I’ve been really shit at blogging for a while, and I know that some of you have mailed me or commented about updating your links and such. Me being shit means that I am too lazy to trawl through those comments/mails, so, if any of you wants me to update your link (or add you to the blogroll if you’re new, or whatever), leave a comment in this post and I’ll fix it.
Some time. Probably by the end of 2007.
Getting up for work is the intro to my sit-com. I wake to chirpy mind-guitars jingling light-hearted cheer, setting the scene for you, the viewer, and letting you know that yeah, life throws a lot at kav, but he deals with it with good humour via purposely messy hair. Then as I step out of bed the bass and drums kick in and the camera tracks me to the bathroom. I adjust my sac on the way, peeling it off my thigh as the vocals start – clever words about how even though life has its ups and downs, you’ve just gotta keep on keepin’ on. On-screen you see “Kavalier” in funky scrawly writing*, a glorious play on words giving emphasis to the quirky, off-the-wall nature of my lifestyle.
The song continues with shots of me getting dressed as the words “Starring Kav Kavson” flash up, while you, watching at home, settle down with a glass of red wine and a pack of Thai Sweet Chilli crisps, probably served in a special bowl with a separate little compartment for dip, ready to catch up with your favourite show. See me grabbing a banana, kissing Linzi (“with Linzi Kavson”), and hurriedly hugging the kids (“Erin Kavson”, “and Jack Kavson”). This demonstrates to you that no matter how much pressure I’m under, family comes first.
The song approaches its singalong climax with me running for my train and nearly missing it (jeez Louise, he so crazy, living on the edge like that), walking the streets of Glasgow to work (fast cuts of me nodding hello to various people on the way, all of them of different ethnicities to demonstrate to my viewers that not only am I not a racist, I’m also really fucking nice), then running down the corridor as I see someone hold the full-to-capacity lift for me, and I climb in, having barely made it. The intro ends on a close-up of my frazzled face, looking hapless and amiable and doing that “aw-shucks-stuff-just-seems-to-happen-to-me-by-accident” smile that has become my trademark and the main reason for my sit-com being syndicated globally. All the loser extras stand behind me in the lift (they wish they could be stars of sitcoms like I am, but it just won’t happen lads), just as the doors close…and fade to black.
Fade back in one second later and a panoramic shot shows the outside of my work building while that funkelastic guitar kicks in again for a few seconds. Diddle-a-biddle-a-beer-neer-
deer-neer-waaaaoww-waaawwwww. The camera then zooms right in to a particular office window. (It may not be my office window but it’s enough that you think it’s my office window.) This sets the scene for you: Kav’s at work, and he’s in a good mood because the music told you so.
INT: KAV, STROLLING TO DESK.
kav: Good morning everyone!
All: Shut the fuck up you happy wanker.
kav: Dang, you guys are so miserable. Come on, join the party!
(canned laughter as kav does “hilarious” white-boy-who-wants-to-be-black dance)
Colleague #1 (token black dude, “Special Guest Star Muhammad Ali”): Man, dude, why you always in such a good mood? It’s Monday, you know it’s rude to have a happy attitude.
kav: Heeeey, the party never stops at chez k, brother!
(more canned laughter and squeals of delight as kav does Ricki-Lake-style “sista” neck movement)
All colleagues (closing in on kav): You’re a fuckin dead man.
(ALL – KICK THE LIVING SHIT OUT OF HAPPY KAV. HE’S LEFT A BLOODIED MESS ON THE FLOOR. CLOSE-UP ON KAV’S SWOLLEN FACE AS COLLEAGUE #1 HOLDS A GUN TO HIS TEMPLE.)
Colleague #1: I ain’t your brother, you’re getting me mixed up with some other. Now have some of this, a bullet’s kiss.
(Colleague #1 pulls trigger. Kav’s happy thoughts splatter all over the hard-wearing office carpet. The REAL kav then enters the office, steps over happy kav’s body, takes off headphones and sits down.)
Real kav (mumbling, sullen): Morning lads.
Others in general vicinity: Mmmph.
Real kav (scowling because it’s Monday, asking but not really caring about the answer): Good weekend?
OIGV: Mmmph, football, hhmmph, gimped Saturday night, mgrr, dying on Sunday.
Real kav (turns on PC, distracted by the internet): Yeah, good…heheheh, check it out, a woman got killed by her pet camel when it tried to ride her. Heheheh.
(cue Darwin Awards dream sequence)
What? Nobody else thinks of their life in televisual terms? Right, I’d better shut up then.
*thanks to Devin for the name of my sitcom.
This is what happened:
Thursday, the car was damp with parental guilt as we made our way to the airport, a feeling that was killed off once we realised we were child-free for three whole days. “Think of all the relaxed sex we’ll have!” I exclaimed gleefully. She’ll deny it, but Linzi couldn’t wait either. She said as much, in between the sobs.
“It’s only for three days, and your sister will look after them like they were her own. If she had any,” says I. “Sure, doesn’t she have a dog and a cat. That must be even tougher than managing a couple of toddlers.”
It’s tougher for women. I’ve been away for days at a time before. You know, on my drug and alcohol binges. Linzi though. She’s been with them every second since they’ve been born. You’d think she’d be glad of the break, but there she was, crying.
I produced my lad in the car while I drove to the airport – it wasn’t easy trying to control two such mighty contraptions at once, but I knew it would make her laugh. Alas, not last Thursday. “Look at how small he is.” “Look at him winking at you.” Nothing worked. I shut my mouth and let her ride it out.
We landed at Shannon and got on the stinky bus. Mam had forgotten she said she’d collect us – she was up in Mayo on holiday. Some people go to Lanzarote. It takes all kinds.
I patted my flattened stomach when I got off the bus in Galway, glad I’d kept up the swimming. My family’s favourite name for me is “Fat (insert hilarious comedy word here)”. Fat bastard. Fat fecker. Fat cunt. Quality Irish humour, usually said while jabbing me semi-aggressively in the
sirloin belly. None of that this time, ye pups! Ha!
It was weird being in Galway. I had to fight through throngs of lovely girls to make it to Woodquay, it being Race Week and all. Ladies’ Day, to be precise. Good old Race Week, when most normal folk can’t even afford to pay attention, never mind the exhorbitant prices for food, drink, and accommodation. On Shop Street a lad tried to charge me €5 when I asked him for the time. As my sister said when she picked us up “What fuckin use are the Races to Galway anyway?”. I rambled on about the enormous benefit to the local economy, just to annoy her, but then she jabbed me in the ribs and called me a fat fucker, so I stopped.
The night before the wedding, we went down to the Róisín Dubh for several pints too many. I also had a pizza in Monroe’s. If you’re ever drunk down the wesht of Galway city, get yourself a pizza in Monroe’s. I’d step over hot smokeless coals for one. And have.
Saturday was a 7.30 rise and I beat back the impending hangover with a swift litre of non-Galway water. I’d have got my hole kicked if I was hungover that day, but it’d have been even worse if I’d got Crypto’d up to my eyeballs. The wedding wasn’t ’til one, but we were going for a hot towel shave, myself, the groom and his groomsmen, hence the early rise. It was great – left my cheeks smoother than Craig David’s singing voice, and it lasted nearly two days. In fact, the second day, my cheeks felt like they’d feel after having a normal shave. Thirty squids though, not cheap. But sure wasn’t it worth it lads, for the day that was in it? It was, they told me.
The wedding was in Galway Cathedral. The cathedral is big, in case you didn’t know. There were 200 people at the ceremony and the place was still no more than a tenth full. Having said that, there were at least another hundred tourists milling around snapping photos during the course of it, which I thought was fucking disgraceful, but that’s Catholics for you.
Someone told me later that night that I was the coolest man they’d ever seen on an altar. Even cooler than Father Fitzcool, who as most people know is the coolest parish priest west of the Shannon, he said to me. Linzi said I looked like I had a poker up my hole standing up there. They were both right.
I did alright, it has to be said. I’ve done both, and the best man’s role is definitely more difficult than the groom’s. All that lad has to do is show up in one piece and he’s guaranteed a ride. I had countless opportunities to cock up, but thankfully missed most of them.
They got their pictures done with maybe half an hour to spare before the coke-and-ice-cream clouds started fizzing rain down hard. We were safe in the hotel by then though, so nobody minded.
My speech is down there, in the comments. This thing is long enough without including it here.
They had them before the meal, thank jeebus. I wouldn’t have been able to eat a thing if I had to wait until after the meal to talk.
Bombshell number one was when I was told I would not only be doing my speech, I would be MC for the rest of the speakers too. Yes, I know this is a common best man duty, but it was the first I’d been told about it people! If I’d known I’d have prepared some jokes.
Bombshell number b was that the microphone didn’t work properly. It was a wireless one. I fucking hate wireless mics. I didn’t used to, but I do now. I lost a couple of moderately amusing punchlines because of the mic cutting out at critical times, but apart from that, the speech went fine. Until I remember that the newly-married couple’s five-year old decided to throw a tantrum halfway through and would not stop until Mammy was cuddling her again. That was a minute and a half I struggled through. When you’re standing up in front of two hundred people, do you know how long a minute and a half lasts? An hour and a half, that’s how long! Bless her though, she was very pretty on the day, and a little angel throughout…apart from those few minutes.
Did I mention the hotel staff decided to start taking food orders while I was giving my speech? People complained afterwards at how ridiculous it was, because the chatter of everyone deciding what they wanted to eat drowned out some of my best work.
Sounds like a disaster, doesn’t it? The odd thing is, it should have been, but it wasn’t. It went really well, and the Bangor joke got a huge laugh. I got a few nice comments afterwards, which made me feel a bit better about things. Kind of like when you do a revealing blog post and you’re in two minds but then someone says they liked it and then you’re okay again.
To tell the truth, I don’t think I could’ve done much more with my bit – I had loads of practice done, but it was just a pile of external things that fucked bits of it up. Sure you’ll have that. The main thing is the day was a resounding success.
If you read the speech, I should point out now that the reason me giving a Liverpool jersey is funny is because the groom is, and always has been, a die-hard Man U fan. If you don’t know anything about football…never mind.
I went to bed at 5.45 the following morning, and was up again at 8. Plane to catch. Home to see babies. Still had the shakes on Monday, but now it’s all over.
Until the next time. On the wedding night, my best friend (I have two, both called Paul. Shut up, I am allowed to have two best friends, and there’s nathin you can do about it so bleaaaaaagh.) asked me to be his best man too. He’s not even engaged though, so I have a bit of breathing space yet.