It’s annoying. Don’t do it. It doesn’t attract me to your blog, it just pisses me off. I’ve got time to scroll down through my feed reader, but (usually) I do not have time to click over to your site. I know you probably think truncating your post is a good incentive to attract readers to your site and increase hits, but I’m busy, so it doesn’t work. It just irks me slightly and then I skip on to the next post, and, sadly, yours goes unread.
Unless it’s something really interesting.
If you do insist on truncating, can you not set it to show the first 400 words or something? That way it will show the whole lot of most normal posts. Feedburner can do this for you.
Those of you reading this and wondering what the fuck I’m going on about, go about your business. There’s nothing to see here. Proper post below, though I say that with a mouthful of sarcasm.
I don’t know if this is a peculiarly Scottish phenomenon, but over here, if you attend a football match (particularly at Parkhead or Ibrox), there are these young lads who hang around the car parks requesting money to “look after” your car while you’re in at the game. Now, you might be think your car is safer without having Rab C Nesbitt Junior hanging around it, but if you think this, you’ve missed the point. Failure to pay the customary pound practically guarantees a panelled windscreen and a missing CD player. For one simple payment, your glass remains crack-free, your tyres inflated. Sounds like a bargain to me.
These little bastards make themselves a fortune every Saturday afternoon. It’s so commonplace and accepted among the fans that checking your pockets to make sure you have change for the “free” car park before you head to the match is second nature with them.
Andy here at work recently tried a different approach with them. Now, Andy’s idea of living dangerously is eating a hot curry and then waiting to see how long he can hold in his poo after it. He’s a fairly reserved kind of lad, and things that seem mundane to you and I excite him greatly. He’s also a bit of a half-wit, as you probably guessed. He once asked me to proof-read a form he was filling in for HR, and in the Emergency Contact section, under “Next of Kin” he had put “Father”. The next line down requested “Contacts Relationship to You”, and Andy had typed “Friendly, but respectful”.
Anyway, Andy was lamenting these little urchins and their illicit parking fees, and decided to do something about it. He brought his dog, a fat little King Charles spaniel that couldn’t have worked up the energy to bark at, never mind bite, an attacker, with him to the match. On arriving at the car park, he was approached by a regular from the hooded contingent requesting the usual pound to mind his car. Andy replied “No, thanks, it’s alright, I’ve got the guard dog with me today.”
“Aye”, replied the crafty little fucker, “but can he put out fires?”
You don’t need me to tell you that Andy paid the tithe.
I signed up for one of those Twitter accounts. You can find me here, though I haven’t the faintest idea why you’d want to. I know I’m not the first person to ask, but is there a practical use to this tool? Besides selling t-shirts, like. Not being (too) facetious, just wondering.
Kim’s asking why he seems to attract more women to his blog than men. Although I can’t be arsed doing any statistical analysis of my comments, I’m pretty sure that the majority of my commenters are women too. Apart from the obvious – my enormous fortune, gigantic two pronged penis (for double the pleasure), and love of puppies – I too am lost as to why this should be the case.
Two people. That’s all I told. Not too bad. Neither of them mattered.
I’m fucked, but I’m obsessive about getting my spelling right.
I came home tonight because the baby we never had means more to me than all the friends I’ll never make.
Have you ever been forced to talk to someone so unreasonable, irritating and unwilling to listen to anyone’s views but their own that you’ve had to clench your fists and squeeze them until your whole upper body is shaking with rage and you’ve pressed little fingernail half-moons into your palms, and you are convinced that if this cunt does not shut the fuck up in the next ten seconds you are going to plant your fist right in his fat fucking jowly face?
The worst bit is, you have to walk away. How satisfying it would be to – just once – deck someone for being an annoying twat. Forget the real-life implications about getting fired and pressing charges and criminal records and all that horseshit – that incandescent flash of anger when you feel your knuckle bruise bone would override all of those worries and I bet in that moment you would feel absolutely fantastic.
Not that I’d ever do anything like that.
Anyway, I’m off to get pissed and be happy and forget about that sort of thing. Have a merry weekend, as Eolaí might say.
Seeing as it’s Friday, and nobody should be doing any work on a Friday, I was hoping the blogging community could help me make an important decision.
Today, one of the lads on the team (a team which consists of two people, myself and this pup) is leaving, and many people in our department (including managers, directors, etc) are off to get riotously drunk and talk bollocks for the evening. I had hoped to be able to hand in my notice today, so that I could make tonight a double celebration. Well, not just that. The truth is, I am afraid that once I get buckled, I will let it slip that I am leaving. This is not the right forum to announce that I’m leaving, particularly because they’re a good company and I don’t want to burn my bridges. Not only this, but some people on the night out know I’m going, others don’t. Risky, when you consider the amount of drink involved.
On a worldwide scale, an insignificant problem, you’ll agree. On a personal level though, it’s a recipe for absolute fucking disaster if my managers were to find out I’m leaving like that, instead of me being up-front in the office about it. So, I am debating.
Option 1: I hand in my notice today without having 100% security that I am happy about taking the new job and its attendant terms and conditions.
Option 2: I do my best to keep my mouth shut, and also hope that everyone else who knows about the job offer can do the same, all the while tempting fate by getting absolutely shitfaced.
What to do? And don’t give me this shite about going easy on the drink – that’s patently impossible. I only get about half a dozen nights out a year, so ossification is imminent. Oooh yes. As Francie Barrett‘s father said when his son was going to the Olympics “the bonfires will be lit tonight”.
Incidentally, I went to primary school with Francie, and his brother Jimmy. He and his brother Jimmy were sound.
My manager got back from a holiday in Texas yesterday. His sister lives there, so he’s over two or three times a year. Every time he comes back, he brings a four-pound bag of gummi bears (approximate content: 800 bears) for us in the office. To emulate the excesses of the country the sweets come from, we do our best to demolish the full bag in one sitting. Until yesterday, I held the record for stuffing the most gummi bears in my mouth at once, with 37. I obliterated my own long-standing record yesterday afternoon, by cramming in 40 of the chewy little bastards. One of the lads got a pic of my hamster cheeks with a revolutionary new device known as a camera phone, a portable communications apparatus with built-in photographic technology. He’s going to transmit the picture to me using an innovative technique called electronic mail. When he does, I’ll stick it up here, on the notice board.
Although the gummi bears contained real fruit juice, and so could hardly be considered unhealthy, my ridiculous overconsumption of junk food in recent weeks is taking its toll. I’m feeling a bit bloated and the mere sight of Reese’s Pieces is enough to turn my stomach. I’ve got a wedding coming up in early August, which I’m best man for. It’s back home in Galway, which means I’ll be bumping into a lot of people (including ex-girlfriend who’s best friends with the bride and is also likely to be a bridesmaid, though that’s yet to be confirmed. Could be an interesting first dance.), so I want to give people minimum ammunition for gossip.
As of next Monday, my snack fodder is limited to fruit, and fruit alone. Feel like gorging on chocolate and crisps? Eat fruit instead! Soup for lunch, whatever for dinner, as long as it’s not fucking leaves. Booze at weekends only. Back into routine, 100 sit-ups, 100 push-ups a day. Back playing football. Running a few times a week.
Keep this up for all of May, June and July, and I’ll be a healthy specimen by August 4th.
Starting this new routine on Monday means that I must eat and drink like a motherfucker for the next few days, gorge like the gluttonous swine that I am. Make the most of the short time I have left to enjoy food.
Anyway, wish me luck. I have no willpower whatsoever, so I probably won’t last a month. Come to think of it, my birthday’s in May. Ah sure I’ll never avoid the junk food on my birthday. I may as well leave getting healthy until June.
Yeah, I’ll start in June. Or maybe July.
I’m trying to go all Mrs Doyle on Linzi to convince her to do a quick blog post about the horror of living with me. Last night I realised that the way I portray myself on here is only how I like to imagine I am. Really, I’m a horrible bastard, and I thought the best way to highlight the difference between reality and my little fantasy blog would be a dose of hard talking from the woman who knows me best.
She’s reluctant to do it, but I’m trying to pressure her into doing it anyway. And please, no jokes about how that sounds just like my sex life.
Read Chapter the First first.
Raucous piano music and laughter spilled through the doors of the saloon as I stepped through. The barman, busy polishing a glass with a blank comments form, glanced up, and froze as he saw me enter. His shock quickly spread to the patrons, and in the sudden silence of no piano, I grinned crookedly. My red-haired greeter pressed against me as she passed, unnecessarily close. The sweet smell of fresh blog fodder rose from her bosom, and I hid a swallow when she mouthed the word “later”. I watched along with every other man in the room as she sashayed across the sawdust-strewn floor and mounted the stairs. Stairs that led to bedrooms. Bedrooms that –
The creaking promise of the stairs was interrupted by the barman.
“Hep you, boi?” he asked curtly.
“Howdy. Who’s the law ’round these parts?” I asked, keeping my hands where he could see them.
“Who wants to know?”
“I think you recognise me, friend. I’m The-”
“Hell, I know who you are, boi. Word is, you thought the Matrix trilogy climbed into its own rectum somewhere ’bout halfway through the second one. I also hear you’re a fan of Scorsese. Fact is, your kind ain’t welcome ’round here. Now what say you get back on your hoss and git out of this town while the gittin’s good.” he said bluntly.
I hadn’t expected a welcome wagon, but really, this guy was just plain rude. I considered chiding him on his poor manners, but moving towards the bar, I noticed the name badge on his chest. His name was Curt Blunt. Ah. At least that much made sense.
“Ain’t got a hoss,” I replied, to incredulous chuckles from a few red-faced old boozers.
I whistled. Moments later, a seismic canter vibrated the walls and the saloon window exploded inward, as Randolph propelled himself into the room in a shower of glass and glee. His tongue lolled pink and dripping, like clean laundry from a washing machine.
“Lord have mercy. That’s a considerable-big dawg. Real enormous-like.” said Curt, who had paled a shade or two. He tweaked his enormous handlebar moustache nervously.
“So, friend – mind if I call you Curt? Seein as it’s yer name, I’m just gonna go ahead and do that – Curt, who’s the law around here?” I asked again, patting Randolph gently as he emitted a low growl.
“Goes by the name of Major. Veinte Major.”
“Veinte Major? I thought the big cheese was a fella known as -”
“Twenty? Well, time was, you was right. Now’days, though, he don’t take so well to folk. Went and got hisself a book deal and shipped his whole damn operation outta Blogville. Works out west now, in a big city called Published. Charges a damn appearance fee for every story he’s referenced in, including this one. So, unless you got the green to command an appearance from the man hisself, I suggest you take his cheap non-union Mexican equivalent, Veinte Major, and make do with him.”
“Veinte Major it is then.” I replied. I turned to the staring masses, their drinks and music forgotten as they eyed Randolph. I patted his wide chest and whispered confidentially “Go on now Randolph, you wait outside.” Raising my voice, I added “And how about you folks go on about your business, while me and Curt here set up a meetin with your sherrif. Sorry about the ruckus.”
Curt emerged from behind the bar, shouting “Faith! Hope! Joy! Prudence! Composure! Git on down here and tend bar! Papa’s got a little bidness to attend to.” From above I heard a titter of laughter, chased by a cacophony of heels on the bare stairs. Five buxom wenches, all sassy winks and deep cleavage, stepped behind the bar, to much cheering by the suddenly animated drinkers. The music started up again, the jukebox this time, playing Waiting for a Star to Fall by Boy Meets Girl.
“I fuckin love that song” Curt said as we reached the back door of the saloon. The word verification lock requested that he enter xwijrnm into the control panel on the door. He typed and clicked enter, then punched the wall as the panel buzzed an angry rejection. “Goddamn muthafuckin word verification bullshit! Fuckin r’s and n’s look like m’s.” Curt moaned, typing out the correct code. The screen flashed “chapter complete” as the door opened.
“Come on,” Curt said, “Let’s git you to the sherrif.”
Sit down for a minute, because I have to tell you something shocking.
Comfortable? Good. I don’t want you to collapse. Imagine how thick you’d look at the hospital. “Oh, well, I was reading kav, who is, like, the greatest blogger in the entire fuckin world, and he admitted something so overwhelming in its unbelievability that I fainted and hit my head off the radiator.”
Doctors are a sceptical bunch at the best of times, and, well, I wouldn’t believe that story either.
Here it is: I’ve never been particularly successful with women.
I know, that’s staggering, and you find it hard to believe that someone as incredible in bed* as me would be saying such a thing, but it’s true. I blame the all-boys school I went to for stunting my development. That, and levels of self-awareness so crippling that they’d put the cast of Dawson’s Creek to shame.
There was, however, a brief period back when I was twenty (the age, not the blogging phenomenon) where women, and, if I’m being completely honest, men too, found me absolutely irresistible. Fortunately for me, I happened to meet my future wife in the midst of all this sweaty action, so I’m now able to look back on that time without tainting it with the hollow bitterness of cynicism.
It’s one night in particular I want to tell you about, though. Now, I know women will be reading this and saying “Ara, jaysis, that happens me ten times a night when I go out”, and because of your familiarity with this kind of situation, what follows might lose some of its impact. Just try to imagine it from someone who’s never been anything but the pursuer in any kind of relationship.
It was a dark, stormy night. No, seriously, it was. This isn’t the start of a secondary school essay. Besides, night is always dark.
So, myself and Brian met up for a few pints on this dark, stormy night. We were in our last year of university then, and of course were all jaded and contemptuous of the club scene; having spent the past five years immersed in it, we were now at the top rung of the coolness ladder and so shunned the very clubs we grew up in in favour of quirky little pubs filled with gassy regulars. The same pubs we first started drinking in years before. Perhaps it’s less a ladder than a parabola.
It was one of those good nights where the conversation flows as fast as the booze, and before we knew it, it was last orders and we were still thirsty. Despite our reservations about going to a club to mix with mere undergraduates (yes, we were still undergraduates, but that’s hardly the point, is it) we decided that the GPO needed us to continue the chat and the bevvying, so in we went. We were far too late to get seats, but this was only a wet Tuesday or Wednesday or something, so the club was not exactly heaving.
Halfway through our second pints, I felt a tap on the shoulder, and turned to find a rather attractive-looking young lady. Petite, brown-eyed and brown-haired, she was fixing me with a dazzling smile. Then she opened her mouth, and out popped the thickest, most strangulated redneck accent I’d ever heard.
“I’ve been watching you all night from across the room.”
I swear to God, she said that. How feckin cool is that? In a retro way, of course. Man.
“Well, why don’t you go on back over there and keep watching,” I replied, and turned back to my conversation with Brian.
Heh, not really. I wish I had had the guts to say something that scathing and dismissive, but I’m just too damn nice. All I did was smile and say “sorry, I’ve got a girlfriend”. She was very gracious, and held her head high as she walked back to her seat. I was impressed.
Now, bar one or two less memorable occasions, that’s pretty much the only time in my life I’ve been openly hit on. That said, Linzi says that I wouldn’t know if a woman was flirting with me unless she parted her legs and asked if I wanted to come inside.
What I want to know is, what chat-up lines have you used? What ones have you had used on you? Did they work? I’d especially like to hear from the lads, as this whole “women taking the lead” thing still has the power to shock me. Do it more, ladies! It fills unconfident gobshites like me with a strange feeling, and I’m convinced that, for a little while after that nice girl bared herself to me, I almost felt…attractive.
*power naps, you understand. I’m brilliant at them.
Thank you all very much for your good wishes on the job thing. I’m being driven insane here at work because I can’t say anything until the formal offer comes through. However, I’d like to put the rumour that the job is in Birmingham to rest; it’s in feckin Glasgow, like. My mind is racing too much to blog today, so instead of reading, have a listen to an evil laugh I recorded last night:http://files.filefront.com/V005mp3/;7215056;;/fileinfo.html
If it’s not working, let me know. I’ve never done that sort of thing before.
Some of you mentioned you wanted to have an evil laugh competition, where we can judge each other for Best Evil Laugh. Have at it.
Merry weekend, everyone.
…for my blog. I’ve been offered the job. They’ve been generous. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to get fucking hammered, and perhaps strut a little.
In light of the recent horror at Virginia Tech in the US, there’s been a lot of talk about whether or not we should arm bears. The second amendment to the US Constitution specifically states
“A well regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free Bear, the right of the People to keep and arm bears shall not be infringed.”
And those two short lines, my friends, are what is causing all this bother.
There are two main groups in the bear community, one of whom is vehemently pro-arming themselves, while the other suggests that the US government should take far more involvement in the regulation of bears’ arms. A third, minor faction supports the notion that bare-armed bears who bear arms must arm bears only in extreme situations requiring the use of deadly force (for example, when the bear community is at war), but their voice is often lost in this fiercely-contested debate.
There is no doubt that bear-related violence is highly prevalent in US culture. Movies such as Brother Bear, where an unarmed bear is brutally murdered by vicious Native Americans, and television series’ such as Grizzly Adams, where unarmed grizzly bear Ben often had no defence save his sheer bulk when confronting grizzled old 1890’s prospectors, have popularised the notion that weaponless bears are defenceless against the cruel hand of man.
However, there are those who think arming bears would be a step in the wrong direction. In an oft-referenced episode of The Simpsons, Homer claims to be “sick of these constant bear attacks”. With unprovoked bear attacks at an all-time high, is now really the time to provide them with high-powered semi-automatic weapons? And what do the bears themselves think? I took to the streets to find out.
“Bears are dying, man. We’re on the way out. Everywhere we look, we’re being killed off. The only way we can fight through it is if we’re equipped with double-action .45 ACP semi-automatic pistols”, an anonymous immigrant bear from Peru (now living in Compton Forest on the outskirts of LA), told me today. When I challenged his view by saying that arming bears may only exacerbate an already difficult situation, the bear, who asked to be referred to only as “Paddington”, dismissed me with a swipe of his paw. “Pshaw, no way man. Read the second amendment. God wants us to have guns, man. On the streets of these woods, it’s kill or be killed. If you ain’t packin, you’ll be six feet under in an enormous, bear-shaped coffin. Straight up, bear.”
“Paddington” may have a point. After recent events in the Hundred-Acre Wood, where well-known homosexual bear Winnie the Pooh was found murdered by erstwhile lover Christopher Robin after a falling-out, investigators at the scene of the crime confirmed that had Pooh been brandishing a Glock 9mm instead of a bowl of delicious sweet honey, he may never have been killed. As it was, Christopher Robin escaped with third-degree stickiness over 30% of his body, while Pooh ended up in a pine box.
There are no easy answers, but one thing is clear: the bears have a voice, and they’re damn well going to use it. Watch out, America.