A Whinge

I seem to have gone a bit quiet here recently. Inevitable, really.
The tortured artist in me is dying to write about my pain using such words as searing, blinding, and maybe even coruscating. That's not really how it is though, so I won't.

Then yesterday the doctor diagnosed me with acute streptococcal tonsilitis (known as 'throat AIDS' to the more tasteless of us). An opportunity to put those pretty adjectives to use maybe? Nope, it's more just excruciating than anything else. But that word must be passé at this stage.

The question is, when someone is suffering an illness that makes swallowing even a sip of water extremely painful, why make the antibiotic that cures it the size of a fucking ostrich egg?

Comfort

Well, I could stay all sad, but i just found this.

Parting

It appears the potential snot production of two human bodies is absolutely boundless.

Kids on Prozac
The lies we tell
Creatine creatures and
how your face fell
Tears in the dark
headbutting glass doors,
hissing and snarks

Petrol and razorblades
How little you know
Sliding scales,
Jimmy Wales
Ribands and robes
Laws of the jungle
Inquests and probes

Cysts and trysts
Antiretrovirals
Meaningless lists
Skittles and Ritalin,
Sundown and vitamins
Tomato bread
Bottled piss

I want none of this.

The Week

dEUS at Tripod on Monday night were ridiculously good, playing with such power and skill that I felt both sickened and highly relieved that bands like The Red Hot Chili Peppers sell out stadiums at massively inflated prices, whilst groups as good as this one have to toil away in pub-sized venues, charging 25 euro a head.

Still, the tiny venue definitely enhanced my enjoyment of the gig and it was great to be able to go right up to the front without being trampled on or suffocated. My only gripe was that they threw in Instant Street as their second song, before the crowd were really warmed up enough to enjoy it properly. The crowd seemed to be of a similar demographic to me, with most people a little too world-weary or self-conscious to throw themselves fully into jumping around or singing along. My neck hurt viciously the next day and it took me a while to realise that this was a result of some very enthusiastic head-nodding on my part. The band also had the decency to close their set on another of my all-time favourites. So thank you, dEUS, for the Roses.







Tuesday brought me to the Amnesty International Duke Special vs Divine Comedy gig, accompanied by bloggers of all shapes and sizes. I've always quite liked both of these artists, without being a huge fan of either. So the gig, with both performers only playing a piano and occasionally accompanied by a guitar, came as a reminder to me that in general I like my music fairly stripped down, without too many instruments clogging the mix. Darren and Darragh have both written comprehensive reviews of the concert that I can't really add much to, except to say that Neil Hannon covering Duke's 'No Cover Up' was one of the most emotional moments I've had at a concert in quite a long time.

Tuesday also brought the Budget to those of us in Ireland. I'm no expert, but I would imagine the 50 cent that has been tacked onto each pack of 20 cigarettes is largely going to have to go towards hiring extra customs officials and airport and harbour police to stop an increase in the amount of cigarettes being brought in by the case-load for sale on the black market. you can get 200 in Egypt for the price of 20 here now, y'know. It's easy for the government to pretend that they instigate these kinds of increases because they don't want people to smoke, but in fact it's far too valuable a source of revenue for them to wan t people to stop. Which means that a move like this is, in fact, calculated to take advantage of people's addictions. Likewise, the rise in petrol. We are addicted to driving in this country because our lousy public transport infrastructure gives us no other option. From where I work I can get back to Wicklow in about 35 minutes by car. Or, I can walk 15 minutes, take a Luas for another 15, walk another 10 and then get a bus that takes an hour and a half. I'll stand by my car for now.

What Others Were Feeling Like Today #8

1927

I awakened without a kiss, had breakfast alone, dressed without talk; I had nobody to brush, to kiss good-bye; I am having lunch with Mother, and tonight I will sleep alone again. Am I glad to be alone? Was there anything I wanted to do while Hugh (her husband) is away that I cannot do when he is here? No. I miss him deeply, I have no desires, no joy at my independence; and I feel as if i were half alive. this wonderful life I praise so often seems blank and stupid today. I could do without my mirror, without lovely clothes, without sunshine - none of these things are necessary when I am alone. I did a few things to take advantage of my solitude, sleeping on the left side of the bed, which I prefer to the right, and wearing gloves with cold cream. And then, of course, I was glad to have the bathroom to myself. Usually i have to scratch the door and 'miaow' desperately to be allowed in, and even then I often get a shoe or a clothes brush on the head. Also, I slept in fifteen minutes longer than usual.

Anais Nin


1964

Is my inability to love based on fear of vulnerability & lack of spiritual generosity; or is it the profound belief in the utter hopelessness of human love? I think it is the latter, but it may be the former. I've never once tried. It's almost as if I know it's foredoomed; and yet of course I don't know. One thing is certainly true about me at the present moment: I have no desire for life. Even as I write this, the awful feeling of guilt about such an admission makes me want to erase it. Why on earth commit such a thing to paper? I suppose all diarists are lonely and uncreative people.

Kenneth Williams


Taken, as always, from The Assassin's Cloak.

Sighing, smoking, smiling slightly (Seasonal affection)

I sit on a bench in a bright, green space and contemplate the murk that has descended around my head in recent times, and the murk that seems to have surrounded many people - if the blogs I frequent are anything to go by.
There are too many things in this life that can cause confusion and unhappiness.

But, today, as I await the company of great people to enjoy great music with, the sun shines blindingly and endearingly, agreeing wholeheartedly with the trees and the people, agreeing with glass and grass, that this is no day for lying around like a tortured soul. Dublin must be one of the best cities in the world on days like this and I will sit and like it.

Am I that seasonally-affected?


Note: This was written yesterday. It is apocalyptically wet today and i feel like i'm right back in the quagmire.

Fibreglass Links/Sunday soliloquy

Christ, my blog looks like a child has vomited on it. That's where Saturday idling brought me and i have yet to have the inclination to clean it up.

Anyway, it appears to have been a week of marriage talk. First Darren was on about it, while Grannymar soon responded in her own very elegant way. Then i discovered that the Anti-Room folks were on the topic too. Of course, I did it way before either of them (and by checking up on it I've just seen two comments I had never read before. This is how on top of things I am. Sorry John and Morgor). And finally, at a par-tay on Friday Ms. Invisible Toast announced her engagement. It's an unusual situation but she's an unusual lady, and I know that all her friends wish her every happiness.

Sinful Origami Paper is the best new blog i've read in long time. I'm not linking to any one particular post because there's only a few so far and they're all very much worth reading.

Little Miss talks about inspiration. This is not a particularly new post but it is worth reading.

My dear cousin tampers with the classics, with promising results. Let her know what you think.

Fans attending England's match against Kazakhstan yesterday were forbidden to wear the 'mankini', striking a devastating blow against humour. England ended up winning 5-1, which was probably far more offensive to the Kazakhs than a few lads wearing neon dental floss over their rectums.

Oh, and after my whining post about my birthday, the card arrived from the chiropractor after all. Bastards.

Radiators

Ah I should be drunk by this stage.

Yet i really don't much like getting drunk any more.

What's with that?

Aindí Leisciúil

I woke up yesterday a year older and a year stupider.

I did a quick stock-take:

Belly? Still there.
Painful left knee? That's new.
Concern for the global economy? Seeds of it.
Unsettling preoccupation with the idea of getting a Tesco Clubcard? Definitely new.
Cripplingly large measures of indolence and indecision? Still very much there.

So I skipped college, slept a few more hours and went home and drank tea and watched 'The Virginian' on TG4 with The Bro. What a show.

There were no cards in the post. This was a good thing, as last year there was one: from my chiropractor. I do not want to hear from my jilted chiropractor on my birthday, reminding me that they're still there if I'd care to pay 80 euro a week for temporary relief. 24 Nurofen only costs about 7 quid, lads.

another pissed off moment

fuck's sake, i'm trying to be all deep and moody and shit with the irish poetry and spend fucking forever lining it up and getting it centred and all that shit and would you look at the way it ends up with the spacing all wrong and no gaps where i've been fucking insisting there should be gaps and me sitting here wondering why the fuck i'm not in bed.

i'm handwriting everything from now on, even my replies to comments.

Elvish poetry

Paranóia

agus uaireanta pléascann fuinneoga

titeann fallaí fásann neascóidí gránn

ar bharr do choicín briseann

hamburguraí amach ar na leapacha

chíonn tú cuacha beaga ag faire ort ón

seomra thíos ní féidir leat aon focain

rud fírinneach a rá teitheann do

chairde cacann pangur bán i lár an tí

Michael Davitt

Paranoia

and sometimes windows explode walls

collapse ugly boils erupt on the tip of

your nose hamburgers break out all over

the bedclothes you see small cuckoos

watching you from the room below

you're unable to say one fucking true

thing your friends disappear the monk's

cat shits on the parlour floor

(trans. Philip Casey)

Is that how you spell 'lieu'?

Ndugu wangu

I shouldn't have been welling up as I drove home this evening.

I shouldn't have taken my frustrations out on the wrong target in the wrong place.

A 12 year-old shouldn't spray deodorant on one specific spot on his arm until it burns his skin.

I shouldn't find him in bed, emptying the remaining contents of that deodorant into his nose.

He shouldn't have to listen to everything he says in his perfect English repeated back to him in shoddy impressions of his accent.

He shouldn't be called a thieving nigger.

He shouldn't have to talk about his deceased mother in the present tense because he thinks we don't know.

He shouldn't have to stand, propped up by a water fountain and unable to smile, and lie when I ask him how his day was, unable to hug him.

He should have something a little more familiar than my faltering questions in Swahili, and my blank looks when he moves past glib answers, desperate to tell me things he doesn't want the other boys to understand.

He shouldn't be in a boarding school, faux-friendly and freezing, 6000 miles from his father.

The Smellumentary

Fucksticks, I've been maimed (or memed, I forget how you spell it) again - this time from Darren, the big curly bollocks. Mind you, this one looks like it might just have some genuinely funny consequences in the outside world so I'm gonna go with it.

Right, apparently Mr. Maxi Cane is undertaking a 'smellumentary' ,where he goes without washing himself or his clothes for 30 days. The manky bastard. He wants suggestions for challenges he might undertake during the course of this stinking month.

Now, the whole washing thing has never quite taken off for me, and from time to time I've had to fend off the odd quip like "Andrew, you smell worse than the arsecrack of a lonely fat butcher watching Nigella Lawson in a sauna." (Following Maxi's wisdom I generally find a swift "your ma" does the job nicely.) So I'm really the perfect person to come to for advice. Darren suggests that our ideas should be something called 'legal', which has never sat well with me in the past, but I'll try to go with it.

1. Hugs

Random strangers can be awkward about hugs at the best of times, so see how well you get on when you smell like Johnny Vegas' knob-cheese. You could try certain scams like advertising yourself yourself as aiming for a Guinness World record in hugs, or take advantage of people's good natures by wearing a t-shirt saying 'PUT A STOP TO LEUKAEMIA FOREVER BY HUGGING ME IMMEDIATELY'. Or you could be a little more proactive and simply grab the fuckers, giving them no choice in the matter. when the boys in blue arrive to take you downtown make sure you hug them too. Other excellent targets include taxi-drivers and the doorman in the top hat at Brown Thomas.

2.The Smoking Area

It's widely accepted that the most unfortunate consequence of the smoking ban was the fact that we all had to start smelling each other again in the pubs. Therefore the smoking areas should be a haven for those smelling like a septic goat scrotum, shouldn't they? Not if you're really doing your job properly, no. If your natural stink isn't earning you enough looks of contempt, try lighting up a stale Henri Winterman Half Corona and go around asking people if they have any change for the condom machine. This will obviously work best in those smoking areas that are so enclosed and sheltered from the elements that they stretch government legislation on the subject close to breaking point.

3. Seek expert advice

Treat your newfound odour as though it's a complete surprise and seek out various sources of help. Hug your GP if he has the wit to actually say "Erm, have you tried washing?" Mark my words, there are those who will assume you've done this and that your smell just builds up like that over the course of a day. Call those shite phone-in shows like Adrian Kennedy and Joe Duffy and ask their esteemed listeners for help. A hug must then also go out to Harry the Builder from Phibsboro who chimes in with "Eh, I just lash a fookin' loada Lynx Africa down me keks and go about me business bud."