I got a bit vexed there for a while last week. My thunder was stolen, replaced by a kind of apathetic chagrin. See, up until last week, I was the only person on the entire planet who had ever been pursued by a company. Yes, in the whole world. EVER. Their interest had been a surprise, a wee lift from the mediocrity of everyday life. I got a buzz knowing I was good enough at my job to (a) have been noticed and (b) have been chased, by an enormous faceless megacorporation.
Then, last Friday, I found out that my friend and fellow team member, who will remain nameless (except in the wretched darkness of recent nightmares, where he is called Cunty) is in a near-identical position to me with another company, except he didn’t even have to jump through the interview hoops that I did. No, all the bastard did was have a chat with one of the partners, and the cunts offered him a job.
Of course, what happened is highly unethical, not to mention possibly illegal. I dare not post more on it in this blog, because I’m not anonymous, but if I use the word poached you’ll understand what I’m saying. Said poaching has qualities so incestuous that even Dessie Dempsey*, a lad I went to school with who supposedly shagged his sister, would be appalled.
I wish I could say more on this. Gah. Cursed self-censoring. Clichés work well in this situation. It’s not what you know, it’s who you know, you know. The main source of my consternation is that if I leave my current job, it might not be for the right reasons, and if I stay, I’ll be fucked because Cunty will be gone and I’ll be left to deal with Eeyore.
I’m not a violent person. I just wanted to let you know that because reading the next bit in isolation makes me sound like a bit of a lunatic. If I was famous, the papers would have a field day taking quotes out of context.
I was up the road picking up some alcoholic beverages on Saturday evening. On the drive to the off-licence (liquor store), I passed a guy walking in the middle of the road, arms out, Christ-style. He looked like a dirty, aggressive cunt, which was a splendid first impression to get, because he turned out to be a dirty aggressive cunt.
When I finished getting money out of the cash machine at the side of the shop, he had already found his way into the shop. As I pushed the door in, his words drowned out all the others: “…fuckin black bastard, I’m not goin fuckin anywhere ya black cunt…fuckin cameras, I don’t give a fuck about cameras ya black fuckin monkey cunt…”
And so on. This went on for about a minute before he left the shop. The Asian guy (yeah, he wasn’t black, which just demonstrates to you the level of intelligence this lad had) behind the counter remained perfectly calm the whole time.
For some reason, the whole sorry incident filled me with rage, so much so that I was grinding my teeth as I watched the guy walk out of the shop. I’m by no means an activist when it comes to racism (or much else for that matter), but something about that situation on Saturday night just made my blood boil. It was as much the complete and utter resignation on the manager guy’s face, standing there, taking the abuse from this piece of shit, as it was the words the shithead himself was using. Stand up for yourself! I wanted to shout. Chase the cunt and bash his fuckin head in with a mop handle!
Yer man, the Asian lad, just remained calm, and maybe that’s partly why I got so angry. He’s seen this a hundred times before, and he’ll see it a thousand times again, and he’s so used to it now that it doesn’t even get to him anymore, if it ever did. He knows there’s nothing he can do about it. He knows that scumbags like that don’t ever get taught a lesson, they just keep going until they die. The thought of that made me want to grab the fucker as he walked out the door and pin him against the wall and slam my forehead down onto the bridge of his nose. My friend Placid Paul did this once, an act of chivalry to defend a lady friend’s honour, and he said that, despite being highly out of character for him, it was an enormously satisfying experience. He was a bit of a secret thug, was Placid Paul.
When I left the shop, scumfuck was standing around outside, muttering incomprehensible complaints. I locked eyes with him, willing him to say something, anything, to insult me, so that I would have a legitimate reason to lay into him. Again I must stress this is not the kind of person I am. I can throw a punch, but I’ve never even been in a real fight. I don’t know why I had such a powerful compulsion to want to do this guy harm that night. I don’t feel good about it, but it happened.
As our eyes met, I wanted to say to him, hey, when I was twelve I spent an afternoon mixing together a concoction of piss, mouldy bread, bleach, paint and various other household cleaning products, in a Flora container, then I threw the lot in the bin after it started to eat through the thin plastic of the margarine box**. Then he would look at me and say good lord, sir, why on earth are you imparting such information to a gentleman such as myself? To which I’d reply, well, worthless, pointless and disgusting as that short-lived concoction was, it was still more useful than you are, or likely ever will be, and I have more respect for those crunchy insects that skitter from daylight when you lift up a stone than I do for a piece of shit such as yourself.
I wanted to choke him on the blackness of my contempt, contempt I usually reserve for other people’s children and men who cry at romantic comedies. Instead I just walked on and drove home and told Linzi about my short-lived homicidal tendencies.
In other news, we are now officially a 2.4 children-having, Renault-driving, Oprah-watching, twice-a-day-brushing, ornery lower middle-class Tom and Mary. I know this because we created a rota for household chores at the weekend.
I am off work this week. I’m laying a concrete base for my garage and fixing the fence – it blew down a few weeks ago during those bad winds. Proper man-work. It’s made me remember how much I hate office work. It’s been too long since I’ve worked with my hands, and they gleefully reminded me how soft and unused they are. A couple of hours wielding a pick-axe and I got the blister you see in the pic above. What a pussy.
I can say that now because by the end of this week I will be a calloused, grizzled, sprightly whippet of a man worthy of my very own Diet Coke ad.
*not his real name
**true story – I don’t know, probably because I was bored.
Last week, the day I went home from work sick, I had noodles for lunch. I tried to have noodles for lunch today, but every time I looked at them my stomach made a peculiar whining sound, like a stray cat being compressed in a vice. I took a couple of mouthfuls and retched, so strong was the taste/smell reminder. The thought of noodles is now inextricably interlinked with the memory of spraying scuttery shit all over the bathroom porcelain while simultaneous spewing my ring into an overflowing basin balanced precariously on wobbly knees.
No more noodles for me, despite their excellent value.
Occasional visitors may recall me posting a while back about being approached by a BIG COMPANY who wanted to feast on my lad. I had a shitey HR interview with them on 6th December, filled with the inane bullshit typical of HR interviews and hilariously satirised by Sweary recently, and they told me they’d get back to me in a week.
They got back to me today; six weeks’ delay isn’t bad for a HR Department, I suppose. Anyway, I’ve got a second interview with them on Monday. This one is an hour-long phone interview followed by an hour-long…thing, where they email me some documents and I have to analyse them and write a report and send it back to them. Pretty fucking odd way to assess it, but seems to be fairly standard practice, so who am I to argue?
I despise cunts who say “Thanking you”. It’s “thank you”. Why do some people insist on saying it in the present tense? It sounds as though, rather than actually thanking me, you are letting me know you are thanking me, which is good of you and all, but I could probably tell that you were thanking me if you just said “thank you” and dropped the redundant fuck”ing” suffix.
Yes, I am a petulant arsehole. A petulant arsehole with a new banner though. Not bad for MS Paint*, eh?
Non-sequitor is the order of the day around here lately. I hope I’m not turning into Knudsen, the crazy old fucker. Anyway, I’d promise something coherent in the near future, but it seems unlikely, so you’ll just have to put up with me.
*well, everything was MS Pain except the blue-ifying filter, which was done using magic and a spoon.
If there’s one thing that drives me absolutely mental, it’s when the vacuum cleaner gets turned on when I’m trying to watch tv. There I was, laid out on the couch, beer in one hand and bollocks in the other, wearing only a white string vest and a pair of sweaty yellowing y-fronts, just about to watch Nip/Tuck, when Linzi decides the vacuuming is getting done.
I tutted, sighed and rolled my eyes at her as she huffed and puffed before me on her hands and knees, trying to get the nozzle-thing under the couch as best she could while I’m lying on it. No way I was making it easy for her – I kept my legs where they were and let her work around them. That’s what she gets for interrupting my telly time. While she worked, I gave her arse a bit of a slap and told her she was a fine ride altogether, but of course this got her all turned on and she asked if she could stop doing the vacuuming to give me a blowjob. “No chance,” says I, “you’ve started so you’ll finish. Don’t worry though, if you get the rest of that vacuuming done and then bring me in a cup of tay, I might allow you to give me that BJ while I watch the rest of Nip/Tuck.” Linzi was absolutely delighted with the generosity of my offer, and continued the vacuuming apace, eager to feast on my lad.
Okay, none of this is true. I fucking hate vacuuming though.
Can anyone recommend an alternative to Norton Antivirus/Internet Security (not McAfee)?
My subscription to Norton’s running out soon and I’ve had enough of it. Slows the computer down something awful, and it’s extremely cumbersome.
Any advice or experiences would be appreciated.
In other geek-related news, I downloaded an emulator for the old Nintendo (NES) at the weekend, and, after a 17-year hiatus, got myself re-addicted to Super Mario Brothers 3. It was like being 11 all over again, only with extra pubes.
What great games the old Nintendo had though. Having them on the PC means you can save them, not like the old days when you had to finish the game in wan sitting.
My friend Paul McBeef was over this weekend, so I gave him the tour of Glasgow in my dirty oul Megane. We were gripped by an odd compulsion to wear black suits with thin black ties as we cruised slowly through the West End of Glasgae, so we did. Here’s a snippet of our chat:
Paul: “Okay so, tell me again about the NHS?”
Me: “What you want to know?”
“Well, treatment is free here, right?”
“Yeah, it’s free, but it ain’t a hundred percent free. You’ve gotta pay for anything that’s considered non-essential, like those cock implants you say you need so badly.”
“So who’s paying?”
“It breaks down like this: If you work, you pay national insurance, which contributes to the upkeep of the NHS and ensures healthcare for all. Sure, there are waiting lists, and sponging cunts who fuck the system, but an attempt is made to look after all the UK’s citizens, regardless of status. Many people in the UK don’t appreciate that they get so much for free. When you consider you have to pay forty Euro to allow a sick child just to see a doctor back home, it makes you think.”
“Yeah, that did it, man – I’m movin’, I’m fuckin’ movin’, that’s all there is to it.”
“You’ll dig it the most. But you know what the funniest thing about Scotland is?”
“It’s the little differences. A lotta the same shit we got at home, they got here, but here it’s just a little different.”
“Well, in Scotland, you can buy Buckfast in the cinema. And I ain’t talkin’ about in no paper cup neither, I’m talkin’ about a glass bottle of B. In Glasgow, you can buy Buckfast in McDonald’s. Also, you know what they eat after the pub here in Scotland?”
“They don’t have Supermacs?”
“No man, they put an embargo on Pat McDonagh-related franchises, they wouldn’t know what the fuck a Supermacs is over here.”
“Jaysis. So what do they eat after a feed of pints?”
“Deep fried pizza.”
“Deep fried pizza, the sick cunts. What do they put on it?”
“Salt and vinegar. They also eat deep-fried black pudding in batter.”
“The horrible cunts. Do they deep fry their bacon and cabbage too?”
“I dunno, I don’t eat cabbage. But you know what they put on their sausages in Scotland instead of ketchup?”
“I’m tellin’ you man, I’ve seen ’em do it. And I don’t mean a little bit on the side of the plate, they fuckin’ drown ’em in that shite.”
You know that blogging’s become too large a force in your life when you consider manipulating real-life situations to make them more entertaining for your next blog post.
I was lying there this morning, willing myself to get up, when next to me, Linzi began to shriek like a murdered knacker’s widow. I think it might’ve been the first real shriek I’ve ever heard – fraught with genuine terror, and frightening enough in the early-morning dark to make my body prickle with goosebumps and my heart pound like a pornstar. I put my arms around her as she woke, comforting her as she explained what the nightmare had been about.
Her dream was one of those ones that starts seeming fairly normal and realistic – in it, Jack had woken up and L could hear him crying over the baby monitor. We were laying in bed, bantering about whose turn it was to get him, like we often do, when suddenly we heard a woman singing through the monitor. The tune was Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, but Linzi said the words were all garbled and gibberished, like a Japanese horror fillum. She leapt out of bed (in the dream), and burst into Jack’s room to see a woman in a pink woolly jumper leaning over Jack’s cot, singing to him. She tackled her, and that’s when she shrieked and woke. Disturbing.
You’ve seen it in dozens of mediocre spooky films. The heroine wakes up after having had a terrible nightmare, and what just happened in her dream happens again, but this time it’s real!
This is why we both jumped a little when Jack really did start crying through the monitor. Linzi went downstairs to get his bottle, reaching around doors to turn on lights before she entered any room. She was still understandably freaked out.
Meanwhile, I was upstairs, wondering how I could make this into an amusing blog story. Grinning in the lamplight, my eureka moment came when I remembered Linzi had a pink jumper. What I could do is get the pink jumper, hold it against my chest (too small to wear), go into Jack’s room and lean over his cot, wait for Linzi to come in, and then start singing Twinkle Twinkle. Hahahaha! Whoooooo! What a great fright she’d get! It’d be brilliant, a hilarious story to tell my readers.
Then I got a hold of myself, and remembered she’s my wife, and she’s in a state of pyjama-wetting terror. She’s not a puppet to be manipulated for the entertainment of virtual strangers.
I think I need to give this blogging thing a rest for a while. If I don’t, before you know it I’ll be taking requests from you folks for hilarious pranks to pull on my loved ones, and we can’t be having that lads.
Have a good weekend.
Seeing as I’m a biteen sick and can’t muster up the energy to blog, here’s an old picture of me I found. Your job is to caption it. The best I’ve got so far is “Minky looking young lad standing in rural location with jacket over his head attempts to control football”, but I’m looking for something a bit snappier. Something like “Cuntheaded child kicks the cunt out of cunting ball”, or some such.
I fell asleep, you see. Standing up.
It was just after lunch. I don’t know about you, but I often get a near-overwhelming desire to have a post-lunch nap. Many’s the occasion I’ve nodded off at the PC and woken up with a jerk and a small yelp, with a filament of drool connecting my lower lip to the lapels of my suit, like what happens after thousands of years when those stalactites and stalagmites join up to form a…am…stalactube. I’ve perfected the “I meant to do that” face (also used by fuckin eejits who trip in public places), which I tend to use as I casually wipe the mess off my mouth and jacket.
I vaguely remember learning why eating makes you sleepy, something about all the oxygenated blood going to your stomach to digest your food with the result your brain gets deprived of it, but I kept nodding off during that lecture. Anyway, it doesn’t explain why so many cunts in here seem brain dead all day long.
In an effort to save money (ie it’s the middle of January, five weeks since I’ve been paid…roll on the 25th), I’ve taken to eating noodles these days. I had been eating soup, but that was costing me crazy money – 49p a tin. That’s almost one US dollar a day. Then I discovered that you can get eight packs of noodles for a pound. Eight packs! That’s eight lunches! For two dollars! I’m telling you, forget the children, noodles are the future.
After slobbering through the noodles and checking Bloglines, a wee after-lunch nap was in order. Settling back into my seat, I was just getting into it, letting the eyes get that comfortable, heavy way where you know you’re going to get a decent kip, when I see Consultant Lady coming towards me.
She’s been the bane of my life this week, this woman. To be fair to her, she’s lovely, but she keeps asking fucking questions and interrupting my naps. Composing myself as she approaches, I use Alt + Tab* to bring up some work on my PC, and gaze studiously at it while stroking my chin.
She wants to find a particular document online, but her internet’s been killed. Sure, she can hop on to my PC to have a look for it. I stand next to her, leaning against the wall watching her click onto Google, and praying she doesn’t look into my history. I don’t want work people knowing about my blog. Or yours, for that matter.
Fuck me, there’s nothing more boring than watching someone else surf the internet. Particularly when it isn’t porn they’re looking for. Ah porn, what good times we’ve had together. You know what, this wall’s fairly comfortable actually…
I jerk awake and I can already feel my face flushing. She’s looking at me guardedly, as if unsure whether or not she should bite the hand that feeds her, even though she knows she’s dealing with a complete fucking mental patient. What kind of a spa falls asleep up against a wall? If I had a feast of pints it’d be one thing…I clear my throat and note with relief that she’s smiling. Whatever Consultant Lady’s real thoughts about me are, she’s obviously decided, hell, it’s the second week of a three-month contract, I’d better keep my trap shut.
I make light of it and say something about being up all night with the kids, but the damage has been done.
I’m going to need to watch myself in here for the next while.
*Alt + Tab is a godsend in the office environment. If you don’t already use the left hand thumb/index finger combo to switch between blogging and work, you must be some sort of club-wielding Neanderthal.
Before I begin, I should point out that I won’t really kill your whole family if you don’t vote for The Swearing Lady (see link, right), but I will maim them so badly that they’ll be unrecognisable to you. You know what you have to do.
Being serious for a moment, here are some facts: The Swearing Lady is an excellent writer. She has actually written books, so she’s miles ahead of most would-be authors (myself included). She has the amazing ability of being able to take some little quirk of local culture, or her own personality, and expand on it to make her points resonate on a national (and sometimes international) scale. What’s incredible is, she does this without isolating her audience, and with her wicked sense of humour well and truly intact. All she wants is to become a hugely successful millionaire best-selling author, and when you consider how much complete shit there is out there, she more than deserves this. However, she needs the recognition necessary for the fickle publishing types to take note of her, and a blog award surely wouldn’t hurt her cause.
So I say: vote for her. It’ll only take you a couple of minutes. You have until 26 January.
Here’s who I’m voting for in the Irish Blog Awards. Be assured that these blogs are all excellent and worthy of your time (especially the Best Personal Blog nominee).
Best Newcomer – The Swearing Lady
Best Blog – The Swearing Lady
Best Contribution to the Irish Bloggersphere – Damien Mulley
Best Arts and Culture Blog – The Sigla Blog
Best Political Blog – Politics in Ireland – not a blog, but an aggregator. Definitely the easiest way of reading politics stories from back home, so it wins for me.
Best Group Blog – In Fact, Ah
Best Personal Blog – This one, of course.
Best Designed Blog – Unlaoised – Gerry’s new blog is in its infancy, but it’s one of the few I read that doesn’t seem to be a standard template, so points for that. Plus, he has a unique blogroll that makes a pleasant change from the text-based links you usually get. See?
Best Specialist Blog – Irish KC for all things Irish in Kansas City.
Best Music Blog – nialler9
Best Podcaster – Twenty Major
I haven’t got anyone to vote for in any of the following categories, so if you have any recommendations, let me know: Best Use of the Irish Language in a Blog, Best Videocast , Best Technology Blog/Blogger, Best Sport & Recreation Blog, Best News/Current Affairs Blog, Best Photo Blog, Best Business Blog.
By the way, ANYONE can nominate/vote. As long as the blog itself has at least a tenuous Irish connection, you can vote for it and it doesn’t matter whether you’re from Balintubber, Sydney or Lesotho*.
*locations used to emphasise potential geographic diversity of voters. It’s not a requirement to be from these places.
Ladies, I salute you. For years now, I have listened to your gripes about wearing uncomfortable shoes in the name of style and sexiness. In all honesty, your cries for pity have fallen on deaf ears*. The main thing, you see, is that those four-inch heels give your calves definition, and make your already lovely arse look even perkier. Pain? Pah, go on outta that. A small price to pay for looking so gorgeous, surely?
In between Christmas and New Year, I popped over to Next to pick up a new pair of work shoes in the sale. The time had come to replace the squelchers. The sale zombies were out in force that week, and had devoured all but the gomiest shoes by the time I got there. Then, behold! buried under a pile in the “Clearance” section, I discovered a decent pair, reduced from £45 to £20. Result. A little tight when I slipped them on, but all shoes feel like that when you first try them, don’t they? Besides, £20 is my limit for work shoes, and the ones that would’ve fit properly were ridiculous prices like £25 or £30.
I went back to work this week.
Pulling the shoes on, I feel a mild pressure envelop my feet. I manage to get the shoes on, but not before scraping both Achilles tendons on the hard leather of the backs of the shoes. Cursing, I make my way to the train station.
By the time I arrive home that evening, my feet are hot and swollen, and my heels are chafing where the hard bits of the shoes’ve been digging into them. It’s bliss to kick off the shoes as soon as I enter the front door.
I wince as I pull the shoes on, as my feet are already a little tender from yesterday. I find that if I push my foot up to the top of the shoe, it minimises the scraping of the Achilles.
I limp home that evening with watering eyes and soak my feet in hot salty water.
I wake up dreading getting dressed. I whimper slightly as I pull the shoes on, feeling them pinch the widest part of my foot just behind the toes. A refugee tear crosses the border of my eyelid as I slide the shoes over the tattered flesh of my ankles.
Leaving work, the pinch across my foot has become a vice, the thread turning tighter with each step. I hobble to the train station and collapse into my seat with a gasp of relief. People look at me, then quickly look away.
Arriving home, I kick off the vices and revel in playing with the children before bedtime. Dad-dancing and singing kiddie songs turns to swearing and a piercing shriek of anguish as I accidentally kick the jamb of the door. My feet, which had been simmering all day, promptly boil over, and pain sears my entire body. There are no tears of pain because I’m too angry that I did something so stupid. I excuse myself from the family and go upstairs and punch the wall a few times. Takes away the pain in my foot, you see.
I’m awake before my alarm goes off, having slept little. I groan inwardly, then realise I’ve been groaning out loud when Linzi asks me what’s wrong. I’m hesitant to moan about my feet, as she’ll give out to me for buying ill-fitting shoes. I tell her I need a shite.
My feet are unrecognisable as such. Splotched with purple and maroon, they’ve swollen to hobbit-like proportions, only without the copious coating of hair. My heels at the Achilles tendon are in raw bloody ribbons. I stuff tissue into my socks to counteract the incessant rubbing, which after four days of shoe-wearing, feels like a handful of razor blades rhythmically slicing my heels as I walk.
All day the antagonistic attack (left, right, left, right) continues. I mince home gingerly, sweating and snivelling like a stuck pig. I collapse into bed that night, exhausted, and I thank the gods that tomorrow is Friday.
God bless whatever gobshite in the corporate world came up with dress down Friday. I delight in slipping on my jeans and pushing my feet into the cushioned goodness of my Caterpillar boots. I bop to the train with a spring in my step, ready to concentrate on getting some work done for the first time this week.
I vow to never again be unsympathetic towards women’s shoe problems.
Have a good weekend.
*I do, however, provide foot massages several evenings a week, out of respect for the effort. Just to Linzi though.
PS: I’ve had a few visitors from IT2M, most of whom have lasted less than five seconds (thank you Statcounter). If you do happen to come from there and read to the end of this post, feel free to leave a comment, no matter how vitriolic. I can delete it later if it goes too far.
Some of you may occasionally peruse the hilariously cruel italk2much site. There’s a reason my link to it in the sidebar says of the site “Get ripped to shreds from the comfort of your PC” – submitting your blog for appraisal is definitely at your own risk, and you are very likely to be lambasted on a whim. That’s what makes it funny.
A few months back, I submitted my own blog, and yesterday evening noticed that Charred got around to tearing me a new one. I got five grey smacks, which means “You suck”. Of all the “unpaid staff”, Charred was who I least hoped I’d get to do my blog, but who’s to say any of the others would rate any different than he did.
Anyway, check it out if you want a chuckle, and if you do dare to submit your site, you’d better have a sense of humour about it. Alternatively, you could take it seriously, go ballistic, and provide everyone with many hours of entertainment as you try to defend yourself against something essentially indefensible: personal opinion. Yeah, actually, go with that option.
Growing up in Galway was tough. Coming from an east side ghetto, running with a gang was not an option, it was mandatory if you wanted to stay alive. I had no choice: to protect myself, I joined the Jets at the age of twelve. The Jets were the baddest motherfuckers east of the river Corrib. For my initiation I had to dance to the death against a contingent of our sworn enemies, the Sharks. After six years of ballet and two of tap, my feet were as nimble as a cobbler’s fingers, my thighs could crack walnuts, and my lad was like a long thick piece of lead pipe that could crack your backbone with a single thrust. I mortally killed three Sharks fatally to death that very day. I was welcomed into the Jet gang with open, waving arms, and spent the next several years raising hell on the streets of Galway, challenging both Sharks and innocent pedestrians alike to dance-offs, the likes of which had never been seen outside of a Michael Jackson video.
Trouble arose when, in my late teens, I fell in love with the sister of the leader of the Sharks, Mariah. Mariah was a blow-in from Cavan, and was better known by the rather unlikely name “Skullfuck”. Mariah, or Skullfuck as she liked to be called, lost an eye as a child (unfortunate) but turned it to her advantage in her teens by giving a very special kind of head to select gentlemen. I was one of those gentlemen.
We met at a challenge dance attack between the Sharks and the Jets. We were thrown together, everyone around us expecting us to dance one another to death (I had my razor-heeled tap-boots with the Cuban soles on). Audible gasps, shocked sighs and hefty drawn breaths emanated from the stunned crowd as they watched us, not killing one other by booglejive, but instead falling in love.
Skullfuck, though, was already engaged to be married to Beano, a right vicious Shark cunt from the west side. Couple this with the fact that Skullfuck, or Mariah, as she preferred to be called, was the sister of Bernie O’Toole, the leader of my arch-enemies, the feckin Sharks, and you can see the difficulties Skullfuck and I had to overcome.
Bernie and meself decided to sort our shite out once and for all, so we met in the GPO one night, for a dance on neutral territory. I brought along Jif, my best friend and the soundest cunt you could hope to meet. Feet like the wind, he had. His speciality was the hucklebuck.
The whole evening, Jif and Bernie were at each other’s throats, feet tapping menacingly. Just as we were getting up to leave, Bernie leapt at Jif, his right leg extended. Too late, I watched the diamond-honed spur of Bernie’s gold-plated dance-boot slice through Jif’s gomey gangly neck, instantly severing jugular and carotid. I grabbed for Jif’s head, but it came off in my hands. In a fit of rage and grief, I bashed Bernie to death with Jif’s head, then did a legger.
Skullfuck, or Mariah as I’m now ashamed to admit I liked to call her, hadn’t a clue what had happened, but Beano found out about Bernie quick smart. The snake went and told her that I’d killed Bernie using Jif’s head, but luckily she believed me when I said it was an accident. That was a turning point in
the musical our lives together. We decided there and then that we were going to get the fuck out of Galway and move to the Gaza Strip, where it was safer.
Little did I know that Beano was after me, and he had sharpened his rhinestone dance glove in preparation for murdering me stone dead. I told Skullfuck I’d meet her down at Ceannt Station, and we’d get out of this dog-forsaken hep-hole that very day. First I had to go and take care of a little bidness.
Waltzing myself down Shop Street, I came face to face with Rita McGrath, Skullfuck’s best friend. Oh Kav! she cried, it’s Mariah! They’ve killed her!
Destroyed by grief and despondency, I skipped jauntily to Beano’s house. I had no reason to live now my beloved Skullfucker was gone. Visions of my jism dripping from her hollowed-out eye socket flashed before me, and completely overcome with despair, I flung myself at the mercy of Beano. My last memory is of the moonlight glinting off Beano’s rhinestone glove as he raised his arm aloft, swinging down and dealing me my death-dance.
That’s right, I was killed. I’m a ghost-writer. Woooooooooooooo!