The importance of acting normal

July 3, 2007 at 12:42 am | Posted in dance off, family, good thing they were a bit shit at their job | 75 Comments

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.


Westside story, bud

January 10, 2007 at 11:14 am | Posted in dance off, ghost writer, west side story, westside story | 18 Comments

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!

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