Linzi and I had an Indian for dinner last night. He was delicious.
Tell you what though, I’m suffering for it today. Fucking hell, who’d have thought it smells the exact same when it comes out the other end as when you’re eating it.
Hope your weekend is as eventless as mine.
I get the train this evening, as usual. I arrive from Cathcart to Central Station, and remember that I’m taking Linzi out for dinner tonight. I ought to get some money out.
A girl joins the (long, always long) queue for the cash machines ahead of me. We eye each other a split second longer than necessary. We half-smile in acknowledgement of our plight. The queue. Always a queue.
She has great legs. Tanned. Ankle-boots. Short skirt, black and white squares. Foreign, I suspect. She’s not jaded-looking enough to be from here.
The other reason I think she might be foreign is because she’s got a large suitcase. I have a sixth sense for these things, you see. She can’t get the case to stand upright, so she has to keep a hand on it to stop it falling over .
I look. She’s beautiful.
She’s got a smaller bag too, which I deduce is for important personal items. The way I figure this out is: I watch her balance the suitcase and struggle to hold her jacket while trying to get her wallet out of the bag. Wallets are personal items.
Shit. The case. I’m an ignorant bastard.
“Oh, would you like me to hold your case while you-?”
“No, that’s fine, thanks,” she interrupts, but she smiles, to show she appreciates the offer. Australian. I knew it.
We catch each other’s eye now and then after that, but it’s not uncomfortable. I am in control. I am warm, floating. I am the Olympics.
It’s her turn. She trundles her case over to the machine. There are two. I’m next.
The girl at the other machine is slow. It’s a race, Aussie versus other girl. My eyes watch them, a tennis match. I want Aussie girl to win.
Aussie girl wins. She turns to me and smiles as she walks from the machine, proper friendly. I smile back, and go to get my money. I look to my left and see her struggling with her bags again, this time putting her stuff away.
Sometimes you just know things. I could have asked her for a drink. She would have said yes. Sometimes you just know.
And knowing’s enough, of course. Knowing’s all you need.
When I turn away from the machine, she’s gone.
A fat man, smelly too, sits next to me on the train, but even he can’t spoil my mood. I don’t read today. I look at my fellow passengers. I almost smile. I am not scary. I am young. I am George Clooney. I am immortal.
For a while.
A conversation with Erin in Boots. These conversations always seem to happen in Boots. This one was in the checkout queue.
This happened because the other day, while changing Jack’s nappy, Erin came over, and before I could stop her, she’d jabbed his little lad fairly hard a few times.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“That’s Jack’s willy, sweetie” Linzi explained.
I had to reprimand Erin for what amounted to assault, even if it was unintentional, but Linzi only laughed.
“Don’t touch Jack’s willy, Erin.” I admonished.
Women just don’t understand the pain of having your balls walloped. Just because they haven’t dropped yet doesn’t mean the poor fella wouldn’t be hurt.
After seeing the impact of her actions, willies are now a hot topic of discussion with Erin. Hence, this exchange in Boots:
“Mummy and Daddy have willies.”
“No darling, only Daddy has a willy. And Jack.”
“Jack has a willy. Mummy doesn’t have a willy.”
“That’s right, my girl.”
“Want to see Jack’s willy.”
“Not just now, sweetheart.”
“NOT TO TOUCH JACK’S WILLY! DON’T TOUCH IT!”
“Shhh….ok, don’t be shouting.”
“NO! NO! NOT TO TOUCH JACK’S WILLY!”
For fuck sake. Get me out of here.
In other sickness, recent Google searches found my blog using the following keywords:
- raped by a dog
- shitting outdoors
- dog boner
- ruining my life
I’m not sure what’s more disturbing: that people are searching for this shit, or that I have written about it.
I also have a stalker on Yahoo, who finds me by entering “kavanf1 blog”, but never comments. Are you wealthy, Yahoo-user? A hundred grand would sort me out nicely. Not enough to stop working, but it would loosen the mortgage noose. Go on. You might as well.
I’ve been getting the train to work a lot recently. When I’m able to stay awake, I read. Nothing unusual about that; millions do it every day.
Sometimes, though, if I’m particularly engrossed in a novel, I will keep reading it, even after I’ve left the train. It’s not uncommon to see me ambling down the road from the train station to my house, reading half-eyed so I can watch for traffic without losing track of the story.
Linzi thinks this makes me a mutant. I’ve told her I’m in a foreign country where nobody knows me, so what do I give a shit what people think?
She says sorry, Kav, only mutants read while walking in public.
I have other reasons too. What if that guy who gets on one stop after me, who shares the same two trains as me on my journey each morning and evening, who works where I work – what if he wanted to talk to me one day? What if we became friends, and then I had to commit to all sorts of shit that I can’t be arsed with: golf, beers with his wanker mates, birthdays, funerals.
Nah. Better to be engrossed in a book, or sleeping. Less hassle.
Or what if some amazingly sexy female was on the train one day? What if I wasn’t reading a book, and I happened to catch her eye? How would I divert my gaze without a novel to lose myself in? Before you know it, my irresistible magnetism would draw her to me, and she, being your classic femme fatale type, would come on to me and draw me into a wicked affair, thereby ruining my marriage and the life I’ve built up.
See? It’s much safer to be reading.
How about you? Do you readwalk? Or am I a total mutant? If enough of you tell me Linzi’s right, I might reconsider doing it.
I doubt it though.
You ladies are obsessed with sex. Having been raised Catholic, I find this absolutely disgusting. Honestly, every female’s comment on my 30th birthday for Linzi post was something to do with sex.
Here they are in their entirety:
Jali: “Do you need a grouchy chick on the side?”
What kind of filthy talk is this? When I read this, my cheeks burned like the lakes of fire that sinners such as yourself shall be cast into on the day of judgement. On the side, indeed! Thou shalt be on the side of Lucifer himself when the day of reckoning arrives!
freshairlover: “Hope you get some, after you give some of course.”
In the name of all that is good and holy, by “some”, I hope you’re talking about the fellowship of the lord and nothing else. The unspeakable insinuations in this comment illustrate exactly the kind of young hussy that good, God-fearing men such as myself must avoid for fear of corruption and the shame of sexual vice.
The Swearing Lady: “I hope she gives you the lovin’ of a lifetime.”
My heart nearly stopped when I read this. From an Irish girl, no less. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Can a man not do something nice for his (celibate) wife without these sort of recriminations rearing their ugly heads? I’ve asked the lord to spare you as I have no doubt you were out of your mind on drink when you wrote that comment. It’s the only plausible explanation.
summer: “I hope ya get some”
Another comment hoping that I get “some”…what sort of rude, malignant mind bestows this sort of crudity upon their fellow man? I know, sure as jeebus sits at our lord’s right hand, that you were talking about rotten, disgraceful, atrocious SEX, and nothing less. A woman of your dubious character would no doubt lead a lesser man down the path of corruption and sleaze; were it not for my own peerless character and fortitude of will in the face of the devil’s imagery being bandied about these days, I would no doubt be one of the many lost to you.
hotdrwife: “Hope you get some action, Jackson!”
The only action I get is wielding the sword of justice and truth against heathenish and corrupt evildoers. I trust that you, as attached as you are to the evil of modern medical science, will one day meet with the sharp end of my sword as my (celibate) wife and I clear the way for the return of the one true lord.
Don’t any of you realise that sex is a filthy dirty habit practised by heathens who’ll burn in the fiery infernos of hell for eternity, while I float on a fluffy white cloud above, plucking my harp and smiling benevolently at my fellow celibate angels?
And while we’re on the subject, I hereby deny that this used to be my profile picture:
This foul and disgusting avatar was no doubt dreamt up by some lackadaisical office worker caught up in the throes of his own laziness and sloth. His day will come!
A gentleman never tells, don’t you know. All I’ll say is I had a very good weekend. And you?
Michael, summer, drm2b: Sorry for deleting that post, but I read over it when I was less sleep-deprived, and I felt like it came across as overly negative and depressed-sounding, when in fact my mood over the weekend was generally buoyant and happy. I just happened to post at 4.30 in the morning when I was feeling particularly low after having spent half the night up with Jack.
Disclaimer: This is not a religious post.
EDIT: Since I’m not one of those popular types who has hundreds of people guessing and that, I’ve filled in the answers to name that movie. Highlight under each quote to see the film name, then go ahead and kick yourself when you realise you should’ve known it.
In case you haven’t noticed before, I’m a bit of a romantic cunt. I like to go all out for my ho and treat her like a bitch ought to be treated, knowwhatahmsayin?
For real, dawg. Woof.
So, it’s Linzi’s 30th birthday on Monday. Not having much money (£200 to be exact) means I’ve had to put alot of thought into maximising the giftage while keeping a rein on the finances. Sweating the assets, we call it here in the crazy, crazy world of IT. To tell you the truth, the way I saved for this event was by building up all my mileage from travelling between sites over the course of 2006. At the start of September, I put in a claim for the whole lot, and hence I now have enough yoyos to pay for a decent shebang.
Surprise #1 is that I’ve taken the day off, cos she thinks I’m working. Imagine how happy you’d be to wake up next to a naked Kav, knowing full well I should not be there. That’s how excited she’s going to be. Anyway, I’d better stop talking about myself naked, in case I make you even hornier. Come on now, quit licking the monitor.
Ya sick fucker.
Yeah, lahke ah says, the plan is to wake her with breakfast, bringing the kids through to give her the first round of gifts. Said gifts comprise:
- a necklace she asked me for ages ago. I hate buying gifts where the person knows what to expect, so I’ve already told her that the waiting list for the necklaces is two months, and it wouldn’t be available in time for her birthday, so I’d get it for her for Christmas instead. So now, even though she knew about it, it’s still going to be a surprise when she gets it. I’m a crafty bastard.
- a voucher from Erin to get a manicure/French polish at this place. Little does she know the voucher also includes a full-body deep-tissue massage. She’ll find that out in the afternoon, once she gets there and they tell her to get her kit off.
- a set of Baby Sign Language cards from Jack. What in the name of all that is good and holy are they, you ask? They’re just what they say they are: it’s a way to use sign language to communicate with your kid before he can talk. For example, fingers up to the mouth means “I’m hungry”, flapping the hand forward and back over the crotch means “I’m horny”, and so forth.
After this, Linzi’s parents are coming over and we’re all taking the kids swimming. Well, Linzi, Erin and I are going swimming, while her parents look after Jack. I even paid for L to get her bikini line done this week, so she won’t be embarrassed when she goes swimming, as women tend to get. I prepared the fuck out of this birthday, let me tell you.
What makes it good is, I told her when she was going for the wax this week that that was her birthday present. “If someone asks you what you got for your birthday, tell them you got your flaps waxed,” I said.
“You’re going to have to at least get me a cake,” she replied, “I can’t tell everyone that my 30th birthday present was getting my flaps waxed.”
“Stop, don’t be talking like that. Girls sound so crude when they speak like that. Don’t say flaps, say minge, or gowl. Something classier than ‘flaps’, anyway.” I responded.
I keep digressing, but it’s Friday afternoon, and it beats working.
After swimming, L’s parents are going to look after the kids while I take her for lunch to a pub that she loves called The Station Inn. Once we’ve finished stuffing our faces, I’ll take her across to that spa place for her ‘manicure’, where she will discover that I have tricked her once again, and she’s not only getting a manicure, but a massage too.
At this point, she’ll think “This day has been perfect, how could it get any better?”
But wait, there’s more.
There is a bakery that sells obscenely expensive delicious cheesecake which she loves, and continually rants about how it’s so far away that she never gets to have any of it. I figured, rather than go for the traditional, forgettable sponge and cream cake, why not make it one of these cheesecakes? I am picking it up tomorrow (they make them to order, then quick-freeze them), and I’ll drop it at her parent’s place.
So, while she has her massage/manicure, I am going to swing by her parent’s house to collect the cheesecake, then leg it home and do all the balloons and banners and all that tacky shit, put 30 candles into her cheesecake, stick a bottle of wine in the fridge, and then come back to collect her from the spa. While I’m picking her up, her brother and his family will arrive over at ours, so that when we get in, we’ll all be there ready to do the happy birthday thing.
Once the cake’s consumed, I’ll tell her family to fuck off, and give the kids their usual baths. Once they’re safely in bed, I will magically provide a bottle of her favourite wine, Sancerre, to help her relax while she sits and watches shite tv. Sancerre is a treat for her because we couldn’t normally afford it, so I’m hoping she’ll be lost in the deliciousness while I escape upstairs and prepare the bedroom.
This is one area where I got fucking well ripped off. A few years ago, when we still lived in Ireland, I bought L a dozen red roses, but rather than just give her them (boring), I cut the heads off them and scattered petals all over our apartment. I told you, I’m a romantic cunt. Anyway, this time around, I don’t have quite as much free time, so I figured, I’ll just order some petals and save myself the stress.
I wish I had just done it the old-fashioned way. I spent £20 for what amounts to about a fistful of fucking rose petals. I haven’t seen such a display of utter cuntery for quite a while. Trust me, if you ever want to do this, just buy a bunch of flowers and rip them up yourself. That way, at least you’ll get enough to cover up your lad while you lie naked on the bed.
Anyway, bedroom: while she watches tv, run a hot bath for her (we have a big corner bath in our ensuite), light 30 candles (because she’s 30 – do you get my secret code?), scatter rose petals around bedroom and in bath, and crash bang wallop kazzam, Robert’s your father’s brother.
Giving her a bath with an expensive bottle of wine ensures she’ll be in there for a while, allowing me to give the old PS2 the nurturing and love she so desperately needs. I’ve really been neglecting her recently. It’s been seven weeks since I even turned her on. *insert turn-on joke here.*
There you have it folks, a big birthday on a small budget. I’m also taking her out for dinner with friends next Friday, but that’s a surprise too. Indian. Mmmm. I’m salivating already. Shhh now. Say nothing.
Have a good weekend, pups.
My family discovered an old picture of me from around April 1980. I think I was going for the Travis Bickle look, but forgot to spike it up:
As my Grandad said, at least we don’t need to worry about whether or not I’m her father. Cheers for that, Grandad.
I’m busy fixing my mouse. It’s gotten to that stage where it won’t scroll or move smoothly, so I need to flip it over, lift out the ball, and give the inside of it a good clean with a straightened-out paper-clip. My blood boils when a defective mouse makes me take an extra half-second to open something.
You’d be surprised how satisfying it is getting all the dusty crud out from the wee mechanisms.
Eeyore interrupts my work. He’s wrongly received an e-mail requesting help, but he’s trying to help anyway.
“Who would be responsible for fixing emails with attachments that don’t open properly?”
“I don’t know. It’s not us though.”
“I don’t know what to say to her.”
“This girl. She’s sent us a mail asking for help.”
“I think she’s probably just selected the wrong address. We don’t deal with that stuff.”
“Still, we ought to try and help her out.”
“Why? We have no idea how to fix her problem. Just respond and tell her she’s mailed the wrong people.” (Wanting to add “And save her and everyone else some fucking bother.”)
“But I want to be helpful.”
“Yeah. You can be helpful by telling her she’s got the wrong address and telling her to call the helpdesk.”
“I’m going to speak to Steven, see if he knows who can help.”
“OK. Go for it.”
“Did you know that you’re truly beautiful?”
“I saw you in a different light just there.”
(nervous laughter from me)
“I did. It scares me sometimes.”
Points to note are (a) this is a perfect illustration of why he never gets any work done and (b) Eeyore isn’t a sexy large-breasted brunette with come-hither eyes, he’s a slighly overweight man-breasted balding chap with regular blue eyes.
Still, that’s probably for the best. I have enough on my plate without worrying about whether or not women still find me attractive.
Or film, whatever.
Come on now – don’t Google it. That’s just pointless, and ruins it for anyone who knows it.
I’ve given you the initials of the characters saying the words. Five films, I just want the name of each:
C: You’re a whore ?
A: I’m not a whore. I’m a call-girl. There’s a difference, you know ?
T: Oh Manny, look at the pelican fly! Come on, pelican!
D: Hate is baggage. Life’s too short to be pissed off all the time. It’s just not worth it.
American History X
N: What’s the last thing that you do remember?
L: My wife…
N: That’s sweet.
Jali is correct with Memento. Have a foot rub.
O: I’ma sell these muthafuckas for fifty nine ninety five.
Menace II Society
Have at it. Winner gets a full-body deep-tissue massage. Unless you’re a guy.
K (singing): Look at the rain, look at the rain, look at the fuckin rain.
Me (joining his song): Shit ‘n’ piss, shit ‘n’ piss, shit ‘n’ fuckin piss.
C (harmonising): Cock-fucking rain, bastard rain, fuck the fuckin rain.
We’re having a really productive day.
If you’re looking for a post that makes sense, I suggest you skip past this one. I did this one after chatting with good oul Pallrine when I was home in Galway at the weekend. It’s just our sense of humour.
Munching on barrel chief, I glanced south to see a small little blue man halfstepping towards me. By the glint in his eye, I knew he was from the hood.
“For bizzle, my wizzle. Where the wombs at?” he sizzled.
Continuing my whittling for another spell, I regarded bluto with a spirited snack. “Don’t Eastwood the stereo before you’ve even listened to the beef!” I warned him, but the bastard was already flailing swimwards like a spastic fish at currant camp. He knew exactly what he was doing – he had arms that looked like two M’s. Triple jointed and possessing snipe battlecat, he only tried barrowfires until his deal whimpered moonshine.
I could tell he was annoyed at my flamboyant interface of spook, but he tried to act like a drugged-up pelican for the sake of his family, the scaly Nora. He was blue, though, and by the speed of his skips, I knew a badger was about to attack. Seizing the moment in my hands, I shoved it at his chest. He screamed as the moment impaled him, skewering though his chest and making small little blue love hearts float out of his warm pasta. His fingers slick with blood and ham, he tried to wrest the moment free, but it was buried too deeply in his subconscious.
Behold, his arms went from M’s to W’s as he died.
I leaned in for a closer look, just as a huge dog leapt out of his blue chest and clamped it’s jaws around my haggis-like hand. I howled and jittered like Sammy Davis Junior at a cheese factory on opening night. “Cheddar, ya cunt! Brie! Brieeeee! Monterey Jack!” I screamed. I was sure cheese was his biscuit, but he startled meat when he began grizzling in a fragile t’pau.
“Easy! Easy!” the dog commanded, his mouth full of fingers and plastic bags. I grabbed for one of the bags.
“Hey, they’re fifteen cent each!” the dog whepped. “Now stop your heising, I’m only trying to give you the oak wizard barabbus stack!”
Suddenly it became clear what the dog who came out of the dead blue lad who was killed by the moment was doing. I relaxed and started speaking in tongues.
Soon the Israelis started jiving. The Palestinians did the hucklebuck. Bin Laden emerged from hiding in the public toilets in Central Park. Bush shook his hand and gave him a cup of tea. Blair quit. Africa had a load of food. India’s call centre lads started making sense. North Korea put all their nuclear weapons in the bin and brought them to the skip.
And all because the lady loves Milk, Jay.