well, today isn’t one of those days. Because it actually kicked off yesterday. In the moment I eye-rolled in response to a request from one of the relos to vote for a contender in the prestigious Donegal Player of the…(wait for it)…Week. Exactly. This is big shit. To one particular 14 year-old’s Da at least.
That was, until I dragged my lazy arse fingers round to the site for a blast of the button whereupon the sight of our boy in second place unleashed such staggering levels of indignation, the conversion from mild-mannered indifference to canvassing crusader was worthy of nomination.
If I’m going to succumb to this unfair and unregulated popularity contest, then I should at least back my lobbying up with 5 credible, if arbitrary, reasons why he should win, which are (in random order):
– he doesn’t take himself seriously
– he drives his Irish teacher mad by refusing to exhibit any fear of her
– he can hold his own in company of all ages
– he surprises me with parcels of ill-fitting sports gear he forgets to tell me he ordered for himself on Amazon
– he’s not averse to giving occasional sly hugs when no-one’s looking
Exactly.
The (parental) Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook
Presents. Not really my forte. If you received any of the following items from me for your wedding, please accept my belated apologies: fluffy blanket/bog oak birds/tool box/hammock/photo of a mountain/what the fuck is that? do you know what it is? Me neither/picnic hamper/lamp etc.
Ditto if you went out with me for five years and received a one-way ticket to East Midlands Airport with Ryanair as a Christmas present. For £2.99 (inc. tax), I thought it would be a laugh to recreate that magical scene when someone lights up on receiving a surprise plane ticket. Until they open it. I still think it’s funny when I remember how you let that wan from your class pluck your eyebrows a week later. It will always be one step removed from a blowjob in my world of intimacy.
And, if you’re related to me, please pretend you didn’t hear me saying blowjob, and cast your mind back to a few clangers that awaited you under the tree from me over the years. Ah, yes. Remember enthusiastically ripping open the paper to find your spanking new copy of….Bunreacht na hEireann? We’ll say no more about it, or the brew-your-own-beer-kits. But, I stand proudly by providing you all with a copy of this seminal, critically acclaimed, tour de force:
Not only can you do everything it says on the cover, but you can also deliver a baby in the back of a taxi, defuse a bomb, and escape a shoot-out; even if it’s me doing the shooting, which some of you continually try to provoke me into doing.
Since Becoming a Parent™, I’ve noticed danger lurks round every corner. Other parents. My parents. My reflection in the mirror. Daddy Pig. Playgrounds. Cake shops. Parenting forums. Life insurance policies. Savings accounts. Justin from Cbeebies. It’s a fucking jungle out there, which is why I’ve got a quick preview from my soon-to-be-published Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook: The Early Years.
How to…
1. Hide all the junk in the shopping trolley
It’s going well. One more aisle to load up from. Your wee one is placated by the chocolate biscuit she’s helped herself to from the stack behind her. That coordination. Those motor skills. Thata girl. You’re rounding the corner into the ice-cream area and you clock the fruit teeming from the basket matching the “vibrant” colours worn by the local Mother Earth. Check behind you for the all clear and do a quick five-point turn. Whizz your way in the opposite direction whilst simultaneously lashing a few healthier products on top of the biscuits. Good luck with trying to replace the biscuit in the child’s paw with a baton carrot. The screaming will only draw attention to yourself so best avoid that and get the fuck out of there. In extreme instances, like when your hair is having a particularly anti-gravity day, feel free to hide the basket in the cereal aisle and return to it later. To avoid any repeat trauma, just do your shopping in the neighbouring town.
2. Perform CPR on someone who has just learned you didn’t baptise your child
“But…what school will they go to?”
It’s highly likely this person is already having difficulties breathing at this stage. Be sure to stand back, so when they do keel over you don’t risk an injury from the fall. Diall 999 and put the body into the recovery position. Only perform CPR if you’re adequately trained. There’s probably little more you could’ve done. It’s the biggest killer in Ireland today along with obesity and hypocrisy.
3. Get away with bringing your child to care wearing the same thing 3 days in a row
When you arrive at the crèche, unzip your child’s coat and exclaim aloud “Oh silly Daddy for not putting on your nice clean dress”
4. Combat the gaze of a fellow diner in the restaurant burrowing holes in your head while your child has a canary
To overcome the gaze, you must become the gaze. You weren’t the staring match champion of 1986 for no reason. As you engage in this visual duel, lift up the bottle with one hand and liberally apply the stuff you swore blind you wouldn’t have next or near your child onto his or her plate: ketchup. It’s like Calpol, only it goes with chips, and grapes (apparently).
5. Distract attention from your child pointing out your “belly” to everyone that visits
Explain it’s all the running around after a toddler and that you’ve hardly any time to eat so the rest of you has practically withered away to nothing. Point to your wrists and ankles and demonstrate by showing how you can now wrap you hand around them.
Other advice in the book: How to combat the embarrassment of more-or-less telling your parents you had sex when announcing a pregnancy; how to conduct your own guardian speed-dating event; how to strenuously judge parents on-line while strenuously appearing not to.
Out soon in every woeful bargain basket.
(image: Amazon)
department of speculation 