I had this great idea for a present-tense description of the past few weeks, taking you with me through the highs and lows, but I am absolutely exhausted – again – and have neither the time nor the energy to be creative or funny. Not that I ever am, etc, yeah, the door’s that way, don’t let it hit yer arse on the way out, and all that.
So here’s what happened:
Several unmitigated DIY disasters, including putting in waste pipe, re-laying floor, stink comes from waste pipe, pull up floor to find problem, discover problem lies elsewhere and is completely unrelated to the work I’d been doing, re-lay floor AGAIN – two weeks wasted.
Ancient stop cock = burst water main and no way to turn it off. Had to hammer the pipe in half to stop the mains-pressure cascade through the house. No access from the road to turn it off, had to buy a pipe freezing kit to help replace the stopcock. Pipe freezing kit promised 45 minutes of hold, lasted ten. Result: More high-pressure hilarity, and I no longer have a mobile phone. Here’s a learning I made: unlike the many hundreds of women I have slept with, mobile phones don’t like to get wet. Now I have to buy a new one.
Several disasters, none of which I claim responsibility for. I used to enjoy doing this stuff, you know. Knowing how my house is put together, there’s a comfort in it. This shit from the last few weeks though, it’s put me off for life.
It was Jack’s first birthday, that’s why I was under pressure to get the job done. Each evening I’d get home from work then do kitchen stuff until after midnight. Up again at seven and repeat the process. Zombification.
In the end it didn’t matter. We had no sink on the day of the party, and we survived. Water’s overrated anyway. You become very frugal when you don’t have running water. There was a day or two of whore’s bathing going on in our house – we went through some amount of Johnson’s baby wipes.
Jack’s birthday meant family visiting, which butted up against Linzi’s friends from Ireland visiting, and today her sister arrived up, because she’s looking after the kids for us when we go back to Ireland on Thursday for this wedding. You can see now why the blogging side of things has been a bit slack lately.
After we get back from Ireland, we have another wedding, followed by a christening, before the end of August. You’d swear we had a social life, the way we’ve been carrying on lately. I can’t wait for it all to be over. All this shite is only about half of it, but I’ll only want to hang myself if I go over everything. The main thing is, Linzi and I are still friends in spite of all the muck that we’ve churned up over the last month. Better still, we’re friends who have sex with each other, which is good news for me, and even better news for her.
I’ve been swimming too. I’m up to 30 lengths now. Not bad considering that a month ago it took me half an hour to swim six lengths and I was the closest to death I’ve been since ‘Nam. (Not that ‘Nam. I’m talking about Cornamona, that time with my dad and the fishing rod and the grease. It’s a long story, but you’ve probably already read about it in the papers.) I’m still shit though. If you can imagine tying Stephen Hawking to Christy Brown‘s left leg with a stout length of rope, then firing them both into a pool and saying off with ye lads, a pint if ye can make it to the other side, that’s the kind of flailing you get from me most days.
This wedding next Saturday: did I mention that I’m best man? Well listen: I’m best man at this wedding next Saturday. 300 guests or something mental like that. I’ve never done anything on this scale before, so I’m kind of shitting it. No – I’m fucking petrified. I haven’t even started on the speech (see above, no explanation required), and it’s only now that you’ve read this far that you realise I had an ulterior motive for updating the blog: I need help.
Give me your humour, people. I need to be hilarious without being offensive, risqué without being crude. I sometimes struggle with subtlety, as you’ll know just by reading this. You cunt.
Seriously, any wise words, good lines, or advice of any sort as I hurriedly prepare this speech would be an absolute godsend.
In other news, thank you all for your “what the fuck are you up to?” emails, and I apologise for not replying individually, but…you know. All that stuff. Some of you got Facebook stuff from me too – no, I haven’t abandoned blogging in favour of it, I just had a fit of adding shit to it, like I did with Bebo a few months back. I’ve been on Facebook since Christ was a cub scout, but I never did anything with my profile. Over the last couple of months, a few people asked me to be their friends, so I had a fit of activity the other night and put a bit on my profile. Nowt sinister, like. Sin é. It’s always there if I need it, but I won’t be making much more use of it at the moment, I don’t think.
In light of all the shite that’s going on recently, I’ve been having a bit of a think about things. What I’m doing over here, where would be best to raise the kids, those kinds of things. We’ve talked a lot about moving home over the past few weeks, even before this latest terrorist cock-up happened.
The only thing holding us back is the several hundred thousand Euro we need to buy a property in Galway. Can anyone spot me?
Since your blogs are banned for me at work, the BBC website is now my only friend. Reading the Have Your Say section on the situation, the general consensus among UK citizens seems to be “I say old chap, you’re more likely to be killed crossing the street than you are to be blown up by terrorists. Just live your life as normal.”
Fair enough. If we succumb to terror, they’ve won, and all that bollocks. Good old British stiff upper
lad lip. I’m not sure how to “live as normal” though. Given the media saturation, you can’t help but have the attack colour your outlook on things. Is it a coincidence that until now Scotland’s been untouched, yet the very week a Scot becomes Prime Minister, this happens?
Frankly I think people who say it’s not impacting them in the slightest are either full of shit or are a biteen delusional. The fact that they have to crow about how they are completely unaffected by terrorism, on a message board about terrorism, well, face it lads, if it wasn’t affecting us, there would be no message board. There would be no discussion.
Today, as I trudged typical through Monday morning, I passed this Asian-looking lad standing at the boot of his car. There was a gas cylinder and cardboard boxes of…something, in the boot. The car was parked outside a culturally significant building in Glasgow city centre. A week ago, I would not have glanced twice at this. This morning, I took his reg and reported him to the police. Was it that repeated-to-the point-of-nonsensifying word, vigilance, or was it plain old first-drag-of-a-joint-since-college paranoia? I still don’t know. What swung it for me was the thought that if something did happen and I’d not said anything, it’d plague me. Guilt, y’know. We Irish are brilliant at it.
Of course, right now, rather than feeling the guilt of saying nothing, I’m feeling the guilt of causing some likely-innocent chap to endure a shitload of harrassment from the police, predicated on nothing more than him being Asian and having a gas canister in his boot. The ability to wrangle guilt out of any given situation no matter what decision you make takes years of Catholic dogma to achieve, and should only be carried out by professionals in a controlled environment. Do not try this at home.
People keep making that reference: “you know, you’re more likely to be knocked down by a bus”, and so forth. What the fuck that has to do with the price of bacon, I don’t know. One thing is an accident, the other is a bunch of mental cunts intent on killing anyone who doesn’t subscribe to their fucked-up ideology. And that, seemingly, includes most Muslims.
Honestly lads, it was enough to make me pack my bags and move home, until I remembered that statistically, I’m 30,000 times more likely to be beaten to death by horrible stinky knackers in Galway than I am to be killed in a terrorist attack in Glasgow.
So what would you have done today? Reported it, or said nothing? In all seriousness, I do feel a bit foolish for doing it, but I don’t regret it.
I’ll tell you what too, the police cop I gave my statement to was a bit of alright. She was giving me the eye bigtime, but I gave it back – it was all sticky with eye-juice. Ugh. Still, I might give her a call and see if she’s free this weekend – I’ve got a stag weekend down in Newcastle that she’d be welcome to “bust”. Heh.